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THE COSMOPOLITAN METHOD ⸝⸝ oneshot

Summary: According to Cosmo, two years together meant you and Steve Harrington were officially getting "too comfortable." Armed with a magazine checklist and absolutely zero mercy for your boyfriend, you spend the evening running Steve through every flirty test on the page just to watch him utterly lose his cool !

pairing: steve harrington x reader

content warnings: playful teasing, flirting, kissing, light relationship anxiety, unserious magazine advice (unserious everything really), talks about the future cs we all love that surely, mentions of canon events for plot sakes, taking superficial advice with a microscopic grain of salt (good, yes!), MDNI! 18+, smut, dry humping, groping, nipple play, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), unprotected p in v (do NOT do as you see pls), riding, edging, praise, teasing, dirty talk, creampie, cockwarming(?? not really, I just got tired at the end sry), always assume not betaread because I just can't read my own writing after a while I cringe myself out (</3), lmk if I missed anything!

w/c: 16.5k (way more plot than smut trust)

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

a/n: kinda based on a true story of me tormenting my boyfriend with a 2012 buzzfeed quiz while he fought for his life trying to understand it 😭 (strictly for comedy sakes) anyways, steve harrington taking a relationship quiz was a NEED, so watching him panic inspired this whole thing because I just know steve would treat a magazine relationship quiz like a life-or-death mission 🙂‍↕️ I hope this makes you giggle!! <3

By the time you pushed through the front door of Family Video, Hawkins had gone melty with heat.

It clung to the backs of your knees, made your lips feel tackier than they should have, and turned the parking lot outside into a flat, bright stretch of wavering air. The glass doors had been smudged by fingerprints and sunblock and whatever candy residue children carried around on summer afternoons.

Family Video always had its own weather.

Cold at the front, stale near the horror aisle, warm and dusty by the back room where the employees pretended not to nap on slow days. You'd learned it well. The carpet had been vacuumed badly enough that one popcorn kernel still sat near the base of the New Releases shelf, and the whole place smelled of plastic cases, old cardboard, butter flavoring, and Steve’s cologne whenever he passed close enough.

You had bought the Cosmopolitan at Bradley’s Big Buy ten minutes earlier because Steve’s shift still had twenty minutes left and you had already spent enough of your life pretending to be fascinated by the same movie boxes. The magazine was glossy and ridiculous and slightly bent from being shoved into the paper bag with your gum and cherry ChapStick. Its cover promised impossible hair, dangerous romance, and a quiz that claimed it could tell you whether your boyfriend was “summer fling material or forever trouble.”

You had bought it mostly because the cashier had taken one look at the cover, looked at you, and smirked. You felt the need to spite whatever assumption they'd made.

Now, standing in Family Video with the magazine tucked under your arm, you could hear Robin before you saw her.

“No, sir,” she was saying from behind the counter, her voice flat with the kind of patience that had already been used up twice that day. “Late fees do not disappear just because you personally disagree with the passage of time.”

A man in a tucked-in polo stood on the other side of the counter, holding a tape case in both hands. “I’m saying I returned it.”

“And I’m saying I was here when you did not.”

Steve was beside her, rewinding a tape with the solemn concentration of someone performing surgery. He had one elbow propped on the counter, his Family Video vest hanging open over a striped polo, name tag slightly crooked. His hair looked good in the unfair way it always did, even after a full shift under fluorescent lights. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. You'd learned that he only did that when he was pretending to be busier than he was.

He noticed you almost immediately.

He always did, even when he tried to play it cool. His eyes lifted from the rewinder, found you near the candy display, and softened before the rest of his face caught up. For a second, his posture changed. Not much. One shoulder dropped. His mouth tilted. The pencil behind his ear slipped slightly.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled gently in his usual greeting. His gaze flicked over you quickly, not dismissive, just practiced. “You look nice.”

Then the rewinder clicked, and he looked back down.

Nice.

You stopped with one hand on the edge of the counter.

It was not the worst thing he could have said. It was not bad at all, technically. Nice was safe. Nice was warm enough to count. Nice was the kind of thing you said to someone you loved when you were also trying to remember whether The Man with One Red Shoe belonged under comedy or suspense.

But you’d spent longer than usual getting ready today.

You had changed twice before leaving, had stood in front of your mirror with one earring in and one earring out, and tried to decide whether the pink skirt was too much for a Friday night at Family Video. You had redone the front of your hair because the first attempt had gone strange in the humidity. You had put on the good perfume, the one you used sparingly because the bottle was small and because Steve always noticed when you wore it.

Or he used to.

Nice sat there now, plain and harmless, while Steve returned to his tape and Robin told the polo-shirted man she could absolutely call Keith if he wanted to experience the same answer with less eye contact.

You slid yourself onto the stool at the end of the counter and sat the magazine down.

The cover girl smiled up at you in all her glossy confidence, her lips bright, her shoulders bare, and her hair reaching heights that probably required a prayer. You flipped through pages of perfume ads, diet soda blurbs, lipstick spreads, and letters from readers who apparently, lived lives full of beach parties and emotional ultimatums.

Then, you found the article.

The “Too-Perfect” Romance: 7 Flirty Signs He’s Getting a Little Too Comfortable!

You read the title once. Then again.

A laugh pressed against your throat, but you held it in.

Steve looked up quickly anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed at your quick response. “That wasn’t a nothing sound.”

You smiled with a shake of your head. “I didn’t make a sound.”

“You made a face.”

Robin’s customer finally huffed his way out of the store, muttering about principles. The bell above the door jingled after him. Robin watched him go with a dead-eyed expression, then turned toward you.

“What did you find?”

Your eyes flitted across the words of the page. “An article.”

“That’s never good.” Steve leaned over the counter, trying to see. You tilted the page away from him just as he came near.

His voice came low with curiosity. “Why can’t I read it?”

You hummed lightly, “because you’re the subject.”

He blinked down at you, his eyes turning owl-ish at the vagueness of your words. “The subject of what?”

Robin’s mouth opened into a grin. “Oh, this is promising.”

You smoothed the magazine page with your palm and began reading silently.

You’ve made it past the two-year mark without a single major blowout, and your Friday nights are a perfectly oiled machine of movie rentals and shared pizza toppings.

You glanced up.

Steve was watching you now, tape forgotten, eyebrows drawn together. He had the expression he got when Dustin explained something too quickly and Steve was trying to decide whether he had missed an insult.

You looked back down.

Don’t get too cozy just yet! In our fast-paced eighties, there is a very fine line between a secure romance and a total relationship snooze-fest! Sometimes, when a guy knows he’s finally "won" your heart, he quietly hits the cruise control button. He might love you to pieces, but is he still trying to wow you?

Grab that gloss, lounge back on your bed, and take this quick checklist to see if your dream boy is secretly sliding into the "Comfort Trap"—and exactly how to tease him right out of it!

It was stupid. Completely stupid. Written in the breathless, bossy voice of someone who had never met Steve Harrington after midnight in a hospital waiting room, or seen him go quiet when one of the kids flinched at a loud noise, or watched him check the rearview mirror three times on the way home because caution had become part of him.

Still.

You had twenty minutes to kill.

Steve had said nice without really looking. And the article had numbered instructions. You folded the magazine back just enough to hide the page title and smiled to yourself.

Robin, who had the instincts of a person raised on chaos, took one step away from Steve.

He noticed and immediately frowned in questioning. “Why are you moving?”

Robin shrugged, her shoulders reaching the ends of her hair in doing so. “No reason.”

“That is also not a no-reason face.”

You tapped the first numbered section with your fingernail.

Steve looked between you and Robin, suddenly alert. “What’s happening?”

You kept smiling.

“Education,” you had to bite the i side of your cheek to stop from laughing outright.

───

The “Automatic” Compliment

When you spend forty-five minutes crimping your hair or putting on your absolute best pleated miniskirt, does he give you a real, jaw-dropping reaction? Or does he just look up from his car radio, smile, and say, "You look nice, babe," out of total reflex? If his praise feels like an automated recording, his eyes might be getting a little lazy.

The Solution: Next time he says it without looking, step right into his line of sight, block his view, and playfully demand he give you three specific reasons why!

The article accused him of having lazy eyes.

You found that unfair, mostly because Steve’s eyes were not lazy. They were restless if anything. Always tracking movement. Always catching on exits and windows and whoever had just walked into a room. Even when he seemed relaxed, some part of him stayed awake, cataloging changes, and always listening for small changes.

But the article was not interested in nuance, the article clearly wanted drama. The article wanted you to step right into his line of sight and demand three specific reasons.

So, you did.

Steve had just gone back to sorting returns into piles with the kind of vague competence that would probably make Keith complain later. He held Teen Wolf in one hand and Out of Africa in the other, staring at them with open uncertainty.

“Comedy?” he muttered, his lips were pulled into a small frown as he wracked his brain for the possible answer.

“Drama,” Robin said without looking.

Steve wasn't entirely convinced, his voice turning questioning. “There’s a wolf.”

“It has feelings.”

He scoffed that, “all movies have feelings.”

Robin quickly shot back her response. “Not the ones you recommend.”

You took that moment to slip off the stool and come around the counter besides your boyfriend.

Steve saw you move, but he didn't seem to understand the danger quickly enough. He looked at you, then at the magazine on the counter, then back at you right as you stepped in front of him and blocked the shelf.

He stopped, not with suspicion, but with clear unsureness.

“Hi,” he said with a softness that made you grin on instinct.

Steve mirrored your expression by impact and pure reflex. “Hi.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. “Do you need something?”

You nodded with severe certainty “Yes.”

“Okay,” Steve looked up into your eyes and his head tilted, he seemed to wait for the further set of instructions he was clearly waiting for.

You specified soon after that, each word clearly enunciated, and your fingers held up in pairing. “Three specific reasons.”

He waited for more clarification with a gentle handed posture. His soft smile hadn't disappeared, but it became mixed in with something else now. “For…?”

“Why I look nice.”

The silence after that was truly beautiful.

Robin slowly lowered the inventory sheet she had been pretending to read and you swore her hard blinks could be heard across the air.

Steve stared at you with the VHS tapes still in his hands, and his mouth parted slightly. He looked, for one unguarded moment, completely removed from every version of himself he had ever practiced in a mirror or labeled to be. Instead, he just was your boyfriend in a dumb vest, ambushed by a request he should probably have been prepared for.

“Three,” you repeated with the underlying giddy feeling in your body simmering.

He stammered a bit at the blunt reminder. “Right now?”

“You already had time when I came in.”

“I was working.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly in clear disbelief. “You were rewinding Short Circuit?”

“It requires attention.”

Robin made a small noise from where she watched, mirroring your disbelieving look. “Does it?”

Steve shot her a look, then returned his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face properly this time, slower than before, and the amusement in you shifted into something quieter. You had meant to tease him, you hadn't expected the teasing to make him actually look.

He noticed your earrings first. You could tell because his eyes caught on the little flash near your jaw when you turned your head.

“Your earrings,” he cleared his throat with a particularly strong bobble of his head. Your brows quirked up on instinct.

“That’s one?”

Steve shook his head quickly, then continued. “No, that’s the category. I’m building.”

Robin whispered to you with a clearly mocking tone that had you biting back a wider smile, “He’s building.”

Steve ignored her with effort, you could tell by the lack of bite back. “They’re the ones you wore to the Fourth of July thing, right? Before—” He stopped, jaw shifting around the rest of the sentence. You could tell he was trying to reference a memory that didn't come clearly to him, so you let him go on without issue. “Anyway. They look good. They do that little shiny thing when you move.”

You felt yourself soften, then immediately fought it because you were supposed to be conducting an experiment. A terribly stupid experiment, but an experiment you decided was going to be fun entertainment nonetheless.

