꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
main masterlist - part 2 >>>
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
summary: Steve pining over Nancy is driving you crazy, so you offer to help him make her jealous.
pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
word count: 2.4k
warnings: Explicit smut, fake dating, mutual pining, dirty talk, brief handjob, p in v sex, light choking
You notice it before anyone else does.
The way Steve keeps drifting… his body planted at the sqwak with the rest of you, but his attention constantly snagging on Nancy. It happens in little flickers, tiny tells.
Nancy leans over the map with Jonathan? Steve’s knee bounces.
She brushes hair behind her ear? His jaw flexes.
She laughs at Jonathan? Steve’s entire expression dims like someone turned a dial down.
It makes your chest tighten.
Because you know Steve… his bravado, his posturing, the way he jokes when he’s hurting.
You’ve seen the version he hides from everyone else. And right now, he’s trying so hard not to look like he cares that he might as well have a flashing neon sign over his head.
No one else notices at first…. But you do.
You watch him from your seat, pretending to study a sketch of the plan Mike came up with.
Really, you’re watching the way he keeps shifting his weight like he wants to go stand next to Nancy but can’t make himself do it. The way he swallows every time Jonathan gently touches her shoulder while pointing at the map.
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He looks… lost. And you hate how much that gets to you.
After a few minutes, you push yourself up and wander toward him, pretending like you’re just stretching your legs.
He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, staring at nothing. Definitely not listening to whatever Robin is rambling about. His eyes flick to Nancy and Jonathan again—and that’s when you speak.
“You’re gonna burn holes in the back of Jonathan’s head,” you murmur.
Steve startles, blinking down at you. “I… what? No, I’m not!”
“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring,” he mutters defensively, straightening. “I’m… observing.”
“You look constipated.”
He snorts despite himself, shoulders loosening a little. “Wow. Thanks.”
You shrug. “Just being honest.”
You look up at him, really look, and the vulnerable tightness in his expression is impossible to ignore.
“You okay?” you ask quietly.
He hesitates, then gestures vaguely toward Nancy nonchalantly. “She just… used to look at me like that.”
“And now she looks at Jonathan.”
He doesn’t respond and your stomach twists in sympathy—and something else you don’t want to examine too closely.
You nudge him gently with your elbow. “You know… there are ways to make someone remember you.”
He gives a humorless laugh. “What, walk over there and give a dramatic speech?”
“No,” you say, amuse, “something that actually works.”
His brows lift slightly. “…Like what?”
You look away for a moment, gathering the courage, because saying this out loud feels surprisingly intimate.
Then you turn back to him.
“You could make her jealous.”
Steve goes very still.
You keep your voice light, “It works. People don’t usually realize what they’re missing until they think someone else has it.”
He studies your face for a long moment, something soft and uncertain flickering behind his eyes.
“And… how would I do that?” he asks, slow, cautious. “Hypothetically.”
The question sends a pulse of warmth through your chest.
“Hypothetically?” you echo. “You’d need someone to… pretend with you.”
His throat bobs. “Pretend.”
“Fake date,” you clarify, shrugging lightly like your heart isn’t pounding. “Hold your hand. Lean into you a little. Maybe let you put your arm around them so Nancy sees it.”
He keeps staring at you and it makes your skin heat.
“You’d do that?” he asks softly.
You try for a casual tone, even though your pulse is everywhere. “I mean… unless kissing me is some terrible burden.”
A breath of a laugh escapes him, his mouth curving. “No. I wouldn’t call it a burden.”
Something shifts between you.
“So?” you murmur. “If you want the help… I’m offering.”
He looks at you like he’s weighing the whole world.
Like he’s finally seeing something he should’ve seen sooner.
Then, quietly, almost gratefully…
“Yeah. Okay,” he shoots you a faint smile, “let’s try it.”
And just like that, the pretending begins.
Pretending turns into its own sort of torture, because Steve commits.
Hand on your lower back when you walk into a room.
Thumb hooked into your belt loop when he stands behind you.
His palm resting casually on your knee when you sit together.
Little touches that are supposed to be for show.
Supposed to mean nothing.
Except they aren’t nothing.
Not when your body reacts every single time.
He looks at you differently, too.
Like he’s studying your face when he thinks you’re not looking.
Like he’s memorizing your laugh.
Like he’s trying not to cross invisible lines he desperately wants to cross.
And sometimes, when the fake dating act requires a quick kiss to your cheek or your temple, you feel his breath stall. Feel him linger just half a second too long.
You don’t bring it up and he doesn’t either.
But the tension builds, slow and relentless, like water pressing against glass.
And then the crawl happens.
The group is buzzing with nervous energy as plans are finalized. Supplies are checked, flashlights tested, weapons distributed.
Joyce is talking too fast, Robin keeps pacing, Nancy and Jonathan are coordinating routes.
But Steve keeps you close. A gentle touch at your back, a quiet glance to make sure you’re near. The kind of protectiveness that never feels like an act.
Nancy doesn’t say a word when she spots you and Steve standing a little too close near the van, but the shift in her expression is unmistakable. Her eyes flick down to where Steve’s hand rests on the small of your back, casual, but not that casual—then back up to your face, lingering just long enough to read a truth you hadn’t meant to show. It’s not the first time this has occurred, and you hope Steve notices your plan has worked
When the crawl site is declared ready, your stomach tightens.
You’ve been through it before. You know the dark, the vines, the suffocating air. The way the Upside Down swallows sound.
You try to steady your breathing, but Steve sees it immediately. He always sees you.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your arm. “We’re riding in the van. Dustin’s a no-show, come with me.”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
Inside, it’s dim and quiet. A temporary bubble away from the chaos. Steve closes the door behind you, and suddenly it’s just the two of you in the muted half-dark.
He sits across from you at first, elbows resting on his knees.
“You’re nervous,” he says softly. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just noticing.
You swallow. “A little.”
He shakes his head gently. “No. More than a little.”
Your eyes sting, not because of fear, but because he sounds like he cares too much for it to be pretend. He scoots closer, still giving you space to pull away. “Come here.”
You go without hesitation.
He pulls you in, slow and carefully, one arm around your back, the other hand warm at the nape of your neck. Your forehead rests against his collarbone, his chin brushing your hair.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
You clench your fist in his shirt. “Steve…”
His hand slides up your spine, soothing… except soothing is the wrong word. Because every stroke of his fingers sends a shiver down your skin.
He breathes against your ear, voice low and soft:
“I’d get between you and anything. You know that, right?”
You pull back to look at him, and everything changes.
His hands stay on you. Your knees touch.
You’re close enough to feel his breath on your lips.
His gaze drops to your mouth. You see it, no.. you feel it.
The exact second the dam cracks.
“Steve,” you whisper, trying to steady yourself. “This is… pretend.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, featherlight.
“Not right now,” he says, “not for me.”
Your heart stutters.
“And not for you either,” he adds quietly.
Your pulse answers him before you do… and you kiss him.
It’s soft for half a second, just the barest brush of lips, before he exhales sharply and pulls you in like he’s been denied this for weeks.
His hand cups your jaw, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into his lap. The kiss deepens. Hungry, desperate, starved.
Every tiny piece of restraint he’s shown shatters the moment you open your mouth to him.
He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he’s been holding it back.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “I knew it. I knew the second I said yes to this fake dating thing I was screwed.”
Steve kisses you like he’s already fucked you a hundred times in his head.
Your back hits the bench seat and he follows, mouth devouring yours, hands everywhere at once—your waist, your ribs, the underside of your thighs. His fingers tremble with adrenaline and want, but his touch is deliberate, hungry, carving you into memory.
When he pulls back, both of you are breathing hard.
“Take this off,” he pants, tugging at your shirt.
You lift your arms, and he strips it off like he’s starving for what’s underneath. His eyes drag over your chest, slow and reverent, then wrecked.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, palms sliding up to cup your breasts. “How the hell am I supposed to pretend after this?”
You grab his wrist and guide his hand lower. “You don’t.”
That breaks him and he kisses down your throat, your sternum, then lower.
Nipping lightly, sucking harder, leaving a trail of open mouthed heat over your skin until you’re arching into him. He mouths your nipple, tongue dragging lazily before he sucks, deep and firm. You gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.
“That good?” he asks against your skin, voice smug and breathless.
“More.”
He groans, an animal sound erupts from his chest and his hand slides between your legs over your pants, pressing right where you need him. You cry out and he bites your shoulder gently in response.
“Fuck yeah,” he pants. “Let me hear you. No one else is close enough to hear us.”
That thought alone makes your stomach flip.
He unbuttons your pants with frantic fingers, and you help shove them down. He drags your underwear aside and his jaw drops when he sees how wet you already are.
“Holy shit.” His thumb sweeps across you, slow and claiming, “you’re soaked.”
“Been waiting,” you breathe.
His pupils dilate, “for me?”
You nod, and he curses viciously.
“Get over here,” he growls, tugging you up and onto his lap.
You straddle him, and his hands slide under your thighs, squeezing, positioning you exactly how he wants. His mouth returns to yours. Hot, urgent, wet—and he grinds up into you through his jeans, making your breath catch.
You tug at his belt.
“Get these off.”
“Bossy,” he teases, undoing it with shaking hands. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
You help shove his jeans down, his boxers following. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking.
Your eyes widen and he smirks., “yeah? You like what you see?”
You wrap your hand around him and stroke once, slow.
Steve’s head drops back. “Oh—fuck—”
You lean in and kiss his throat while your hand works him, dragging your thumb through the slick at the tip.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the first time you pulled me against you for show,” you whisper. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
His grip on your hips tightens. “I did… but I didn’t know you wanted me back.”
You line him up, hovering over him.
“Find out.”
He sucks in a breath so sharp it sounds like pain.
Then you sink down onto him.
Slow. Stretching. Inch by inch.
Steve’s entire body locks. His hands seize your hips. He swears—low and broken—eyes squeezing shut like he’s trying not to explode right there.
“Oh my fucking god,” he groans. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight I can’t—”
You take him until your hips meet, both of you shaking.
You lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “You can move.”
He exhales shakily. “Baby… if I move right now, I’m gonna ruin you.”
“Do it anyway.”
He snaps.
His hands grip your ass and he guides you up his length, then slams you back down. The van rocks hard. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
“That—Steve—oh my god—”
“That’s it,” he pants. “Ride me just like that.”
You start moving to the best of your ability in the small space. Lifting, dropping, grinding—using him, taking everything he gives you. Steve’s eyes are glued to where your bodies meet, watching himself disappear into you again and again.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, thrusting up to meet you, “taking all of me like you were made for it.”
Your pace stutters. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”
He grabs your face and kisses you, filthy and wet. “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking.”
He flips you onto your back so fast you gasp. He mounts you, driving into you deeper than before. Hard, relentless, your thighs shaking around his hips.
