hi hi! would you maybe consider writing something (any length, really, whatever you vibe with!) where Steve develops this little… fixation on Eddie’s hands? like, it starts small but then it just gets progressively worse until he’s basically losing his mind over them?? 👉🏽👈🏽
Good Hands
Sooo… this was supposed to be just a tiny little thing and then it kind of… spiraled completely out of control. End result: a full one-shot dedicated entirely to Steve losing his mind over Eddie’s hands. I truly hope you don’t mind 🫶🏻💛
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Rating: M | WC: 9.6k | Tags: slow burn, pining, fluff and smut, hand kink, choking kink (light), Steve POV
The cafeteria was too bright for this early in the day. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, trays clattering, someone in the back laughing too loud. Steve had dropped himself into a seat across from Eddie mostly because Robin had ditched him for band practice and he wasn’t in the mood to eat alone like some sad divorcé. He told himself that was the reason.
Eddie was talking. Probably about music, because it was always music. Or maybe D&D, because it was usually one or the other, and Steve had gotten decent at the background hum of Eddie’s voice—like static you didn’t mind keeping the radio on for. He nodded in the right places, let out a soft huh when Eddie gestured big enough that it clearly demanded acknowledgment. He was good at faking it. Years of parents’ cocktail parties had trained him for this exact brand of nod-and-smile survival.
But Steve wasn’t actually listening, not really.
Because Eddie had a lighter in his hands.
One of those cheap metal ones, battered and scratched up, the kind you’d find rolling around in the glove box of a beat-up car. Eddie flicked it open, thumb pressing down hard enough to spark a flame, then snapped it shut again. Open. Flame. Shut. Metal clink and scrape, again and again, punctuating his words like it was part of the conversation.
And Steve—God help him—couldn’t look away.
It wasn’t just the noise, though that sharp click did something low in his chest every time. It was the hands themselves. Eddie’s fingers were quick, confident. Long. He moved like he’d done this a thousand times, muscle memory etched into bone. Calloused pads from guitar strings, ink smudged into the cuticle of his thumb, little scars across the knuckles.
Steve’s eyes stuck there, glued.
Which was stupid. So, so stupid. He could feel himself zoning out, his gaze trailing the movement of Eddie’s thumb, the way it pressed and rolled the wheel until the flame sparked up, then snuffed out with a flick of his wrist. Over and over. It should’ve been annoying. It should’ve been one of those little ticks that drove you crazy if you sat across from it long enough.
But it wasn’t.
It was—well. It was something.
Steve shifted in his seat, suddenly too warm in his polo. He ran a hand through his hair like maybe fixing it would fix the problem. Spoiler: it didn’t. The cafeteria kept moving around them, kids laughing, trays slamming down, someone yelling about who stole their pudding cup, and Steve sat there like a complete idiot, hypnotized by a pair of hands.
He told himself it was fine. Normal. People noticed stuff. He was just observant. Except Steve Harrington wasn’t exactly known for being observant unless it involved a basketball hoop or a mirror. He was good at the big picture, not the small details. Unless the small detail was currently snapping open and shut a lighter across from him.
“Right? Don’t you think?”
Steve blinked, realizing Eddie had stopped talking and was looking at him, eyebrows raised in expectation. Shit.
“Uh—yeah. Totally,” Steve said, plastering on a smile.
Eddie grinned, wide and a little crooked, like he’d just won something. “Knew you’d get it, man.”
Steve relaxed a fraction. Saved by vague agreement. Worked every time. He dropped his gaze back down—too fast, too obvious—and oh, perfect, Eddie was still playing with the lighter, like it was choreographed just to mess with him. Snap. Flame. Snap.
Steve told himself he wasn’t watching. He told himself he was just tired, zoning out, not paying attention to the actual words because Eddie talked a mile a minute anyway. But his chest felt tight, like he’d been caught doing something wrong, and his fingers tapped against his tray in rhythm with Eddie’s.
He tried to focus on the other stuff. The cafeteria pizza, oily and curling at the edges. The poster on the far wall about prom tickets, the crinkled edges peeling off. The sound of someone blowing bubbles in chocolate milk through a straw.
None of it stuck.
His gaze slid back. Again. And there were those hands, restless, alive. Eddie’s nails were short but uneven, one bitten too far down, another stained faintly with something black—ink or grease, Steve couldn’t tell. His knuckles cracked with every flick, skin stretching over tendon, and Steve felt his stomach twist.
It wasn’t like he wanted to kiss them or something. Jesus. He wasn’t—he wasn’t that. He wasn’t anything like that.
Except his throat went dry every time Eddie rolled the lighter open like he owned it, like he owned everything he touched.
Steve dragged a hand over his mouth, forcing his eyes up to Eddie’s face. Safe territory. Except not really, because Eddie was looking right at him, still talking, hair a mess around his shoulders, lips quirking.
Steve laughed, too loud, to cover the weird silence. “Yeah, no, I mean—for sure.”
“Man, you’re really agreeing with me today. I should take advantage of this,” Eddie said, flicking the lighter one more time before tucking it into his vest pocket.
And Steve should’ve been relieved. Should’ve been glad the distraction was gone. Instead, he felt this ridiculous pang of disappointment. Like someone had switched off a song right before the chorus.
He stabbed at the cafeteria pizza with his fork, muttering something about it being too early in the day for whatever Eddie was saying. Eddie laughed, big and open, and started in on another tangent.
Steve pretended to listen. Really, he did. But all he could think about was the lighter in Eddie’s pocket, waiting for the next time those hands brought it back out.
It had been a couple weeks since the cafeteria thing. Long enough that Steve had almost convinced himself it hadn’t mattered. Just a lighter. Just hands. Nothing worth thinking about.
Except here he was, planted on the sagging couch in the Wheeler basement on a Friday night, not playing, not even pretending to play, just… watching.
The basement smelled like pizza grease and grape soda, a mix of Too Much Axe body spray and carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in at least a decade. Eddie had the head of the table, arms spread wide like he was conducting an orchestra instead of running a game. And his hands—Christ—his hands never stopped moving.
Dice clattered across the table in front of him, little multi-colored shapes Steve didn’t understand. Cards flicked between fingers like magic tricks. Eddie gestured big when he talked, slicing the air with his hands, pointing, snapping, drumming.
Steve could feel the heat crawling up under his collar every time he looked. Which was often. Too often.
“Okay, so the goblins have you surrounded,” Eddie announced, voice dropping low and dramatic. He shook a handful of dice like he was holding thunder. “What do you do?”
