Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3
summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?
It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.
You’re curled on the corner of Steve’s couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter “I’m not home,” the door swings open.
“Hey, is she— oh, there you are!” Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"
"Hi," you say back, grinning up at him, happy to see him.
He mirrors your smile. “Okay, so I need a second opinion on the naming convention for my new campaign NPC. ‘Zargoth the Destroyer’ or ‘Lord Malador of the Shadowed Vale’?"
"Hmmm, I like Zargoth better. It's more intimidating. Plus, short and sweet, you know what I mean?"
Steve stares, remote dangling from his fingers. “Henderson. My house. A ‘hello’ would be nice. An appointment would be better.”
Dustin waves a dismissive hand. “Hi, Steve. This is important.” He plops down on the floor in front of you, effectively blocking Steve from your line of sight.
It doesn’t stop there.
Two days later, you’re helping Steve sort a mountain of mismatched socks that have just come out of the laundry. Weirdly, it's somewhat of a bonding experience, doing laundry together.
Robin lets herself in, her eyes landing on you like a spotlight.
"Oh, thank God you're here," she breathes.
"Where else would I be?" you joke.
She plops down on the bed, messing up Steve's organised sock piles. He sighs.
“My date with Vickie. At Enzo’s. It’s tomorrow. It’s a real, sit-down, checkered-tablecloth kinda date."
You put down the polka dot socks you were holding to beam at her. "That's amazing, Robin! I know how much you were looking forward to that."
"It is amazing! But it's also a crisis!" She grabs your shoulders, her eyes wide. “What do I wear? Do I go cute? Do I go cool? Do I try for both and risk looking like I’m trying too hard? And my hair— can you braid it?"
Steve holds up two socks that are clearly not a match—one black, one navy. "Hello? We're doing laundry. We were in the zone."
Robin spares him a haphazard glance. "This is important, Dingus." She turns back to you. "Please, I need you. I'm vibrating."
You can't help but laugh. "Okay, okay. I like your outfit now. It's chic, but doesn't look like you're trying too hard. And I can totally braid your hair, but I think it might look better down? Light makeup I can help you with, maybe a little eyeliner on your waterline. I have one I think'd suit you, it's in the bathroom."
Robin tugs on your hand, pulling you up to stand. "You're a genius."
Steve watches, helpless, as you're swept upstairs in a whirlwind of pre-date panic, then back down at his socks. "They're both dark," he mumbles to himself.
The true test of his patience comes during a Friday night movie marathon in the Wheeler’s basement. You’re on the floor, leaned back comfortably between Steve’s knees, his fingers in your hair, scratching absently at your scalp. It’s perfect. It’s your spot.
The movie plays, and Steve is content, his world pleasantly narrowed to the familiar weight of you against him and the scent of your shampoo.
Then, Lucas slides over from his spot next to Mike. He looks desperate. "Hey," he whispers, his voice strained. "I need help. It's an emergency."
You tilt your head back to look up at Steve with an apologetic smile before turning your full attention to Lucas. "What's wrong?"
"I pointed out a zit on Max's face," he confesses in a horrified rush. "I wasn't trying to be mean! I just noticed it! I said, 'Is that a new zit?' and she... she hasn't spoken to me in two hours. She's just been giving me this death glare. What do I do? Do I apologise? Do I ignore it? Do I buy her nail polish? Is nail polish even an apology gift?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but your eyes are sympathetic. "Oh, Lucas. Okay. First, do not buy her nail polish. That implies you're paying way too much attention to her appearance, which is the problem. Buy her new skateboard bearings, she mentioned she needed some. And definitely apologize. Say, 'I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.' Keep it simple."
Lucas nods frantically, absorbing the instructions like they're a military briefing. "Got it. Thanks." He scuttles back to his spot, already planning his approach.
Steve’s hand has stilled in your hair. You feel him take a slow, deep breath behind you.
Before you can settle back against him, you catch Max’s eye from across the room. She gestures subtly with her head towards Lucas and rolls her eyes, but you see the hurt in them.
You give her a small smile in acknowledgement. Mouth, 'he's sorry. He'll make it up to you.'
Then, Dustin’s head appears, blocking the TV. “Okay, one more question about the D&D character convention. If a—”
But Steve has had enough.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, soft murmur, tinged with a vulnerability that makes your heart clutch. “Hey, angel... can we get out of here?”
You twist to look up at him. In the flickering blue light of the TV, his expression isn’t annoyed. It’s wistful. A little tired.
“Yeah,” you whisper back instantly, without hesitation. “Of course.”
You gently extract yourself from his hold and stand up, reaching for your jacket. "We're gonna head out," you announce.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What? Now?” Dustin whines.
"Yeah, I had a question to ask you!" Mike exclaims. "It's, like, life or death. I think the Chief's gonna kill me if I go see El again—"
“You can’t leave, I haven’t executed the apology protocol yet!” Lucas whisper-yells, panicked.
Steve opens his mouth, a familiar, defensive retort about how you’re not a UN negotiator clearly forming. But you step in before he can.
You smile, soft but firm, and slip your hand into Steve’s. “You guys’ll be fine,” you say, your tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. You turn your smile up to Steve, eyes warm. You give his hand a little squeeze. “I want some alone time with my boyfriend.”
The groans taper into scattered laughs. Max sends you a not very discreet thumbs up.
Steve looks down at you, warmth pooling in his chest. He gives you this look of such pure, dazed adoration it makes your heart skip. He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts your joined hands and presses a firm, grateful kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You heard the lady,” he says to the room, his voice light and full of happy energy. “We’re off-duty. Emergencies will have to wait.”
He leads you up the basement stairs, the sounds of the movie and the kids’ renewed bickering fading behind you.
The second the Wheeler’s front door clicks shut, sealing you both in the cool, quiet dark of the porch, Steve stops. He turns, and in the soft glow of the porch light, his expression is completely unguarded—all soft eyes and a tender, wobbly smile.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He wraps his arms around you and sways gently on the spot, his cheek resting against your hair.
“My sweet, perfect girl,” he coos, the words a warm rumble against your temple. "You were so patient with them, solving everyone’s problems.”
He pulls back just far enough to cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes you feel dizzy.
He’s beaming at you, his eyes shining with so much affection it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in and peppers a flurry of soft, quick kisses all over your face—your forehead, your nose, each eyelid, your cheeks—murmuring between each one.
"My smart girl... giving everyone life advice... always being so kind and helpful and perfect..."
He finally lands on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, a kiss that tastes like gratitude and awe. When he breaks away, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
“I’m gonna melt into a puddle right here on Mrs. Wheeler’s porch,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "The way you handle them all, and then you just… you turn those big, beautiful eyes on me and say that? In front of everyone?” He lets out a shaky laugh, his nose nuzzling against yours. “I’m done for. Completely done for.”
He hugs you again, squeezing you tight and lifting you just an inch off the ground. “C’mon, my love,” he says, "let's go to my place. I just want to look at you for a while. Is that okay? I just wanna hold my girl and look at her.”
You laugh, the sound full of softness and affection for your sweet, adorable boyfriend. "It's more than okay. Take me home, please, baby. I'm all yours."
A soft, almost wounded sound escapes him and he hugs you impossibly tighter for a second, his face buried in your neck. "Oh, my heart. You're gonna kill me. You're so perfect."
Steve finally lets you go, but only to take your hand, lacing your fingers together in a grip that feels reverent. He leads you to the car, opening the passenger door for you with a soft, "In you go, gorgeous."
The drive to his house is quiet, but the silence is thick with a new, syrupy sweetness. He keeps your hand in his lap, his thumb stroking incessantly over your knuckles when he's not changing gears.
"Just look at you," he murmurs at one red light, his free hand reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."
"I am," you remind him softly, leaning into his touch.
"I know," he breathes, like it's the greatest mystery and miracle of his life at the same time, somehow. "I know, baby. And I'm never letting go."
Once home, he doesn't even turn on the main lights. He guides you to the living room couch by the faint glow from the kitchen. He sits down and pulls you into his lap, arranging you so you're sideways, your legs draped over his, your head tucked perfectly under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Here we go," he whispers, his lips against your hair. "Right where I wanted you all night. Just my girl and me."
You hum, a soft, contented sound as you melt into his warmth, all the busy energy of the night finally draining away.
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "You must be so tired, sweet thing," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in his chest. "Taking care of everyone all the time." His hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back. "My sweet, exhausted angel."
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "But you know what?"
"Hmm?"