Your moans echo in the van. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck. Skin slapping, bodies slick with sweat, the air thick with sex and desperation.
He presses a hand lightly around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, pinning you in place while he fucks into you.
“You feel so good,” you choke out.
“You’re gonna cum for me,” he pants. “Cum on my cock. Want to feel you clench around me.”
His fingers drop to your clit, rubbing fast, perfect, ruthless. Your hips lift off the seat, back arching.
“Steve—Steve—I’m close—”
“I know,” he growls, “C’mon babydoll, it to me.”
You break apart, screaming his name, body trembling violently as pleasure crashes through you. Your walls clamp around him so hard he swears, thrusting fast and sloppy, chasing his own release.
“Shit—shit—baby—” He pulls out just in time, stroking himself once before he comes all over your stomach, your hips, your thighs—hot, messy, thick.
He collapses down onto his hands above you, panting like he just ran a mile.
You’re both shaking.
He looks down, taking in the sight of you: legs spread, panting, covered in him, and groans again like he might get hard all over.
He leans down and kisses you slow, messy, devoted.
“I wasn’t pretending,” he murmurs against your lips. “Not once.”
Working at Family Video was meant to be easy cash to pay for your rent and save up while you figure out what you want to do with your life. Steve Harrington was not part of the plan, let alone fake dating him to make your crazy ex back off and to satiate his concerned friends' desires for him to get a girlfriend. And falling in love? Well, that wasn't in the plan either.
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 14.7k words
You are having a very long week.
The kind of week where your professor assigned a twelve-page paper due Monday, and your landlord raised the rent effective immediately, and your roommate decided to "express herself" by learning the drums at seven in the morning.
So when Robin shows up at your apartment on Wednesday with a bag of bagels, you're ready for a distraction.
"You need a job," Robin announces, dropping the bagels on your kitchen counter and collapsing onto your couch like she owns the place.
"That I do," you reply, following her into the living room. "Jobs give you money. Money gives you food. Food gives you energy to write twelve-page papers about—" You squint at your notebook. "Second-order homogenous linear differential equations using the Heun function."
Robin stares at you. "You made that up."
"I wish."
She grabs a cushion and hugs it to her chest, watching you settle into the armchair across from her. Her eyes have that glint you recognise — the one that says she is about to pitch you something she has already decided you are going to do.
"Come work with me," she says.
"Work with you where? The video store?"
"Family Video, yes. It's perfect. They're hiring. I already talked to my manager. Well, I talked to my manager's manager, because Keith — that's my manager — is useless, but the regional guy said we could use another person. And you need money. And I need someone to talk to who isn't Steve Harrington."
You have heard about Steve Harrington. You have heard a lot about Steve Harrington. Robin says he's funny when he's not being a total grump, which is maybe 5% of the time.
You feel like you know him, really. "I don't know that much about movies," you say.
"You don't need to know anything about movies. You need to know the alphabet and basic movie genres. That's it. That's the job."
"What if someone asks me for a recommendation?"
"Then you say, 'I don't know, I'm new,' and then you find me."
"What if you're not there?"
"Then you find Steve. And if Steve's not there, you make something up. Tell them Steel Magnolias is great. Everyone loves Steel Magnolias."
"I've never seen Steel Magnolias."
Robin throws her hands up. "That's not the point! The point is you need money and I need a friend and Family Video needs someone who can alphabetise without complaining."
You laugh despite yourself. "Okay. Fine. I'll come in for an interview. But if your manager is weird, I'm blaming you."
Robin grins. "Oh, Keith is definitely weird. But he's funny, you might like him. A little oddball."
The interview is scheduled for Thursday at 3 PM.
You walk to Family Video because you haven't saved enough for a car yet — which is, you remind yourself, exactly why you are doing this.
The heat is oppressive, the kind of humidity that makes your hair curl in directions you did not know it could curl, and by the time you push open the door of Family Video, you are flushed and slightly out of breath and pretty sure your outfit was a mistake.
The store is cool. Air-conditioned, so you sigh happily as you step inside. Rows of VHS tapes line the walls, new releases on the back, older movies toward the front.
There is a counter at the front, cluttered with candy and tapes and a cash register that looks older than you. Behind the counter, a guy is leaning against the wall, reading a magazine. He has a Family Video vest on, the name tag reading "KEITH" in block letters, and he does not look up when you walk in.
You stand there for a moment. Clear your throat. Still no reply, so you say, "I'm here for an interview?"
Keith looks up. His face is completely blank. Not annoyed, not surprised, not anything. Just — blank. Yeah, he's definitely weird. "You're the friend," he says. It is not a question.
"Robin's friend, yeah. She said you were hiring?"
Keith nods slowly, like this is information he is processing one word at a time. He stops in front of you. Looks you up and down. You resist the urge to smooth down your jeans.
"Three favourite movies," he says.
You blink. "What?"
"Three favourite movies. Everyone who works here has to tell me their three favourite movies. It's the interview."
"Um." You try to think. You have watched a lot of movies. You have watched movies with Robin, with your roommate, with your mom when you were home for break. But now that someone is asking, your mind is completely blank. "I like — I like The Princess Bride."
Keith nods. Writes something on a clipboard you did not notice he was holding.
"And?"
You scramble. "And — Back to the Future. I saw it three times in theatres."
"And the third one?"
You open your mouth. Close it. You can feel your face heating up. Behind Keith, through the staff room window, you see some guy with really nice hair turn around.
He is holding a box of tapes, and he is looking at you through the glass, and even from here you can see that he is — well. He is very pretty. Which is annoying, because you are trying to remember a movie and he is standing there being pretty and it is distracting.
"Um," you say again. "When Harry Met Sally," you say finally. You have not seen When Harry Met Sally. But Robin told you about it, and it seems like the kind of movie someone should say in an interview, and you need to say something.
Keith writes it down and then looks up. "You're hired."
You stare at him. "What?"
"You said three movies. That's the interview." He turns and walks back behind the counter, picks up his fishing magazine. "Robin will show you the schedule. You start Monday."
You stand in the middle of Family Video, trying to process what just happened. You have been here maybe three minutes. You have not filled out an application. You have not given him your resume. You said three movie titles and you have a job.
The staff room door opens. The pretty guy with the hair emerges, still holding the box of tapes, and up close he is even more distracting. Sharp jaw, big brown eyes, big hands — god, he has nice hands, you notice absently — and a mouth that is currently pressed into a thin line like he's trying very hard to look unimpressed.
He is wearing the same vest as Keith, his name tag reading "STEVE" in slightly crooked letters, and he is looking at you like you are a problem he did not ask for. "You're the new girl," he says.
You smile at him. You cannot help it. He is very pretty and you just got a job and the air conditioning is still blowing cold air on your overheated skin and everything feels a little bit like a dream. "I'm the new girl!"
His expression flickers. Something passes over his face — surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like he was expecting something else. Someone else, maybe.
"So," you say, because you are good at filling silences and this one feels like it needs filling. "You're Steve."
He raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"
"Robin talks about you all the time."
His expression flickers again — something that might be pleased, quickly suppressed. "Good things, I hope."
"Robin says you're grumpy."
Both of his eyebrows go up this time. "Robin says a lot of things."
"She says you're funny, too. But only sometimes. Like five percent of the time."
"Five percent?"
"That's what she said. I don't know if it's accurate. I haven't known you long enough to do the math."
He makes a sound. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close. Something caught in his throat that wants to be a laugh and is being wrestled into something else. "You're doing the math?"
"I'm a math major. I do math all the time. It's kind of my whole thing."
He blinks. Something shifts in his expression — recalibration, maybe. Like he had you filed under a certain category and now has to move you somewhere else. "Math major."
"Was that not what you expected?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes do that thing again, flicking from your face to somewhere else and then back. "I don't know what I expected."
"You expected something," you say, because you can see it in the way he's standing, the way he keeps looking at you like he's confused. "Robin told you about me, didn't she?"
"I didn't ask."
"You didn't have to ask. She just talks."
"She does talk," he admits. His mouth twitches. "A lot."
"That's why she's your best friend. "
"I'm not—" He stops. His jaw works. "Not best friends. We work together. That's different."
"You work together and you're best friends. I can tell."
"How can you tell? You've known me for three minutes."
"Because you're standing here talking to me when you could be doing anything else. Shelving tapes. Alphabetising. Whatever it is you do back there." You nod toward the staff room. "But you're here. Talking to me."
He looks at you for a long moment. His arms are still crossed, the box of tapes still pressed against his chest, but something in his posture has shifted. Softened. Just a little. "Maybe I'm just being polite."
"Are you?"
"No."
You laugh.
He looks at you. His eyes are very brown. Very warm. The grumpiness has slipped, just for a moment, and underneath it is something else. Something softer. Something that makes your chest feel tight. "How come you're working here, when you're a hotshot math major?"
You grin, amused. "My landlord raised my rent. And my scholarship only covers so much. And differential equations don't pay the bills, at least not yet, unfortunately, so I had to apply for this job that I'm totally unqualified for, and... here I am."
"Here you are," Steve echoes, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to smile. "You have to be qualified if you passed Keith's interview, though," he teases.
"I said When Harry Met Sally. I've never seen it."
He blinks. "Why did you say it, then?"
You hesitate. You could lie. You could make something up, something normal, something that doesn't reveal the embarrassing truth. But he's looking at you with those eyes, and you've never been good at lying, and something about the quiet of the store, the late afternoon light, the way he's standing there with his nice hands and his hair and his brown eyes — it makes you want to tell him.
"Because I was distracted," you say.
Steve frowns. "By what?"
You point at him. "By you."
He stares at you. His mouth opens. Closes. His ears are very red now. "By me."
"You were in the window. With your hair. And your—" You gesture vaguely at his face. His whole face. "You know."
"I don't know."
"You were being very—" You search for the right word. "Visible. In the window. Where I could see you."
He is quiet for a moment. His hand is in his hair again, messing it up more, and he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on your face, and there's something in them that you can't quite name.
"You picked When Harry Met Sally," he says slowly, "because I was distracting you."
"My brain stopped working. You were the reason my brain stopped working. So technically, yes. You're responsible for that answer."
He stares at you. For a long moment, he just stares, and you think — you think maybe you have said too much. You have only known this person for five minutes. You do not get to tell him that he made your brain stop working. That is not a normal thing to say.
But then he smiles. A real one. Wide and surprised and a little disbelieving, like he can't help it, like the smile is happening to him without permission. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he says.
"Hey!" you protest. "I told you the truth, and you're being mean."
"You told me the truth," Steve says, and his voice is doing something strange. It's softer now, amused. "You told me I made your brain stop working. In a job interview."
"Are you going to hold that against me forever?"
"Probably."
"You are the worst."
"You sound like Robin."