“I cast Fireball,” Mike said immediately.
“You can’t cast Fireball, you used your last spell slot,” Will reminded him gently.
Mike groaned. “Fine. Then I use my sword.”
“Typical,” Erica muttered from the end of the table, rolling her eyes. She popped open a can of Tab and sipped like she was at some high-stakes poker tournament.
Lucas leaned in, pointing at Mike’s character sheet. “You’re gonna die if you charge in. Again.”
“Better than hiding like a coward,” Mike shot back.
“Children,” Eddie interrupted, lifting one hand dramatically in the air. “Your Dungeon Master demands order.” He slapped the dice down with his other hand, grinning like a wolf.
Steve wasn’t listening to the rules, not really. He was watching the way Eddie’s knuckles flexed when he rolled, the easy shuffle-shuffle of cards, the way his rings glinted under the ugly basement lamp.
“Steve,” Dustin said suddenly, jabbing him in the arm. “You’re spacing.”
“Huh? No, I’m good,” Steve said, straightening. He’d promised Dustin a ride home—that was why he was here, babysitter duty. Definitely not because he wanted to watch Eddie run a game like some nerd rock star. Nope. Definitely not that.
“You could at least try to follow along,” Dustin said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, Harrington,” Gareth piped up, grinning. “Even Jeff’s keeping up, and he’s had like three beers.”
“Hey,” Jeff muttered from his corner, cheeks pink.
“I’m following,” Steve said quickly, raising his hands in surrender. “Totally invested. Goblins, swords, fireballs. All that.”
Eddie smirked across the table, hands fanning the air as he leaned in. “Oh yeah? What’s the party’s current hit points, Harrington?”
Steve blinked. “Uh. Solid.”
Everyone groaned. Erica actually put her head down on the table.
“See, this is why I don’t play,” Steve muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’d just slow you guys down.”
“More like crash the whole campaign,” Mike said under his breath.
“Shut up, Mike,” Dustin shot back immediately.
Eddie laughed, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. “Don’t worry, big boy. Watching is an art form too.” He dropped his hands back down to the table, fingers drumming out a quick rhythm, like the whole basement moved to his beat.
Steve looked away fast, fixing his eyes on the bowl of pretzels like it was suddenly fascinating. He shoved a couple in his mouth, chewed too loudly. Pretzels were safe. Eddie’s hands weren’t.
“Alright,” Eddie said, snapping his fingers once—sharp, commanding. “Lucas, it’s your move.”
And just like that, everyone’s attention was back on the game.
Everyone except Steve, whose gaze slipped again, drawn helplessly to the way Eddie gathered up dice in his palm, shook them, released them in a smooth roll. The way his thumb brushed across the edge of a card before sliding it down onto the table. The way he punctuated every line with a flick or a snap, like even his hands were part of the performance.
It was ridiculous. It was distracting. It was—
“Steve,” Dustin hissed again. “Seriously, you’re not even blinking. It’s creepy.”
“I blink,” Steve said defensively. He definitely blinked. Sometimes.
Dustin narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
Steve forced himself to lean back, cross his arms, stare at the ceiling. He wasn’t going to watch anymore. He was going to sit here like a normal guy doing a normal thing, waiting for his kid friend to finish nerding out so he could drive him home.
But then Eddie laughed, loud and warm, dice rattling as his hands swept across the table again, and Steve’s head turned before he could stop it.
And there it was—the heat crawling back up under his collar, the tight feeling in his chest.
He didn’t even like the game. But he didn’t leave.
It had been a week, maybe more, since Steve found himself stuck in that basement, pretending to care about goblins while Eddie ran the world with nothing but dice and those goddamn hands. He’d managed to convince himself he’d moved on—that it had been a fluke, a one-off thing. Just zoning out. Just being tired.
Then his car decided to betray him. Transmission shot, the mechanic saying it’d take at least a week, maybe two. Steve had gritted his teeth, handed over the keys, and now... now he was in Eddie’s van, passenger side, like fate had a sick sense of humor.
Robin was stretched out in the back seat, one leg slung over the other, chattering about some customer at the video store who’d returned The Breakfast Club rewound to exactly the scene with Judd Nelson’s fist in the air. “Like, I’m serious, Steve, they wanted us to know. That’s dedication.”
Steve made a noise that was supposed to sound like agreement but came out distracted. Because Eddie had one hand on the wheel, the other drumming on the dashboard in time with the radio—some KISS song, loud enough that the speakers buzzed.
The rhythm was sloppy but constant: tap-tap on the dash, smack-smack against the steering wheel. His rings clicked softly every time they hit the plastic, adding an extra beat that made Steve’s pulse skip.
He gripped the seat. Hard. Like he needed something solid to anchor himself.
“So then I told her, ma’am, this is Family Video, not Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen,” Robin was saying, twirling her finger in the air. “And she looked at me like I’d kicked her dog. Right, Steve?”
“Yeah. Totally,” Steve said, eyes glued to the movement in front of him. Eddie’s thumb was tapping against the wheel now, rolling over the seam in the vinyl, slow and deliberate like he was thinking about it. Steve swallowed, throat dry.
“Are you even listening?” Robin’s voice cut sharper, suspicion dripping in.
“Of course I’m listening,” Steve said quickly, tearing his eyes away. He glanced into the side mirror, which was angled too far out to actually show him anything but sky. “Uh... crazy story.”
Robin narrowed her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m a great liar,” Steve shot back automatically.
Eddie snorted. “I’ll back Buckley on this one, Harrington. You’re about as subtle as a Bon Jovi tour bus.”
Robin pointed a triumphant finger at him. “See?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Steve muttered, sinking lower in his seat.
The music changed—radio static giving way to INXS, Need You Tonight, and Eddie started drumming along again, this time with both hands, beating out the rhythm on the wheel like it owed him money. He was half-singing under his breath, low and scratchy, words spilling past his lips without much effort.
Steve’s eyes slipped down again, traitorous, watching the way his knuckles stretched, the curve of his wrist, the vein that ran down his forearm and disappeared under his sleeve. Every flick of his fingers was like a spotlight.
It wasn’t fair.
“You’re spacing again,” Robin accused from the back, like she’d developed a sixth sense for it.
Steve twisted in his seat, giving her his best glare. “I’m just… tired, okay? Didn’t sleep much.”
“Didn’t sleep much, or couldn’t sleep?” she asked, tone too knowing for comfort.
Steve turned back to the windshield, jaw tight. “Drop it, Rob.”
Eddie’s voice cut through, casual. “What, Harrington losing beauty rest? World’s ending.”