He tightens his arms around you. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You can help whoever you want, baby. 'Cos when you're done taking care of everyone else..." He presses a fond kiss into your hair. "I'll be right here taking care of you."
summary: Dustin's new neighbor is really helpful. And once Steve sees you in a bathing suit he starts to wonder if you could be helpful in other ways.
cw: fem!reader, mentions of female anatomy, reader wears a bikini, steves a boob guy (canon), barely there perv!steve (if you squint/wanna call it that), strangers to enemies(?) to lovers, semi-public sex, smut!!, boob sucking, robin almost catching them, lmk if i missed anything!
part 2!!
Being Dustin's neighbor had its pros and cons.
For example a pro would be his mom making too much food for dinner. Like for some reason her meals were made for a whole family despite it just being her and Dustin. Still, she generously gives you any extra food her and her growing boy hadn't gone through. And who were you to let good food go bad?
A con would be her talking up a storm while you try to get mail. Or when she knocks on your door with the freshest baked cookies asking if you could babysit her son for the night while she works. Dsutin doesn't really need a babysitter, so smart he could easily spend a night alone. But still he’s a kid and the warm cookies don't hurt.
So you deal with the more than necessary neighborly duties. And in all honesty, if she didn't knock on your door your night would be spent sitting in front of your tv screen. Which if you put it side by side to your night taking care of Dustin there's not much of a difference. Sure the things you’ll watch on the tv might be different, but at least you have someone to talk to. Living all alone comes with things like that. Nights spent alone, days where you don't talk to anyone at all, and befriending your neighbor who's like 14.
Days go on all the same. Last week you went to his to babysit and then the day after to cool down since your heater decided to break mid June. It was a whole thing but it was that moment you decided you were thankful that things turned out the way they did. To have a welcoming space you feel safe in when something in your own home goes wrong isn't something to take for granted.
As far as this week you have nothing to do, but you won't say it outloud, too afraid of jinxing it. And plus it’s important to take things day by day. Today is a tanning day, despite the weather being horrifically warm you've found a loop hole.
The grass in your front porch has two sprinklers, allowing water to circulate and give the grass some well needed hydration as the sun soaks it all up. The water goes off every thirty minutes, giving you– if you time it right– thirty minutes to get too hot, then have some water splash on you, and with a few rounds of each you will have perfected a day out tanning without dying of heat stroke. Yes it does mean tanning out where people can see you but the street you live on is filled with people just like Dustin's mom, they're either too busy working, or too old to spy on you through the window.
It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong, just laying in the grass letting the sun soak through your skin. Hopefully getting bronze instead of burnt but you try to be consistent with sunscreen.
By the end of the week you've been out a couple times tanning. Last time Dustin's friends saw you and said hi which was nice. What you didn't see was Max hitting Lucas’ arm when he was staring for a second too long.
“You do realize your hot neighbor is half naked out here right?” Lucas poorly whispers, like it's a new fact. And to him it is, not that he should be saying it in front of Max.
“Y’know I somehow missed that, thanks for letting me know.” Dustin says, shutting the door behind his friend who's being forced inside by his girlfriend. “Of course I know it! And she’s not hot, she's actually really weird and annoying.” He finishes his small rant with crossed arms, like he can't believe his friend even said that about you. His lonely neighbor who has nothing better to do than make costumes for their D&D game nights.
It wasn't till a few days later when Steve came around. One of Dustin's friends you somehow consistently missed. Either you were working when he was there or busy doing chores with music blasting when his red car honked to get Dustin's attention. Your paths just haven't crossed yet. But that didn't mean Steve hadn't heard of you.
At first it was Dustin no longer needing to be taken to the arcade, or being picked up for that matter. Next it was not needing to be babysat, which Steve didn't mind that payless job being taken off his hands. But lastly– the one that broke the camels back– was the little kid no longer going to big brave Steve for help or advice. The kid who he had fought monsters next to, the one who begged him for girl help, suddenly didn't need him anymore.
It hurt Steve more than he’d like to admit. Chalking it up to just liking the attention, the feeling of being needed in that big brother way. Definitely not missing his friend, never that. Although he didn't even need to beg for info as to why Dustin had changed up on him, his loud mouth friends told him with ease. Muttering things about his new neighbor who was too hot to hang out with some dork like Dustin. It had Steve looking at them in the car mirror as he drove Mike, Lucas, Will in the back seat and lucky Max in the passenger seat. Taking the kids to their respective houses.
“Whos this girl you guys keep talking about?” He tries to say it in a ‘I couldn't care less’ type of tone but the kids know him too well for his own good. Normally his ears are turned off to any conversation the kids have so the fact that he’s paying attention shows he cares.
“God, keep it in your pants Harrington.” Mike says with an eye roll.
“Dustins new neighbor.” Max says over Mike's sentence.
Steve doesn't miss either of their words. Somehow he has become extremely skilled at understanding the kids as they talk over each other. Maybe it’s his brain trying to make peace with the fact that he has to listen to high pitched kids scream all the time. Still he gives Mike a squinted eye look in the rear view mirror.
He doesn't ask more questions than that about you. Deciding he’ll be at Dustin's house soon enough he can see it with his own two eyes. Better that than letting the kids make their own judgments based off of his one simple question.
And he was right.
Dustin ended up needing him to help get ready for a school dance. Apparently a job only good ol’ Steve Harrington could handle. It’s not like you knew how to tame a lion's mane or hype up a nervous kid, trying to give all the right advice. For Steve however, it’s what he did on the daily.
But what he didn't know– and what his friend failed to tell him– was it was your prime tanning time. With a bikini that would give you a barely there tan line you laid out on your grass. A small radio sat near your front door. Loud enough that you could hear it behind you but not too loud that people would complain. A hat covered your eyes and nose, hiding the sun that was shining down directly on you. Your body glistened easily in the light, already a little bit darker from this new routine.
When he pulled up into the driveway he almost hit the curb, too busy looking at how your legs looked. Toned in a way only oil and the sun could produce. And as you let them fall back onto the grass he saw the way the straps to your top looked like they could snap in two, and the bottoms allowed him to see just enough to get his brain working.
It was sick is what it was. Something Steve hoped no one saw, specifically the kids. A little moment he let himself divulge in despite knowing he shouldn't. When he knocks on Henderson's door he’s quick to act like it never even happened.
Luckily for Steve he was able to have a nice conversation with the kid. Asking about what he’s been up to, why the older friend was no longer needed, and how helpful his new neighbor has been. It took a second for Steve not to let himself get smothered in jealousy, but he was here for a reason right? There was still a use for him in Dustin's life. He wasn't completely exiled just yet, and because of that Steve will be able to sleep at night.
By the time he was done helping Dustin, ready to drive him to the dance you were gone. Inside, getting cool, he thinks to himself. Maybe showering and washing off the creams you put on to get so shiny and smooth looking. He feels his heart starting to beat wildly in his chest from just thinking about it. You all soapy in the shower, maybe humming a song you heard while outside, afterwards checking yourself out in the mirror to see if the tan lines you’d been working on were starting to come through. And if he bothered to walk up to you and ask, he would've found out you fell asleep. The hat you wore doing wonders on blocking any light, letting you sleep through the reapplication of the sunscreen, allowing the sun to get you in a way that would later lead to a small burn atop your shoulders and chest.
It was defeating how easily you took over his mind. What would've been a whole car ride of Steve boosting his friend's confidence turned into Dustin snapping his fingers just to get his attention. It’s not like you’d talked to him, or even looked at him for that matter. There was absolutely no reason for Steve to be acting or feeling this way about you. Some girl who he didn't even have a name for.
Soon enough June became July and Steve was back at Dustin's for a small get together. This time all the kids were there and he offered to come and supervise before anyone even got a chance to ask you about it.
It was almost humorous how Steve almost ran over that same curb after he spotted you back outside. The bikini you had on this time had little bows on the side of your bottoms, tied to perfection. Instead of a hat covering your face you wore sunglasses. The frame shaped your face well, the lenses were so dark he couldn't even tell what you looked like behind them.
As he turned into the drive way he quickly dogged your view. You were interested in this red car that kept popping up recently, wanting to see the person getting out of it. Thank goodness for your dark lenses because with them you look like you're just resting, laying with your arms holding your upper body up. In reality your eyes were stuck on the guy getting out of the expensive car with gorgeous hair.
Steve makes a point to walk to the door with a confident ease. Not wanting to run even though he's 10 minutes late just in case your eyes, that he is convinced he feels on him, watch as he goes into the house. But you should certainly look away when Dustin opens the door and immediately starts yelling at him. Letting him know the importance of being on time ‘at his grown age’ as the kids say.
The small get together is fun for about two hours, if that. Everyone is relatively nice to each other, he doesn't have to step in too much when one of them gets out of line. Makes him wonder if you yell at them the same way he does. You probably don't, that's why you get invited more than he does. But it doesn't take long for Mike to blame Will for cheating even though Will would never cheat, and Lucas to get too busy kissing on Max that he's practically forfeiting the game.