"Yeah, well, she's a good teacher," you cross your arms, but you're smiling, you can't stop smiling, and he's smiling too, and the two of you are standing in the middle of Family Video grinning at each other like idiots. "I'm going to be so very good at this job. You'll see. I'm going to learn everything about everything. I'm going to alphabetise so hard."
"Alphabetise so hard," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth. "You're a weirdo."
"Keith is a weirdo," you correct.
He shakes his head, but he's still smiling.
"I have to go finish a paper," you say, and you're surprised to find that you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this cool, quiet store, with this grumpy boy who keeps smiling at you like he can't help it. "Twelve pages. Differential equations. The Heun function."
"That's—" He stops. "That sounds like a lot."
"It's a lot of math." You sigh dramatically. "I'm going to be up all night."
"You should go, then."
"I should."
You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is shifting, turning gold, catching in his hair. It's very nice hair. You've noticed. You're noticing now.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
"Are you always here? Or just on Thursdays?"
He frowns. "I'm here most days. Why?"
You shrug, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "No reason. Just — for when I start. So I know who to bother when Robin's not around."
"You're going to bother me?"
"Duh."
He sighs, long and heavy, but his eyes say he doesn't really mind. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"
You beam at him. "A good problem, I hope."
Steve looks at you for a long moment, something in his eyes that you can't quite identify. "Go write your paper," he says.
"I'm going."
"You're not going. You're standing here."
"Well sorry, Mr. Technical. I'll leave now." You gather your bag, sling it over your shoulder. You're at the door when you stop, turn back. He's still standing there, watching you. "See you Monday, Steve."
"See you, sunshine."
You freeze at the door. Sunshine. He called you sunshine.
You turn back, but Steve has already turned away, his ears very pink, his hand very busy rearranging the candy display. You push open the door and walk out into the heat, and the word follows you like a warmth under your skin.
Sunshine.
You go to sleep smiling. You wake up smiling. Your roommate asks if you're okay. You tell her you've never been better, and you mean it.
The weekend passes in a blur of differential equations and daydreaming. You finish your paper — barely — and turn it in on Monday morning with dark circles under your eyes and a smile that won't go away.
You walk to Family Video faster than necessary. Your heart is already beating too fast when you push open the door, the bell jingling overhead, the cool air washing over you.
The store is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the windows, gold and soft, catching on the dust motes floating in the air. And there he is.
Steve is behind the counter, counting the till, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's wearing the same vest, the same jeans. His hair looks incredibly soft today.
He looks up when the bell rings. Sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth softens, and his shoulders drop. "Hey, sunshine."
Your heart feels like it's in your throat. "Hey."
Robin appears from the back room, a stack of tapes in her arms. "There she is! My favourite brand new Family Video employee!" She sets the tapes down, comes around the counter, pulls you into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."
"Uh, excuse me?" Steve chimes in grumpily from the cashier. "What are you trying to say, Buckley, that I'm not good company?"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to say, Dingus," she replies, but she's grinning, wide and amused, and you know she doesn't mean it. Steve is definitely her best friend.
"Your words wound me," Steve says, pressing a hand to his chest like he's been shot. His eyes, though, are still on you. You can't seem to look away.
"You don't have wounds, Steve. You have feelings. There's a difference." Robin pats his cheek twice, firm. "And your feelings are going to be fine because you have someone to train today. Someone who will actually listen to you."
She's looking at you when she says this. You feel your face warm.
Steve straightens, smooths down his vest. "Right. Training. The register first. It's not complicated."
He rounds the counter, and you follow him, your bag sliding off your shoulder. Robin is already disappearing into the back, humming something under her breath, and then it's just you and Steve behind the counter.
"So," Steve says. He's standing close, close enough that your shoulder bumps his, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the register. "This is the cash drawer. This button opens it. Don't press it when there's no sale or Keith gets weird."
"Weird how?"
"He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. For a really long time, like you're stupid."
You laugh. Steve glances at you, brown eyes soft and less guarded.
"So you open the drawer," he continues, clearing his throat. "You take the money. You make change. The computer tells you how much change to make, so it's easy."
You nod, watching his hands as he moves through the motions. His fingers are long, his movements sure. You wonder what it would be like to have those hands around yours. You wonder what it would be like to have him teach you something else, something slower, something where he stood closer and—
"Are you listening?" Steve's voice cuts through your thoughts.
"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. "Change. Computer. Easy."
He narrows his eyes. "What did I just say about the five-dollar bill?"
Your mind blanks. "It's... green?"
Steve stares at you. His mouth twitches in amusement. "That's not—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "You're not listening."
"I'm listening. I'm just — it's really hot. The heat. From outside. It makes my brain slow." You stop. He's looking at you. "I'm not making a good first impression, am I?"
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. His shoulder is very close to yours. "Your first impression was telling me I made your brain stop working. This is actually an improvement."
You feel your face go hot. "I'm really never going to live that down, am I?"
He grins. "Nope."
You groan, letting your head fall forward. Your forehead nearly hits the counter, but Steve's hand shoots out, his palm flat against your forehead, stopping you.
And he's got good reflexes. Damn it. You are screwed.
"Easy," he says. His hand is warm, his fingers spread wide, and you're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his palm fits against your skin, how his thumb is almost at your temple. "You'll give yourself a concussion like that. Then I'd get fired, 'cos you're under my watch, and Keith would have to do your training. And trust me, you don't want that."
You look up at him through your lashes. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't seem to realise he hasn't moved it.
"Keith's training would be worse than yours?" You ask, smiling.
"Ha ha," Steve deadpans. "Hilarious. Depends on your definition of worse. Keith's training is sitting in the back room reading his fishing magazine while you figure it out yourself." His thumb moves, just a fraction, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I had to learn the register alone. Took me three days to figure out the cash drawer."
You blink at him. "You didn't know how to open the cash drawer?"
"I couldn't find the button." His ears are pink. "It was a learning experience."
You laugh, because you can't help it, because he's funny and you didn't expect him to be funny and because you can't believe you're working at a video store with Steve "The Hair" Harrington who couldn't figure out how to work the cash drawer. He's a little adorable.
Steve's hand drops from your face, but he's smiling, that soft smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I'm glad my suffering is amusing to you," he says.
"You suffered?"
"I suffered," he affirms, leaning against the counter, watching you double over to laugh.
"Okay," you manage, through a giggle. "Okay. Show me the register again. I promise I'll listen this time."
He raises an eyebrow. "Really? You promise?"
You nod seriously. "Very professional, I promise."
He doesn't look convinced, but he turns back to the register anyway. His hand brushes yours as he reaches for the drawer, and he doesn't pull away.
"The five-dollar bill," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "goes here. In this slot. The tens go here. The twenties here. The coins go in the little cups. Don't mix them up."
You nod, eyes fixed on the register, even though they ache to flit towards where his hand is so close to yours.
"The computer tells you how much change to give," he continues. "You count it back to the customer. Slowly. Out loud. So they know you're not cheating them."
"People think you're cheating them?"
"People think everyone's cheating them. It's the American way." He glances at you. "You want to try?"
You nod. He steps back, just enough to give you room, and you slide into the space he was occupying. You go through the motions. Open the drawer. Pull out the bills. Count them back. Your hands are steady, your movements sure. You can feel him watching you, his eyes on your hands, your face, your hair.
"Good," he says, and his voice is strange. Thicker. "You're a natural."
"Thanks," you hum softly, looking back at him over your shoulder.
He stares for a long moment, then clears his throat. "Okay. Next thing. Returns."
You spend the next hour learning returns. Steve shows you the system, explains the difference between damaged tapes and returned tapes, shows you where to put the ones that need to be rewound. He's patient, clearer than you expected, and he doesn't laugh when you put a tape in the wrong pile.
"Returns go in this bin," he says, pointing. "Damaged tapes go in this one. Tapes that need rewinding go in the back room. On the shelf. The one that says REWIND."
"That makes things easier," you note, "wouldn't peg Keith for the type of guy to make things easier for his employees."
"I made the sign myself."
You look up at him. "You made a sign that says REWIND?"
"It was necessary," he protests, but his cheeks are a little pink. "People, Robin included, kept putting them in the wrong place, so. It's a good sign. Very helpful."
"I'm sure it's a great sign."
"It's a great sign. Stunning, really."
You laugh. He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "Show me the sign," you find yourself saying.
He leads you to the back room. It's small, cramped, filled with boxes of tapes and a little desk with a lamp and a stack of schedules. On the wall, above a shelf lined with tapes, is a piece of cardboard with REWIND written in black marker.
Steve is watching you. "Well?"
"It's beautiful," you say.
He blinks. "What?"
"It's beautiful. The—" You gesture. "The craftsmanship. The attention to detail. You can really see the—" You wave your hand vaguely. "The heart. I might cry, really. So much effort for such a helpful act of kindness."
He stares at you, his mouth opening, then closing. "You're making fun of me."
"I'm not making fun of you. I'm appreciating the sign. The sign you made. With your own hands."
"It's cardboard."
"It's heartfelt cardboard."
He laughs, bends down a little to look at the sign closer. "It is heartfelt cardboard," he agrees, and you can't breathe, because his lips are right next to your ear, and he's impossibly close, and suddenly there's no space at all in this tiny backroom, and—
The bell over the door jingles. You both jump. Steve scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over a stack of tapes.
You follow him to the front. You don't say anything about the moment you just had in the backroom, and he doesn't either. But when you shelve tapes together for the rest of the shift, he stands a little closer. His hand brushes yours when he hands you a tape. He calls you sunshine, and his voice is softer than it was before.
At the end of your shift, you're standing by the door, your bag over your shoulder. Steve is behind the counter, counting the till.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.
He looks up. His eyes are warm. "Same time."
You should go. You definitely should go. But you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this store, with this grumpy boy who made a sign that says REWIND and couldn't figure out a cash machine for three days.
"Goodnight, Steve," you murmur as you leave.
"Goodnight, sunshine."
You push open the door and walk out into the evening air, and you don't feel the heat at all. You're too busy smiling, too busy thinking about pink ears and brown eyes and pretty hair.
You're thinking about tomorrow.
You wake up on Tuesday with a smile already on your face.
It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous. You've known Steve Harrington for exactly one shift — one shift and an interview, which barely counts — and already you're smiling before your eyes are even open. Your roommate is still drumming somewhere in the apartment, a steady thump-thump-thump that usually makes you want to throw something at the wall. Today it sounds like music.
You pick out your outfit carefully. Jeans, a soft sweater, your hair loose around your shoulders. You check the mirror twice. Not because you're worried — you're not, you tell yourself — but because you want to look nice. For yourself. Definitely just for yourself.
There's something different in your reflection, something you can't quite name. A brightness, maybe. A lightness. You look happy. You realize you are happy. You're happy because you have a job, because you finished your paper, because the sun is out and your roommate's drumming doesn't bother you today.