“Shut up,” Steve muttered, ears hot.
Robin leaned forward between the seats, grinning like a hyena. “Oh, I don’t know, I think it’s fascinating. Our boy Steve, brooding in silence, clenching the passenger seat like he’s afraid it’ll run away.”
“Seriously, drop it.”
Robin held up her hands in mock surrender, retreating. Eddie chuckled, fingers still tapping the wheel in rhythm.
The van rattled over a pothole, jostling them. Eddie’s hand left the wheel for half a second, reaching down to smack the dash twice like he was disciplining it, then slid smoothly back up to steer.
Steve’s stomach lurched for reasons that had nothing to do with the road. He forced himself to look out the window at the passing houses, Christmas lights still clinging to gutters even though it was late January. His reflection in the glass looked pale, caught out.
He didn’t want to think about how much worse it had gotten. How every time Eddie fidgeted—rolling coins across his knuckles, twirling a pen, spinning a damn cassette tape between his fingers—Steve’s chest went tight. He didn’t want to think about how he’d started noticing all the little details: the way Eddie’s pinky curled slightly when he drummed, the faint smudge of graphite near his thumb from doodling, the nail on his index finger chewed shorter than the rest.
It was bad. And getting worse.
“Almost there,” Eddie said, snapping Steve back. His hand slid over the gearshift, rings glinting as he pushed it down into second before rolling to a stoplight. His thumb tapped against the shifter, waiting for the light to change.
Steve’s breath caught. He turned his head too fast, stared out the window again like he’d just noticed the gas station on the corner was the most interesting thing in Indiana.
Robin’s voice floated from the back, smug. “God, you’re obvious.”
Steve whipped around, eyes wide. “I’m not—”
“You are,” she said simply, arms folded. “Like, painfully.”
Eddie glanced sideways, eyebrows raised. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” Steve said sharply. “She’s being weird.”
“I’m not being weird. You’re being weird,” Robin countered.
Steve groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”
Eddie chuckled again, light and careless, tapping the wheel in time with the music. “Man, you two are like an old married couple.”
Robin smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”
The light turned green. Eddie shifted again, smooth and easy, rings catching the glow of the streetlamp as his hand slid back to the wheel.
Steve gripped the seat harder, pulse racing, and told himself it was just the ride. Just nerves. Nothing else.
But his eyes still kept slipping down, helpless, to where those hands moved.
It had been almost two weeks since Eddie first drove them to work, and Steve’s car was still at the shop. He was starting to think the mechanic had a personal vendetta. Every day Eddie picked them up, every night Eddie dropped them off, and somewhere in between, Steve’s brain went up in flames and Robin got prime seats to the meltdown.
They’d settled into a routine. Closing shift, lights off, door locked. Robin dumping tapes into the return bin with dramatic sighs, Steve double-checking the till, Eddie waiting around like he belonged there. And then—always—Eddie stepping out back for a cigarette before hitting the road.
That was where Robin cornered him.
She leaned against the wall by the dumpster, arms crossed, grinning like the devil herself. “You know you’re not even trying to hide it, right?”
Steve froze, halfway through locking the back door. “Hide what?”
“Please.” Robin rolled her eyes. “You think I haven’t noticed? You stare at him like he’s the last TV dinner in the freezer.”
“I do not,” Steve said, heat rushing up his neck.
“You so do,” she fired back. “It’s embarrassing, actually. For you.”
Steve tried to play it cool, fiddling with the lock, jamming the key harder than necessary. “You’re seeing things. You’ve been inhaling too many VHS fumes.”
Robin tilted her head. “Sure. Except every time Munson flicks his lighter, you look like you’re about to—” She made a face, exaggerated swoon included.
Steve groaned. “Jesus Christ, Robin. Keep it down.”
“Why? He’s two feet away.”
Which—great—was true. Eddie was leaning against his van, cupping a flame to the end of a cigarette, hair falling forward as he shielded it from the wind. The lighter snapped shut with a neat little click, and smoke curled from his lips on the exhale.
Steve’s eyes stuck there, hopeless.
The way Eddie’s fingers curled around the filter. The flick of his thumb brushing ash away, careless, like it didn’t matter. The little movement of his wrist when he tapped the cigarette against the side of the van.
It was the same hands. Always the same hands. And Steve’s stomach twisted like it was learning new gymnastics every day.
Robin’s grin widened. “Case closed.”
“Shut. Up.”
Eddie’s voice carried across the lot, lazy. “You two lovebirds coming, or what?”
“We’re not—” Steve started, at the same time Robin yelled, “Not a chance!”
They both glared at each other.
Robin muttered, “See? Couple behavior.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Close enough.”
He shoved the key ring into his pocket and crossed the lot, Robin following with smug satisfaction. Eddie was already exhaling another plume of smoke, leaning casual against the van like every band poster Steve had ever seen.
“You know smoking’ll kill you, right?” Steve said automatically, trying to sound normal. Protective, even. Normal Steve Harrington things.
Eddie grinned around the cigarette. “We’re all gonna die of something. Might as well look cool doing it.”
Robin snorted. “Keyword: might.”
Eddie flicked his thumb against the filter, ash scattering onto the pavement. The glow flared for a second before he drew in again, smoke curling out of his mouth. Steve told himself not to stare. He failed immediately.
“Want one?” Eddie offered, holding the pack out with two fingers.
Robin waved it off. “No thanks. My lungs enjoy functioning.”
Steve hesitated. He didn’t smoke. He’d tried in high school once or twice—nearly choked, hated it. But Eddie was holding the pack out like a dare, thumb resting against the foil, and Steve’s stomach did that stupid flip.
“Nah,” Steve muttered. “Quitting before I start.”
Eddie chuckled, tucking the pack back into his jacket. “Suit yourself.”
Robin muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Steve to hear, “Yeah, he’s already addicted to something else.”
Steve shot her a death glare. She smiled sweetly, like butter wouldn’t melt.
Eddie stubbed the cigarette out halfway, grinding it against the van before flicking the butt neatly into an old Coke can sitting on the bumper. Hands efficient, practiced. Steve’s eyes tracked every movement.
“You’re really gonna stand there watching me smoke all night, Harrington?” Eddie teased, voice light but with an edge Steve couldn’t quite read.
“I’m not—” Steve started, then stopped, because he was. He absolutely was. “I’m just waiting for you to finish so we can go.”
“Sure you are.” Eddie’s smirk deepened, like he knew something Steve didn’t.
Robin coughed theatrically. “Wow, the tension out here. Feels like I should give you guys privacy.”