“One,” you allowed with your index finger tilting to the side in counting.

He adjusted the tapes in his hands, more comfortable now that he had survived the first answer. “Your skirt. The buttons on the side.”

The sentence wasn't what you were expecting it to be, your voice turned questioning before it evened back out. “You noticed the buttons?”

He gave you a look that was clear betrayal, his hand went up to stretch across the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be respectful in front of Buckley.”

Robin lifted both hands as if offended by being compared to something akin to an obstacle, “Im not even here. I am basically a chair.”

“You’re a very loud chair,” Steve huffed back to her. Then, to you, “Yes, I noticed the buttons. I noticed the whole skirt. It’s pink and it makes your legs look—” He stopped again and your eyebrows lifted along with your smile.

His ears went red, he gave a weak cough as his eyes looked at the ceiling than back to you. “Long.”

“Two,” you then counted with another finger, deeply pleased now.

Steve looked relieved to be nearing the end, then immediately concerned because the third reason required more care. He looked at your hair, your lips, the way you were standing there with one hip angled against the counter, pretending you had not started this solely just to watch him squirm.

“Your hair,” he said with finality. “You did something different.”

You touched it without meaning to. “Different bad?”

“No—Different good. It’s softer here.” He gestured near his own temple, not quite touching you like you'd have preferred. “And it keeps falling forward, so you keep pushing it back, and you only do that when you’re trying not to mess with it because you spent time on it.”

You went still at the explanation.

Steve seemed to realize he had said something too observant for the tone of the game. He looked down at the tapes, then back up, shrugging one shoulder with a forced casualness that didn't suit him.

“So,” he licked his lips as his eyes lifted to meet yours with a hopeful expression. “Three.”

Robin broke the silence first, which you'd been grateful for because you were all too aware of the warmth seeping into your chest. “I hate to say it, but that was kind of good.”

Steve pointed Teen Wolf at her, “don’t sound so surprised.”

You took the tapes from his hands and set them on the counter, and you looked at him through a slight tilt of your head. “Better.”

His words came back questioning again. “Better than what?”

“The automated recording,” that was all you said with a light breeze in your tone.

“The what?” He asked but you had already gone back to the stool, pulling the magazine into your lap.

Steve watched you sit down. He felt a strange mixture of pride and suspicion, which was not an emotion he enjoyed. Pride, because you were smiling at the page now in a way that meant he had done something right. Suspicion, because he had no idea what the page had made you do in the first place.

Robin leaned close to him and murmured, “If she asks you to describe her personality next, fake your death.”

Steve whispered back, “What magazine is that?”

Robin looked at the glossy cover and grinned at Steve’s distress. “The kind that destroys men who say nice.”

Steve looked at you again.

You only turned the page.

He swallowed more visibly distressed now as you remained quiet.

──

2. He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt

Remember those first six months when he wouldn't dare meet you without a splash of premium cologne and a perfectly pressed jacket? If he now regularly shows up to your dates wearing his old high school gym fleece with a mystery stain on the sleeve, the mystery is officially fading.

The Solution: Snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back and wear it yourself with nothing but your favorite perfume. Remind him who really looks best in his clothes!

Steve’s shift ended late because nothing in Hawkins could ever end at the time printed on a schedule.

A kid knocked over half the horror display and immediately blamed the “wind,” despite the fact that the air inside Family Video had not moved with any conviction since June. Keith called from the back office to complain that someone had stacked the returned tapes “emotionally wrong,” which made Robin press both palms flat on the counter and whisper, “I am not going to jail for him.” Then, a mother came in looking for a cartoon whose title she didn't know, only that it involved “a little man, maybe a duck, and possibly space.”

By the time Steve was finally allowed to clock out, his patience had frayed around the edges.

You could see it in the way he pulled off his vest, too fast, and missed the hook when he tried to hang it in the back. You could hear him mutter something at the locker that sounded less like English and more like a private feud. When he came out again, he had changed into the old Hawkins High gym sweatshirt he kept there for cold nights, rainy closings, and days when he claimed the uniform made him feel “itchy in a spiritual way.”

The sweatshirt was gray in theory. In practice, it had been washed into a soft, faded color that belonged to old socks and cloudy dishwater. The cuffs were stretched. The collar sat loose at the base of his throat. One sleeve had a faint stain near the elbow that neither of you had ever successfully identified, though Steve had once insisted it was “probably nacho cheese” with a confidence that made you less comfortable.

He looked tired in it.

He also, looked painfully familiar.

Your eyes dropped to the open magazine in your lap.

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt.

The article spoke of fading mystery and premium cologne with the urgency of a national crisis. You read the solution once and felt your grin arrive before you could stop it.

The words repeated in your brain: snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back.

Steve came around the counter while digging in his pocket for his keys. “You ready?”

You stood and he glanced up, saw your expression, and stopped walking with clear intent.

“No,” he said with an immediate shake of his head

You hadn't even moved yet, your hands came up to your sides on instinct. “No what?”

Steve groaned in a way that didn't quite feel frustrated, but was knowing. “No whatever that face is.”

“I don’t have a face.” You did.

“You have the face you had before the whole three reasons thing.”

Robin, clocked out but still lingering because apparently this was better than whatever she had waiting at home, grabbed her bag from behind the counter. “For the record, I support her.”

“You don’t even know what she’s doing,” Steve immediately sighed in defeat.

Robin didn't seem bothered by the lack of information. “I know enough.”

You stepped closer and caught the hem of his sweatshirt. Steve’s hands immediately closed around your wrists, not tight, just startled. His expressive eyes instantly fell to your with faint concern and mostly curiosity. “Whoa. Hi. What are we doing?”

You shrugged your shoulders, lips finding the familiar grin that had him faltering. “Testing a theory.”

Steve pouted in a way that you knew he'd deny if questioned later on. “Why do your theories involve grabbing me at work?”

“Because you just happen to be here.”

“That can't possibly be a complete answer.”

“It’s a location, though.”

Robin leaned on the counter, delighted as she sang over to you. “He’s panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” Steve scoffed with dismissal, but regardless of his claim, his voice was panicking enough.

You tugged the sweatshirt upward, with a plea on your lips and a look in your eyes. “Arms up.”

He sputtered at your request, his brows shooting upwards in clear refusal. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve…”

“No, this is a public establishment.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, looking over at his stance. “Keith is in the back alphabetizing gum wrappers or something.”

“Buckley is right there.”

Robin waved over at herself with the familiar grin you loved, humming a tune. “Chair.”

Steve looked at you, then at Robin, then toward the front windows where the parking lot sat mostly empty except for his car. His resistance lasted three more seconds. You could see the exact moment he gave up, because his jaw worked to hide a smile and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“Fine,” he muttered, but he didn't make a show of sighing this time. “But if you stretch the collar, I’m suing.”

There was no containing the laugh that left you. “You don’t even know how to sue.”

“I’ll learn.”

He ducked his head and lifted his arms, letting you pull the sweatshirt up over his torso. His white T-shirt rode up for half a second, revealing a narrow strip of skin above his jeans before he yanked it down with one hand before you could reach for it. He promptly ignored your dramatized look of resignation at being denied. His hair emerged from the collar in static-disrupted disarray, several pieces standing up at angles he would have considered unforgivable under normal circumstances.

You put the sweatshirt on before he could take it back. Although, you doubted he would ever actually do that. For all his whining, your boyfriend rarely said anything beyond a few complaints.

It swallowed you in the familiar fabric.

The sleeves fell past your hands, the hem dropped low over your skirt, and the collar slipped a little too wide on one side. Warmth held inside the fabric from his body. So did the smell of him: laundry detergent on the old cotton, the faded spice of his cologne, and something skin-warm and harder to name. The perfume you had put on earlier rose beneath it, mixing with him until the whole thing felt private despite the fluorescent lights and Robin’s shameless staring.

Steve went quiet in the moments still. You pushed your hair free from the collar and lifted your chin. Your hands were now taking residence upon the sides of your hips. “Well?”

He had seen you in his clothes before. A borrowed jacket during a rainstorm. A T-shirt after a late night when you spilled soda on yourself at his house. Socks frequently, because your feet had gone cold and he had acted annoyed while digging through a drawer with unnecessary urgency.

But there was a difference between necessity and choice.

This, was choice. This was you standing in the middle of Family Video wearing his old sweatshirt over your skirt, perfume clinging to the collar, and looking at him with bright, ridiculous expectation.

Steve’s brain provided several responses and rejected all of them for being either too honest or too stupid.

“That’s mine,” he managed with a breathlessness that immediately made him wince when heard.

You corrected him, clearly pleased. “Was.”

“You’re swimming in it.”

“I'm aware.”

“You look—” He stopped because your eyes sharpened in a way that told him his next adjective needed to mean something.

Robin clapped once from where she was, and you refrained from sighing at the girl's clear joy at her friend's inner struggle. “Careful, Harrington.”

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth, buying time. He had just been trained, apparently. Nice was no longer safe. Nice had been retired from service.

“You look good,” he decided to settle for, then saw your mouth twitch and hurried on. “You look really good. In my sweatshirt. Which is confusing because it looks better on you, but it is still, legally mine.”

“‘Legally’?”

Steve quickly corrected himself again. “Emotionally.”

You stepped closer and lifted one sleeve-covered hand to poke his chest. The movement had him squirming a bit because you knew where to poke to get a reaction. As such were the benefits of being with someone for so long. “I think I’ll keep it.”

Steve looked down at your covered hand, then at the place where the collar had slipped, then back to your face. He tried for annoyance and missed by several miles. He was never good at that.

His words didn't match his tone nor face. “You’re lucky I’m generous.”

“You’re lucky I look better in your clothes.”

Robin made a noise of approval that had you slightly leaning on the heels of your shoes. “She does.”

“Why are you still here?” Steve asked with such restraint that you let one palm rub against his forearm. He welcomed the familiar touch by leaning into it.

“I live here now.”

Keith appeared in the back doorway at exactly the wrong time, holding a clipboard and a soda. He took in the scene: Steve in his T-shirt, you in Steve’s sweatshirt, Robin grinning beside the register. His expression flattened.

“Is this happening on the clock?”

Steve grabbed his keys and reached up for your palm to pull you besides him. “Nope. Leaving. Bye.”

Outside, the evening heat pressed immediately. The air smelled of asphalt, cut grass from somewhere beyond the plaza, and the warm metallic scent of Steve’s car after a day in the sun. He unlocked the passenger side first out of habit, then paused when you walked past it.

His head shot up. “Where are you going?”

You looked over your shoulder with a smile that had him already weary. “You’ll see.”

Steve felt the first prickle of fresh suspicion. You still had the magazine tucked under your arm. He knew then that he really should have hidden it when he had the chance.

───

3. The Dreaded “I Don’t Care, What Do You Want to Do?”

Flexibility is cute, but romantic laziness is not! If every single date night starts with him shrugging his shoulders and leaving the heavy lifting of choosing the restaurant or the movie up to you, he’s retired from being the captain of the ship.

The Solution: Take total control. Steal his car keys out of his pocket, slide into the driver's seat yourself, and drive him to a secret destination without telling him where you’re going!

The BMW had been baking all afternoon, and climbing into it felt briefly like entering a punishment designed by someone who hated vinyl. You pushed through either ways.

Steve opened both doors first to let the heat roll out. He complained under his breath when you leaned against the driver’s side, because he was already beginning to understand what you wanted and did not know how to prevent it without sounding insane.

His words sounded strained in their attempt not to seem sure. “You’re not driving.”

“I haven’t exactly asked.”

Steve's hands came out to gesture wildly at you. “You’re standing by the driver’s door wearing my sweatshirt and holding an evil magazine.”