That's all. It has nothing to do with a boy with nice hair and pink ears who called you sunshine and made a sign that says REWIND.
Nothing at all.
When you reach Family Video, Steve is behind the counter, his back to you, rearranging the candy display. He doesn't turn around.
You stand there for a moment, watching him. His hair is soft today, falling across his forehead. He's wearing his vest over a plain white t-shirt, and you can see the shape of his shoulders, the line of his back. He's humming something under his breath, something you don't recognise.
You clear your throat.
He turns. His hands are full of Milk Duds, his expression distracted, and then he sees you. His whole face changes. The distraction clears. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth curves into something soft and surprised and warm.
"Hey," he says. "Hey, sunshine."
You beam at him, too happy to stop the way your mouth curves upwards. “Hi, Steve.”
He sets the Milk Duds down, rounds the counter. He's wearing jeans that fit him well, a belt, the same vest. His eyes are on your face, traveling, cataloguing. "You're early," he says.
"I wanted to—" You stop. You were going to say ‘I wanted to see you’, but that's too much, too soon, too honest. "I wanted to get here before Robin. So I could learn more. Before the rush."
He nods, but he's still looking at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. "Okay. Come on," he says. "Rom-com section needs organising. Robin's been messing with it again."
You follow him through the store, past the new releases, past the horror section, past the drama. The rom-com section is in the back corner, tucked between the classics and the kids' movies, and it's a disaster. Tapes are shoved in the wrong places, some upside down, some facing the wrong way.
A copy of When Harry Met Sally is somehow on the floor next to Ghostbusters.
Steve picks it up, holds it out to you. "Look what someone did to your favorite movie,” he teases softly, and it makes you laugh. “You should actually watch it though, sometime. It’s a good film.”
"Maybe I will."
He nods. "Maybe you should."
Steve drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and starts pulling tapes off the shelf.
"Come on," he says. "If we're going to fix this, we're going to fix it right."
You drop down across from him, a stack of tapes between you. The floor is cold through your jeans, the carpet worn and scratchy, but you don't care. You're sitting on the floor of Family Video with Steve Harrington, surrounded by romantic comedies, and you've never been happier.
He hands you a tape. "This one goes in the B section. Under 'B' for 'Runaway Bride.'"
You blink at him. “You realise that makes no sense, right? It should go under ‘R.’”
"It's a movie about a bride who runs away. B is for ‘bride’. It makes sense."
"That's not how alphabetising works."
"My system isn't about letters. It's about vibes."
"Vibes," you repeat.
"Vibes. Energy. The feeling of the movie. You can't put Sleepless in Seattle next to Steel Magnolias. They have different energies."
You stare at him. He's holding a copy of Sleepless in Seattle, his face serious, his brow furrowed. He's not joking. "You're weird," you say.
He looks up. "You're weird."
“You’re the one organising by your so-called ‘vibes’. What would Keith say?”
“You know, Keith actually agrees with me on this one,” Steve grins, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the one thing me and that oddball have in common. Plus, vibes are important. You can't put a movie about a woman dying next to a movie about a woman finding love. It's disrespectful."
"You're ridiculous," you reply through a laugh.
"You like it."
You do. You really do.
You spend the next hour on the floor, sorting tapes, arguing about where things belong. Steve has opinions. Strong opinions, but you find yourself not really minding. You like listening to him. He tells you about the kid who tried to rent an R-rated movie and argued with him for twenty minutes about the rating system.
“His name is Dustin,” Steve says, slotting a tape into place. “He’s like, sixteen. Funny kid, though, I have to admit. Don’t tell him that.”
“I won’t,” you murmur, smiling at your lap.
The bell over the door jingles, and Steve is already moving, pushing himself up, reaching for the tapes. "Coming!" he calls, and then he's gone, rounding the corner, heading toward the front.
You follow him. You’re still thinking about his smile, the look in his eyes, when you round the corner and see him.
You stop. Your hands tighten on the action tapes in your hands. Your feet won't move. Your voice won't come.
Mark. It's Mark. Your ex. The one who didn't like when things didn't go his way. The one who called your apartment for months, who left messages you didn't answer, who showed up at your classes until you changed your schedule. "I've been looking for you," he says. "You haven't been answering my calls."
You can't speak. You can't move. Your hands are shaking, and the tapes are slipping, and you can feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller, becoming the person you were when you were with him.
Steve moves.
You don't see him cross the space between you. You don't see him step in front of you. But suddenly he's there, his body between you and Mark, his hand finding your arm, pulling you close. You go without thinking, your feet moving, your body pressing against his side.
His arm slides around your waist, pulls you tighter, and you tuck yourself under his arm, your face against his shoulder, your hands finding his shirt.
You can feel his heart beating. Fast. Angry.
"You okay?" His voice is low, meant only for you.
You nod. You can't speak. His arm is solid around your waist, his hand splayed across your hip, and it makes you feel safe.
Mark's eyes are on Steve now, narrowed, assessing. "Who's this?"
Steve's arm tightens. His hand is warm through your shirt, his fingers spread wide. "I'm her boyfriend," he says. Boyfriend. The thought makes your heart squeeze. "Who are you?"
Mark's smile flickers. His eyes go from Steve to you, to the way you're pressed against him, to the way his arm is wrapped around you. "Boyfriend," he repeats. "Since when?"
Steve's hand moves on your hip, pulling you closer. "Since she stopped picking up calls from guys who can't take a hint."
Mark's jaw tightens. He looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes you press closer to Steve. "Come on," Mark says. "I just want to talk. We have things to work out."
Steve steps forward. Just one step, but it's enough. He's taller than Mark, broader, and he's standing between you like a wall. "She doesn't want to talk to you."
Mark's eyes flick to Steve. "I wasn't asking you."
Steve's hand moves from your hip to your waist, pulling you against his side. His body is tense, coiled. "She's my girlfriend. You're making her uncomfortable. You need to leave."
Mark stares at him. Steve stares back. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold, and you can feel the anger rolling off Steve, can feel the way his muscles are tight under your hands.
"This isn't over," Mark says finally. His voice is low, dangerous.
Steve's arm is a band of iron around you. "Yeah, it is."
Mark looks at you one more time. Something passes over his face — frustration, maybe, or anger — and then he turns and walks out, the door slamming shut behind him.
You're shaking. You didn't realize you were shaking until Steve's other hand comes up, cups your face, turns you toward him. His eyes are dark, worried, scanning your face.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sunshine. He's gone. You're okay."
You nod. Your hands have grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and you can’t seem to let go.
"Was that—" He stops. His jaw works. "Was that your ex?"
You nod again. Your voice comes out small. "We broke up six months ago. He doesn't — he doesn't like when things don't go his way."
Steve's hand tightens on your waist. His face is hard, his eyes dark. "If he comes back—"
"He won't." You take a breath. Let it out. "Not now. Not with you here."
He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb is moving against your cheek, slow and steady, and you realize he's still holding your face, still holding you close. His arm is still around your waist. You're still pressed against him.
"Good," he says. "That's good."
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to — I didn't want you to have to—"
"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't apologise. You didn't do anything wrong."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is still on your chin, still steady, still gentle. His arm is still around your waist, still holding you close. And you realise you don't want him to let go. You don't want to step away. You want to stay here, in his arms, with his hand on your face and his heart beating against yours.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For — for pretending. For being my—"
"Boyfriend?" His voice is soft. "Yeah, well." He shrugs, but his hand doesn't move. "It wasn't really pretending. I mean—" He stops. His ears go pink. "I mean, he didn't know that. He thought — I was convincing. That's what matters."
You nod. Your heart is beating too fast. "Right. Convincing."
He drops his hand. Steps back. The space between you feels sudden, cold. "I should — we should get back. Robin's going to wonder where we are."
"Yeah." You smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. "Yeah, we should."
You walk back to the front together. You don't touch, but you walk close, your shoulder almost brushing his arm. Robin is behind the counter, counting the till, and she looks up when you come in, her eyes sharp.
"You okay?" she asks. Her voice is careful.
You nod. "Fine. Just — someone I didn't want to see."
She looks at Steve. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. "Okay," she says. "Well, I'm here if you need me."
You smile. It's small, but it's real. "Thanks."
The rest of the shift passes quietly. Steve doesn't mention Mark. You don't mention Mark. But he stays close, closer than before, his hand brushing yours when he hands you tapes, his shoulder bumping yours when you walk.
At the end of the shift, Robin leaves early. Something about band practice, something about not wanting to be here for Steve's closing routine. You're packing your bag when Steve comes up beside you.
"Hey," he says.
You look up. "Hey."
He's standing close, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. He looks nervous, you realise. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to say something.
"That thing earlier," he says. "With your ex."
You tense. "You don't have to—"
"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I was thinking. About the boyfriend thing. The pretending." He looks at you, and his ears are pink. "It could be useful. For both of us."
You blink. "What do you mean?"
He shifts his weight. "Robin's been trying to set me up with people. For months. She thinks I need a girlfriend. And Nancy — you don't know Nancy, but she's my friend, and she's been looking at me with this look, like she feels bad about us breaking up, and I just—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It would be nice. To have someone. To pretend with. So people stop asking."
You stare at him. "You want us to pretend to be dating. Regularly."
He nods. "It could help you too. With your ex. If he comes back. If he sees you're with someone, maybe he'll back off."
You think about Mark. The way he looked at you. The way he said this isn't over. Your stomach turns.
"It could help," you say slowly.
Steve's face lights up. Just a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pause. "But we need rules."
He nods. "Rules. Right. Good. Rules." He holds up one finger. "Rule number one is that you can't fall in love with me."
“You are so cocky,” you roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.
He smiles back, and he shrugs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I'm not cocky. I'm realistic. It's a very real risk."
"You're the one who should be worried about falling in love with me," you say, crossing your arms. "I'm very charming."
He laughs. "You're very something."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He tilts his head, looking at you with something warm in his eyes. "It means you're a lot. In a good way. I'm just saying — you should be careful. I'm very charming too."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your face hurts. "Okay, Harrington. What's rule number two?"
He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. "Rule number two: we have to be convincing. No one can know it's fake. That means—" He pauses. His ears go pink. "That means we have to act like a real couple. In public. When people are watching."
Your heart skips. "What does that mean, exactly?"
He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "You know. Hand holding. Arm around the shoulder. The occasional—" He gestures vaguely. "The occasional affectionate gesture."
"Affectionate gesture," you repeat.
"Nothing weird. Nothing—" His ears are very pink now. "Just convincing. That's all."
You nod slowly. "Okay. That's fine. I can do that."
He lets out a breath. "Good. Good. Rule number three: we have to actually hang out. Outside of work. So it looks real."
"So we're going on dates."
"They're not dates. They're—" He waves his hand. "Public appearances. Strategic outings."
"Strategic outings," you echo.
"Very strategic. We need to be seen together. By the right people."