“Robin,” Steve hissed.
She grinned, unrepentant. “What? Just saying what we’re all thinking.”
Eddie tipped his head back, laughing, smoke spilling out into the cold night air. His hands were still moving, brushing his jeans, fiddling with his rings, like they couldn’t stay still if they tried. Steve’s chest felt too tight, his collar too hot.
Robin climbed into the van first, stretching out across the back seat. Eddie flicked open the lighter again, just once, the sharp metallic snap ringing through the quiet lot before he shoved it back into his pocket. Steve’s eyes followed the motion without permission.
“Coming, big boy?” Eddie asked, one hand resting casual on the open driver’s door.
Steve forced his feet to move, forced his eyes up to Eddie’s face instead of his hands. He slid into the passenger seat, heart still hammering, and told himself it was just the smoke making his head spin.
But when Eddie started the van and drummed his fingers against the wheel again, Steve knew better.
It had been almost a month since Steve’s car first went into the shop. He’d stopped asking for updates—half because he was convinced the mechanic was scamming him, half because he wasn’t sure he wanted it back anymore. The longer the thing sat there, the more excuses Dustin and Robin had to arrange their little group hangouts. Which, shockingly, always included Eddie.
Not that Steve minded.
Not that he’d admit it, either.
It wasn’t even the smoking anymore. Or the drumming. It was everything.
Every object Eddie touched, Steve wanted to be.
Eddie slouched on the couch in Mike’s basement, guitar across his lap, fingers sliding over the strings like they belonged there. The sound wasn’t anything polished—just messy chords, half a riff he hadn’t finished—but Steve’s chest squeezed anyway.
He tried to look away. Really. He looked at the TV, at Lucas and Dustin arguing over which tape to rent next time, at Robin stealing Erica’s soda just to annoy her. But his eyes dragged back to Eddie’s hands.
Long fingers curved just right against the frets, knuckles flexing. The pick slipping between thumb and forefinger. Steve swallowed hard, heat crawling under his collar.
“Earth to Steve,” Robin said from across the room, eyebrows raised. “You look like you’re about to have a religious experience over there.”
“Shut up,” Steve muttered, but his voice cracked in betrayal.
Eddie laughed, not at him, just… like he always did, warm and easy, head tipping back so his hair brushed his shoulders. He plucked at a string, let it ring. “What’s the matter, Harrington? You never seen a guitar before?”
“Not one that loud,” Steve shot back, because sarcasm was safer than honesty.
The others lost interest, falling back into their own noise. But Steve was still stuck.
Later, at the kitchen table, it was a pen. Eddie chewed the end while doodling on notebook paper, tongue poking out in concentration. Steve hated the pen. Hated how casual it looked between Eddie’s teeth, how close it got to the kind of touch Steve couldn’t stop thinking about.
And at the gas station after, when Eddie popped the tab on a can of Coke with a neat little snap, foam hissing down the side—Steve stared. He stared like the can had personally offended him, like he’d trade places with it in a second.
Robin caught him again, of course. She leaned in while they walked back to the van, voice low. “You’re jealous of aluminum now? That’s new.”
“God, leave me alone.”
“Can’t. This is too good.”
Steve groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. He didn’t have a name for whatever was happening to him. All he knew was that Eddie’s hands were everywhere, always busy, always moving—and Steve couldn’t stop wanting.
By the time Steve’s car was finally out of the shop, he’d driven it around just to enjoy the freedom of not relying on Eddie or Robin to cart him everywhere—and still, somehow, he kept ending up with Eddie in his passenger seat.
Or, like tonight, across from him in a booth at the Rusty Nail. Technically it was more diner than bar, sticky linoleum floors and neon beer signs humming over the jukebox in the corner, but it was good enough. Cold beer, greasy burgers, fries so salty they practically stung.
Steve had suggested it—his idea of a thank-you-for-driving-me-everywhere thing. He’d even insisted on paying, which Eddie had tried to argue against until Steve told him to shut up and order the damn bacon cheeseburger.
Now there they were, two bottles of Bud heavy with condensation between them, Eddie’s plate already a battlefield of fries dipped in ketchup.
“Alright, Harrington,” Eddie said around a mouthful, waving a fry like a pointer. “Tell me the truth. Was this really a thank you dinner, or did you just want an excuse to drown your sorrows in diner grease?”
Steve smirked, leaning back. “What sorrows?”
“You’re a single guy in Hawkins, man. That’s a sorrow all by itself.” Eddie grinned, sharp and mischievous, eyes glinting in the dim light.
Steve rolled his eyes and took a drink. “Says the guy who lives in a trailer with his uncle and eats pizza for breakfast.”
“Hey,” Eddie pointed at him with the fry again, “don’t knock pizza for breakfast. That’s survival food.”
They bantered, back and forth, easy and sharp the way it always was with Eddie. But the longer Steve sat there, the harder it got to keep his eyes where they were supposed to be.
Because Eddie talked with his hands—always had, always would. He flicked his wrist when he gestured, drummed his knuckles on the table for emphasis, spun his bottle around between long fingers. He dipped a fry, thumb rubbing absentmindedly against the greasy paper lining of the basket, and Steve’s stomach twisted.
He tried to focus on literally anything else. The neon Budweiser sign buzzing over the bar. The way the jukebox sputtered out half a Tom Petty song before skipping. The sound of the fryer from the kitchen.
Didn’t work.
Steve’s gaze dropped again, helpless, tracking the way Eddie’s fingers tapped the neck of his beer, casual and confident, a little bit restless.
“...Harrington?”
Steve jerked his head up, heart in his throat. “What?”
Eddie leaned back, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re spacing again.”
“Was not,” Steve shot back instantly, too fast, too defensive.
“You totally were,” Eddie said, tone light, teasing. He took a slow sip of his beer, like he had all the time in the world, eyes never leaving Steve’s face. “Staring off into the void. Classic Harrington move.”
Steve forced a laugh, leaning back and trying to play it off. “Yeah, well, maybe I was just bored listening to you rant about pizza.”
“Ouch,” Eddie clutched at his chest theatrically. “Wounded. Here I thought I was giving you the performance of a lifetime, and you’re just zoning out on me.”
Steve shook his head, smiling despite the way his ears were burning. He shoved a fry into his mouth, chewed fast. “You’re not that interesting, Munson.”
Eddie’s grin widened, like he didn’t believe him for a second. He twirled his beer bottle, condensation slipping under his palm. “Keep telling yourself that, Stevie.”