Your frowned, lips pulled to the side as you argued against the idea. “Evil is strong, don't you think?”

“I think it's accurate.” You huffed out a sigh and merely held out your hand to him He stared at it blankly, big hazel eyes flicking to your face then your outstretched palm.

“Keys,” you all but sang in glee.

Steve laughed once, not because it was funny, but because his body needed somewhere to put the clear alarm. “No way.”

“The article says I’m supposed to take total control.”

Steve's voice now was a delightful mix of clear distress and restrained panic. “Babe, articles have never seen you parallel park.”

“I don't even parallel park.”

“Exactly.” You only wiggled your fingers in response, paired along with a particularly determined look up at him.

Steve looked toward the empty storefront beside Family Video, then back at you. His keys sat in his palm, heavy with all the trust and terror he attached to that car. He loved the Beamer in a way he would not have admitted under oath. Actually, scratch that—Steve would gladly declare his love for his car anytime, but now? It felt oddly like a trap. It had been freedom when his house felt too quiet. It had been status when he had been shallow enough to need it. And later one, it had gone on to become transportation for the kids with their walkie-talkies, frantic errands, and the late-night drives where neither of you said much but the silence was nice anyways.

Letting someone else drive it was not nothing to Steve.

Letting you drive it while grinning like you had a plan was something else entirely.

“You know,” he said carefully, his muscles pulled at where they crossed against his chest, “a healthy relationship includes respecting boundaries.”

Your question came instantly. “Is your boundary the driver’s seat?”

“My boundary is not dying.”

“I’m a good driver!”

“You once hit a curb and blamed the curb!”

“It came out of nowhere.” The Defense felt weak now on your lips, and you barely held in the wince that tried to escape you.

But Steve only closed his eyes and you waited.

The thing was, you knew he would give them to you. Not because he was helpless, he certainly wasn't. Not because you could push him anywhere you wanted, both him and you weren't like that. Steve could be stubborn when something mattered. He could dig his heels in so hard it made everyone around him want to throw things. But this was not about the car, not really. It was about you asking him to let go of control for twenty minutes, and Steve had been trying, in small uneven ways, to learn how to do that.

He dropped the keys into your hand with such anguish you saved the date so you could make fun of him later on. But for now, the keys in your palm were a big enough win.

“If you grind the gears,” Steve exhaled with more defeat than irritation, “I’m breaking up with you until Monday.”

The threat was as fake as his excitement. “It’s Friday though?”

“I'll need the recovery time.” You slid into the driver’s seat before he could change his mind at your delighted grin.

Steve walked around the front of the car slowly, one hand trailing over the hood in a gesture so mournful you laughed before he even got in. He lowered himself into the passenger seat with stiff dignity and immediately reached for the dashboard by pure instinct.

You looked at his hand and he quickly moved it to his knee with a faint twitch of his fingers.

Your voice came passive in its gratitude. “Thank you for bracing, real show of trust.”

His defense came hot and rapid. “I wasn’t bracing!”

Yours came cooler and breezily. “You were absolutely bracing.”

Steve decided then to correct his stance into something more softly shaped. “I was settling…”

“You were preparing for impact—”

Steve pointed at the windshield with a regained passion that had you rolling your eyes. “Eyes on the road.”

“We’re parked?”

“Consider it practice.”

You adjusted the seat, which made him wince because you moved it forward. He quickly turned silent when you glared at him through your side profile. Then, you adjusted the mirror, the hanging air freshener swayed gently at the movement. Steve watched every change with increasing distress, mouth pressed into a line, fingers tapping once against his thigh before he made them stop.

You started the car a moment after leaning in to give him what you'd call, and you were sure he'd also deny, a much needed kiss near the corner of his mouth for his tension.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, familiar but different from this side. Steve’s car always sounded more dramatic than necessary, and now that sound moved up through the soles of your shoes, into your knees, into the base of your ribs. You pulled out of the parking space carefully.

Too carefully, apparently, because Steve inhaled and did not exhale until you straightened.

“See?” you made a point to extend your hand in a show of gesturing.

He finally exhaled, his head whirling around the perimeter. “Great. We’ve traveled twelve feet.”

“Progress.”

You drove past the pizza place first.

Steve twisted in his seat, his face losing some of that tension when confusion took its place. “Wait. I thought we were eating.”

“We are.”

“Pizza is back there.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, and inhaled sharply when Steve seemed like he wanted to comment on that too. Thankfully, he refrained. “Maybe we’re not getting pizza.”

He looked genuinely unsettled now, looking something akin to a puppy set free in a foreign meadow. “But it’s Friday.”

“Exactly.” Your words did little to ease him in the slightest.

“What does exactly mean?”

Your right hand came up to emphasize your next words. “It means you say ‘I don’t care, what do you want to do?’ too much.”

His expression shifted, defensive at first, then confused. “I say that because I don’t want to make you do stuff you don’t want to do.”

You nodded to his words because they were true, and because you loved him more for it. “I know.”

Steve was sure he was feeling unrecorded levels of distress currently. “So why is that bad?”

You glanced at him, then back at the road. The light had gone soft and low, catching in the dust along the windshield. “It’s not bad! It’s just sometimes I want you to want something out loud.”

Steve leaned back, the argument leaving him in stages.

He had not thought of it that way. To him, letting you pick felt considerate. It felt safe because if he chose wrong, if you got quiet, if the night bent into disappointment, then it would be his fault in a way he could not fix by rewinding a tape or buying another soda. It seemed better to let you choose. Better to be the guy who went along with what you wanted and did not become another person demanding things from you. Steve was many things, considerate high on that list.

But you were looking at the road with both hands on his steering wheel, wearing his sweatshirt, saying you wanted him to want things.

That sat somewhere tender.

“Okay,” he spoke softner after a minute had passed in the lull.

You felt the agreement settle without the usual push and pull. “Okay?”

Steve let one roughened palm drag over his eyes as he cleared his throat. “Okay. I can want things out loud.”

You smiled, but kept your eyes on the road. Your nails tapped against the wheel again now. “Good.”

“Right now, I want to know where we’re going.”

The attempt had you smiling and not bothering to hide the exasperation on your face. “Nope, not that kind of want.”

He groaned against his hand, “that’s cruel.”

“It’s mysterious.” you preferred the term over his.

“It’s kidnapping with lip gloss.” You laughed at his response, and Steve’s shoulders eased by pure bodily instinct.

You drove beyond the familiar restaurants, beyond the streets where the houses sat close together with bikes in driveways and porch lights beginning to flick on. The town thinned into trees and long grass. The car moved through pockets of cooling air, windows down, and the radio catching half of one station and then another until Steve gave up and turned the volume low.

When you finally turned onto the road near an old quarry, he sat up.

“Oh,” his brows twisted as he took in the dim, but no less deliberate view..

You parked near the overlook where the trees opened just enough to show the water below, darkening under the evening sky. Nobody else was there. The place had an abandoned feeling now, less romantic than it probably used to be, because Hawkins had taught everyone to distrust woods after sunset. Still, the view was good. Ot was pretty in an intimate way. The water held the last orange light in broken pieces. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere far off, a dog barked and stopped.

You turned the engine off then, the keys rustling softly against the opening. For a few seconds, the car ticked quietly as it cooled.

Steve looked at the overlook, then at you. His voice came out different when he spoke, less teasing. You liked the shift. “You planned this?”

You nodded with an unnecessary addition of solemnity. “I had a magazine and a lot of confidence.”

“That’s a dangerous combination.”

“Apparently.”

He smiled, but his eyes moved back to the view. You could tell he liked it because he didn't immediately make another attempt at a joke. He just sat there with his elbow near the open window, hair slightly ruffled by the drive, looking out over the quarry while the last of his workday drained out of him.

Steve had spent a lot of time in cars with people he loved and feared losing. He had driven toward danger, away from danger, around town at three in the morning because somebody needed a ride or a distraction or a place to talk where no parents could hear. Sitting still in the passenger seat while you turned off the engine was strangely difficult. It left his hands empty. It left the evening open.

Then you held out his keys, the abrupt movement had him looking down at them quickly.

“You survived,” your voice came out lighter than intended.

He took them and let his fingers brush yours deliberately. Steve's posture wasn't as tense as it had been prior, and you took it as a tactical win. “Barely.”

You didn't let him off so easily. “You liked it.”

“I liked the destination.” His words had truth to them, but certainly not the full truth.

“You didn’t like my driving?” He hesitated one second too long.

You gasped and Steve immediately turned to you, one hand reaching out to rub your forearm. “No, no, your driving was fine.”

“Fine?”

He quickly corrected himself. “Good. Great. Beautifully legal even.”

You rolled your eyes and got out before he could continue and somehow dig himself deeper.

Steve followed, still smiling. That was your favorite part. He went to the trunk and pulled out the old blanket he kept there. You caught sight of a flashlight, jumper cables, an empty fast-food cup, and the stupid nail-studded bat partially hidden beneath a towel. He noticed your exasperated gaze land on it and shut the trunk a little too fast.

“Emergency stuff,” he cleared his throat too fast.

You looked at him and he suddenly found the grass beneath him interesting. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Steve murmured into the open air. “Not a nothing face.”

The decision to ignore the words came easy. You reached for the blanket instead of asking. He handed it over with a small nod, grateful and embarrassed at once.

The two of you spread the blanket over the hood of the car after he made you promise not to scratch the paint. It was still warm from the engine beneath, and when you climbed up beside him, the metal gave a faint settling sound. Steve passed you a bag of pretzels from the trunk, opened badly down the side, and you ate them while the sky turned deeper and the heat softened around you.

For a while, there was nothing else.

There was just Steve telling you about a customer who asked whether Pretty in Pink was part of a series because “there had to be other colors,” and you telling him about the woman at Bradley’s who squeezed every peach in the bin with the intensity of a medical exam. He laughed with his head tilted back, throat exposed to the evening, and you felt the ordinary pleasure of having made him laugh settle into you.

Then the windshield caught his reflection.

Steve glanced at it and you saw the words actively flash in front of your eyes.

───

4. His Mirror Time Outpaces Your Eye-Contact Time

An eighties boy who spends an hour fixing his legendary hair or splashing on his favorite cologne is great to look at — but if he spends more time checking his reflection in the diner window than he does looking deeply into your eyes across the table, his vanity might be serving his own ego rather than trying to impress you!

The Solution: Mess up his hair! Messing up a vain boy's hair is a high-risk, high-reward move that instantly forces his full attention away from the mirror and entirely onto you.

The first time, you let it pass.

Steve had always had an intimate relationship with reflective surfaces. Car windows, store glass, dark television screens, spoons if he was desperate. It would have been annoying if it were not so earnest. He checked his hair with the focus of a man maintaining an ecosystem. He denied it every time, but the evidence was constant.

The second time, he turned his head slightly, pretending to watch a bird move through the trees while his eyes flicked toward the windshield.

You lowered your half bitten pretzel into your lap, waiting for the moment to prove itself.

The third time, he smoothed one hand near his temple.

You reached for the magazine, which sat on the hood beside your thigh, and tapped the fourth section.

Steve noticed the movement.

“What number are we on?” he asked with the faint resignment of a man knowing he's in too deep to argue anymore.

You held your fingers up at his face. “Four.”

His face fell and his exhale came steady. “Oh, God.”

“You don’t even know what four is!”

“I know I won’t like it.”

You smiled at the truth of the statement and even more at his expression.

He put both hands up in a time out position, his grin was weak in its pleading. “Can I opt out?”

Your answer came sharply ennunciated. “Nope.”

“Is this democracy?”

“Why would I possibly have this be a democracy?”

He looked toward the empty road, and his exaggerated sigh didn't fool you enough to ignore his bitten back smile. “Is there a witness?”

“Nope.”