You bite your lip. "And who are the right people?"
He ticks them off on his fingers. "Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan. Your ex, if he shows up again. That's probably enough."
Your chest feels warm. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'm in."
His face lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You hold out your hand. "Partners?"
He takes it. His hand is warm, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Partners."
You stand there for a moment, your hand in his, the store quiet around you. His thumb is moving against your knuckles, slow and steady, and you don't pull away.
"So," he says. "We should probably figure out our story. For when people ask."
"Our story?"
"How we met. How long we've been together. All that stuff." He leans against the counter, his hand still in yours. "We need to be consistent. So we don't slip up."
You think about it. "We met at work. That's easy. Everyone knows that."
He nods. "Okay. Good. And how long have we been together?"
“Recently,” you nod. “Because I only just started working here. So. It would have to be really recent.”
He nods slowly, thinking. "Right. So we've been together... a few days? That's not very convincing."
You shrug. "It's new. New relationships are exciting. People won't question it if we're—" You wave your hand. "Enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth.
"Affectionate. You know.”
"That's what you said."
"I know what I said." He's still holding your hand. His thumb hasn't stopped moving. "So we're a new couple. Very new. So new that we're still in the—" He stops.
"The what?"
"The honeymoon phase," he finishes, and his ears are pink. "Where you can't keep your hands off each other."
“Yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “I guess so.”
Steve clears his throat. "So," he says. "We have a story. Now we just need to practice."
"Practice what?"
He looks down at your joined hands. "Being convincing."
You're still holding hands. Neither of you has moved to let go. His thumb is still tracing patterns on your knuckles, slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
"So," he says, and his voice is lower now, quieter. "So who asked who out?"
You don't hesitate. "You asked me."
He raises an eyebrow. "Why do I have to be the one who asked?"
"Because you need this more than me. I'm doing you a favour."
"A favour," he repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
"A very generous favour. You should be thanking me."
He laughs. "Thank you for pretending to be my girlfriend so my friends stop feeling sorry for me."
"You're welcome." You squeeze his hand. "And because you said you were very charming. So charm me. How did you do it?"
He grins. "Okay. I saw you across the counter. Thought you were cute. Asked you out."
"That's your story?"
"It's romantic."
"It's a line."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Okay," you say. "So you asked me out. Where did you take me?"
He thinks for a moment. "Somewhere casual. Coffee? Drinks?"
"Coffee," you decide. "That's safer. Less pressure."
He nods. "Coffee. And we talked. For hours."
"Hours?"
Steve smiles. “Hours. That’s not really stretching the truth, is it? I mean, we have talked for hours,” his voice drops, and you feel your face warm. "You told me about your math classes. About the Heun function. I pretended to understand."
You smile. "And you told me about your organising system. I pretended to think it made sense."
"It does make sense."
“Sure it does, Harrington.”
The next few days fall into a rhythm.
You work shifts with Steve, with Robin, sometimes with Keith when he emerges from the back room like a bear coming out of hibernation. You learn the store, the customers, the rhythm of things. You stop opening the cash drawer by accident. You stop putting horror movies in comedy. You stop being the new girl.
But you don't stop thinking about Steve. You don't stop noticing the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not looking. You don't stop noticing the way he stands a little closer than he needs to when you're shelving tapes together, the way his hand brushes yours when he hands you something, the way his voice gets softer when he says your name.
The fake dating thing is... going. You've been on three "strategic outings" now — coffee, a walk through the park, a trip to the diner you mentioned once, weeks ago. Each time, Steve picks you up at your apartment. Each time, he brings flowers. Each time, he puts his arm around you when you walk, his hand warm on your shoulder, and your heart beats too fast.
You haven’t told anyone, not yet, because it has to feel real before you do.
It's supposed to be fake. You know it's supposed to be fake. But when he looks at you like that, when his thumb traces patterns on your hand, when he says your name like it's something precious — you forget, sometimes. You forget it's not real.
You're in the comedy section one afternoon, shelving returns, when Steve appears beside you. The store is quiet — Robin is in the back, Keith is nowhere to be seen.
"You're doing it wrong," he says.
You turn. He's leaning against the shelf, arms crossed, the picture of casual annoyance. But his eyes are warm.
“Yeah, I’m not following your system, Steve,” you say, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. "Someone has to put these tapes in the right place."
"My system is the right place."
You laugh, turning back to the shelf, slotting a tape into place. You can feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze, the warmth of it. Your hands are steady, but your heart is not.
"Hey," he says.
You glance back. He's not leaning anymore. He's standing closer, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. "Come take a break."
"A break?"
"You've been alphabetising for an hour. That's a lot of alphabetising. You need to rest your brain."
"My brain is fine.”
“Just come here.” He drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and pats the carpet beside him. "Come on. Take five."
You hesitate. The store is quiet. Robin is in the back. Keith is nowhere. It's just you and Steve and the afternoon light.
You sit.
You leave a space between you, a careful distance, your knees tucked up, your hands in your lap. It's professional. It's friendly. It's—
Steve's hand reaches out. His fingers hook into your belt loop, tugging gently, pulling you closer. You slide across the carpet, your hip bumping his, your shoulder pressing against his arm.
"There," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. "That's better."
You can't breathe. He's close—so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes catch the light. His hand is still hooked in your belt loop, his fingers warm through the denim.
"You're very bossy," you manage.
"I'm meant to be. I’m your trainer, remember?”
"Yes, I remember, which means you're supposed to be training me. Not dragging me across the floor."
He grins. "This is training. Important training. Learning how to take breaks is a crucial skill." His arm comes up, sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You go easily, your body relaxing into him, your head finding its natural place against his shoulder.
You tilt your head, looking up at him. His face is close, his eyes soft, his mouth curved. "There's no one here to see us."
His smile flickers, just for a moment. "I know."
You look at him. He looks at you. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold through the windows, and his arm is around you, and his hand is warm on your shoulder, and you think — you think maybe this isn't fake. Maybe it hasn't been for a while.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true.
The bell over the door jingles.
You both freeze. Footsteps, quick and light, coming toward the back. Robin's voice, bright and curious. "Steve? You back here?"
Steve's arm tightens around you. His hand is warm on your shoulder, his fingers curled over the edge of your sweater. You're pressed against his side, your face close to his, your heart pounding.
Robin rounds the corner. Stops.
Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Her hands, full of tapes, fall to her sides.
Steve's arm doesn't move. His hand doesn't move. You don't move. You're frozen there, pressed against him, his arm around you, your face tilted up toward his.
"Uh," Robin says. "I — I was looking for — I didn't—"
Steve clears his throat. His cheeks are very pink. His arm doesn't move. "We were just—"
"Taking a break," you finish. Your voice comes out higher than you meant it to. "He was making me take a break."
"A break," Robin says. Her eyes flick to Steve's arm around your shoulders. To the way you're pressed against his side. To the way neither of you has moved.
"A break," she repeats slowly. Her mouth is doing something dangerous. It's threatening to become a grin. "In the comedy section. On the floor."
"The floor is comfortable," Steve says, and his voice is strangled. "Good for the back."
Robin's eyes are very bright. She's not buying it. Neither of you has moved. Steve's arm is still around you. Your shoulder is still pressed against his chest. Your face is still tilted up toward his like you were about to say something, something you can't remember now.
Steve's hand is still on your shoulder. His thumb is moving, just a little, like he's forgotten it's there. You can feel the warmth of it through your shirt, the steady pressure of his fingers.
Robin sets her tapes down on a shelf. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Her eyes don't leave the two of you. "You know, Nancy was asking about you the other day."
Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. Just a fraction. "Nancy?"
"She wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. I told her you were very busy with work. Very focused on your career." Robin's grin widens. "I didn't realize your career involved so much... close consultation."
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His arm is still around you. You're still pressed against his side. You should move. You should definitely move. But Steve's hand is warm, and his shoulder is solid, and you don't want to. You don't want to at all.
Robin picks up her tapes. She's backing away now, her eyes still on you, her grin still wide. "I'm going to go. To the front. To do returns. Very important returns. Very busy. Lots of work."
"Robin—" Steve starts.
She holds up a hand. "Don't let me interrupt.” She rounds the corner. Her voice floats back, sing-song: "I'll just be up front! Doing my job! Not telling anyone anything!"
Steve's arm is still around you.
The store is very quiet.
"She's gone," you say.
"Yeah." His voice is low. "She's gone."
"We should probably—" you start.
"Yeah," he says again. "Probably."
You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is gold through the windows, catching in his hair, making everything soft. His face is close. His eyes are very brown.
"She's going to tell Nancy," you say.
Steve exhales. "Yeah. She is."
"And Nancy is going to want to meet me. Properly. After hearing about—" You gesture vaguely at the two of you, pressed together on the floor of the comedy section. "This."
Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. "Is that okay?"
You look at him. His face is open, earnest, a little nervous. His hair is falling across his forehead.
"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."
The next day, Steve is behind the counter when you walk in, counting the till. He looks up when the bell rings.
"Nancy called," he says.
Your stomach flips. "What?"
"This morning. She wants to do a double date. This weekend. With me and you and her and Jonathan." He comes around the counter, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. "I told her we'd think about it."
You stare at him. "A double date."
"A double date. She said she wants to meet you. Properly. After Robin told her about—" He gestures vaguely. "About us."
You think about yesterday. Robin finding you on the floor, Steve's arm around you, your face tilted up toward his. The way she grinned. The way she backed away. The way she was definitely, absolutely, telling Nancy everything.
"She thinks we're together," you say.
Steve nods. "She thinks we're together."
You take a breath. "So we go on the double date. We act convincing. We—" You stop. He's looking at you. "We do what we said we'd do."
He nods slowly. "Yeah. We do what we said we'd do."
You stand there for a moment, the counter between you, the afternoon light gold through the windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your hands are at your sides.
"We should practice," you say.
He blinks. "Practice what?"
You step closer. Your hand finds his, pulls it out of his pocket. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. You lace your fingers through his, the way you've done a dozen times on your strategic outings. The way that feels less like practice every time.
"This," you say. "Being convincing. So we're ready. For the double date."
He looks down at your joined hands. His thumb finds your knuckles, starts that slow pattern. "Okay."
You step closer. His arm comes up, slides around your waist. His hand settles on your hip, warm and steady. You lean into him, your shoulder against his chest, your face tilted up toward his.
"This is convincing," you say.
He nods. His eyes are very brown. "Yeah."
Your free hand comes up, touches his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough with the shadow of stubble. His breath catches.
"This?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. His arm is tight around your waist. His hand is warm on your hip. His eyes are fixed on your face.
You should say something. You should pull away. You should remember that this is practice, that this is fake, that this is supposed to be convincing for other people, not for you.
But his face is close, and his eyes are soft, and his hand is warm, and you don't want to pull away. You don't want to remember.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. The bell over the door jingles, and you jump apart.