Steve nearly choked on his fry. He covered it with a cough, grabbed his beer, took a long swallow. He knew Eddie called everyone nicknames, knew he was probably imagining the way it sounded coming from him, low and lazy, sliding under Steve’s skin like it had every right to be there.
The rest of the meal went like that—jokes, digs, too much laughter echoing off linoleum and chrome. But every time Steve’s eyes drifted down, every time he caught himself staring too long at Eddie’s fingers curling around his glass or pulling a fry apart, he had to drag himself back. Had to laugh louder, throw out some sarcastic comment, anything to keep Eddie from noticing again.
When they finally stepped out into the cool night, the buzz of neon fading behind them, Steve shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. He could still feel the weight of Eddie’s casual observation—“Harrington, you’re spacing again”—like it had branded him.
Because the truth was, Eddie wasn’t wrong.
Steve was spacing.
And he didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending it was nothing.
By the time October slipped into November, Steve had stopped keeping track of the excuses. Somehow, Eddie was just there all the time now—wedged into booth seats at the diner with him and Robin, taking up space in the Family Video break room, sprawled on Steve’s couch during late-night movie marathons Dustin pretended to accidentally arrange.
It wasn’t bad. It was—God, it was good. Too good.
Too easy. Too natural. Too dangerous.
Because Steve had started to notice things. Not big things, not billboard-sized warnings—little ones. Small, stupid touches that stacked up until they were impossible to ignore.
Like Eddie brushing past him to grab a tape at Family Video and letting his hand linger on Steve’s back longer than necessary. Or their knees knocking under the diner table and Eddie not moving away. Or the way he’d catch Eddie stretching his arm across the back of the couch, fingers twitching close enough to skim Steve’s shoulder if he so much as breathed wrong.
Steve told himself it was all in his head. Eddie was just touchy. Eddie touched everybody. Eddie was a chaos gremlin who didn’t know what personal space meant. End of story.
Except... except sometimes Eddie’s eyes flicked down when Steve’s gaze (traitorous, magnetic, out of his control) landed on his hands again. And sometimes Eddie didn’t move his hand right away, didn’t seem in a rush to break whatever accidental contact they’d stumbled into.
And Steve—well, Steve was going insane.
They were at Family Video, all four of them, because Dustin had somehow convinced Eddie and Robin to help organize the back room for science. Which was bullshit, Steve knew, but he let it slide because it kept Dustin off his back about the Dream Team’s alleged slacking.
Robin was stacking tapes in wobbly towers, Dustin was scribbling something in a notebook, Eddie was pretending to work while really humming Metallica under his breath, and Steve was—
—spacing. Again. Watching Eddie spin a pen between his fingers like he’d been born with it there. The way his thumb and forefinger rolled it, smooth, careless, showing off.
“You’re doing it again,” Dustin muttered, voice pitched low enough not to carry past the stack of shelves between them and Eddie.
Steve blinked, snapping upright. “Doing what?” he whispered back, too sharp, too fast.
“Staring into space.” Dustin narrowed his eyes, suspicious, smug, and annoyingly perceptive. He leaned closer, lowering his tone. “Except not really space. More like… at Eddie.”
Steve nearly dropped the stack of tapes in his arms. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Robin’s head whipped up immediately, and she smirked, lowering her own voice to match Dustin’s. “Oh my God. This again. Harrington’s got a staring problem.”
“Not a problem,” Dustin corrected, grinning wickedly. “An obsession.”
Steve glared at both of them, heat crawling up his neck. “I don’t know what you’re both smoking, but you’re—”
Robin cut in, whispering like she was narrating a discovery channel special. “You’re literally turning red right now. It’s almost impressive, honestly.”
“I’m not—” Steve hissed, stopping short when Eddie shifted across the room. But Eddie didn’t look over, didn’t hear a thing. Still leaning against the counter, still humming under his breath, still spinning that damn pen like Steve’s nerves weren’t currently being dismantled piece by piece.
Robin’s eyes danced, sharp and knowing. Dustin’s grin only widened, though confusion tugged faintly at his expression—like he’d figured out part of the puzzle, but not the whole picture yet.
Steve forced himself to shove tapes onto shelves, movements loud enough to mask the conspiratorial whispers at his back. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the faded VHS covers, refusing to risk another glance across the room.
Robin and Dustin, of course, exchanged a look like they’d just cracked the code to something bigger than either of them should’ve been messing with.
The thing was, the touches weren’t stopping. If anything, they were getting worse.
One night at the diner, Steve reached for the ketchup at the same time Eddie did, and Eddie didn’t pull back. Their hands brushed, stayed there for a beat too long, and Steve forgot what ketchup even was.
Another time, walking to their cars, Eddie hooked his fingers in Steve’s jacket collar, tugged him sideways to avoid a puddle. It was nothing, quick, practical. Except Steve felt the ghost of it for hours after, phantom heat crawling over his skin like he’d been branded.
And then there was the couch. Always the couch. Some horror movie playing, Robin passed out in an armchair, Dustin snoring on the floor. Eddie leaned in to say something, his hand brushing Steve’s knee. Casual. Friendly. Except Eddie didn’t move it right away, and Steve forgot how words worked.
He laughed too loud, cracked dumb jokes, anything to cover up the static buzzing in his head.
But Robin saw. Dustin saw. They were tag-teaming him now, pushing, nudging, whispering things like, “So when’s the wedding, dingus?” and “Are you gonna tell him, or do I have to?”
Steve swore he was holding it together. Swore he was fine.
Until the dream.
It started normal enough—basketball court lights, the familiar echo of sneakers squeaking against polished wood. Except Eddie was there, not in ripped jeans but sitting cross-legged at half-court, guitar balanced on his lap. He strummed lazy chords, the sound filling the gym like it belonged there.
Steve walked over, slow, curious. Eddie looked up, grinning, and held out his hand.
When Steve took it, everything shifted. The gym dissolved into something softer, darker, warmer. All that remained were Eddie’s hands.
They were everywhere at once—curling around Steve’s wrist, firm and steady. Knuckles brushing his jaw, rough skin grazing sensitive stubble. A thumb stroking across his lower lip, slow and deliberate, until Steve’s mouth parted without him meaning it to.
He wanted—God, he wanted.
The hands moved lower, exploring like they had all the time in the world. Fingertips tracing over his shoulders, dragging down the line of his chest, lingering at his stomach before spreading wide at his hips. Claiming space, holding him in place. Eddie pulled him closer, until there was no air left between them.
Steve’s breath hitched, a choked sound escaping as Eddie’s palm slid under his shirt. Warm, rough, confident. The scrape of calluses against his ribs was enough to make him arch, desperate to feel more.