“This can't possibly be just—”

You moved before he could get any farther and he immediately tried to escape. But he was too late, because your hands went straight into his hair by then.

Steve made a sound of pure betrayal. The sound erupted a warmth in your chest as you grinned hearing his own struggle with maintaining betrayl. “Hey! No—no, watch the hair!”

You laughed so hard your first attempt barely did any damage, which gave him hope for half a second. Then you got both hands properly into it, pushing the front back, raking your fingers through the carefully maintained height, mussing the sides until his entire head looked softer, younger, more touchable and less arranged.

He caught your wrists and his eyes twinkled near yours. Small pieves of now unkempt hair fell over his brows and he had to blow them away. “We have rules.”

“We do not have rules,” you argued, struggling against his grip.

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, they weren't restraining as much as they were holding in pleading hope. His grip was gentle, pulling you into him. “My hair has rules!”

The correction came quick on your tongue.“Your hair is vain.”

Steve gasped in blatant pffense which only served to make you laugh harder. “I'll have you know, my hair is a public service.”

You couldn't be comvinced. “You looked at yourself in the windshield three times.”

“I was checking for danger.” he tried to firmly combat your argument with his own.

“Was the danger split ends?”

Steve stared at you, scandalized. There was no hiding the wide smile that crawled its way onto your face now at his whine. “Sweetheart, that was really mean.”

“It was accurate.”

“It was both.”

You tried to continue ruining him, but he held your wrists away now, laughing despite himself. The sound exhoed against your ear drums. His grip was warm. His thumbs landed near your pulse points. The evening had cooled enough that the warmth of him felt more noticeable, especially with the blanket beneath your legs and his sweatshirt still hanging loose over your body.

His hair had slowly become a disaster.

Not terrible, it could never be terrible. Steve Harrington’s hair seemed incapable of true failure, which was deeply unfair to you. Or anyone else, really. But the shape was gone from it. One piece fell over his forehead, another stuck up near the back, and the sides had lost their polished swoop. He looked less like the version of himself he presented to the world and more like the one who woke up late and padded barefoot into the kitchen, squinting at the coffee maker.

Your laughter thinned into a smaller version of a smile. Steve saw the change and stopped pulling your hands away.

“What?” he mirrored your expression, as if your joy could be naturally echoed into his just as easily.

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes at the softness of your voice. “You don’t get to use my line.”

You just shook your head at him, eyes softening gently. “You look different.”

“Worse?” The question left him in natural humor.

“No.”

He looked at you, and beneath the joking offense there was something cautious. Steve was used to being looked at. He had been looked at for years by people who wanted something from the surface. He knew how to stand under that kind of attention. He knew what to do with it.

But with you, it was always different.

You were looking at him with his hair messed up and his guard lowered, your sleeves falling over your hands, your knee pressed against his thigh on the warm hood of his car. You were not laughing at him now, not exactly. You were seeing him in a way that made him want to joke and stay quiet at the same time.

He released one of your wrists, and you used your free hand to push the fallen piece of hair back more gently than before.

“There,” you breathed softer into the chilling air. “Improved.”

He huffed with a glint in his eye as he tilted his head looking to you. “Ruined.”

You remained steadfast in your description. “Improved.”

“Sabotaged.” a sigh escaped you before you decided to settle on the middle ground.

“Humanized.”

“That’s worse.”

You laughed again, and he grabbed you around the waist before you could dodge. It was not a dramatic move. It was entirely clumsy, half seated on the hood, one knee sliding on the blanket, and had pretzels nearly tipping over. You yelped, caught his shoulder, and he pulled you closer with a grin he wouldn't ever bother hiding.

“Retaliation,” he hummed against you.

Your eyes narrowed to glare up against him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Steve.”

“You attacked a national treasure.”

The laugh left you all sputtered and incredulous. “You are not a national treasure.”

“My hair is.”

He tried to tickle your side through the sweatshirt, but the fabric was too thick and his angle was bad. You squirmed anyway because the attempt was enough, laughing into his shoulder while he complained about unfair defenses and oversized sleeves. The blanket bunched beneath you. Your knee knocked the pretzel bag. Steve caught it with one hand at the last second and looked so proud of himself that you shoved his shoulder.

“My hero,” you sighed dreamily as you exaggerated fanning yourself.

“Always.”

It was a joke, but it landed in the quiet between you with more weight than either of you meant. His smile flickered for half a second. Not gone, just altered instead.

You knew better than to poke directly at that. There were words that made Steve stiffen because they came with too many memories: hero, brave, fine. Compliments could hurt when they touched old bruises.

So you stole a pretzel from the bag he had saved and held it up against his lips. “Your reward.”

He accepted it solemnly, head tilting down to nibble against your fingers rather than the pretzel. That had you shoving at him all the same. “I deserve more.”

“You deserve a comb.”

“That too.”

The transition back into ease happened slowly but naturally, without announcement. Steve leaned back on his hands, letting his ruined hair stay ruined. You sat beside him, head against his shoulder, watching the quarry disappear into blue shadow. The air cooled enough that you finally felt grateful for his sweatshirt. He did not ask for it back again.

Later, when he drove you home, he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror only once. That once was entirely enough for you anyway.

You reached over and tilted the mirror away.

He groaned your name and you smiled all the way to your driveway.

───

5. He Treats Your Presence Like a Given

Does he toss you his car keys, expect you to carry the snacks, and assume you’ll just automatically follow him wherever his friends are hanging out? When a guy stops asking you out on real, proper dates and just expects you to "be around," he’s treating you less like a girlfriend and more like his favorite security blanket.

The Solution: Create a little mystery. Next time he assumes you're free, tell him you have "secret plans" for the afternoon. A tiny bit of healthy distance will make him realize just how much he misses his favorite view!

The next morning, Steve called before noon.

You were still sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against the bed, legs stretched out, the Cosmopolitan magazine open beside a half-eaten bowl of cereal. The window was cracked, but the air coming through was already warm. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started, stopped, then started again with the stubborn cough of old machinery from your neighbors.

Your room smelled faintly of hairspray, clean laundry, and the perfume still clinging to Steve’s sweatshirt, which you had absolutely not returned.

The phone rang twice before you picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Steve greeted immediately. His voice had that slightly distracted quality that meant he was at work and probably doing three things badly. You could hear the store behind him: Robin talking too loudly, the dull clack of tape cases, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights even through the line. “Movie tonight?”

No lead-in. No question about your morning. No attempt at charm.

Just movie tonight, offered with the easy assumption that of course you would be there, because usually you were. Usually you liked being there. Usually Steve called and you fit yourself into the shape of his evening without minding much at all.

You looked down.

Number five sat open on the magazine page.

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given.

The article accused him of turning you into his favorite security blanket.

That was unfair too, but not entirely untrue in the way the most irritating things sometimes were. Steve did not take you for granted, and certainly not on purpose. He was too careful for that in the places where it counted. He noticed when you were cold. He remembered which pizza toppings you hated. He opened doors because he had been raised with manners and then kept doing it because he liked the brief second where his hand landed near your back.

But he did assume you would be around.

Sometimes, because he wanted you there.

Sometimes, because he needed you there and had not learned how to say need without dressing it up as a casual plan.

You let the silence stretch as your fingers came up to your lips in pondering.

On the other end, Steve paused. “Hello?”

“I have secret plans.”

The line went quiet after your words.

You could picture his face too clearly: eyebrows lifting, mouth tightening a little, free hand landing on his hip. Steve did not like mysteries unless he was solving them, and even then he preferred them to arrive with flashlights, maps, and Dustin explaining too much.

“Secret plans,” he repeated, and you could practically see the way his face had been scrunching up.

“Yup.”

“With who?” The question came out too quickly.

You smiled into the receiver and you were sure he could practically hear it.

Steve regretted it immediately. You could hear it in the way he inhaled and then exhaled through his nose, probably turning away from Robin so she could not see his face.

“I didn’t mean that in a weird way,” he added. You knew that, of course. But would that stop you from poking fun at your boyfriend? Absolutely not.

You forced a flat hum to even your voice. “And what way did you mean it?”

Steve’s defense came strong, but no less real. “A normal boyfriend curiosity way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not jealousy. I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m clarifying.”

Your fingers looped around the phone cord as your eyes flickered down to the magazine sprawled in your lap. “Sounds suspicious.”

At Family Video, Steve leaned against the wall near the phone and closed his eyes. Robin, sitting on the floor with a stack of returns around her, looked up with predatory interest.

“Are you being dumped?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide at his bodily reaction.

Steve covered the receiver and promptly ignored her, though not before throwing Robin a glare. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

He turned his back to her. And into the phone, he cleared his throat and said, “Are your secret plans dangerous?”

You only hummed in response. “Maybe.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They’re secret.”

The faint spund of rustling hit your ear, and you could picture the scene everytime you blinked. With Steve running his hand through his hair because he'd become fidgety all of a sudden. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

You tried not to feel cruel at how the mental image made you grin and feel warmth crawl up your body. “It does.”

“It explains nothing.”

You pulled the sweatshirt sleeve over your hand and toyed with the phone cord wrapped around your ankle. “You can survive one afternoon without me.”

“I know that.”

Judging by his voice now, you weren't entirely convinced. “Do you?”

He stopped.

That was the trouble with joking. Sometimes it opened a door you had not meant to touch.

Steve knew he could survive without you for an afternoon. He had survived worse things than an empty passenger seat. He had survived silence in his parents’ house, survived losing versions of himself he had once thought were permanent, survived monsters with too many teeth and nights where sleep arrived late and left early.

But his day had begun to arrange itself around you without asking permission. He knew when you usually came by. He knew which stool you liked. He knew the face you made when Robin got into a fight with a customer and the face you made when Steve pretended he was above gossip and then leaned in anyway. He knew the small relief of looking up and finding you there.

He knew familiarity for certainty.

The realization made him pick at the peeling edge of a sticker on the phone.

“You’re really busy?” he asked, quieter.

You softened, because you hadn't really meant to hurt him. “For a little while.”

“Okay.”

Your tried not to falter, but your voice didn't heed your wishes. “You sound disappointed.”

Steve denied it quickly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m handsome and disappointed.” That got you. You laughed, and the line loosened again.

Your secret plans were not glamorous. They involved going to the mall with a friend, buying a lemonade too sour to fully finish, and letting yourself try on clothes you couldn't afford in a department store dressing room with bad lighting. You walked past the arcade and heard machines chiming through the open entrance. You lingered in the music store longer than necessary, flipping through records with one hand while the other kept finding the soft cuff of one of Steve’s other jackets you held onto and never gave back.

You did miss him.

That was the annoying part. Or, rather, not.

The magazine had intended mystery to make him miss you, but nobody had warned you that absence worked both ways. By mid-afternoon, you caught yourself wondering whether he had eaten lunch or just stolen Red Vines from the candy display. You wondered whether Robin had teased him into a worse mood or a better one. You wondered if he had fidgeted with his hair because he'd become restless.

At four, you found a pay phone near the arcade.

The metal was hot against your fingers. A kid with sticky blue lips waited nearby, bouncing on his heels, probably impatient to call his mother for another ride he had already missed. You fed coins into the slot and dialed Family Video from memory.

Steve picked up on the second ring.

“Family Video, where late fees are real and the employees have no mercy.”

You snorted at the welcome. “Nice greeting.”

There was a pause, and then his voice changed. “Hey.”

One word, and it was warmer than it had any right to be.

You leaned against the phone, voice softening after hearing his. “My secret plans are over.”

“Oh, thank God.” You tried to not laugh at the sincerity of his wreckage.

“You survived?”

“Barely. A woman asked for a movie with ‘the guy from that thing,’ and Robin threatened to eat the return log.”