His arm drops from your waist. You take a step back, smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. Robin appears from the back, a stack of tapes in her arms. "Hey," she says, her eyes sharp, grinning. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No," you say, too quickly.
"Yes," Steve says, at the same time.
Robin looks at you. Looks at Steve. Her grin is wide now. “Sure,” she drawls, amused. “Have fun doing… whatever you were doing.” She backs away like a cheshire cat, clearly about to call Nancy and spill everything.
You don’t know what to think about this anymore.
The double date is scheduled for Saturday.
The days between Tuesday and Saturday pass in a blur of shifts and stolen moments. Steve's hand finds yours more often now, under the counter, behind the returns cart, in the back room even when Robin isn't looking, even when you don’t have to pretend. His arm settles around your waist like it belongs there. His thumb finds your knuckles, your hip, the small of your back.
You tell yourself it's practice. You tell yourself it's for the double date. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.
You're getting very good at lying.
Saturday arrives faster than you expect.
You spend the afternoon in front of your mirror, changing your outfit three times, checking your hair, telling yourself it's just a double date, it's just acting, it's just one night of pretending to be someone's girlfriend.
The doorbell rings. You take a breath. Open it.
Steve is standing on your doorstep, his hands in his pockets, his hair soft, his face open. He's wearing a clean shirt, dark jeans, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.
"Hey, sunshine," he says.
Your heart does something complicated. "Hey."
“You look nice,” he murmurs, holding out the flowers. "For you. These are your favourites, right? I, um, I think Robin mentioned it. Offhand, a while ago.”
You blink down at the flowers, fight the urge to squeal like an excited toddler. “They are my favourites. Thank you. I’ll just — give me a second, I want to put them in a vase.”
He nods, and you step aside to let him in, closing the front door to head into the kitchen.
“So this is your place,” he murmurs.
“This is my place,” you affirm. “My roommate’s infamous drum set,” you say, nodding your chin towards the back of the living room.
He grins. “I see.”
You find a vase under the sink, one your mom gave you when you moved in, the one you never use because you never have flowers. You fill it with water, arrange the bouquet carefully, your fingers trembling just a little. Steve is in your living room.
Steve Harrington is in your living room, looking at your bookshelf, your puzzle on the coffee table, the photos on the wall.
You watch him for a moment. He's standing with his back to you, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. He's looking at the picture of you and your mom from graduation, the one where you're laughing, your cap almost falling off, her arms around you.
"Is that your mom?" he asks.
You come up beside him, the vase in your hands. "Yeah. That was last year.”
He smiles. "You look happy."
"I was. I am." You set the vase on the coffee table, step back. He's still looking at the photo, his expression soft.
"You look like her," he says. "You have the same smile."
You feel your face warm. "I get that a lot.”
He turns to look at you. His eyes are warm. "I like your apartment. It's very—" He gestures vaguely. "You."
You look around. The puzzle on the coffee table, half-finished. The stack of textbooks on the floor. The blanket your grandma made you, draped over the couch. The photos on the wall, the plants on the windowsill, the mug from your favorite coffee shop.
"It's a mess," you say.
"It's not a mess. It's—" He stops. His eyes land on the stack of tapes by the TV. "Is that When Harry Met Sally?"
Your face goes hot. "I told you I was going to watch it."
He crosses to the TV, picks up the tape. His grin is wide. "You watched it."
"Twice."
He looks at you. "Twice?"
"I wanted to be prepared. For when people ask. About my favourite movies. I didn't want to slip up."
He's still holding the tape. His eyes are very bright. "And? What did you think?"
You cross your arms, lean against the back of the couch. "I cried."
He laughs. "You cried?"
"At the end. When he's running through the city. I knew what was going to happen, Robin told me the whole plot, but I still—" You stop. He's looking at you. "It's a good movie."
He sets the tape down carefully, like it's something precious. "Yeah," he says. "It is."
You stand there for a moment, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold through your windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your arms are crossed. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
"We should probably go," you say. "The restaurant. Nancy and Jonathan. We don't want to be late."
He nods. "Yeah. We should go."
Neither of you moves.
The apartment is quiet. The puzzle pieces are scattered on the coffee table. Your flowers are bright in their vase. Steve is standing in your living room, wearing a clean shirt, his hair soft, his face open.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true. "I'm glad it's you."
He tilts his head. "Glad it's me what?"
You take a breath. "Pretending. With. I'm glad it's you."
He looks at you for a long moment. His hands come out of his pockets. He steps around the coffee table, crosses the space between you. He's close now, close enough that you can smell something clean and warm, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes.
"Me too," he says. His voice is low.
Your hands are at your sides. His are at his. You're not touching. You're not pretending. There's no one here to see.
"Sunshine," he murmurs.
Your heart skips. "Yeah?"
He reaches out. His hand touches your face, his fingers light on your cheek. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and gentle. "You look nice."
Your breath catches. "You said that already."
"I'm saying it again."
He's so close. His hand is warm on your face. His eyes are soft. His lips are parted. You can see the shape of his mouth, the curve of it, the way he's looking at you like you're something he's been waiting for.
You lean in. Just a little. Just enough.
His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "I've been wanting to do this," he says. "For weeks. Since the first day. Since you walked in with your messy hair and your terrible taste in movies."
You laugh, soft, breathless. "I told you. I've seen it now. Twice."
"Doesn't matter." His face is very close.
"Steve."
"What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His eyes are on your mouth. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.
The phone rings.
You both jump apart. Your hand flies to your chest. Steve's hand drops from your face. The phone rings again, loud and insistent, and you stare at it like it's a traitor.
"That's—" you start.
"I should—" he says.
The phone rings again. You cross to it, pick it up. "Hello?"
Robin's voice, bright and impatient: "Are you two on your way? Nancy's asking. She's very excited. She wants to know what you're wearing."
You look at Steve. He's standing in the middle of your living room, his hands in his pockets, his ears pink. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"We're on our way," you say. "We'll be there soon."
"Okay, okay. Don't be late. Nancy's very punctual. It's a whole thing." She hangs up before you can respond.
You set the phone down. Steve is looking at you. His ears are still pink.
"We should go," you say.
He nods. "Yeah. We should go."
Neither of you moves. You stand there, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold, the flowers bright in their vase.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You smile. It's small, shy, real. "Later."
His face softens. "Later."
He crosses to the door, holds it open for you. You grab your bag, your jacket, follow him out. He locks the door behind you, his hand brushing yours as he hands you the keys.
You walk to his car together, your shoulders almost touching, your hands swinging at your sides. The afternoon air is warm, the sun is low, and you're thinking about the way his hand felt on your face, the way his eyes looked when he almost kissed you.
He opens the car door for you. You slide in. He closes it, walks around to the driver's side, gets in. His hands are on the steering wheel. He's not starting the car.
You look at him. He's looking at the windshield, his jaw working.
"Steve?"
He turns to you. His eyes are very brown. "I'm going to kiss you. Later. After the double date. When we don't have to pretend anymore."
Your heart is beating too fast. "Okay."
He nods. Starts the car. Pulls out of the driveway. His hand is on the gear shift. Your hand is on your knee. You want to reach out. You want to touch him. You want to close the space between you.
He looks at you. His hand moves. His fingers find yours. He laces them together, his thumb on your knuckles, and he doesn't let go.
You drive to the restaurant like that, his hand in yours, the afternoon light gold through the windows. He doesn't let go when he parks. He doesn't let go when he helps you out of the car. He doesn't let go when you walk toward the door, your shoulders pressed together, your hands swinging between you.
Inside, Nancy and Jonathan are already at a table. Nancy's face lights up when she sees you. Steve's hand tightens on yours.
"Ready?" he murmurs.
You squeeze his hand. "Ready."
You walk in together, his hand in yours, your shoulder against his arm. Nancy is watching, her eyes bright, her smile warm. Jonathan raises his hand in a wave.
Steve pulls out your chair for you. You sit. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand finding your knee under the table.
"You must be the girlfriend," Nancy says.
You smile. "I must be."
She laughs. Jonathan laughs. Steve's hand is warm on your knee. His thumb is moving, slow and steady, and you think about later. You think about his hand on your face, his breath on your lips, the way he said I'm going to kiss you.
Later, you think. Later.
You smile at Nancy, at Jonathan, at Steve. You let your hand find his under the table. You lace your fingers together.
"Tell me everything," Nancy says. "How did you two meet?"
Steve's thumb moves against your knuckles. "She came in for an interview," he says. "She told Keith her favorite movies."
You look at him. His eyes are warm. "I was distracted," you say. "He was in the window. With his hair."
Nancy laughs. "His hair?"
"It's very distracting hair."
Steve's hand tightens on yours. "She told me her brain stopped working. Because of me.”
Jonathan grins. "She told you her brain stopped working?"
“I did,” you say, smiling, cheeks flushed as you hide your face in Steve’s shoulder. “I’m never going to live it down, I think.”
Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. Jonathan's hand finds Nancy's under the table.
The dinner is easy. Easier than you expected. Steve keeps his hand on your knee, his thumb moving against your jeans. You lean into him when you laugh, your hand on his chest. You look up at him when he talks, your eyes wide, your smile soft. You call him Steve in a voice that's just for him.
It's not acting. It's not pretending. It's real. It's been real for weeks, maybe, since the first day, since he called you sunshine, since you told him he made your brain stop working.
Nancy is watching you both. Her smile is warm. "I'm glad he found you," she says.
You look at Steve. He's looking at you. "I'm glad he found me too."
After dinner, you walk out together, Steve's arm around your waist, your hand in his. Nancy hugs you, quick and warm. "We should do this again," she says. "Soon."
Steve nods. "Definitely."
Nancy and Jonathan get in their car, drive away. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold. Steve's arm is still around you. His hand is warm on your hip.
You look up at him. "That was good."
He nods. "We're good at this."
You're not talking about pretending anymore. You both know it.
He pulls you closer. His hand comes up, touches your face. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. His thumb brushes your cheek.
He leans in. His forehead touches yours. His breath is warm on your face. His eyes are closed.
"Steve," you whisper.
He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. "What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His arm is around your waist. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close.
"Hey."
You freeze. Steve's arm tightens around you. His body tenses. You know that voice. You know it too well.
Mark is standing across the parking lot, his hands in his pockets, his mouth curved into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's leaning against a car, casual, easy, like he's been waiting.
Steve steps in front of you. His hand is flat against your hip, pressing you behind him. "Not now," he says. His voice is hard.
Mark's eyes flick to Steve, then back to you. "I just want to talk."
"She doesn't want to talk to you." Steve's hand is steady on your hip. His body is a wall between you and Mark.
Mark's smile doesn't waver. "I'm not talking to you."
You press closer to Steve. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric. You can feel his heart beating, fast, steady.