“Steve,” Eddie murmured, voice low and raw, wrapping around his name like it was something precious.
Heat surged through him. Eddie’s hand cupped the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make Steve shudder. The other hand pressed lower, squeezing at his waist, anchoring him, guiding him forward.
Steve leaned in, no hesitation, no fear—just hunger. Eddie’s thumb pressed into the hollow of his throat as his lips brushed close, not quite kissing, teasing him with the possibility. The weight of Eddie’s hands made him feel both pinned and protected, reckless and safe.
It was too much. It was perfect.
He woke with a violent jolt, tangled in sheets that stuck to his skin. Sweat slicked his chest, his temples. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape, and his body still ached with want, the ghost of Eddie’s hands lingering everywhere.
For a long moment, Steve just lay there, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. Shame burned hot in his gut, but beneath it—deeper, louder—was need.
He’d never felt this wrecked over a dream before.
And yet, even as guilt clawed at him, one truth cut through everything else, sharp and undeniable: he wanted it again.
Time had passed since the dream. Weeks, maybe. Steve wasn’t counting, because counting would mean admitting he was keeping track, and that was one step too close to acknowledging the mess his brain had turned into.
But it stuck with him anyway—the dream. Eddie’s hands. The way he woke up tangled and wrecked, guilty but desperate for more. It was carved into him now, like a song stuck on repeat. And just when Steve thought maybe he could shove it back into some dark corner of his head and pretend it didn’t exist, Eddie made it worse.
Because Eddie touched him more now. Casual, sure, but not casual enough. A palm clapped on his back a little too long. Fingers brushing his arm when they passed a soda. A hand tugging his sleeve when Eddie wanted his attention. Always small, always explainable, but always enough to light Steve up inside like a damn Christmas tree.
Steve told himself he was imagining it. Eddie wasn’t thinking about it the way he was. Eddie was just Eddie—loud, reckless, tactile. Steve was the problem. Steve was the one who had dreams that left him sweating.
And then Dustin decided movie night was happening.
Steve should’ve known. Dustin had that smug little smile plastered on his face when everyone showed up at his house: Mike, Lucas, El, Max, Will, Robin, Eddie—and Steve himself, the designated driver, snack supplier, and, apparently, unwitting victim.
“C’mon, Harrington, sit,” Dustin ordered, pointing at the couch like he was the damn king of Hawkins.
Steve didn’t think about it until he was lowering himself onto the cushions—until Eddie flopped down right next to him, close enough their knees brushed. Dustin grinned like a little goblin across the room. Steve swore silently at him.
The lights dimmed, the VCR whirred, and Back to the Future Part II flickered on the screen.
The first touch was nothing. Popcorn. Eddie handed him the bowl, fingers grazing Steve’s as he passed it over. Just skin against skin for half a second. But Steve felt it everywhere. A hot spark down his arm, settling in his chest. He jerked his hand back like the popcorn burned him, almost spilling the whole bowl.
“You okay, Harrington?” Eddie muttered, low enough that the kids couldn’t hear. His voice had that teasing edge, smooth and knowing.
“Yeah. Fine.” Steve shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth just to have something to do, nearly choking on it.
Eddie smirked. “Sure looks like it.”
Half an hour later, Eddie stretched—big, dramatic, like he was trying to crack his spine—and let his arm fall across the back of the couch. Right behind Steve.
Steve froze. It wasn’t on him, not exactly, but he could feel the weight of it hovering there, warm and deliberate. Too close. If he shifted an inch, his shoulder would brush Eddie’s arm.
He didn’t move.
Robin caught his eye from across the room. Her face lit up with a grin so smug Steve wanted to throw popcorn at her. He scowled instead, mouthing, shut up. She raised her eyebrows like she was watching the greatest show on earth.
“Doc Brown’s a genius,” Eddie whispered a while later, leaning closer. His breath tickled Steve’s ear. “Like, I get the hair, I get the coat. That’s a man who knows his aesthetic.”
Steve swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure. Style icon.” His voice cracked halfway through, because Eddie’s hand had just brushed his knee. Light, quick, like he was adjusting his position—but Steve knew better.
“Relax,” Eddie murmured, lips quirking. “You’re acting like I’m gonna bite.”
Steve shot him a glare, whispering back, “Could you not do this right now?”
“Do what?” Eddie’s eyes sparkled, all fake innocence. His fingers tapped against Steve’s jeans once, twice, before pulling away. “Just trying to share some popcorn, man.”
Steve shifted, heart pounding, ears hot. He tried to focus on the screen, but Marty McFly blurred into static. All he could see were Eddie’s hands—those same hands from his dream, so vivid it made his stomach twist.
The kids were into it, at least. Mike was picking apart the plot, Lucas was arguing with him, Max was shoving at both of them to shut up, and El just calmly ate her way through a second box of Twinkies. Will was quiet, leaning forward like he was memorizing every frame.
Steve wished he could get that absorbed. Instead, he jumped every time Eddie moved.
At one point, Eddie leaned forward to grab a soda can from the table, and his other hand landed—steady, solid—on Steve’s thigh. Just for balance. Just long enough to make Steve’s entire body lock up.
By the time Eddie pulled back, Steve’s throat was dry, and Robin was watching him with the kind of gleeful malice only a best friend could manage.
“Good movie,” Eddie said when the credits rolled, stretching again, this time with a satisfied sigh. “Time travel, hoverboards, capitalism. Got it all.”
“Yeah,” Steve managed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Classic.”
Robin leaned against the arm of the couch, smirking. “You two look cozy.”
Steve’s head whipped toward her. “Shut up.”
Eddie chuckled, dark and low. “Cozy’s not so bad.”
Dustin, who’d been pretending not to listen, perked up instantly. “Wait, what’s cozy?”
“Nothing,” Steve snapped. He stood so fast the empty popcorn bowl clattered to the floor. “Movie’s over, right? Who’s ready to get dropped off?”
Robin snickered. Eddie just leaned back on the couch, stretching his legs out like he owned the place. “You’re wound tighter than my E-string, Harrington. Gotta learn to loosen up.”
Steve ignored him, gathering cans and candy wrappers like his life depended on it. His pulse still hadn’t slowed.
Later, when everyone was gone and the night was quiet, Steve sat alone in his car for a long time. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached.
He told himself it was nothing. Just Eddie being Eddie. Just nerves. Just bad lighting, close quarters, too much popcorn.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could feel were those brushes of skin—Eddie’s hand on his thigh, his fingers tapping Steve’s jeans, the ghost of his breath against Steve’s ear.