You clicked your tongue in sympathy. “Sounds traumatic.”

“I’ve seen war.” His tone had you picturing the bobble of his head clearly.

You leaned your shoulder against the side of the pay phone. “Did you miss me?”

Steve looked toward the front of the store, where Robin was helping a teenager pick between two horror movies and making both sound morally inferior. He turned slightly toward the wall.

“Yeah, always,” he said.

No joke.

No handsome and disappointed.

Just yeah, always

Your fingers tightened around the phone cord.

The mall noise continued around you: sneakers squeaking, teenagers laughing too loudly, and the arcade machines spilling synthetic music into the corridor. But the line between you and Steve felt briefly separate from all of it, thin and private and warm.

“I’ll come by,” you hummed into the receiver.

“I’ll act surprised.”

“You better.”

When you walked into Family Video an hour later, Steve looked up from the counter and caught himself before saying the first easy thing.

You saw the effort.

His gaze moved over you properly, taking in the mall bag at your side, his jacket on your body, your hair slightly wind-tangled from the drive.

Then he smiled.

“There you are,” he greeted. It was not a compliment, exactly.

It worked better than one, though.

Robin glanced between you both and rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly athletic.

“Disgusting,” she scoffed at Steve, before smiling secretly when she saw the affect it had on you. “Do it again.”

Steve threw a wadded receipt at her and missed. And you sat on your stool, pretending you were not pleased.

He noticed anyway.

───

6. The Future is a Forbidden Zone

Pay close attention to how he acts when you bring up anything happening more than two weeks from now. If he cracks a defensive joke, blushes, or immediately changes the subject to sports or cars, he might be totally terrified of growing up. He might love you today, but is he brave enough to dream about tomorrow?

The Solution: Don't nag him! Instead, paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture of what you two will look like in the upcoming decade. Turning the future into a playful joke takes the pressure off and lets him see that growing up doesn't have to be boring.

Closing dragged that night.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way ordinary time dragged when nothing terrible happened and everyone was tired enough to notice the minute hand moving. A storm threatened for an hour without arriving. The air outside thickened, pressing against the windows, and the neon sign gave the front glass a red-blue glow that made the aisles look emptier than they were.

Keith left early because of “stomach problems,” which Robin translated as “he found something better to do.” She stayed until her ride came, drumming her fingers against the counter and telling Steve that if he forgot to lock the back door again, she would personally spread rumors about his favorite movie being The Care Bears Movie.

“It was one time,” Steve had defended himself vehemently.

“One time is enough when crime exists.”

“No criminal wants our instructional workout tapes.”

“You don’t know their lives!”

After she left, the store settled even more.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while Steve counted the register. He had let you stay because he always let you stay, even though he complained that Keith would blame him if you scuffed the laminate. The Cosmopolitan lay open beside you, pages softened from a day of folding and handling. A half-empty soda sweated onto a napkin near your thigh.

Steve counted bills under his breath.

You watched his hands.

He had nice hands, though he would have made a face if you said it too seriously. They were steady with money, restless when he talked, amd gentle when he touched you in public because he was more careful now than he used to be. There was a faint scar near one knuckle. Another near his wrist. Small reminders that did not announce themselves unless you already knew where to look.

You glanced down at the sixth section.

The Future is a Forbidden Zone.

The article described boys who blushed, joked, or changed the subject when anything more than two weeks away came up. It sounded exaggerated. It also sounded enough like Steve to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

Steve could talk about tomorrow. He could talk about next Friday, the next shift, the next movie, the next time Dustin needed a ride and pretended it was not a favor. But farther out than that, his voice shifted. He did not shut down exactly. He just moved sideways. A joke, a complaint, a sudden question about whether you wanted fries.

The future made him slippery.

You understood why.

The future had not been a reliable place for anyone in Hawkins. Plans got interrupted here. People disappeared. Malls burned. Girls moved away. Boys woke up different than they used to be and had to keep living in the same houses, driving the same roads, and pretending the town had not opened its mouth beneath them.

Still, the magazine said not to nag.

It said to paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture.

So you leaned back on your hands and said, “What do you think we’ll be doing in the nineties?”

Steve lost count instantly.

You knew because his lips stopped moving and his thumb froze on a five-dollar bill.

He looked up, expressive eyes on yours. “The nineties?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“The decade?”

The scoff left you before you could help it, and so did the sarcasm. “No, Steve. The sandwich.”

He stared at you with his scrunched up face, and you only smiled innocently.

He looked back down at the money, too focused now. “I don’t know. Hopefully not this.”

You tilted your head down at him, one leg dangled of the edge of the counter now, swinging casually. “You don’t see yourself managing Family Video for the rest of your life?”

Steve’s sigh came almost endearing in how displeased it was. “Please don’t say something that depressing while I’m holding cash.”

You continued brighter now that his face seemed determined to keep its sour state. “You could have a little office.”

“No.”

“A nameplate?”

“No.”

“Keith could work under you.”

Steve looked up at you horrified now. “Why would you say that?”

You laughed, then swung one foot lightly against the cabinet beneath the counter again. “Fine. Not Family Video. Something else. Something with ties.”

“Ties?”

The words came assured. “You’ll own at least three.”

“I already own ties.”

“Not funeral or wedding ties. Work ties.”

He made that familiar face that had you wanting to kiss it back to normal. “I don’t trust jobs where your neck has to be trapped.”

You continued on, you weren't quite sure he was a engaged as you, but you went on anyways. “You’ll complain every morning and wear them anyway.”

“Sounds right.”

“And you’ll drive something practical.”

Steve's refusal came instantaneously. “No way.”

You only have a hum in response. “Uh-huh.”

“No.”

The words continued to flow. “A station wagon.”

Steve put the money down, hands resting on the area above where your thighs rested. “We’re breaking up.”

You didn't bother rolling your eyes at his words; instead, you let your smile stick and your tongue continue. “With wood paneling.”

“We’re broken up and I want my closet back.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket and continued to ignore him. “You’ll have little sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“I already have sunglasses in the glove compartment. That part is cool.”

“And tissues.”

Steve nodded alongside you at that. “For allergies.”

“And snacks.”

“For emergencies.”

You leaned into him then, the smile still easily in place. “And you’ll yell at kids for putting their feet on the seats.”

“They should not put their feet on the seats.”

You pointed at him for proving your point. “See? Dad car.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The word dad seemed to have landed differently than the rest.

You saw it happen. He tried to keep the joke moving, but his fingers shifted against the counter, pressing lightly into the laminate. His gaze dropped to the register. Not scared, exactly. Just weary at it being verbalized.

Steve had a complicated relationship with the idea of becoming anything permanent. He wanted it more than he trusted it. You knew that. You had learned it in pieces. In the way he got quiet around families at diners, watching fathers who remembered their kids’ orders. In the way he talked about his own parents with a shrug too practiced to be casual. In the way he could handle six teenagers in danger better than one sincere conversation about what he might want when danger was not the center of the room.

So, you kept the tone light.

“You’ll be the kind of dad who says he’s not mad, just disappointed, and then immediately gets mad.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, almost embarrassed at the accuracy. “I don’t say that.”

“You would.”

He tried to disagree stronger. “I’d be cool!”

You nodded at that. “You’d try.”

“I would succeed.”

Your grin came unabashed as your imagined ymthe picture you were painting. “You’d wear tube socks with sneakers.”

“That, is a personal attack.”

“You’d stand at the grill holding tongs and click them twice before using them.” Everyone clicked tongs twice. You were fairly certain it was law. But Steve looked down, smiling despite himself.

“Okay,” he sighed at final, with an amount of pleased resignation that you hadn't fully been ready to receive. “What about you?”

You blinked before you could help it. “What about me?”

Steve smiled at you, and your brain did a weird stutter. “In our tragic station wagon future.”

You had not expected him to ask it so seriously.

You had been building the future out of jokes so it would not collapse under its own weight. Suddenly, he was looking at you through the fluorescent quiet of Family Video, his hair still a little imperfect from running through it before, and his tired eyes steady on your face.

You swallowed quickly after realizing you fell quiet.

“I’ll be there,” you settled for, then made yourself smile before it became too much. “Obviously. Someone has to pick the radio station.”

Steve held your gaze.

His face did not do anything dramatic. There was no sudden confession. No grand realization. He just breathed in, small and careful, then nodded once.

“Obviously,” he repeated.

He looked back down at the register after that, but he had lost count beyond saving.

You didn't tease him immediately like you'd normally do.

You let him start over with the bills while you reached for the soda and took a sip that had gone mostly watery. The silence between you stayed easy enough, though changed at the edges. Steve counted more slowly this time. Every so often, his eyes flicked up to you, then away.

He was thinking.

Not running, not joking his way fully out of it.

Thinking.

When he finally finished the register and locked it, he leaned both hands on the counter and looked at the magazine.

“So,” he exhaled deeply into the open air, “is there a number about girlfriends who use journalism for psychological warfare?”

You closed the magazine with a strange lightness. “Probably in next month’s issue.”

He nodded. “Great. Can’t wait.”

You slipped off the counter, landing close enough that he had to look down at you. The store was dim except for the front lights and the glow from the sign. Steve smelled faintly of work and cologne and the peppermint gum he had chewed earlier.

“You’re doing okay,” you said at last because you couldn't help yourself.

He lifted an eyebrow at that. “Am I being graded?”

“Constantly.”

“What’s my grade?”

“it's pending.”

Steve snorted. “That’s worse than failing.”

“You can improve with extra credit.”

His expression warmed and he let his hands fall to your waist. “Oh, yeah?”

You took one step back and pointed toward the door. The smile on your face mirrored his before it fell. “Lock up.”

He groaned, but still went.

You watched him move through the store, checking the back, flipping switches, rattling the front door after locking it because Robin had trained him with fear. He looked young in the empty store and not young at all. He looked tired and solid and a little ridiculous with his key ring in his mouth while he adjusted the alarm panel.

When he came back to you, he held out his hand without making a production of it.

You took it.

Neither of you said anything about the nineties again that night, but Steve held your hand all the way to the car and didn't let go until he had to open your door.

───

7. The Spark Has Moved from the Bedroom to the Sofa

If your primary shared activity has slowly shifted from breathless, passionate sessions to falling asleep halfway through a rented thriller tape on the couch, your chemistry is taking a backseat to comfort. Snuggling is wonderful, but it should never entirely replace the fire!

The Solution: Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie's climax. When he complains, look him dead in the eye and tell him you have a much better way to keep both of you entertained!

Steve’s house was too clean when his parents were gone.

It always unsettled you a little, though you had learned not to say that. The Harrington house had the polished stillness of a place maintained for people who were rarely there long enough to leave evidence behind. The lamps worked. The counters shone. The couch pillows were arranged with decorative precision until Steve got home and ruined them by existing.

You liked it better after he ruined them.

You liked the shoes near the door, the jacket over the banister, and the half-empty glass of water beside the sink. You liked when he left a tape on the coffee table and a blanket half-folded over the arm of the couch. Those small messes made the house less showroom and more shelter.

After closing, he drove you there with the windows down and the radio low. The storm still had not arrived, but the air had changed. It smelled damp now, heavy with the promise of rain. Steve kept one hand on the wheel and the other near your knee, not quite touching until the roads emptied and his fingers finally settled there.

At his house, he insisted he was making popcorn because “date night requires snacks.” You followed him into the kitchen, still wearing his jacket because it was warmed than any blanket he could give, and watched him tear open the plastic wrapper with more confidence than the task required.

“You burned it last time,” you frowned at his work.

He was quick to correct you. “I did not burn it. I gave it character.”

“You set off the smoke detector.”

He paused before murmuring. “Briefly.”

“You waved a dish towel at it and yelled, ‘Don’t start.’”