With all the yelling and fingers being pointed Steve allows himself a few minutes of quiet time outside. Completely forgetting you're out there until he hears your music. It would be wrong of him to step away from his duties of babysitting to talk to a girl. But you’re only a few steps away and the kids have handled worse than anything from this dimension can bring. He lets himself make his way to you, only then thinking of what he’s even going to say to you. His heart beats so loudly he can hear it in his ears, a consistent noise telling him he's pathetic for getting this worked up over someone he doesn't even know.
You hear someone near you before you see them, head too busy trying to focus on the music and how annoying it is that the sun breaks through your glasses.
Still his words scare the ever living shit out of you.
“Hey.” Steve says with a wave you don't even catch.
Your yelp is loud, a sound that the kids might've even heard. The hands pressed to your quickly rising chest doesn't make him feel any better.
“Holy shit I didn't know you were coming over to me.” You mutter, breath still uneven as you pull your sunglasses to rest on your head. One of your eyes is on him and the other is shut tightly, trying to balance out the new amount of sun coming to your vision.
“M’sorry I scared you, just um, wanted to check on you.”
“You wanted to check on me?” Your eyes are squinted from the sun being in your face but if it wasn't your features would show how much you don't believe him.
“Yeah, y’know you were out here when I drove up and then I stepped out and you're still here.” He’s nice enough to move around, trying to get that one spot that will block the sun from you completely. Could be written off as being a gentleman or wanting a good view of your pretty face.
“And you’re worried I’m what? Melting?” Your head cocks with the last word like you know you’re making fun of him to his face but he doesn't back down.
A quick laugh comes out from him, trying to show you he gets your humor. “Maybe melting, maybe getting a heat stroke, both have similar outcomes.” His back is starting to get really hot from trying to block the sun.
“I’m fine, you should go back to Dustins.” You respond, putting the shades back down to rest on the bridge of your nose.
“Hey wait, you’re the one who's been taking over my babysitting duties aren't you?” It’s a cheap shot at trying to continue the conversation despite you trying to end it. It’s easy to get the hint when he solidifies his stance with crossed arms.
“His mom is really nice so I do favors for her sometimes. No need to get all defensive, Dustin loves hanging with his 30 year old friend.”
“So I’m actually no where near 30-”
“Arent you supposed to be watching him anyways? Not over here literally stealing the sun away from me.” Now that you aren't looking at him, hands behind your head as a makeshift pillow to resume your tanning, him blocking the sun isn't as helpful as it was 30 seconds ago.
It’s almost as if you have a special power for pushing him away. Directly after you said it the kids are at the front door screaming for Steve to come back even though a simple yell from one of them across the street would do the trick. With a look to the kids and a look back to you he can see the smirk that rests on your face. Finding it funny how nothing is working out for him.
“Later, Steve.” You loosely wave.
And Steve thinks that's it. It's official. You’re evil. Because if you would've cut him loose maybe he could've gotten over it. Lived out the rest of the day without the sound of your voice saying his name stuck in his head. Could've wrangled all the kids together, showing them who's the adult– despite knowing they don't take him seriously – saying how they can't just yell after him like that. But instead he has you saying his name in the most flirtatious manner bouncing around the walls of his brain. Like a song stuck in his head he can't stop replaying over and over.
His body turns, ready to give in to whatever the kids are yelling at him for but his brain runs a million miles per minute, not letting the things he’s hearing fully move him. It feels like a whole minute of thinking but in reality only seconds pass before you hear his feet shuffle a few steps closer to you then his voice.
“I’m having a small fourth of July get together tomorrow if you want to come. It’s a pool party so you can bring one of these if you want.” He points to your bikini.
You have to give it to him. Being practically turned down twice and still going for it is brave. Maybe that's why you give in a little.
Without moving, without looking at him, or pushing the frames away, you decide to bite. “What time?”
“Party starts at 4, you could even be helpful and bring Dustin with you.” The tone he’s giving you matches the one you gave him earlier perfectly. Sarcastic and a little mean with a slight tease.
“Hm, maybe.” Because you’re not gonna let him think you're that easy. That you’ll listen to whatever he says, especially with that tone.
With that he finally makes his way back to the kids, satisfied with the work he’s done. Once he steps into Dustin's house the kids are all over him asking brand new questions they didn't have a moment ago, before he deliberately ignored them just to talk to you more.
“So what was that all about? Were you trying to make her stop coming over?” Dustin shouts, knowing Steve had to have messed something up.
“The only man to ever think with anything but his heart.” Mike tsks with a simple shake of his head and a hand to his own heart. As if he's the old and wise one.
“We know what he was thinking with.” Lucas quips back, giving Mike a big grin. Fist bump ready at his own joke that he shouldn't understand in the first place.
“His brain?” El questions.
“Exactly El.” Will pitifully smiles at her with a hand on her shoulder. Saddened by the fact that these are the people she has to deal with.
Steve puts a finger up in the air ready to point at them with the other hand on his hip, a mom pose for sure. “Listen losers, she’s coming over tomorrow for the party. If you say, actually no, if you even mutter a single thing to make me look bad, your ass is grass. You’re dead, you got me?” His thick brows raise and his big eyes get bigger, trying to really seal the deal that he’s serious about this.
The kids however, they just roll their eyes and grumble yes’s and nod along. Like they would ever make a whole plan over him and some girl coming over. Or better yet, actually listen to him. It’s almost comical how quickly they get over what Steve was doing with the neighbor and focus back on the real reason he was called after in the first place. With your voice stuck in his head and the kids voices coming through his ears he feels ready to go back outside for a well needed break all over again.
The party comes quickly. Steve starts his day making sure the house is spotless. Even though it always is, thanks to the absence of his parents, the house barely looks lived in but he still cleans what he can anyways. By afternoon he calls it good enough and starts setting up for the party, lazily putting streamers and balloons in corners or where there's empty space. His calling isn't for decorative design that's for sure but the vibes are all there nonetheless. About 20 minutes before the party is set to start Robin comes allowing Steve to get himself ready while she sets the food up. They work as a pretty good team to get everything situated, Robin calls off things that should be out and Steve checks them off by pointing to where they are.
Half of the group comes first, filling in the home with ease due to how often they come by. Mike, El, Will, Nancy, and Jonathan come together since they all live closer to each other. Plus wherever Nance goes Jonathan follows. Minutes later Lucas follows hand in hand with Max, not even knocking on the door simply letting themselves in.
4;15pm comes too quickly and you and Dustin still weren't there. The fact that Dustin wasn't present gave Steve a sick amount of hope that you were coming. Fashionably late maybe but still you’d show up. But there was also a part of him that knew it could just be his mom taking her sweet time bringing him over. He tries to busy himself with getting everyone drinks, opening up the back door so the kids could start getting in the pool.
Right before he goes out the door himself– trying to district himself by sitting at the edge of the pool– he hears Dustin's voice, loud and clear in an upset tone.
“Have you ever heard of hurrying up? Time management? Being somewhere when you need to be there?”
“We get it, you don't go to any parties. So here's a tip, no one ever arrives exactly when it starts.” You bend down slightly bumping your shoulder with his as you roll your eyes.
The kid makes his way through Steve's house with ease and you try to stay close enough behind, not familiar with the layout. It’s like he forgets you’re even there because he stops right where the hallway meets the kitchen, making you basically flat tire him. Within a second you push him aside, derailing from your horrible leader.
“Well look who decided to show up.” Steve is missing a t- shirt, only wearing swimtrunks and it would be a lie to say you didn't feel your cheeks slightly warm up at the sight.
“I never said no.” You shrug.
“Never said yes.”
“Guess you should count yourself lucky I'm here then huh?” You give his bare shoulder a squeeze before moving past him to look at the food the kids have already mauled through.
Steve can't tell if his shoulder is burning from his few seconds out in the sun or from your simple touch, more so a gesture to get him to move but still. The skin on skin contact was enough to set fire in his shoulder, spreading to the rest of his body.
Your back is turned to him as you pick at some of the fruit. “You want me to get you a drink?” He asks from behind you. A little too close due to the fact that you just met him yesterday but the tension is strong enough that it almost doesn't feel close enough.
You simply nod at him, cheeks stuffed with sweet strawberries. The slight movement makes your shirt slip down your shoulder, the fabric there long since cut away. Bare skin shows along with a bathing suit he hasn't seen on you yet. It’s a nice red color that works well with your skin tone, could match the hint of your cheeks that you hope isn't showing as bad as it feels.