And Steve knew: he was in trouble.
Big, impossible, no-way-out trouble.
By the time Steve pulled up to Forest Hills, it had been almost a month since the movie night. He’d managed—barely—to keep himself together, to act normal around everyone else. But Eddie? Eddie made it impossible. Every week, there was something new. A shoulder pressed into his a little too long, a hand grabbing his wrist to point something out, fingertips brushing his palm when he passed over a joint or a cassette tape.
Steve thought maybe it was just Eddie being touchy. Eddie was like that. But then again, Eddie wasn’t like that with everyone. Just him.
And Steve was running out of excuses.
He parked the BMW on the gravel, headlights cutting across the familiar shape of Eddie’s trailer. There were Christmas lights strung half-dead along the gutter—Eddie’s version of home improvement. The porch light buzzed weakly, and Steve could hear faint guitar chords drifting through the open window.
He sat there too long, hands on the steering wheel, before finally forcing himself out.
Eddie yanked open the door before Steve even knocked. “Harrington! I thought you got cold feet.” He grinned, all hair and rings and too much confidence. “What took you so long, man? I was about to send a search party.”
“Traffic,” Steve lied, stepping inside. It wasn’t traffic. He’d just sat in his car psyching himself up like he was about to walk into a warzone instead of his friend’s trailer.
Eddie’s grin widened, like he knew. “Uh-huh. Sure. Come on in. Mi casa, es tu casa.”
Inside, it was the same as always—cluttered but weirdly cozy. Empty Coke cans on the counter, stacks of tapes by the TV, notebooks full of campaign notes scattered across the table. Wayne’s recliner sat empty, a blanket folded neatly over the back.
“Beer?” Eddie asked, already rooting in the fridge.
“Yeah,” Steve said, dropping onto the couch. He needed something to do with his hands.
Eddie popped the caps off two bottles and handed one over, fingers brushing Steve’s knuckles as he did. Deliberate. Too deliberate.
Steve’s throat went dry. He took a long swig, pretending he didn’t notice.
“So,” Eddie said, flopping down beside him. Close. Always close. “The guys ditched me. Bastards. Said they had some ‘family thing.’ Which is code for we don’t feel like hanging out with Eddie Munson tonight.”
Steve smirked. “Maybe they finally got tired of your voice.”
Eddie clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Low blow, Harrington. My voice is angelic.”
“More like demonic.”
“Exactly.” Eddie smirked, settling back, one arm sprawled across the couch behind Steve. “That’s why you’re here. You’re the chosen one. Keeper of my terrible company.”
“Lucky me.”
They put on a tape—Lethal Weapon, Eddie’s pick, because of course it was—and for a while, they actually watched. Or Steve tried to. Except Eddie kept doing these little things.
First, reaching for the remote across Steve’s lap, brushing his thigh in the process. Then, grabbing another beer and letting his hand rest on Steve’s shoulder while he leaned back. Finally, during some explosion scene, Eddie nudged him with his foot under the table like it was an accident.
It wasn’t an accident. Steve knew. His pulse knew.
“Jesus,” Steve muttered, shifting in his seat.
“What?” Eddie turned his head, all fake innocence.
“Nothing.”
Halfway through the movie, Eddie paused it to light a cigarette. The lighter clicked, flame catching, smoke curling in the air. Steve stared—because of course he did—at Eddie’s fingers, the way they worked the filter, the flick of his thumb against the metal wheel.
And before he could stop himself, before his brain caught up with his mouth, Steve blurted, “You’ve got… good hands.”
Silence.
The words hung there, heavy, irreversible. Steve’s stomach dropped.
Eddie froze mid-inhale, cigarette hovering at his lips. Then, slowly, he lowered it. His eyes found Steve’s, sharp and knowing. No smirk, no joke. Just looking. Seeing.
Steve wanted to crawl under the couch and die. “Forget I said that,” he muttered, heat crawling up his neck.
Eddie tilted his head, still watching him. Then, after a long beat, his mouth curved into the kind of smirk that made Steve’s knees weak. “Good hands, huh?”
Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I said forget it.”
“Not a chance.” Eddie stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and, without warning, held out his hand. Palm up. Rings glinting in the TV glow. “Here. Check for yourself.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Eddie’s grin widened, daring. “You said I’ve got good hands. Prove it. Take a look.”
It was insane. It was a trap. It was the kind of thing that should’ve sent Steve running. But instead—because apparently he had a death wish—Steve reached out.
His hand slid into Eddie’s, warm and calloused, fingers curling automatically.
The world narrowed.
It wasn’t just a handshake. Not the way Eddie held on. His thumb traced slow across the back of Steve’s knuckles, casual but intimate, like he’d been waiting for this. Steve’s breath caught. He couldn’t move. Didn’t want to.
“Not bad, huh?” Eddie murmured, voice low.
Steve’s chest ached. “Yeah,” he admitted, barely audible. “Not bad.”
For a second, neither of them moved. The movie flickered silently in the background, forgotten. The only thing Steve could hear was the rush of his own pulse.
Then Eddie leaned closer, eyes dark and bright all at once. “You always stare at my hands, Harrington. Thought maybe you’d never notice.”
Steve jerked, like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I don’t—”
“You do.” Eddie’s thumb pressed lightly against his wrist, right over his pulse. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”
Steve’s throat worked. “Eddie…”
Eddie smirked again, softer this time. “Relax. I’m not gonna make you say anything you don’t want to. But…” His fingers tightened, grounding. “I’m not pulling away unless you do.”
Steve sat there, frozen, the weight of Eddie’s words sinking into him. He could pull back. He should. That was the smart move. Pretend it was a joke, laugh it off, let it slide back into whatever strange almost-friendship they’d built.
Except he didn’t want to.
For months—hell, maybe longer—he’d been drowning in this thing he couldn’t name. Dreams, touches, glances that stuck like splinters. And now Eddie was offering, open and steady, waiting for him to make a choice.
Steve’s voice came out rough, unsteady. “I don’t want you to pull away.”
Something flickered in Eddie’s eyes—surprise, then something warmer, deeper. His grin softened into a smile. “Good. Saves me the trouble.”
And just like that, Eddie’s hand shifted, lacing their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Steve exhaled, shaky, a laugh bubbling out of him despite himself. “You’re an asshole.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said easily, leaning in with that wolfish grin. “But I’m your asshole now, aren’t I?”