He takes a step forward. Steve's hand tightens on your hip, his fingers pressing into the denim, holding you in place behind him. You can feel the tension in his body, the coiled readiness, the way his shoulders have gone broad and immovable.
"She said she doesn't want to talk to you," Steve says. His voice is low, calm, dangerous. "That means you leave."
Mark's eyes slide past Steve, fix on you. "Come on," he says, and his voice is soft now, the old voice, the one that used to make you believe him. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend with him. I know you. I know what you really want."
Your hands are shaking. You press closer to Steve, your face against his back, your fingers curling into his shirt. His heartbeat is steady under your palm, fast but steady.
"She doesn't want anything from you." Steve's voice hasn't changed. "You need to leave. Now."
Mark takes another step. He's closer now, close enough that you can see his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way his eyes haven't left you. "I'm not talking to you," he says again. "I'm talking to her."
"She's not listening."
"She will." Mark's hand shoots out, grabs your wrist. His fingers are cold, tight, familiar in the worst way. "Just come here. Let's talk. We can work this out."
You gasp. Your body jerks forward, pulled by the force of his grip, and Steve moves.
It's fast. You don't see it happen. One moment Mark's hand is around your wrist, cold and tight, and the next there's a crack, a sharp sound that echoes across the parking lot, and Mark is on the ground. His hand is gone from your wrist. His face is turned to the side, his mouth open, his hand pressed to his jaw.
Steve's hand is a fist at his side. His knuckles are red. His chest is rising and falling, fast and hard. His eyes are on Mark, dark and burning.
"Don't," Steve says. His voice is low, rough. "Don't ever touch her again."
Mark looks up at him. There's blood on his lip, a dark smear across his chin. His eyes are wide, shocked, and for a moment — just a moment — you see something in them you've never seen before. Fear.
Steve steps forward. His body is still between you and Mark, his hand still a fist, his shoulders still broad. "If you come near her again," he says, "if you call her, if you even look at her, I will find you. Do you understand me?"
Mark scrambles backward, his hands flat on the pavement, his eyes flicking between Steve and you. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his face pale. He looks smaller somehow. Smaller than you've ever seen him.
"Get up," Steve says. "Get up and get out of here."
Mark gets up. His legs are unsteady, his hand still pressed to his jaw. He looks at you one more time, something flickering in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or rage, or something else you don't want to name—and then he turns. He walks away, fast, his footsteps sharp on the pavement, and then he's gone. The parking lot is quiet again.
Steve doesn't move. His back is to you, his shoulders still tight, his hand still a fist at his side. You can see his knuckles, red and raw, the skin split across two of them.
"Steve," you whisper.
He turns. His face is hard, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. And then he sees you — sees your face, your shaking hands, the tears you didn't know were falling — and everything in him softens. The hardness drains out of his shoulders. His hand uncurls. His eyes go from dark to warm in the space of a breath.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sweetheart." His hands come up, cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. His hands are shaking, you realize. He's shaking. "He's gone. You're okay. You're safe."
You nod. You can't speak. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric, hold on. His heart is pounding under your palm, fast and hard, and you hold on to the rhythm of it, let it anchor you.
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is rough. "I should have — I should have moved faster. I should have—"
"You stopped him." Your voice comes out small, cracked. "You stopped him."
His hands tighten on your face. His forehead drops to yours. His breath is warm on your lips. "I should have stopped him sooner. I should have seen him coming. I should have—"
"Steve." You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet. His hands are shaking. His knuckles are bleeding. "You stopped him. You stopped him."
He stares at you for a long moment. His thumb moves against your cheek, slow and steady. "I'm not going to let him hurt you," he says. "I'm never going to let him hurt you again."
You lean into his hands. His palms are warm, rough, steady. "I know."
He pulls you against his chest, his arms around you, his face in your hair. His heart is still pounding, but slower now, steadier. You press your ear to his chest, listen to the rhythm of it, let it fill you up.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you, sunshine."
You stay like that for a long time. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold, and you're wrapped up in him, his arms around you, his heart beating against yours.
"Your hand," you say finally, pulling back. "You're bleeding."
He looks down at his knuckles like he's forgotten they exist. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." You take his hand, turn it over. The skin is split across two knuckles, red and raw, but the bleeding has stopped. You run your thumb over the edge of his palm, careful, light. "We should clean this."
He looks at you. His eyes are soft. "Okay."
He drives you home with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours. He doesn't let go. He doesn't let go when he parks, when he walks you to your door, when you fumble with your keys and your hands are still shaking.
Inside, you lead him to the kitchen, sit him down at the table, find the first aid kit under the sink. He watches you, his eyes soft, his good hand flat on the table, his injured hand resting in his lap.
You sit beside him, take his hand, lay it palm-up on the table. His fingers are long, his palm rough, his knuckles split and raw. You clean the cuts with antiseptic, your touch light, careful. He doesn't flinch. He watches your face.
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.
You look up at him. "Do what?"
"Take care of me. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
You laugh. It's small, wet, surprised. "You punched my ex in the face. I think I can clean your hand."
He smiles. It's the smile you've been waiting for, the one that makes your chest warm. "He deserved it."
"He deserved worse."
Steve's hand turns under yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His thumb finds your pulse, presses lightly. "Next time," he says, "I'll do worse."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is around your wrist, gentle, steady. His knuckles are red and raw and he's looking at you like you're something precious.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is around your wrist. His eyes are on your face. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.
His lips touch yours. Soft, gentle, barely there. His hand slides from your wrist to your face, cups your cheek, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His lips move against yours, slow and soft and real.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.
"Okay," he says, breathless. "Okay."
You laugh. It's soft, surprised. "Okay?"
He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see yourself reflected in them. "That's all I've got right now. My brain's not working."
You smile. "My brain's never working. Around you."
He grins. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Good. That's good."
He kisses you again. It's longer this time, deeper, his hand in your hair, his mouth soft and warm. When he pulls back, you're both smiling.
"I'm going to take you on a real date," he says. His voice is low, rough, his forehead still pressed against yours. "Tomorrow. A real one. Dinner. A walk. Whatever you want."
You smile. "Okay."
"And then the day after that. And the day after that." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Every day. I want to take you on a date every day."
You laugh. "That's a lot of dates."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, warm, a little nervous. "Is that okay?"
Your chest is full. "Yeah," you say. "That's okay."
He exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath. His hands are still on your face, his palms warm, his fingers gentle. "Come here," he says, and he pulls you forward, guiding you into his lap. You go easily, your legs folding, your body curling against his chest. His arms come around you, hold you close, and you press your face into his neck, breathe him in.
His hand finds your hair, strokes it back from your face. "You're tired," he says.
You nod against his shoulder. You are tired. The adrenaline has drained out of you, left you hollow and heavy, and his arms are warm, his chest is steady, and you don't want to move. You don't want to think. You don't want to remember Mark's voice, his hand around your wrist, the cold press of his fingers.
"Don't think about it," Steve says softly. His hand moves in your hair, slow and soothing. "Don't think about him. He's gone. He's not going to bother you again."
You press closer. "How do you know?"
His arms tighten. "Because I'm not going to let him." His voice is quiet, fierce. "I'm going to be there. Every time. I'm going to be right there."
You close your eyes. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, slow and sure. You let it anchor you, let it pull you away from the cold, from the fear, from the way Mark's voice still echoes in your head.
"Steve," you whisper.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
"Talk to me. About anything. Just — talk."
He's quiet for a moment. His hand doesn't stop moving in your hair. His chest rises and falls under your cheek.
"Okay," he says. His voice is low, soft. "Okay. Did I ever tell you about the time Robin put a porno in the kids' section?"
You laugh. It's small, surprised. "What?"
"It was my first week," he says. "I was still learning the system. Robin was supposed to be training me, but she thought it would be funny to test me. So she took a tape from the adult section and put it in with the Disney movies. Right between The Little Mermaid and The Fox and the Hound."
You lift your head, look at him. "She didn't."
"She did. And then she waited. She didn't tell me. She just — waited." He's smiling, a small, fond smile. "This woman comes in with her kid. Maybe five years old. And she picks up the tape, and she looks at it, and she looks at me, and her face just—" He shakes his head. "I thought she was going to kill me."
You're laughing now, your face pressed into his chest, your shoulders shaking. "What did you do?"
"I panicked. I told her it was a mis-shelving error. I said someone must have put it there by accident. I apologized like twenty times. She was so mad." He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest.
You giggle into his chest. “Robin’s terrible,” you say, face tucked under his chin.
"She's my best friend, though," he says quietly. "She's annoying and she talks too much and she put a porno in the kids' section, but she's my best friend. She was there when I didn't have anyone else. She—" He stops. His hand stills in your hair.
You open your eyes, look up at him. His face is soft, his eyes far away. "She what?"
He looks at you. His expression clears. "She's the reason I have this job. The reason I'm not—" He stops again. His jaw works. "The reason I'm not somewhere else. Someone else."
You reach up, touch his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough. "I'm glad she did," you say. "I'm glad you're here."
He turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are soft. "Me too."
You stay like that for a while, curled in his lap, his arms around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. He tells you about the regulars—Mrs. Patterson, who always rents Audrey Hepburn movies and cries at the end; Mr. Chen, who comes in every Friday for a western and brings his own popcorn; the kids who try to sneak into the R-rated section and jump at every sound.
You listen to his voice, let it wash over you. You're not thinking about Mark. You're thinking about Steve's hands, warm and gentle in your hair. You're thinking about his voice, low and soft, telling you about the time he couldn't figure out the cash drawer.
You're thinking about the way he looks at you, like you're something precious, something worth protecting.
"Steve," you say.
His hand stills. "What?"
You close your eyes. "Don't stop talking."
He's quiet for a moment. His hand resumes its slow movement in your hair. "Okay," he says. "Okay, sunshine."
He talks until your eyes are heavy, until your breathing slows, until your body is loose and warm against his. He talks about the first time he saw you, through the glass in the staff room door, the way you were flushed from the heat, your hair curling around your face, your smile bright and open and real.
"I thought," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "I thought, I want to know her. I want to know everything about her."
You smile against his chest. "You know everything about me."
"I don't," he says. "I don't know your favorite color. I don't know what you wanted to be when you grew up. I don't know what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you stay up late at night when you can't sleep." His hand moves to your face, tilts it up. "I want to know. I want to know everything."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close. "Yellow," you say. "My favorite color is yellow. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little. I cry at commercials with dogs in them. I laugh at your terrible alphabetising system. I stay up late thinking about integration and whether I'm ever going to figure out what I want to do with my life." You reach up, touch his face. "And you. Lately, I stay up late thinking about you."
His breath catches. His hand tightens on your face. "Yeah?"
You smile. "Yeah."
He kisses you. It's soft, slow, his lips warm against yours. His hand slides into your hair, cradles your head. His mouth moves against yours like he's learning you, memorizing you, and you let him, you give yourself to it, to him.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.