A cold beer is handed to you, as he starts to open his own. It takes only a few seconds till he clinks his beer to yours before he gestures his hand forward, wanting you to go in front of him. Again could be a nice well taught manner or an excuse to see your ass in the small shorts you have on. Instinctively you do as he says, walking ahead of him and waving to the kids you’ve already met before.
Steve even goes as far as to put his hand on the small of your back, leading you to the older teens that are there with their own respective drinks. The heat of the moment hits you, wanting to look good for the new people you're meeting, not expecting him to touch you like this, and being unable to give him a surprised look. So you greet them and introduce yourself like you can't still feel the warmth of his large hand resting on your back. When he moves to grab you a chair he even puts his hands slightly above your hips to move you away. All touchy and handsy for someone who only had the balls to invite you to this party just yesterday.
If these weren't Steve's closest friends it could almost be read as you two being a couple. Your chair being directly next to his, him waiting for you to sit in it before he even lets himself sit in his, continuously asking if you're okay when you get quiet. It’s all a lot. Plus the heat beaming down on you mixed with the fact that he’s shirtless adds tremendously to it. His chest hair paired with his tan skin that's littered with moles could have you drooling, shutting your thighs together.
Although he’s not the only one playing with fire. When you need another drink you squeeze his bicep to get his attention, and your voice is sugary sweet as you ask him to get you one. And when he comes back with it you put your hand high up on his thigh as a thank you, even leaving it there for a few painful seconds too long. To then press the cool drink to your neck and give a soft moan of relief.
What completely does it for Steve is when you take your shirt off, complaining of the heat and he sees your bathing suit. Still a two piece bathing suit, one that's got more coverage than the last few he’s seen you in. Knowing kids and people you don't know will be present but the red bra still fits you like a dream. Boobs cupped in fabric and wire for support that does just enough for the boy next to you. And it doesn't take a genius to notice he's eyeing them either. You can feel it.
As he tries to pull his eyes away needing to look at something else– anything else– he goes for your face, or your eyes rather. Except yours are already set right on him. Catching him in what he was doing, going from boobs to your lips to your eyes. Like a snake slithering and traveling up your body.
Before he knows it one second your hand interlocks with his and the next you’re pulling him into his own house.
The older teens are too busy talking already a few drinks deep and the kids have tired eyes, burning from trying to look under water even though Steve has repeatedly told them not to do it because the pool has chlorine in it. Leaving you two to be able to slip away almost too easily.
“Jesus what– what’re you doing?” He’s already out of breath, first from being dragged away and second from how thick the tension has become. Built in the last few hours you've been here.
“I saw you.” You’re practically backing him into the wall by the kitchen. It’s hidden from anyone if they tried to peek inside but the two of you aren't locked away from anyone.
Steve knows what you mean but he feels sick at the fact that you caught him so easily. That his need was written so clearly on his face. “You were practically shoving them in my face. What was I supposed to do?”
“Funny, acting like that’s not all you've been doing since the first time you saw me. You’re not as slick as you think.” With each back and forth comment you both make the closer you become. One more word and your chest he’s been stuck on will touch his.
“Yeah well when you wear stuff like that things happen.”
You should hit him. Tell him how awful he is to say something like that, especially if he wants something out of you. But instead the space between you closes and your lips meet his. There’s a millisecond of shock from Steve before he's kissing you back. All teeth and spit, messy and quick like he’s scared it might not last. His hands are quick to reach your hips, slowly but surely making his way round to your ass where you still have those stupid, barely there, little shorts on.
Before anything happens Steve flips your position. His tongue presses against your lips, begging asking to be let in, you grab his hands to pull them to your boobs. Your back arches off the wall, body trying to find some satisfaction in all this touching he's doing. Focusing on your tongue fighting with his and trying to pull your top down so he can finally have his way. Right hand grasping onto you and lightly pulling as the other pinches your nipple, making you squeal and momentarily disconnect your lips from his.
Your breaths merge, becoming one from how close you two are before he moves his head down. Moans slip past your lips with ease as he takes his time to kiss below your jaw, to your neck, lips finding their way to your collar bone, before reaching where he’s been so desperately looking. Sucking gently on your nipple as he massages the other one.
His knee forces your legs apart, and you let your knees bend to fully sit on his thigh. Trapped between his grip, mouth, and knee. Your brain feels empty, creating zero thoughts besides how good what he’s doing to you feels. Instead of thoughts your body reacts, trying to grind and make friction on his thigh you were touching up on earlier. It gets a groan out of him as well, letting go of your boobs to wrap his hands around your jaw to properly kiss you. When he pulls away a string of saliva stretched between both of your lips before breaking. The sound of the door is loud and Robin's voice follows after it.
“Steve hurry up, we need your help, the kids won't stop splashing us!” She shouts quickly, like there's a race against time that is not on her side. The door shuts loudly following silence, letting you know she's left.
With heavy breaths he brings the straps of your top back onto your shoulders, fixing it so it doesn't look like he was anywhere near you. Following that he presses a few gentle kisses to your lips, not wanting to leave you thinking this was just some casual mistake.
“Guess duty calls huh?” A small squeeze is given to your hip before he grabs your hand to go back outside, dropping it just before anyone would notice.
“Hey! What’d I say about splashing the water outta the pool? Huh?”
You almost don't have the brain power to change the look of shock on your face. So close to getting exactly what you wanted before getting completely stopped. Not just by Robin but Steve as well. Dropping it like it never happened. Like a tease to show you just what you could be missing. Well, two could play at that game.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: steve harrington thinks that dustin's older sister (and billy hargrove's on and off girlfriend) deserves better than what she has.
themes & warnings: steve harrington head over heels, henderson!reader, billy hargrove being a dickmunch, fighting/violence, swearing, angst if u squint, resolution!! we love steve he's such a good man UGH love him
he wasn't sure what it was that made you so hard to stop thinking about. well, in that way.
he knew it was dustin's mouth that constantly kept you in the loop in steve's mind. you were his older sister, his idol and best friend, and there was mention of you in every conversation that he had with dustin nowadays. before now, though, steve had never thought of you romantically. for as long as he'd known you and as long as he'd known dustin, you were strictly off limits and he never looked at you as anything more than that.
you were drop dead gorgeous, of course. curls like dustin's, expressive e/c eyes, plush lips, and a commanding attitude just like your brother's. he knew a lot of pretty girls, though, so he was certain that your looks weren't what made you so attractive to steve. after all, nancy wheeler was pretty, but he only thought about her when she was right in front of him.
you had something else.
something he saw in the way that you loved and cared for your brother, always making sure he had someone that would listen to him and spend time with him. playing video games with dustin (and steve himself on occasion), taking him for car rides and stopping to get ice cream, going frog hunting with him at 11 o'clock at night because he wanted to study them for some nerd shit he was doing.
your love for dustin had no bounds. your compassion for other people had no bounds. all around, you were just an incredible woman.
"steve." dustin interrupted again, rolling his eyes. "could you stop staring at my sister and pull out of the driveway? we're gonna be late to--"
"i know, i know." steve shook his head, tearing his eyes away from where you were standing on the porch, waving dustin off. he put the car in reverse and pulled out onto the street, leaving you behind.
"you've been doing that a lot lately," dustin commented, buckling his seatbelt.
"doing what?"
"staring. at my sister. it's weird, man."
"its not weird," steve defended, a little too quickly and eagerly for dustin's liking. "i was just making sure she got inside safe."
"right. because the big bad squirrels are gonna get her between the car and the front door." dustin snorted. "you know she can handle herself. she dated a guy for six months who tried to teach her how to throw a punch."
steve's grip on the steering wheel tightened. he knew exactly who dustin was talking about. billy. the mention of that name was like a splash of cold water, killing his fantasies and instantly souring his mood. he'd seen the way billy talked to you, the possessive grip on your arm in the school hallway, the way your smile would dim sometimes when he rolled his eyes at something you said.
"yeah, well, maybe she shouldn't have to."
dustin was quiet for a moment, studying his friend's profile. "you like her."
"it's not that simple, henderson."
"it is! you stare, you sigh, you ask weird, probing questions about her weekend plans. it's textbook. even mike noticed, and he's emotionally stunted."
steve sighed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. "she's with billy."
"on and off," dustin corrected. "mostly off lately, from what i hear of it. and he's a dickmunch."
a laugh burst out of steve, unexpected and sharp. "a what?"
"a dickmunch. you know, a muncher of--"
"i get it, i get it." steve shook his head, smile fading. "he is. and she deserves..." he trailed off, because the list was endless. you deserved someone who looked at you like you'd hung the moon, not like you were a prize he'd won. you deserved someone who made you laugh until you snorted, not flinch when he raised his voice. you deserved someone who saw the brilliant, stubborn, kind hearted person you were, not just a pretty face on his arm.
you deserved better.
in steve's opinion, you deserved him. he would treasure you.