Steve only shrugged. “That was a negotiation.”

You leaned against the counter while he put the bag in the microwave. He pressed the buttons, then turned around and caught you looking at him.

“What?”

The words came naturally. “Nothing.”

They also did little to please Steve. “Nope. We retired nothing. Be specific.”

You smiled and simply just shook your head. “You look nice, babe. ‘That's all.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s my trauma now.”

Your voice came light and teasing now. “Three reasons?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“You sure?”

The microwave started popping. Steve tried not to smile and failed by inches. “One, I’m making popcorn. Two, I drove. Three, my hair recovered from your previous assault.”

You didn't bother to hide the roll of your eyes. “You call those reasons?”

He simply shrugged with his grin. “I call them evidence.”

The popcorn began popping faster. Steve glanced back, then leaned beside you against the counter. His shoulder brushed yours. For a few moments, neither of you moved. The kitchen light was warmer than at his job, softer on his face, catching the tiredness under his eyes without making him look worn down. He had taken off his work polo and changed into a plain T-shirt, and the simplicity of it made you aware of how long the day had been.

He looked at you then, properly.

Not because a magazine told him to. Not because you demanded reasons. Just because you were there in his kitchen, sleeves over your hands, perfume faded, and hair imperfect from heat and wind and the day’s nonsense.

His hand found the hem of the jacket. “Still mine.”

“Still not.”

He pulled you into him by the grip he had on the hem of the fabric. “I’m going to start charging rent.”

You tilted your head up at him because the angle needed you to. “I’ll pay in compliments.”

“Specific ones?”

You huffed and leaned up to plant a chaste kiss on his lower jawline. “Don’t get greedy.”

The microwave beeped before he could answer.

The first bag came out mostly edible, only slightly scorched at one corner, which Steve declared a triumph. He poured it into a large bowl, added too much salt, then carried it into the living room with the dignity of a man presenting a feast.

The movie was a thriller neither of you had strong feelings about. Steve had picked it because the cover looked “medium scary,” which apparently meant scary enough to justify sitting close but not scary enough to ruin the evening. You took your usual side of the couch. He took his. Within five minutes, your legs were over his lap and his hand rested on your shin, his thumb moving absently over the ribbed cuff of your sock.

The television threw blue-white light across the room.

A woman on screen walked through a dark hallway with a candle despite every instinct and all available electricity. Steve, who had survived things that made movie monsters look lazy, immediately became furious.

“Don’t go in there,” he groaned at the television with his hands gesturing wildly.

Your reminder came gentle and blank. “She can’t hear you.”

“She should!”

“She’s fictional, babe.”

“She’s stupid.”

You took a handful of popcorn and shrugged. “Maybe she’s brave.”

“Brave people can turn on lamps.”

You laughed, and his hand tightened briefly around your ankle, pleased with himself for the achievement.

This, apparently, was the comfort the article had warned you about.

The couch. The shared popcorn. The old rhythm of your legs across him, his fingers warm through your sock, the easy commentary over a bad movie. The way you both knew without discussing it who would get up for drinks, who would complain about the blanket being too far away, who would pretend not to be sleepy first.

It did not feel like the absence of romance.

It felt lived in.

You thought about the word comfortable and how the magazine had treated it like something dangerous, a warning sign in glossy print. Maybe sometimes it was. Maybe people did stop trying. Maybe affection could become furniture if no one touched it on purpose. But you had seen Steve try in ways that did not look glamorous enough for an article. He tried by checking your tires when he noticed one looked low. He tried by buying the cereal you liked and pretending it was for him even when he hated it. He tried by standing between you and things he had every right to run from.

Still, the final instruction was sitting there in your head, bright and absurd.

Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie’s climax.

So, you waited.

The movie dragged itself toward chaos. Rain lashed the windows on screen. Someone found a bloody key. The heroine finally realized the killer was in the house roughly forty minutes after Steve had announced it.

He leaned forward despite himself.

“Okay, now run,” he instructed, his voice antsy now. “No, not upstairs. Why is it always upstairs? There’s nowhere to go upstairs!”

You reached for the remote, and you had to bite back a grin at how ridiculous this all seemed in reality.

He did not seem to notice, he was too entranced by the stupidity of the characters through the screen.

The music rose. The heroine hid behind a door. A shadow moved across the wall.

And you clicked the television off.

The room fell silent so abruptly that the house seemed to inhale.

Steve froze promptly.

His face, lit now only by the lamp, stayed aimed at the blank screen. His mouth was slightly open. One hand hovered above the popcorn bowl.

For three seconds, he did nothing. Then he turned to you, mouth agaped.

“You did not.”

You set the remote on the coffee table and nodded with a premium amount of sympathy. “I did.”

“That was the climax!”

You hummed, “I’m aware.”

Steve’s face was shoved into his hands now, his whine xould practically be heard for miles. “We watched the whole movie to get there.”

“Technically, you yelled at the whole movie to get there.”

“The killer was behind her!”

“I’m sure he’ll wait.”

Steve stared at you with deep, personal betrayal. “You’re sick.”

You tried to look serious and failed when you broke into a smile.

His eyes moved from you to the magazine lying on the coffee table, where you had dropped it earlier without thinking. The cover caught the lamp light. The headline peeked up from beneath the fold.

You watched understanding hit him.

Slowly, then all at once.

“Oh my God,” he said.

You pressed your lips together, which did nothing to hide the small giggles that left you as his voice turned blatantly aggrieved.

“This whole time!”

Yoy played dumb. “What whole time?”

“This whole time was that—that thing.” He pointed at the magazine with such venom in his voice it was even barder to take him seriously now. “You’ve been Cosmo-ing me!”

You shook your head but couldn't stop your amusement. “I have not been Cosmo-ing you.”

Steve started to list his recount of the events. “You stole my sweatshirt.”

You shot back quickly. “You gave it up willingly.”

“You hijacked my car.” His voice became more breathless with each passing second with every realization.

“You handed me the keys!”

This time, his tone of betrayal made you roll your eyes. “You attacked my hair.”

“It was deserved—”

“You had secret plans.”

You grinned at his expression. “They were secret.”

“You made me talk about the nineties!”

You shrugged and picked at the invisible lint of your bottoms. “The article made a few points.”

Steve sat back against the couch, processing betrayal with one hand over his mouth. He was quiet long enough that you wondered if the joke had gone too far. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He laughed.

Not loudly at first, just a helpless, disbelieving sound behind his hand. Then he dropped his hand and looked at you with his hair slightly messy again from the couch, eyes bright, mouth pulling open into the kind of laugh that made him look younger than he let himself be most days.

“You are unbelievable,” he breathed out, almost disbelieving.

Your voice came out just as quiet as it was incredulous. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t know. I might be. I can’t tell because it’s stupid.”

You tried for your favor. “It was educational.”

“It was psychological warfare with perfume.”

You smiled before you could control it. “You passed some of it.”

“Some?”

The words came instinctively. “You need room to grow.”

He pointed at you with a new sense of knowledge. “That is exactly what a magazine cult leader would say.”

You laughed, then reached for the popcorn bowl before it tipped. The room had changed without the TV. Not into something staged, but something quieter. More aware of itself. You could hear the refrigerator hum in his kitchen, the faint rush of air through the vents, and the distant roll of thunder finally approaching after hours of threats.

Steve’s laughter softened.

He looked at you, and this time there was no audience, no fluorescent light, no Robin waiting to make things worse. Just the couch, the cooling bowl of popcorn, the blank television, the old sweatshirt, and the magazine that had started as a joke and somehow exposed all these small places where comfort and effort touched.

“So,” he tilted his head upwards to the ceiling, “what’s the final diagnosis?”

You picked up the magazine and flipped it closed. The cover girl disappeared under your hand.

“You’re comfortable,” you decided to say at last.

Steve watched you carefully.

You could feel how much hung on the word now, though neither of you had meant for the night to become serious. His hand still rested near your ankle, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was waiting with the particular stillness he got when he was trying not to brace for bad news.

You nudged his thigh gently with your foot.

“But not lazy.”

His shoulders loosened and you wanted to melt into them. “You sure?”

You nodded against the cushion beneath your head. “Yeah.”

He looked down, smiling faintly. And you appreciated the sight on reflex. “Because I said nice?”

There was a faint silence before you took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile yourself. “You recovered from that mishap.”

Steve nodded to himself at your words. “I gave three reasons.”

“You did.”

“Good ones.”

“Mostly good ones.”

He made an offended sound, but it did not land. His hand resumed its slow movement over your sock. “For the record, I’m not trying to stop trying.”

You looked at him, because you weren't sure where else to look at.

He didn't look away, but he did look a little uncomfortable with his own sincerity. His jaw shifted, and his free hand picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

“I know sometimes I do the easy thing,” he said before you could jump in to stop him. “The restaurant thing. Or the movie thing. Or I just assume you’re coming over because you usually do, and I like when you do, so I don’t. . . think about how it sounds.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the blank TV. “And future stuff is… I don’t know. Weird.”

You let him find the words without helping too much. You knew it was important to him.

Steve was not always graceful with this. If you rushed him, he might joke his way out. If you stared too hard, he might shut the sentence down and pretend it had never started. So you kept your body relaxed against the couch and waited.

You would wait for him forever if need be, Steve was worth that and more.

He exhaled, “I want things. I just don’t always say them because saying them makes them real, and real things can get messed up.”

The words sat between you.

You looked down at the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, then back at him. “I don’t need you to be perfect.”

“I know.”

You made a face. “Do you?”

He gave you the small, crooked smile that you loved. “I’m learning.”

There it was again: the same answer from the night before, but quieter now. Less joke, more promise.

Rain finally began against the windows, soft at first, then steadier. It tapped along the glass and filled the room with a low, gentle sound. Steve glanced toward it, then back to you.

“You also don’t have to use a magazine to tell me stuff,” he cleared his throat.

“I know.” And you did, that was something you were entirely sure of when it came to Steve.

“Do you?”

You smiled because you deserved that. “Maybe I’m learning too.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if next month’s issue tells you to fake your own disappearance to test my devotion, I’m calling Hopper.”

“He’d be very annoyed, I'm sure.”

“He’d arrest the magazine.”

“You think he has that authority?”

“For you? Probably.”

The seriousness eased. Not vanished, exactly, but folded into the warmth already there. Steve reached over and took the magazine from your lap, holding it up between two fingers.

“This,” Steve declared with a fevered passion, “is going in a drawer.”

Your words came out song-like and taunting. “You’re scared.”

“I prefer the term cautious.”

“You literally fight monsters.”

Steve gave you a pointed look. “Monsters don’t give you numbered relationship advice.”

You grabbed for the magazine, and he lifted it out of reach, which made you lean across him. The popcorn bowl wobbled dangerously. He caught it again with one hand and laughed under his breath.

“Careful.”

“You started it.”

“You started it at approximately five-ten yesterday after noon.”

“You kept failing tests.”

Steve defended himself fiercely. “I didn’t know there were tests!”

“That’s how tests work.”

“No, that’s how traps work.”

You got the magazine back only because he let you, though he pretended otherwise. When you tossed it onto the far end of the coffee table, he looked at you with narrowed, wide eyes.

“You’re done?”

“With the article?”

“Yes.”

You nodded solemnly, but your eyes gave you away to joy. “Done.”

“No more solutions?”

“No more solutions.” you promised.

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then you looked him dead in the eye, deciding to follow the last stupid line of advice you were given. “I do have a much better way to keep us entertained, though.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted.

The line was ridiculous. You knew it. It belonged to the glossy page and the bossy article and the version of romance that thought every moment needed a dramatic instruction. But in the quiet living room, with rain beginning properly outside and the movie forgotten, it made Steve’s mouth curve.