Steve rolled his eyes, but it didn’t land with any real heat. The truth was, his chest felt lighter than it had in weeks, and Eddie’s hand was still wrapped around his like it belonged there.
He could’ve left it at that. They could’ve gone back to the movie, cracked another beer, kept pretending. But Eddie didn’t pull away. If anything, his thumb kept sweeping slow circles over the back of Steve’s hand, patient, relentless. It was undoing him, one quiet touch at a time.
Steve swallowed hard. “You’re really not gonna let me live that down, huh?”
“Not a chance.” Eddie leaned a little closer, curls brushing Steve’s temple. “You think I’ve got good hands. I’ve been waiting years to hear you say something like that.”
Steve snorted, weak. “Years?”
“Okay, fine. Months. Still counts.” Eddie’s grin widened. “And I knew, by the way. Every time you stared. I just… wanted to see how long it’d take for you to crack.”
Steve groaned, head falling back against the couch. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm, maybe. But you like it.”
Steve hated how true that was.
The silence stretched, not awkward but taut, strung tight as a guitar string. Steve could feel the heat radiating off Eddie beside him, feel his own pulse hammering in his throat. He thought about pulling his hand back, about pretending this wasn’t happening. But he didn’t move.
And Eddie noticed.
Of course he did.
“Y’know,” Eddie murmured, voice dropping low, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you actually want me to do something about it.”
Steve’s stomach flipped. “What if I do?” he blurted, before his brain caught up.
That did it.
Eddie’s eyes darkened, the grin turning sharper, hungrier. “Oh, Harrington,” he said, almost a purr. “You really shouldn’t have said that.”
The next thing Steve knew, Eddie’s hand was on his throat. Not hard, not choking—just there, warm and steady, thumb pressed against his pulse point. Steve’s breath caught, knees going weak even though he was already sitting down.
“Shit,” Steve whispered, heat racing down his spine.
Eddie tilted his head, watching him like he was studying the world’s most interesting puzzle. “You like that.” Not a question.
Steve tried to deny it, but his voice came out wrecked. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe.” Eddie’s grip tightened just a hair, just enough to make Steve shiver. “Definitely.”
Steve’s laugh cracked, helpless. “You’re such a dick.”
“Mm-hm.” Eddie leaned in closer, breath hot against Steve’s ear. “And you’re letting me.”
Steve’s heart was pounding so hard he thought Eddie must’ve felt it under his palm. Every nerve in his body screamed to lean forward, to close the distance, to finally do the thing he’d been imagining in flashes and dreams. But Eddie wasn’t rushing. Eddie was dragging it out, controlling the pace, making Steve feel every second of it.
Then Eddie’s other hand slid up, fingers tangling in Steve’s hair, tugging his head back just enough to make him meet his eyes.
Steve’s lips parted, a sound caught in his throat.
Eddie smirked. “You want me to kiss you, Harrington?”
Steve almost laughed at how obvious the answer was, but all that came out was a shaky, “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
Steve swallowed hard. His pride wanted to fight, wanted to hold the line. But Eddie’s hands were on him, steady and unyielding, and he was melting. “I want you to kiss me.”
That was all it took.
Eddie crushed their mouths together, rough and hungry. Steve’s world tilted, heat exploding through him as he fisted a hand in Eddie’s shirt, dragging him closer. Eddie tasted like beer and smoke and something sharp, addictive.
Steve groaned into the kiss, every ounce of restraint gone. He’d thought about this—God, he’d thought about this—but nothing compared to the real thing. Eddie’s mouth was insistent, demanding, like he owned the moment and knew Steve would follow.
And Steve did. Willingly.
Eddie’s hand slid from his throat down to his chest, pressing him back into the couch, while his other hand tightened in Steve’s hair, keeping him right where he wanted him. Steve let out a broken sound, half whimper, half laugh.
“Fuck,” he gasped when Eddie finally pulled back, lips swollen, breath ragged.
“Better than good hands?” Eddie teased, smirk feral.
Steve laughed, shaking his head. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re addicted,” Eddie countered, before kissing him again, deeper this time.
The couch creaked under their weight as Eddie shifted, pressing Steve down, slotting their bodies together like puzzle pieces that had been waiting too long. Steve’s hands roamed without permission—Eddie’s shoulders, his back, the sharp line of his jaw. Everywhere he touched, Eddie burned.
Eddie’s thumbs dug into his hips, anchoring him, guiding him. Steve thought he might actually combust from the pressure alone.
“You like it when I take control, don’t you?” Eddie murmured against his mouth.
Steve wanted to argue, to toss back some sarcastic retort. But the truth came out instead, raw and unfiltered: “Yeah.”
Eddie groaned, pleased, and rewarded him by grinding down, slow and deliberate. Steve gasped, eyes flying wide, nails digging into Eddie’s shirt.
“Oh my God.”
“Not God, Harrington,” Eddie said with a wicked grin. “Just me.”
Steve laughed breathlessly, dizzy from want. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re mine.”
The words hit Steve harder than he expected, straight through his chest. He should’ve panicked, should’ve pulled back, should’ve said something sarcastic to deflect. But instead, the only thing he managed was, “Yeah. Okay.”
And Eddie kissed him again, sealing it.
Hours blurred after that. Kissing until their lips were raw, hands exploring, teasing. Eddie pushed, tested, always in control, and Steve melted into it every single time. Whenever Eddie’s hands slid up his sides, pressed into his hips, or tangled in his hair, Steve thought, finally. Finally, I don’t have to imagine anymore.
And when Eddie’s hand settled back on his throat, thumb stroking slow and sure, Steve knew he’d never come back from this. Not really.
Because Eddie touched him like he already knew.
And Steve—stubborn, oblivious, loyal, hopeless Steve—let him. Wanted him. Needed him.
By the time the movie credits had long since ended, the room smelled like smoke and sweat and something heavier, sweeter. They hadn’t gone all the way, but the air between them was electric, thick with promise.
Steve lay sprawled on the couch, Eddie half on top of him, hair a wild mess, lips swollen. Eddie’s hand was still twined with his, thumb lazy against his skin.
Steve stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving, brain still short-circuiting.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
Eddie chuckled, smug and satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
Steve turned his head, meeting his eyes, and couldn’t help it—he smiled. “You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Yeah,” Eddie said, smirking, “but I’m also the best. Admit it.”
Steve rolled his eyes, but squeezed his hand tighter. “…maybe.”
“Not maybe,” Eddie echoed, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “Definitely.”
Steve groaned, but his laugh was real, helpless. And when Eddie kissed him again, slow this time, Steve thought, Yeah. Definitely.