"alright, asshole. stop daydreaming about my sister and drive."
the bluntness of dustin's command, paired with the sheer, terrifying truth that had just crystallized in his own mind, snapped steve back to reality. a faint blush crawled up his neck.
"right. driving." he cleared his throat, focusing intently on the road ahead.
but the thought was out there now, fully formed and undeniable, playing on a loop in his head to the rhythm of the turning tires. and when steve got a thought in his head, it wouldn't budge until something was done about it.
she deserves better. she deserves me.
sighing, he reached and turned the radio up.
for as long as you could remember, dustin had been your best friend. it was as easy as breathing.
he was your younger brother, yes, but you were sure that the little shit was some form of soulmate for you. he understood you completely and in return, you understood him in ways that nobody else would. his nerdy habits, the way he didn't quite feel right going into high school, oddly out of place everywhere he went. you accepted him no matter what.
when he was 5 and you were 8, he started having nightmares. he'd come padding into your room, his little face pale in the moonlight, clutching his favorite blanket. without a word, you'd lift your covers and he'd scramble in, his small, cold feet pressing against your legs.
"tell me about the stars," he'd whisper, his voice trembling. even at that age, he had an interest in all of the things he couldn't yet understand.
you'd tell him. you'd teach him about constellations, making up names and stories for them. you'd talk about how they were giant balls of gas, millions of miles away, but how their light still reached all the way to hawkins, indiana, just to make the night a little less dark. you'd talk until his grip on your t-shirt loosened in sleep and his panicked breathing evened out.
you were his first call for everything. the triumphs, like the first time he successfully built a radio from scratch. the heartbreaks, like when the kids at the park wouldn't let him play because he talked about "nerd stuff." you were his defender, his cheerleader, his safe place.
tonight, dustin had a school dance. you also had a party the same night, something for older kids, one thing that dustin couldn't join you for. but you still wanted to see him off.
you stood in the doorway of his room, watching him fumble with his tie. his brow was furrowed in concentration, a perfect mirror of the expression he wore when tackling something complex. the most difficult things were easy for him, and the most simple stumped him. it was a dustin thing. steve sat at his desk, smoothing the thighs of his jeans out. mike and lucas were sprawled out on dustin's bed, crumpling his sheets and their suits. will checked his reflection in the mirror.
sensing dustin's stress, you and steve moved at the same time to help. but of course, you were quicker.
you were at his side in an instant, your fingers brushing his away. "let me."
you worked quickly, efficiently, looping and tightening the fabric into a respectable knot. the whole room had gone quiet, watching you. you could feel steve's gaze, a warm, steady pressure.
"thanks," dustin mumbled, his shoulders slumping in relief.
"anytime, dusty," you said softly, smoothing the tie against his dress shirt. you gave his shoulders a squeeze. "you look handsome."
the honk of a car horn from outside broke the moment. mrs. henderson was ready to go.
"alright, let's move it, lover boys!" steve clapped his hands together, rising from the desk chair. "your chariot, -- by chariot, i mean your mom's station wagon -- awaits."
the kids scrambled off the bed, grumbling and straightening their suits. as they filed out, you nudged dustin.
"be confident. smile. make the first move. everything will work itself out." you smiled softly at the nervous fifteen year old. dustin took a deep breath, puffing his chest out a little.
"right. confident. i can do confident."
he marched out with a new determination.
"love you! have fun!" you shouted down the hall.
a muffled "love you too!" floated back, followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
silence descended upon the house, thick and sudden. the absence of the kids' chaotic energy was always a little jarring. you stood there for a moment in dustin's doorway. you really wished him good luck, but part of you was anxious about how it would go.
"he'll be okay." steve said warmly from behind you.
you turned, not realizing he'd lingered. he was leaning against the door frame, jacket slung over his shoulder and shirt stained with hair gel from his help styling dustin. he looked at ease, but his eyes were intently focused on you.
"how do you know?' you asked, the worry for your brother making your voice softer than usual.
"because he's a henderson," he shrugged, pushing off the frame to come closer. "and henderson's are stubborn, and smart, and way more charming than they have any right to be." a small, knowing smile played on his lips. "sound familiar?"
your breath hitched, but you disguised it. he was standing close enough now that you could smell his cologne, something clean and sharp, cutting through the familiar scent of dustin's model glue and comic books.
"looks like you're laying the charm on thick tonight, too, harrington." you teased, ignoring the way his easy smile gnawed at your chest.
he grinned again, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"so. you're headed to that party tonight? at tommy's?"
you nodded, shrugging.
"why not? dustin's out of the house tonight and mom's chaperoning. i might as well find something to do too," you hummed. "plus.. billy. he doesn't like going anywhere without a plus one."
the moment billy's name left your lips, you saw it. a subtle shift in steve's posture. the grin didn't vanish completely, but it tightened at the edges. the warmth in his eyes cooled into something sharper, more assessing.
"right. billy," he said, the name bitter on his tongue. he looked away, his gaze sweeping over dustin's cluttered room as if searching for something. "he's a real.. social butterfly, that one."
you heard the unspoken critique layered beneath the casual words. you'd heard it from others (mom, your friends) but coming from steve, it felt different. it didn't feel like a judgement of your choices. it felt like genuine concern.
"he can be," you conceded, your own defensiveness rising out of habit. "when he wants to be."
steve's eyes snapped back to yours, the deep intensity pinning you in place. "and what about what you want?"
the question, so direct and unexpected, stole the air from your lungs. you opened your mouth to reply with another deflection, another 'it's fine', but the words died in your throat. because standing there in the quiet of your brother's room, with steve harrington looking at you like he could see every crack in your armor, "fine" felt like the biggest lie you'd ever told.
you thought of billy's possessive grip on your waist in crowded rooms. the way he'd scoff if you suggested a movie he didn't like. the slow, steady erosion of your own voice to keep the peace.
steve took a half-step closer, his voice dropping, sincere and rough around the edges. "you know, you don't need a plus-one to be somebody, henderson. you're already somebody. all on your own."
his words landed like a physical touch, a gentle hand steadying you. he wasn't telling you what to do. he was reminding you that you had a choice. that you were whole, with or without billy hargrove on your arm.
the front door slammed again downstairs, followed by the distant sound of mrs. henderson calling, "steve? the kids are getting restless!" he was still expected to give a couple of the kids a ride. your mom only had so much room in the station wagon.
he held your gaze for a moment longer, a silent question hanging in the space between you. then he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he'd said all he needed to say.
"have a good night," he said softly, and then he turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs.
sighing, trying to erase the feeling in your chest that had just invaded your entire being, you left dustin's room and went into your own. you opened your closet, pulling your outfit for the party out and got ready.
you were going to be with your boyfriend in an hour and a half. so why couldn't you stop thinking about steve harrington?
the party was loud. obnoxiously so.
the bass from the speakers thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and into your bones. you nursed a drink, one that billy had made (far too strong for your taste). his arm was tight around your waist and he pulled you wherever he went. you talked to all kinds of people, smiling in their faces like he wanted you to do, but not saying much. you wanted to get drunk. you wouldn't. billy would get hammered and need a ride home.
every time you tried to shift away, his grip tightened, pulling you back against his side. a silent command. stay put.
you nodded at something carol said, but you didn't hear a word. your mind was still miles away, trapped in the quiet of dustin's bedroom and scent of steve's cologne.
"you're already somebody. all on your own."
steve's voice, cutting clear through the noise in your mind, echoed in your head. you could still see the way he'd looked at you -- not with possession, not with lust, but with quiet reverence and respect. like you were a person. not a prize. and to be honest, it had rocked you through your core. truly shaken you up into a confused mess.
billy leaned down, his breath hot and smelling of beer against your ear. "smile, baby. you look like you're at a funeral."
you glanced up to meet his eyes, forcing a smile.
"sorry."
within an hour, billy was drunk. not too drunk, but not sober enough to be intelligent.
he was leaning on you, his words hot into your hair as he tried to whisper something that was probably meant to be seductive but just came out sloppy. the weight of him, the smell of cheap beer and cologne, was suffocating. this was it. this was the whole night, and every night with him, stretching out in front of you -- a life of being an anchor for a sinking ship.
your eyes scanned the hazy, crowded room, landing on the front door. freedom was twenty feet away.
"billy," you said, your voice firm as you tried to peel his hands from your waist. "i think you've had enough. let's get you some water."
"don' need water," he mumbled, his grip on you tightening. "need my girl. let's find a bathroom."
your jaw dropped.