“Oh, yeah?” he hummed with a tilt of of head.

“Maybe.”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, still slow, still asking. “Does this better way involve stealing any more of my clothes?”

“You’re not wearing a sweatshirt anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” his words came out dry and low, sending goosebumps against where his fingers touched.

“Could steal your shirt though.”

His laugh came out all startled. “Okay, trouble.”

You grinned, but when he leaned closer, he didn't rush. That was one of the things you trusted about him. For all his teasing, for all the old reputation that still followed him around town in pieces, Steve had become careful with closeness. His hand came to your jaw, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. His eyes searched your face with enough patience to make your chest ache.

“You sure the movie can stay off?” he asked against you.

Your brow quirked up. “You were yelling at it.”

“I was invested!”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he murmured and before you could argue, Steve kissed you.

The first kiss was smiling and badly aimed because you laughed right before it landed. His nose bumped yours. Your hand went into his hair by instinct, and he made a muffled sound of protest against your mouth.

“Hair,” he murmured with his lips putting against yours, the reaction only spurring you on more.

“National treasure,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You kissed him again, better this time.

The rain thickened against the windows. The lamp beside the couch hummed softly. Steve’s hand moved to your waist, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, and you shifted closer until your knees fit awkwardly against his thigh and the popcorn bowl had to be relocated to the coffee table for everyone’s comfort.

It was certainly not graceful. Your elbow hit the cushion, and he laughed into your mouth. You told him to stop laughing, which made him laugh more. He called you bossy. You called him dramatic. He tried to defend himself and lost the thread of the argument when you kissed the corner of his mouth.

This, too, felt comfortable.

But it was not dull.

It was the kind of comfort that knew where to put its hands and still paid attention. The kind that could laugh without breaking the mood. The kind that did not need to perform mystery to feel wanted, but could still play at it for fun. Steve touched you with familiarity, yes, but not carelessness. You could feel the difference in every pause, every small adjustment, and every time he pulled back just enough to look at you before leaning in again.

Your fingers fisted in the cotton of his shirt as the second kiss deepened, slower at first, then messier. Steve’s mouth opened wider under yours, his tongue slid hot and slick against your own, with spit gathering at the corners of your lips. Every breath you took was shared; the air between you grew thick and humid. He tasted of some sort of your faint chapstick taste, and tilted your head so your nose brushed and your teeth clicked again.

One of his hands then slide up your back, his palm broad and warm, until it cuped the nape of your neck and held you exactly where he wanted you. The other hand stayed low, fingers splayed across the curve of your lower back, squeezing once, then again, guiding the subtle roll of your hips that neither of you planned.

“Thought you weren't a fan of this,” you murmured against his lips when given the chance to break free for a moment. The moment didn't last long because his hand on your head pulled you in once again, a pout on his lips at your escape.

“Correction, I'm not a fan of the magazine,” you huffed a laugh at the intensity of his correction, and he used the opening to pull you in for another kiss. Though, this one was softer in a way that had your breath hitching on contact. “I'd like the record to show—I'm pretty encouraging of this.

Against his lips, you scoffed because he didn't let you break apart again. You could feel his smile against yours as you shoved at him for his distinction as his hands fell to your hips once more.

Pressing closer to him, you felt him hardening beneath you, thick and insistent through the soft cotton of his sweats. The friction was barely there; just the slow, unconscious grind of you against the ridge of him, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch every time the head of him caught against you through your bottoms more insistantly now. You rock forward again, slower this time, as if trying to test something.

Apparently, it's successful since Steve groans into your mouth, and the sound vibrates against your tongue, and his hips lift in a tiny, helpless thrust that drags another wet slide of fabric on fabric.

“Okay, so that's really not fair.” He breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips parting from yours by inches. A thin strand of spit stretches, then snaps. His warm eyes are now turned glassy, his pupils blown wide, and his mouth red and shiny. “You know, you're the one that was excited for this movie for like—I don't know, a week?” he managed finally through pants, with his voice hoarse, and chest heaving under your palm.

“Ever think I was just trying to seduce you?” The ridiculous words did little to wipe away your smile, or his, for that matter.

Steve quirked his eyebrow up at you, “with begging and whining?”

The look you shot at him must've been a good one, because he grinned down at you and pulled you in closer. “I'm kidding.”

“Mhm.” You weren't convinced, but it did little to deter him. Steve pressed his lips against the column of your neck in a makeshift trying apology.

Instead of replying, your mouth found his again; slower this time, deeper, and your mouth curling together in a hazy slide. Steve’s hand at your neck tightened on reflex and the action had you pulled in closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind your ear. The other hand sliped lower now, taking up residence on your upper thigh. His fingers dug in just enough to guide another slow, deliberate grind of your hips.

The ridge of his length dragged alongside you through two layers of cotton. The pressure was entirely maddening, it wasn't enough and too much at once. You felt yourself getting tenser, the crotch of your leggings clinging and every tiny movement he took made the fabric pull and drag.

Steve’s breathing grew more ragged against you. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth then nibbled, then soothing with his tongue after you made a winced noise before diving back in for another open-mouthed kiss that left the both of you gasping.

His hand that was placed below your ear roamed now. Up your side and over your ribs, with the heel of his palm brushing the underside of your breast through your top. He doesn’t cup or squeeze like you'd prefer, he just let the weight of his hand rest there, thumb stroking slow circles that makes your body push up towards the friction.

His hips lift again, meeting your slow grind with a shallow thrust that presses him harder against you, leaving you to curse against his lips. The friction sparked through you, sharp and sweet, and you moan into his mouth, though the sound swallowed by another kiss.

“You're such a weirdo.” The exhale that the words left you from was more breathless than you'd intended. His hand on your breast finally moved when you spoke, a rough palm covering the soft swell, thumb flicking once over a stiff peak more incessantly this time. The touch is still half-hidden under your shirt and still restrained, but the heat of it burns through the fabric all the same.

Steve would've sputtered at your words if he didn't know you better. And fortunately for him, he did. “Just say you missed me, honey. It'll make it easier for the both of us.”

“Can't say it if I don't mean it.” Your response had him strained against your throat, and the vibrations of his laughter sent shivers up your spine. You arch into his grip, pressing down against him harder with every slow roll of your hips. Steve’s abdomen flexed beneath you, the spasms eased through shaky exhales, and the tiny, helpless thrust of his hips tells you he’s just as affected.

“Come on, just say it.” His words were pressed into you now. You could hear the room becoming actively smaller between the two of you. Steve’s fingertips slid underneath the rising hem of your top, gripping at your sides directly now, leaving you to feel the warmth of his skin more clearly.

You could feel your head distantly shaking side to side, more so with just the need to push at him further than any real argument against his statement. His groan was propelled into your skin at that, his head tilting into you as if it was bodily necessity.

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight into you again. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he muttered, and his lips dragged higher over your pulse. His fingers slipped higher beneath your top until the fabric bunched under your arms, baring your stomach and the lower curve of your breasts. He didn’t bother pulling your top or bra off, he just shoved it up and out of the way so his palm could close over one bare breast, hus thumb circling the stiff nipple before he pinched it between his fingers.

You gasped instantly, hips jerking forward on instinct. The bulge of his cock dragged harder against you, the head catching right where you needed it. Steve groaned at the sudden pressure alongside you, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you inhumanly closer.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he breathed, his voice turning rough. “I can feel it even through your clothes.” His hips rolled up to meet your grind in another slow and deliberate movement, letting you feel every inch of him. The cotton of his sweats was damp where you’d been rubbing against him, clinging to the shape of him.

You rocked harder, chasing the friction he slowly gave you. Steve’s thumb flicked over your nipple again, then he ducked his head and sucked it into his mouth through the bunched fabric of your top, his teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. The wet heat of his mouth made your back arch, pushing your breast deeper against his lips.

“Steve,” His name came out shaky. Your fingers threaded into his hair by the pure need to hold onto something, then holding him there as he sucked harder, the pull sending sparks straight between your legs. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment while his hand worked the first, rolling and tugging until both peaks were tight and aching.

His other hand stayed on your ass then the flesh of your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he guided your hips in a slower, filthier grind. Each roll dragged your swollen clit against the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, the pressure building until your thighs started to shake. Steve’s breathing grew ragged against your chest, hot puffs of air cooling the wet and reddening spots he’d left on your top.

“Still not gonna say it?” he asked, though his voice was muffled against your breast. He looked up at you through his long lashes, eyes dark and glassy, and his lips were pink as they coated themselves in saliva everytime his tongue poked out to wet them. His hips lifted again, thrusting up to meet your familiar movements, the motion making his cock catch and drag right over your clit in a way that had you moaning.

"I'm good, thanks." You shook your head, but the motion was weak and entirely distracted by the way his hand was sliding lower, how his fingers were slipping between your thighs to your front. He pressed two fingers against the soaked fabric covering you, rubbing slow circles that made your hips stutter.

“God, you’re dripping,” he breathed out, almost wonderingly. His fingers pressed harder, pushing the fabric against your entrance, the pressure just shy of pushing inside. You shot him a glare at his teasing. “I can feel how hot you are. How bad you want it.”

You rocked back against his hand, chasing more. He wouldn't fully give it to you, though. Steve’s mouth found yours again, the kiss messy and filled with wanting, it had your tongues sliding together in tandem as his fingers kept working between your legs. The heel of his palm ground against your clit while his fingers continued to tease your entrance through the thin fabric, the material growing wetter with every pass.

His cock twitched beneath you, thick and insistent, and you had to bite back the noises that wanted to leave you. Steve’s free hand slid up your back, having his fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades as he held you close, chest to chest, with the heat of his skin burning through both your shirts.

“Say it,” he pleaded against your lips, the words barely audible over the wet sounds of your mouths moving together. His fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely pushing the fabric inside you, the stretch barely there but enough to make you clench around nothing but the want of him. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you what you want.”

Steve’s fingers kept working between your legs. His mouth stayed on yours, swallowing every shaky breath you let out while his other hand stayed busy under your top, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple in slow, deliberate tugs whenever his hand moved.

“Still so stubborn,” he chuckled against your lips, voice low and warm with the click of his tongue. “You’re twitching in my lap and you still won’t say it?”

“Stop being smug,” was the only response you could get out. You rocked down harder then, chasing that pressure, and Steve groaned into your mouth. You had to bite back your smile against his lips at the reaction. His hand slipped out from between your legs only to grip the waistband of your bottoms, his fingers hooking under the elastic at your hips. He tugged once, slow, testing, then looked up at you with that half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Lift up for me?” he murmured the leading question softly. You braced your hands on his shoulders and raised your hips just enough for him to peel the pants down your thighs, dragging your panties halfway with them. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered on contact, but Steve’s hands were already back in their place, and his warm palms slid up the backs of your thighs until his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties too.

He paused there, looking up at you with his painfully mesmerizing big and soft eyes. “Still not gonna say it?” His voice stayed gentle, almost coaxing. He only grinned wide when you glared back up at him.

“That’s alright. I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He pulled your panties down the rest of the way, leaving them tangled around one ankle as he settled you back down on his lap. The cotton of his sweats was entirely damp where you’d been grinding, and now there was nothing between you and that thick, prominent feeling of him except the thin fabric of his bottoms.

Steve’s hands settled on your hips again, guiding you into another slow roll. This time the friction was hotter, wetter, the head of his cock dragging right through your folds and catching on your clit with every pass. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders, and he made a low approving sound in his throat.

“There you go,” he cooed, his voice soft and a little condescending, like he was praising a pet that finally learned the trick. You didn't have it in you to bite back at the moment. “That’s better, isn’t it? All that attitude and you’re still soaking my sweats.” His hands squeezed your hips, encouraging another grind. “Look at you, dripping all over me and still pretending you didn’t miss me.”