"I want to do this for real," he says. His voice is low, rough. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to practice. I want to take you on dates. Real dates. I want to hold your hand in public and argue about alphabetizing and bring you flowers that are your favorite color. I want to be your boyfriend. Your real boyfriend."
You open your eyes. He's looking at you, his face open, earnest, a little scared.
"Okay," you say.
He blinks. "Okay?"
You smile. "Okay. Be my real boyfriend."
His face breaks into a grin. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, and you're laughing, and he's laughing, and his arms are around you, and your hands are in his hair, and the kitchen light is warm above you, and the flowers are bright on the coffee table, and you're not pretending anymore. You're not pretending at all.
— your fake boyfriend breaks up with you for extremely stupid reasons, and you spend a few miserable days realizing you actually liked being his girl. turns out fake dating is very bad for your sanity but great for finally getting the boy who’s been in love with you the entire time.
🧷 13.1k — steve harrington x fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining but they share one brain cell, fake dating gone painfully real, steve “i’ll just suffer quietly” harrington, reader with delayed emotional processing, fake breakup → immediate overthinking → fix it with kissing, robin has been right since day one, hurt feelings but make it romantic, clingy steve supremacy, best friends to idiots to lovers, small town thinks they’re already married, a scene inspired by rachel and joey from friends
request — [ anonymous ] hiiiiiiiii! if you’re still doing requests, would you be interested in a man’s best friend-centric steve harrington fic? could be maybe based on when did you get hot, manchild, or my man on willpower??? idk i have a soft spot for sabrina and steve hahaha. kind of down for whatever suits your fancy! your writing rocks :-)
author's note — god this baby is huge. i think this is one of my the fics. anyways, thank you so much for the request, i had the best time writing this because i, too, am deeply attached to both sabrina and steve, which is honestly a dangerous combination for everyone involved. definitely somewhat inspired by 'my man on willpower'. hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. enjoy <3
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gif by @keery-joe | divider by @/lavendergalactic
The first sign that your day was going to go downhill was when Steve Harrington came in before you and Robin, which was usually a reliable omen that something deeply embarrassing was about to happen to him.
You stood behind the counter at Family Video scanning returns. Robin was on the back counter, crouched on a stool and rearranging a tower of cassettes that did not need rearranging but were receiving her full commitment anyway.
Steve, meanwhile, was in the action aisle, moving tapes from one shelf to another. Every few seconds he would pause, squint at a title, then slide it over half an inch as if that would finally bring him peace. He had been like that all morning. Suspiciously productive.
You had already made a note to ask Robin if he was going through some kind of personal growth phase, because those usually ended badly for everyone around him.
The bell above the door chimed and a girl walked in, hovering just inside like she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to be there. She looked around the store. You straightened from the counter and gave her your best customer-service smile.
“Hey, can I help you with a few tapes?”
She shook her head quickly, hands clasped together. “No, I’m not here to get anything. I actually wanted to talk to Steve. Steve Harrington?”
Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”
Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”
There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.
You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.
The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”
Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”
Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”
“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”
The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.
Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.
Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.
Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”
“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”
Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”
You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”
The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.
The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.
Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.
Then you both burst out laughing.
You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”
“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”
“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.
“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.
He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”
Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”
You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”
“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”
Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”
“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.
“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”
Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.
That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.
Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.
“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”
You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”
“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”
“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”
“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”
You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”
He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”
You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.
It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.
“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”
He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”
You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”
You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”
He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”
You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”
He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.
Then he stopped abruptly.
You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.
“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”
He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”
You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”
He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”
You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”
“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”
You choked.
The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.
Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”
You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”
He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”
“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”
He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”
You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.
“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.
He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”
You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”
His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.
“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”
His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”
He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.
You exhaled, relieved.
Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.
“Your mom,” he said.
You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”
“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”
You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”
He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”
You blinked. “She did?”
“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”
You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”
He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”
He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”
Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”
You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”
He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”
You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.
He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.
“You’re really serious about this,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”
You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.
He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”
You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”
He nodded quickly. “Deal.”
You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”
He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”
You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”
He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”
“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”
He held up his hands. “I would never.”
You gave him a look.
“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”
“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”
“Agreed,” he said.
“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”
You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”
“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”
He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”
You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”
He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.
Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”
You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”
He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.
A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.
“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”
Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.
The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.
On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”
You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.
Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.
The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.
The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.
Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”
Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.
Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.
Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.
Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.
Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.
“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”
You had both ignored her.
That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.
Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.
Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.
Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.
He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.
Steve visibly gulped.
You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.
Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”
“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”
Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.
You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.
“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”
Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”
Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.
Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.
You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.
You both turned to look at each other at the same time.
“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”
You blinked at him.
Your mother blinked at him.
Your father did not blink at all.
Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”
Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.
“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”
“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”
You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.
“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”
Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”
Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”
“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”
You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”
Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”
Your father stared at him.
You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.
“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”
You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.
Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.
“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.
Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.
That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.
You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.
You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.
Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.
By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.
He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.
You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.
Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.
“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.
You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”
He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”
Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”
Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”
You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.
A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.
Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.
You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.
You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.
Then you noticed the customer.
She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.
You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.
His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.
“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.
You stared at him. “What?”
He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.
“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.
He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.
Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.
You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.
You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”
You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.
Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.
Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.
By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.
You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”
You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.
You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.
Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.
You opened the door and immediately stopped.
Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.
He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”
He looked up.
He stopped talking.
For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.
You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.
He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”
You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.
“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”
You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”
He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.
Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.
“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”
Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.
You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.
You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”
You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.
The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.
You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”
Steve blinked at you. “What?”
“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”
He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”
“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”
You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”
He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”
“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”
You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”
He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”
You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”
He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”
You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.
He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.
You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”
He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”
You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”
He blinked. “That’s your move?”
“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.
“Hawkins,” he said.
“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.
He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”
You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.
He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”
You grinned. “Thank you.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”
You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”
He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.
“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”
You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.
He froze.
For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.
You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.
You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.
You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.
“Hey,” he said.
You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.
He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”
There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”
You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.
His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”
“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.
He stopped. “The noodles?”
“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”
He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”
You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.
Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.
Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”
They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.
In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.
“I think I broke the rules,” he said.
Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”
“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”
Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.
“Finally,” she said.
Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.
“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”
She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.
Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.
Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”
She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”
“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”
“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”
She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”
He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”
He blinked. “You think she likes me?”
Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”
Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.
“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”
Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”
Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”
He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.
“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”
Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”
“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”
She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”
He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”
He started for the door.
Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”
Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.
He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.
Steve opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.
You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.
He swallowed. Tried again.
Still nothing.
You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.
“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”
He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”
You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”
He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.
He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.
Except the opposite happened.
Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.
Much worse.
He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.
You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.
Instead, you started getting used to it.
Then you started liking it.
You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.
Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.
And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.
At group hangouts, it only got worse.
Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.
No one questioned it.
That was the wildest part.
One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.
And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.
He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.
He did not do that.
Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.
From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.
“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”
He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”
Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.
He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.
“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.
He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.
“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”
He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”
She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”
He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.
Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”
He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.
“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”
Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”
“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”
He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.
He knew what he needed to do.
He just. . . didn’t want to do it.
Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.
When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.
“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”
Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.
The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.
You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.
He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.
He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.
“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”
Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.
“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”
Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.
You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.
You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”
He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”
The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.
“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”
He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”
You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”
He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”
There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.
“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”
He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.
“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”
The words hung in the air between you.
For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.
“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”
He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”
You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”
He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”
Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.
You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.
“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”
He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”
“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”
There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.
“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”
He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”
You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.
“Everything good?” she asked.
“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”
Lucas frowned. “Already?”
“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”
Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”
You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.
Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.
He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The next few days were, in a word, terrible.
Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.
You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.
You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.
What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.
You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.
It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.
By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.
She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.
“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”
Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.
“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”
“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.
“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”
Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”
You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”
There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”
You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”
Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”
Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”
Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”
You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”
“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”
Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”
“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”
You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”
Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”
“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.
You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.
“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.
You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”
There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.
“Oh oh,” Robin said.
You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.
You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.
Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.
The door swung inward and there he was.
Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.
He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”
You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.
“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”
He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.
You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”
He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”
The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”
His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”
“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”
He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”
“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”
He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”
You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”
He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.
“You. . . what?” he said.
“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”
He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”
“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”
He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”
You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.
He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.
He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”
You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”
A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”
You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”
He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”
You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.
“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”
Danny: It was the best sleep I ever had! I've never been on a mattress this nice!
Damian: Of course. It's adjustable, gives massages, and has temperature control. Only the best for the Waynes.
Danny: truly impressive!
Damian: Thank you. Now, may I please inquire on who you are and why you're in my bed?
Danny: My name is Phantom and last night you wished for me so here I am
Damian: I did no such thing.
Danny: Yes you did! I'm your first wish upon a star!
Damian: Are you referencing the childish tradition that Richard forced me to partake in? Even if I did humor him, my wish was to make my father proud.
Danny: Yeah, the wish you said out loud to appease Dick was to make your father proud but your true wish, the one in your heart that you secretly thought of, was to have a friend. And since it's your first ever wish, I am here to make it true.
Damian: Even if that is my true wish, Todd said wishing upon a star does not actually work.
Danny: It does work! But people usually make thier very first wish upon a star when they're very young and often don't remember it, or they make very simple wishes like "I want candy," which is so mundane that they don't realize the magic. And the star only grants the very first wish. You just happened to make it much later in life.
Damian: I see.
Danny: You seem very accepting of this. Most people would be more doubtful.
Damian: I have encountered magic many times. I know there is no reason to doubt.
Danny: Oh cool. I'm glad we're skipping the part where I have to convince you this is real. It's a real time saver.
Damian: Indeed. What happens now?
Danny: Well, I'm assign as your lifetime friend. I'll be here until you die and I get my new assignment. Until then I'll live as a normal human boy.
Damian: Will I be dying soon?
Danny: Not that I'm aware of. I belive you are meant to die of old age.
Damian: I see. Very well, Phantom, I look forward to our friendship
Danny: Me too!
Dick kicking open the door: DAMIAN WHY IS THERE A BOY IN YOUR BED!
Danny: I'm-
Damian choosing violence and grabbing Danny's hand: Richard, I love him.
Danny: What-
Dick: No! You're too young! You're only sixteen! *to Danny* I'LL KILL YOU
Danny: Wait-
Damian: You should run, My Love. I am the beloved youngest son of a very dangerous family. One that is most displeased at my deflowering.
Dick foaming at the mouth: DEFLOWERING?!
Danny: No! That isn't- why are you doing this to me, Damian?!
Damian in the latest voice ever: I do not like sharing my bed space without permission. Run, My Love, rune as fast as your normal human legs can take you. My family will start the hunt for your head now that Richard sent out the message.
Danny: This is going to be a very long human lifespan.
Damian: Drake has unleashed the drones. You have two minutes to escape.