"billy, no, we--"
"yes. let's go, sugar tits."
you glared at him, but part of you knew better than to do this. he was going to get what he wanted anyways. he always did. by being mean.
"i don't want to sleep with you."
his blue eyes went from drunk and hazy to sharp immediately.
the shift was instantaneous and terrifying. his grip on your waist went from heavy to bruising, like you were a dog trying to run away from the house again.
"what did you just say to me?" his voice was low, a dangerous whisper that cut through the party's noise.
you swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. every instinct screamed to back down, to placate him, to give him the smile and apology that would smooth things over. it was the same song and dance every time you fell back into him.
but then, your mind echoed again.
you're already somebody. all on your own.
the words weren't a gentle memory this time. they were a battle cry.
"i said," you repeated, your voice gaining strength, laced with a defiance that made billy's eyes narrow, "i don't want to sleep with you. not now. not ever again. you're an asshole."
the silence that fell between you was louder than the music. billy's face twisted, ugly with rage and wounded pride.
"you don't get to say that to me," he snarled, pulling you closer, his face inches from yours. "you better fuckin' behave before i--"
you shoved against his chest with all your might. "let go of me, billy!"
the scene had drawn attention. people were staring. all the sudden, you saw steve's face, meeting your eyes from across the room. you hadn't even known he was at the party, not thinking these things were his scene anymore.
he took in the situation in a single, sweeping glance -- your panicked expression, billy's aggressive stance, the bruising grip on your arm.
he was moving before you could even process it. he didn't shout. he didn't make a scene. he moved through the crowd like a shark through water, silent and deadly fast. in the space of a single heartbeat, he was there.
steve's hand clamped down on billy's wrist, the one that was digging into your arm. his grip wasn't just firm; it was brutal.
"hey!" billy yelped, his head whipping around, his drunken rage redirected.
"let go of her. now."
billy gritted his teeth, turning closer to steve. you knew nothing about this was going to work out well. billy never backed down, and steve had just caused him to boil over.
"steve, its okay." you cut in, wanting to make peace.
"it's not okay," steve said, his voice cutting through your plea without even taking his eyes off billy. his tone wasn't harsh with you, but it was final. this was not up for negotiation. "none of this is okay. it's not gonna fucking happen."
billy let out a low, ugly laugh. "you hear her? better listen to her. she knows her place. maybe you should learn yours." that was the final word. billy swung, a wild throw. steve, expecting it, dodged easily. but he didn't retaliate. billy was shocked, embarrassed, enraged.
"outside." he hissed, forging a burning hot path to the front door, pushing whoever was in the way to the side.
your eyes were wide and panicked as you glanced at steve. you grabbed his arm, reaching for anything you could grab to keep him from doing this. this wasn't what you wanted.
"steve. please. i'm begging you not to do this. billy is--"
once again you were cut off.
"--not going to touch you ever again."
steve's voice was quiet, but the certainty made the hair on your arms stand up. he finally looked at you, and the raw determination in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. this wasn't about pride or a stupid high school rivalry. this was about you. protecting your honor, protecting you.
he gently pried your hand from his arm, giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze before letting go. then, he walked towards the front door.
biting your lip, anxiousness making you jittery, you followed him as fast as you could, swinging the door open and running out into the yard. the porch light cast a sickly yellow scene in the front yard. billy was pacing, a caged animal, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.
"changed your mind? gonna hide behind my woman's skirt?" billy taunted.
steve didn't answer the taunt. he simply swung.
the punch wasn't wild or telegraphed. it was short, brutal, and connected with billy's jaw with a sickening crack. it was the answer to every sneer, every insult, every time billy'd laid an unkind hand on you.
billy staggered back, more out of shock than pain at first. he touched his jaw, his eyes wide with disbelief, before they narrowed into slits of pure venom.
"you're fucking dead, harrington."
then it was chaos.
they came together in a storm of fists and grunts. it was ugly, raw, devoid of any technique. steve got a few good shots in -- billy's nose poured blood, his eyebrow was split -- but billy was bigger, meaner, and drunk on beer and rage. he took the hits and gave them back worse. steve was gasping for air and coated in blood. billy wiped his face on his jacket, blood from his eyebrow seeping down into his vision.
finally, when it seemed steve couldn't continue and billy had lost track of how many times he'd hit the man, you screamed.
"GET OFF HIM, BILLY!"
tears ran down your face as you sniffled, your throat hurting from how loud you'd projected your voice. you were terrified, disgusted, and pissed.
"please, billy! just stop it. i'm begging you."
the raw plea in your voice did what your anger could not. it cut through the drunken haze and the rage. billy froze, his fist hovering in the air. he looked from steve, bloody and beaten on the ground, to you, your face a mess of tears and despair. for a single second, you saw something flicker in his blue eyes. not regret. comprehension. he saw your sorrow, he saw what he'd become to you. you'd gone from two teenagers in love to a man tormenting a woman who deserved more than him.
his arm dropped to his side. he took a stumbling step back, his chest heaving.
without another word, he spat blood onto the ground next to steve's body, a snide reminder to steve of who'd won. then, he spared you one last glance before disappearing from the area.
with hot tears continuing to pour down, you sprinted to steve. the wounded man used the moment to push himself up onto his elbows, coughing, spitting a glob of blood onto the grass. he didn't try to get up. he just looked at you, his one good eye full of a pained, unwavering devotion.
you fell to your knees beside him, reaching for his face, making your touch as gentle as you could.
"steve," you sniffled, your thumb wiping blood and dirt from his cheek. "i told you i didn't want this. i asked you not to and now you're--"
he caught your wrist, his grip surprisingly firm. he turned his head just enough to press a kiss to your palm, leaving a faint, bloody smudge on your skin.
"don't," he rasped, his voice a raw scrape. "'s okay. i promise."
a sob caught in your throat. "but you're--"
"i'm fine," he insisted, his voice intense. "he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it." he tried to shift, to sit up more, but a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips. you reached around his back, holding him steady.
"worth it?" you whispered, incredulous. "you're bleeding from.. everywhere. you can't even sit up. because of me." you sniffled.
"not because of you," he gritted out, the eye that wasn't swollen locking onto yours with a ferocity that made you flinch. "for you. there's a.. a world of difference. trust me."
he groaned, using your shoulder for leverage to finally, painfully sit up all the way. his breath came in ragged pants, but he didn't look away. "just bruises and cuts. they'll go away in a while."
he reached up, his hand trembling slightly, and cupped your cheek. his thumb stroked away a tear, his touch infinitely gentle despite the blood caked on his knuckles. you leaned into him, the last of your resistance crumbling. he was right. the fight had been horrible, but it had been a line in the sand. a bloody declaration that billy couldn't continue to run your life anymore.
"okay," you whispered, your voice finally steady. you slipped your arm all the way around him. "okay. let's get you cleaned up."
he leaned on you heavily as you helped him get to his feet and to his car. every step was a shared effort, a silent promise. as you opened the passenger door, he paused, looking at you with a mixture of exhaustion and utter devotion.
"hey," he said softly. "for the record.. you were the strongest one here."
as you drove away from the chaos, the boy who had fought for you slept fitfully in the seat beside you.
the rest of that night was long. you cleaned steve's wounds, apologizing softly when he hissed, and foraged his kitchen for something to ice his bruises. when you felt you'd successfully doctored him up, you helped him up the stairs to his bed.
his room smelled of cedar and aftershave. exactly like you'd imagined it.
helping him into bed, you tucked the blankets over him and said goodnight, racing down the stairs in disbelief that any of this had even happened.
you drove home, crawled into your own bed, and cried a little. then, you fell asleep thinking about steve harrington. not billy hargrove.
the morning came too quickly. before you were ready, you heard your brother come into your room, plopping into bed beside you. the mattress dipped, startling you from a sleep filled with fractured images of blood and unwavering brown eyes. you blinked, the morning light stinging, to find dustin staring at you, his face far too close and etched with dramatic concern.
"you're alive," he stated, as if he'd expected otherwise.
"barely," you groaned, pulling the covers over your head. the events of last night came rushing back -- the screaming, the blood, steve's broken body leaning on yours. your heart gave a painful lurch.
"i heard," dustin said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. you peeked out from under the duvet. he was fiddling with a loose thread on your comforter. "about the fight. at tommy's. the whole school's talking about it."
you sat up slowly, your body aching with a phantom sympathy for steve's injuries. "what are they saying?"
"that king steve got his ass kicked defending you from your asshole boyfriend," dustin said, a hint of awe in his voice. then his brow furrowed. "is it true? did he really tell billy to fuck off and then just... take the beating?"
the memory of steve's voice, raw and certain, echoed in your mind. he could have hit me a hundred more times. it would've been worth it.