“Shut up, Steve.” The words weren't fruitful or honest. You rocked harder quickly after that, chasing the feeling even though your legs shook at the movement, and Steve’s breath hitched. That noise made the slight sting all the more worth it. One hand slid between your bodies again, fingers spreading your folds so the head of his cock could press more directly against your clit. The pressure was perfect, just enough to make your hips stutter and he held you there, letting you grind against his fingers and the thick length trapped in his pants.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he repeated again in that same breathless way. “I can feel how swollen you are. How bad you need it.” His thumb found your clit and rubbed slow circles while his fingers teased your entrance, not pushing inside yet, just pressing and circling until your thighs started to shake. The taunting had your head bowed low and a whiny plea in your throat. “You're killing me here.”

He shifted you higher on his lap, one hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh and lay you on your back as he spread you open. Then he leaned in, his mouth finding the soft skin just above your hip, kissing and nipping his way lower until his breath ghosted over your bare skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and warm, and that same soft, iritatingly condescending tone crept back into his voice that made your stomach flex.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, having his lips brushing your inner thigh now in soft kisses. “So worked up and still being so mean to me.” His tongue dragged a slow stripe up your slit, tasting you, and he hummed like he’d just found something sweet. “Sweetheart, you taste so fucking good when you’re not being mean.”

“I wasn't—fuck, I wasn't mean.” Your words fell on deaf ears when his hands held your thighs apart as he licked again, slower this time, with his tongue flat and broad as he dragged it from your entrance up to your clit. He circled the swollen bud once, twice, then sucked it gently between his lips, the wet heat of his mouth making your back arch against where you were laid out. One hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slid up to press two fingers against your entrance, rubbing but not pushing even though your hips lifted up to meet them.

“Say it,” he whispered against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you my fingers. I’ll give you my tongue. I’ll give you whatever you could want.” His tongue flicked over your clit again, faster now, while his fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely stretching you. His words seemed to leave you as if they were a carousel, only reaching you when your head stopped spinning. “Or you can keep being stubborn. Either way, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking and begging.”

“Fuck. Please, Steve—don't, don’t tease.” Your words came desperate in their pleas as you rocked against his mouth, chasing more. Steve groaned into you at that, the sound muffled but hungry. His fingers finally pushed inside then, slow and deliberate, curling just right as his tongue kept working your clit. The wet sounds of his mouth and your slick filled the space between you, mixing with the low, coaxing praise he kept murmuring against your skin.

“That’s it,” he cooed, voice soft and warm even as his fingers thrust deeper. Your forearm came up to your face now, sprawled across your face to muffle your sounds. “Good girl. Just like that. Keep grinding on my tongue. I’ve got you.” His free hand slid up your body again, finding your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth stayed busy between your legs. The action had you gasping out his name and biting the sleeve of the jacket underneath you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, honey. All spread out and dripping for me.”

Your hips rolled in tiny, shaky circles over Steve’s mouth, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue kept flicking quick and firm over your clit. Every pass made your stomach clench and your breath hitch, and the fingers he’d finally pushed inside you curled just right, dragging over that spot that made your walls flutter around him.

“F-fuck—Steve—oh god,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as your whole body twitched. “Please—please, fuck, I missed you, won’t ignore you again, I missed—ah!”

He hummed against you, clearly pleased, the vibration shooting straight through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. His fingers thrust deeper now, more slow and steady, while his tongue circled and sucked, never letting up. Your hips jerked on pure reflex now, chasing every bit of pressure, and you could feel how soaked you were, seeing through half-lidded eyes the slick dripping down his fingers, and coating his chin, making every wet sound louder.

“That’s it,” he murmured with his voice low and warm against you. “Good girl. Say it again, tell me how much you missed me again?”

“I missed you,” you sighed, and the words tumbled out broken and breathless. “Missed your mouth, missed your stupid attitude, missed—fuck, Steve, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His tongue pressed flat and hard, licking languidly from your entrance up to clit, then sucking the swollen bud between his lips again after forcing your hips flat with his other hand wrapped against your waist. His fingers kept working inside you, curling and thrusting, and stretching you open while his thumb rubbed tight circles. Your thighs shook harder, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

“Close,” you whimpered with a voice thin and shaky, you were borderline wordless now. “Steve, fuck—I’m gonna—please, I’m so close—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing your slick folds. “Not yet,” he breathed heavy and his voice rasped. “You’re not coming until I say so. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”

You whined with your hips stuttering, trying to chase his mouth again, but he held you steady with a hand on your thigh. His fingers slowed inside you, just barely moving now, forcefully keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. Your walls clenched around him, desperate, and you felt yourself dripping even more, the wet sounds filthy and loud in the quiet room.

“Steve, please—fuck, I need it, I need to come, please let me just—” He licked you again, his movements slow and deliberate, and his tongue continuously dragging over your clit until your whole body jerked.

“Not yet,” he repeated with a gentle voice but still firmly, his grasp on you turning slightly tighter in a soft warning. “You’re so pretty like this. You can wait a little longer, yeah?”

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against his as your breath came in shaky gasps. Every nerve in your body felt on the frustrating edge without being allowed to be tipped over completely. Your head lifted weakly as your proped yourself on your elbows to look at him. “Please—come on, please? I’ll do anything. Fuck, Steve, I’m so close right now—”

He kissed your inner thigh in what felt like an apology, then your clit, soft and teasing. The action had your breath shake and your groan turn entirely frustrated. “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.” His fingers curled inside you, pressing right against that spot, and you felt your orgasm building again, hotter and tighter, but he pulled back just before you could tip over once more.

Your words came out a mixed sobbed with your thighs shaking, and hips twitching against nothing anymore. “Fuck—fuck, Steve, don't do that! Come on—”

He shifted you down his body, hands guiding your hips until your legs were straddling his lap again and you're no longer lying down. His cock was rock hard under his sweats, the fabric soaked where you’d been grinding. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down just enough to free himself, the thick length springing up between you, all flushed and leaking.

“Ride me,” he murmured this time and his voice low and coaxing. “Take what you need. You’ve earned it, honey.”

You didn’t hesitate, the restlessness in your body didn't let you. You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, not before and lined him up, the head pressing against your entrance. You sank down slow, feeling every inch stretch you open, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as he filled you. The stretch was perfect, deep and thick, and you moaned loud and broken as you bottomed out, hips flush against his.

Steve groaned alongside you with his head tipping back, and hands gripping your hips harder now. “Fuck—there you go. So fucking tight. So wet for me.”

You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in languid circles, feeling him drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as you rode him, each roll of your hips sending sparks through your whole body. Steve's broken gasps sounds filled the room, mixing with your broken moans and his low, practically mindless praise.

“That’s it,” he breathed, and you could clearly hear how his voice shook. His head tipped back with every movement. “Good girl. Fuck, you feel so good. Missed this so much. Missed how you squeeze me, how you drip all over me.”

You couldn’t form words anymore. Your head lolled forward, forehead pressed to his, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Your hips moved on their own with his strained help, chasing every bit of friction he gave while inside you. The pleasure built fast, hot and tight, and you felt yourself tipping over the edge again, walls clenching hard around him.

Your hand came up to smack agakn his bicep helplessly. “Steve, fuck—”

He thrust up to meet you messily now, rough palms guiding your hips with his voice low and urgent. “Close? Let me feel it, yeah?”

You shattered with a broken cry, your whole body shaking as your orgasm continued to build and crashed through you. Your walls pulsed around him, and you kept moving through it, riding out every wave with shaky and unstable footing. Steve groaned loud against his mindless bubbles against your shoulder, his hips jerking up in a stutter and you felt him throb inside you as he came down with you.

You stayed there for what seemed like a lifetime, bodies pressed limblessly together, breathing hard, and your hips still twitching with the remaining aftershocks. Steve’s hands stroked your back, then your hips, soothing and warm, while you melted against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath coming in shaky wordless sounds.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and he almost sounded reverent. Steve's knuckles went to drag against the line of your spine, the touch barely registering with how light it was. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You just hummed, too far gone to speak with your body still twitching and clenching around him as the pleasure slowly ebbed, leaving you warm and languid and utterly spent.

Steve’s hair was a mess now. Yours couldn't have been much better now either. The collar of your shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and he kept tugging it back up absently, not because he was concerned about modesty so much as because taking care of you in small ways was one of his habits. Your breath was still easing down when you felt the pressure of a kiss just below your eye, then one followed up to your temple.

You were ready to let all the leftover tension in your body release when he spoke.

“Tomorrow,” Steve started quietly, and he took the moment for him to hook his chin over your head, pulling you into him even more.“I’m picking the date.”

You opened one eye to scan him when your vision returned to you. “Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“What are we doing?”

Steve used your words against you with a clear hum of delight. “Secret plans.”

You smiled against his chest, your own knuckles across him, mirroring his own actions on you. “With who?”

He pinched your side gently through the shirt that covered you once more, the action pulled a squirm from you. “Funny.”

“You walked into that!”

“I did and I regret it.”

The rain tapped steadily and the the microwave clock glowed green. Steve’s arm rested around your shoulders, heavy and warm.

“I’ll pick something,” he said. “A real thing. Not just pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I like pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I know. But I’ll pick.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. He was staring at the blank television, but not really seeing it. His face had gone thoughtful in the dim light, mouth relaxed, and his eyes were tired but not drained.

“And,” Steve added, “I’ll ask first. If you want to come.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You kept your voice light because otherwise the moment might become too delicate to touch. “That sounds very advanced.”

“I’m an advanced boyfriend.” You weren't entirely convinced.

“You’re a boyfriend with homework.”

“I did great on the first quiz!”

“You got a B-minus.”

His head snapped toward you. “B-minus?”

You conceded. “Maybe B.”

“I gave three reasons and let you drive my car?”

“B-plus.”

“And discussed the nineties.”

You considered that, “A-minus.”

He relaxed back into the couch. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get too comfortable just yet.”

Steve looked down at you with his mouth tilting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You settled against him again, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. The house around you felt less empty than it had when you arrived. The couch pillows were crushed. The popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the table. The magazine lay face down near the remote, defeated for now. Steve’s shoes were kicked halfway beneath the coffee table, and your mall bag had tipped over near the armchair, one receipt peeking out.

It was ordinary evidence, proof of a night spent badly and well.

After a while, Steve kissed the top of your head. He probably thought you were too sleepy to call him on it when he murmured, “You looked really pretty today.”

You smiled without opening your eyes quickly. “Three reasons?”

His sigh moved beneath your cheek when he pressed another kiss there. “I created a monster.”

You could only shrug. “You encouraged her.”

“I did.” His hand moved once over your shoulder. Steve’s fingers gently rubbed small circles into your shoulder blades, and you could only lean onto his touch. “Okay. The jeans. The ribbons. Your hair. The way you stole my clothes again and acted like I was lucky to witness it.”

“That’s four.” Your voice came pleased against him.

“I’m overachieving then. ”

“Good.”

“And,” Steve said quieter, “the way you came back.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking at the ceiling now, not at you, because that last one had slipped out seemed more vulnerable than he intended. His throat moved. His fingers kept tracing a small, absent path over your sleeve.

You didn't tease him for it this time, something told you that'd be too cruel; Instead, you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his as if it was always meant there

“I'm always going to come back,” you decided to settle for saying, your voice soft.

Steve looked down at you then.

For a second, the room held still and quiet around you: rain at the windows, lamp light on his tired face, qnd your hand in his. He didn't say anything grand, really. He didn't need to. Steve just squeezed your fingers once and rested his cheek against your hair.

“Good,” Steve murmured against the crown of your hair.

It was not magazine-perfect, it was even better.

#stranger things x fem!reader

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