"yeah," you whispered, your throat tight. "it's true. and watch your language."
dustin was silent for a long moment, ignoring your scolding. "he likes you. like, really likes you." he said it with the grave seriousness of a scientist stating a proven fact.
a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but this time, they weren't from fear or guilt. they were from a overwhelming, terrifying sense of hope. "i know."
"good," dustin declared, nodding once. "because billy's a dickmunch and i wish i could fight him. and steve... he's got the good hair." he patted your leg through the blanket. "now, get up. we're going to family video."
you started to sniffle again, more tears falling.
dustin sighed, opening his arms.
the simple, open gesture was your undoing. a sob broke free from your chest, and you launched yourself into your brother's arms, burying your face in his shoulder. he held you tightly, his small frame surprisingly sturdy, and let you cry it all out -- the fear, the relief, the dizzying hope.
"it's okay," he mumbled, patting your back awkwardly. "he's gonna be okay. steve's tough. he fought a demogor-- i mean, he's really tough."
you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. "i know he is."
"and if billy ever shows his face again," dustin continued, his expression turning fierce, "we'll set mews on him."
a wet laugh escaped you. "mews is a cat, dustin."
"a very strategic cat," he insisted, his seriousness making you laugh harder, the sound mingling with your fading tears. he grinned, seeing he'd achieved his goal. "now, seriously. get dressed. we have a mission."
twenty minutes later, you were pulling up outside the familiar strip mall, the family video logo a beacon of normalcy. your stomach was a knot of nerves. what would you even say to him?
dustin, of course, had no such reservations. he marched right in, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully.
"harrington!" he bellowed, making both you and steve's coworker, who was behind the counter, jump.
steve emerged from the back room, and your breath caught. he looked... rough. one eye was a spectacular palette of purple and black, swollen nearly shut. a butterfly bandage held together a cut on his eyebrow, and his lip was split. but he was clean, and he was standing, and when his good eye found you, it lit up with a warmth that made your knees feel weak.
"hey, henderson," steve said, his voice a little hoarse. his gaze flickered to you. "hey."
dustin, completely oblivious to the charged silence, slapped a VHS tape on the counter. "we brought you a get-well-soon gift. the thing. it's about a shapeshifting alien that assimilates other life forms. i figured you could relate to feeling like your face is trying to kill you. and they don't have this tape here, so its new for you. and you look like shit because you got beat up for my sister. so i thought a gift was in order."
a laugh burst out of you, sharp and surprised, cutting through the last of your nerves. steve’s good eye widened in mock offense, but a real smile tugged at his split lip.
“you’re a little shit, you know that?” steve said, but there was no heat in it. he picked up the tape. “but… thanks, man. i think.”
“you’re welcome,” dustin said, beaming with pride. he then turned to you, his expression turning business-like. “okay, my work here is done. i’m going to go see if they have the new issue of dragon magazine. try not to do anything gross while I’m gone.” he scurried off toward the magazine rack.
the silence he left behind was different now -- softer, charged with a new understanding. you looked back at steve, at the brutal map of devotion painted across his face.
"he's not wrong," you said softly, your gaze tracing the purple bruise around his eye. "you do look like shit."
steve shrugged, his hand still resting on the vhs tape. "worth it."
that phrase again.
"you keep saying that." you said softly, taking a step closer to the counter.
he held your gaze, unwavering. "because its true." he came out from around the counter, walking up to you slowly. he limped a little, making you wince. the scent of his aftershave, familiar and comforting, mixed with the faint, clean smell of antiseptic from his cuts, fell over you. "seeing you walk in here, looking for me. definitely worth it."
from the back, steve's coworker cleared his throat loudly. "just so you two know, public displays of affection are against store policy. it disturbs the other customers." he gestured to the completely empty store.
steve didn't respond. he just kept looking at you, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. "wanna talk in the break room really quick?"
your heart gave a single, hard thump against your ribs. steve's gaze was an open question, full of hope and vulnerability.
"yeah," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. "okay."
steve’s smile widened, and he turned, gesturing for you to follow him with a slight tilt of his head. He led you past his coworker, who was now very pointedly studying the label on a can of film cleaner, and through a door marked ‘STAFF ONLY’.
the break room was a tiny, windowless space that smelled like stale coffee and old microwave popcorn. a rickety table and two chairs were shoved against one wall. It was the least romantic place on earth, but with steve closing the door softly behind you, it felt like a sanctuary.
he turned to face you, leaning back against the door, his hands shoved in his pockets. the bravado he’d shown out front seemed to have evaporated, leaving behind a raw, nervous energy.
"look, about last night..." he started, then stopped, shaking his head. "no. not about the fight. about... before the fight." he took a deep breath, his good eye searching your face. "when i said you deserved better. i wasn't just talking about billy."
your breath hitched. "what were you talking about, steve?"
"me," he said, the word simple and stark. "i was talking about me. or... the guy i used to be. the king steve asshole who would've probably been friends with a guy like billy." he gestured vaguely to his own battered face. "i'm not that guy anymore. i haven't been for a long time. but you... you make me want to be even better. you make me want to be the guy who deserves to be the better man for you."
"you are," you whispered, closing the small distance between you. you reached up, your fingers gently tracing the line of the butterfly bandage on his brow. "you're that guy, steve. i've never been prouder to say it."
he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as if a great weight had been lifted. he brought his hands up to cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle.
"can i..?" he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips.
in answer, you rose up on your toes and closed the final, breathless inch between you.
the kiss was nothing like you'd imagined. it wasn't wild or desperate. it was soft. a little hesitant. a silent conversation of apology and promise, of past pain and future hope. you could taste the faint, metallic tang of blood from his split lip, a stark reminder of everything he'd endured, and it made the tenderness of the kiss all the more profound.
when you finally pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his, both of you breathing a little raggedly.
"you're sure i'm what you want?" steve asked softly, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. you nodded, laughing breathlessly.
"no one's ever asked me that before, but yes. i've never been more sure. you are exactly what i want."
the words seemed to unlock something in him. the last vestige of tension drained from his shoulders, and the smile that spread across his face was so bright, so unguarded, it made your heart ache. it was a smile untouched by the bruises, a glimpse of the man he was underneath all the bravado and the pain.
"good," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. he leaned in and pressed another, firmer kiss to your lips, this one full of a quiet, certain joy. "because you're stuck with me now, henderson."
From the other side of the door, Dustin's voice echoed, loud and impatient. "GET OUT OF THERE! TIME'S UP, HARRINGTON, AND THERE BETTER BE NO HICKEYS!"
steve threw his head back and laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that made him wince and clutch his ribs, but he didn't stop. he was still chuckling as he pressed one last, quick kiss to your forehead.
"come on," he said, his voice warm with amusement. he kept a firm arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side as he opened the break room door. "duty calls."
you emerged back into the store to find dustin standing with his arms crossed, tapping his foot dramatically. steve's coworker, jon, was leaning on the counter, smirking.
"good." dustin announced to the empty store. "no hickeys. i'm both relieved and feeling respected."
steve rolled his good eye, but the smile never left his face. "what do you want next, henderson? a written report on the horror of premarital touching?"
"yes, actually. in triplicate." dustin pointed a finger at him. "but for now, you can start by explaining the thematic parallels between the thing and your current physical state."
as steve launched into a mock-serious, pain-filled analysis for your brother, you leaned against the counter next to jon.
he nudged you with his elbow, his voice a low whisper. "so. you and king steve. officially a thing?"
you watched steve, who was now letting dustin "examine" his black eye with a scientific intensity, patiently answering his ridiculous questions. your heart felt so full you thought it might burst.
"yeah," you said, a slow, sure smile spreading across your face. "we're a thing."
it wasn't a perfect, storybook ending. there were still bruises to heal and conversations to be had. but right there, in the fluorescent glow of family video, surrounded by your two favorite guys, it was better than perfect. it was real. and it was yours.
• A sorcerer who lives in the forest with his "crazy witch mom" and "weird brother";
• Everyone calles him a witch too;
• Meets Mike in childhood, and now he's literally the one person Will trusts.
• Is half-posessed by some demonic essence, that's why his right eye become darker than the other.
Mike:
• Paladin, wanders on it's own, until he appears in captivity by king, to whom he is obliged to pay the debt by engaging with his daughter;
• Forced to catch a dangerous witch and is calm about it until he realizes it's Will. From this moment on, he tries to distract the guards from Will's real location;
• As a child, he got lost in the woods and came across a frightened Will, but instead of snitching on him, he starts bombarding him with questions about his life.
Jane:
• Princess, her father is a cruel king, that she doesn't love but has a father figure in the captain of royal guard;
• Likes Mike as a friend, but don't loves him and reeeally doesn't sees him as a future King :))
• She is trying to delay the wedding as long as possible and to ascend the throne herself.
Those Days Are Over (Don’t Worry, Baby) — Steve Harrington (2)
part one part two part three
pairing — ex!steve harrington x fem!reader
word count — 16.9k
summary — Four years ago, Steve Harrington had chosen his future and it wasn’t you. You’d chose to leave Hawkins entirely and that worked out fine until it didn’t. Now you’re sleeping in your sister’s guest room and picking up your nephew from baseball practice where Steve Harrington is teaching kids how to slide into home. Some things, it turns out, you can’t outrun.
warnings — (18+ Minors DNI!!!) sexual content, no intercourse, fingering, me also being really bad at writing smut, heavy making out, crying, SO much crying, both of them, multiple times, breakdown during intimacy, ongoing emotional trauma, public emotional moments, alcohol mention, intimacy while intoxicated, breakup scene, second chance romances, he fell first AND he fell harder (eventually), right person wrong time -> right person right time, small town, forced proximity (??), jealous steve. yearner steve. like so badly yearning i’m sorry i got so carried away.
author’s note — this was probably the worst Almost Hookup aftermath. i also got so carried away writing this and i know i’ll look back on it and realize how bad it was lmao but steve is such a yearner in this. i also would loveee to write an epilogue or something for this + drabbles because i’m thinking so much about them and don’t wanna let them go just yet so lmk if that’s of any interest !! ♡
"Hi," he breathed against your lips.
"Hi, Steve." Your hands found the hem of his shirt, fingers slipping beneath to find warm skin. He took in a sharp intake of breath he tried to hide.
He shuddered, the tremor beginning in his shoulder and rolling down through his chest, his stomach. His hands left your face and slid down to your waist, then lower, fingers digging into your hips so hard you’d feel it tomorrow as he hauled you against him.
“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.
“Just tonight?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”
Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—”
“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.”
You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should.
“Kiss me again,” you said instead.
He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms.
“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air.
He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."
"We're still by the door."
“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.
Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra.
You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.
Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier.
“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones.
"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."
He laughed, surprised. "What?"
“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”
"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"
"Careful how you finish that sentence."
"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."
Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"
"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.
“You don’t know that.”
His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”
“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”
“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”
“Clearly.”
“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”
Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.
“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”
“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now.
“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you.
He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.
“You love it.”
“Maybe.”
He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
“Who says I can’t finish it?”
His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”
"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.
You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.
"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."
"You love it."
"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.
"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.
"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."
"Hi."
His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"
"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"
“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”
Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”
He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"
"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."
He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.
"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.
"Steve—"
"Yeah, baby?"
The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."
"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.
“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.
“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?”
He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.
"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.
"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."
"Impatient."
"You're one to talk."
He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.
"Fuck," you breathed.
"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."
You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."
“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”
"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."
"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin.
His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped.
A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”
“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”
“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”
His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.
"Steve—"
"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."
Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—
And that's when you saw it.
Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—
Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body.
Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well.
It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning.
“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”
You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.
Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.
But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—
“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”
The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps.
“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”
You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”
"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"
"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"
"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"
You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.
"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"
"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."
"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."
Steve went very still. "What?"
“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”
“You’re not crazy—”
“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”
“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer.
You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…
Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.
"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."
“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”
You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over.
“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”
“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”
“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”
You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.
"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."
You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.
“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”
“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”
“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.
“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”
Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness.
“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”
“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”
"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."
“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”
He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”
You stared at him.
“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”
The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?
"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."
"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.
"I know how that sounds—"
"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"
"No—"
"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"
"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”
The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.
“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.
“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”
“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—”
“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh.
He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”
The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face.
As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed.
You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that.
You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking.
“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried.
His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”
You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.
"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"
“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."
"Steve—"
"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."
You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.
But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—
"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.
His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"
"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."
"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."
You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"
"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."
You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.
"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."
Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.
"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."
"Okay."
He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."
Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.
He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.
"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.
He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—
"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."
His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."
The door closed softly behind him.
Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.
He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again.
But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.
Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.
You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.
And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.
And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember.
He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars.
A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening.
His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.
You were leaving.
The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—
His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.
You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—
“You just gonna sneak out?”
You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?
You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”
And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did.
“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him.
“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”
“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”
“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”
“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”
“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”
The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.
“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.
“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.”
“You’re right.” He held up his hands.
“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”
You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life.
He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”
You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”
Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.
March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.
You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.
Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough.
But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.
You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered.
You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere.
What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.
There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.
“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”
Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Then don’t leave me.”
God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air.
“Is it Nancy?”
You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out.
His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”
Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart.
“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.
“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”
His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now.
“You what?” You needed him to say it.
“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.
“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”
“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”
“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”
“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”
“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.
“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”
“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.
"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”
You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.
“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”
“I know—”
“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”
His face crumpled. “I remember.”
“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”
“I don’t know—”
You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”
“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!”
The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”
He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”
“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?”
“That is not what I meant—”
“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”
“No—”
“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”
His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”
You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry.
“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.
“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”
“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”
“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”
His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there.
He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier.
But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this.
“I should go,” you said quietly.
“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”
You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be.
“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”
You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.
You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.
You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.
You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm.
So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.
You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.
Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.
But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.
Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.
Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.
You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.
Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”
“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”
“But ice cream could be dinner—”
"Carter." Please.
Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.
Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.
He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.
Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.
"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.
"Hey."
The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.
Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.
“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.
“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”
“That’s great.”
“Yeah.”
Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.
“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.
“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.
Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”
“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”
Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.
"I should—" you started.
"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.
You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.
"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.
"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"
It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.
"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."
"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."
Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.
Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.
Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.
You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.
So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing.
When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?”
“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.”
“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed.
Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when.
“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”
She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve.
The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.
It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.
"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"
"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."
Emily took her position. The music started.
And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.
"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."
"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"
"Really. I'm proud of you."
Her whole face lit up.
The gym doors opened again.
A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.
“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”
“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”
Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him.
“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.”
You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”
“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”
“It’s good.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.”
You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.
"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."
"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.
Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”
You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”
He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”
“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”
“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”
“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.
Tyler paused at the door and turned back.
"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”
You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym.
You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot.
“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”
Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you.
Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”
“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”
Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”
“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”
“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”
“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”
“But—”
“Now, Em.”
“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”
"Emily, I swear to god—"
Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.
You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.
“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."
"Steve—"
"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."
You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.
"I didn't say yes," you said.
Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground.
You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”
"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”
He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.
You nodded because he was right.
The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this.
They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.
Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”
“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.
“Yes, you can. Go.”
Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.
“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”
“Em, I don’t think—”
But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.
The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.
"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"
“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”
Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight.
When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly.
You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.
The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"
Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.
Fourth row. Aisle seat.
Steve.
He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.
And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing.
He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.
"Hey, that was—" he started.
You crashed into him.
You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—
Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds.
Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”
“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”
Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.
“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”
The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.
"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes.
He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”
The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.
But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.
“Auntie!”
Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd.
He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away.
"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"
"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."
"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"
"You want to learn that?"
"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."
“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"
"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"
"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."
"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."
"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.
Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.
But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.
Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."
"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."
"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."
"Dev," you warned, voice low.
"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.
"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."
"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"
And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.
Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."
“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”
“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”
“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”
"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.
Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.
You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.
Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”
“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever.
"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate.
"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused.
"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."
Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye.
Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.
"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."
Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done.
Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.
She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.
"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."
You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him.
“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”
“Dev, I swear to god—”
“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”
"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.
"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"
“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.
"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."
"There's nothing to talk about—"
"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"
You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.
"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."
"Mom—"
"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."
"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."
Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."
"Hey," your dad protested mildly.
"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"
"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”
"That doesn't count!"
“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides.
He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.
He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse.
You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.
And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.
You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.
“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.
Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”
You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.
It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating.
Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.
“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”
"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."
"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."
"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”
“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”
"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"
You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.
Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.
“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”
“Steve,” you said, voice trailing.
He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes.
You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show.
"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”
“Steve—” You took a step toward him.
“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”
He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.
“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.”
You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.
“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”
His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.
Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”
You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.
"I remember," you said.
“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”
He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth.
You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air.
“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”
“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”
“We were seventeen—”
“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat.
Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.
“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”
Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks.
“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”
You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.
"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”
"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."
"Steve—"
"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."
Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.
You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.
Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"
You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”
"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.
“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory.
"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."
"I don't know if I can," you whispered.
"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"
"I would've said yes," you said quietly.
Steve's breath caught. "What?"
"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."
Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.
"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"
You kissed him.
Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.
It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.
"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."
"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"
"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.
"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."
You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.
But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.
“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there.
And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.
You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.
