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The Re-Crowning of King Steve | Steve Harrington

Summary: Steve Harrington may have lost his crown, but all he needs is a good coach. [6.5k]

Fluff, comfort, slight angst, fools in love, fake dating

♡

The bell jingled for the last time as you locked the front door and switched the sign from open to closed. Robin slid the last tape into its spot, the plasticky vinyl sticking close to its neighboring tapes. Behind the counter Steve sat slumped over like he’d been emotionally deflated, elbow on the counter, cheek in his palm, spinning a pen he’d definitely drop in the next ten seconds.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “The date was fine. I mean, I thought it was fine. And then halfway through dinner she says she needs to use the bathroom and…” He made a broad, sweeping gesture. “...she houdinis out of the restaurant.”

Robin didn’t even bother looking up from the register she was reorganizing for the third time. “Did you talk about Nancy again?”

Steve’s head whipped around, a stray curl bouncing to the front. “What? No! Well… okay, maybe? A little? She brought up school stuff and then I –”

“And then you launched into your Greatest Hits of Trauma,” Robin cut in flatly. “Classic.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting off a laugh, you really shouldn’t be laughing - not when Steve looked genuinely baffled and hurt.

He groaned, dropping his forehead to the counter. “It wasn’t even that bad. I didn’t talk about Nancy that long. She’s still in my life, so naturally she would come up in conversation when I talked about friends.”

“Did you ask her anything about herself?” Robin asked.

Of course I did,” he said, offended. Then less confidently: “Probably.”

Robin cocked her head. “Tell me her name.”

Steve froze. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again as Robin cocked her eyebrow in a challenge.

You stepped in before Robin could pounce on the kill. “”I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. First dates can just be… weird… and awkward. Maybe you just need to get back into practice. You know, warm up the old King Steve charm.”

Robin barked out a laugh loud enough to echo in the empty store. “King Steve charm? Please. His charm is expired. Like milk.”

“Haha,” Steve muttered. “You’re both hilarious.”

But even as he rolled his eyes, something flickered behind them. Something thoughtful, something that made your stomach twist.

Robin was right: His charm wasn’t gone per say, just misplaced. A little bruised around the edges. Steve had changed, he wasn’t the cocky guy who leaned on lockers and winked at girls like it was a superpower. He wasn’t trying to impress the world anymore - now he was just trying to be decent.

Too decent.

Too honest.

Too earnest.

And half the girls he went out with didn’t know what to do with this version of him. Hell, he didn’t even know what to do with the new him.

Robin tossed a tape in the stack, a problem for tomorrow. “He needs practice. But with someone who won’t ditch him halfway through an appetizer.”

Steve threw the pen at her. “Hey, we were about to order dinner, thank you very much.”

“Only because you skipped the apps,” she teased. “You know I’m right.”

“I think you just need some practice,” you smile sweetly offering a half-hearted suggestion.

“Practice, that’s it!” Steve looked at Robin but before he could even say anything she interrupted.

“Absolutely not.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“And you didn’t need to.” She threw the pen back at him. “Steve, I like girls. Practicing with you would be like… I don’t know, practicing for the spelling bee by playing ping pong. Two completely unrelated skills.”

Steve blinked. “Fair point.”

“And,” she continued, “I’m just as catastrophically bad at dating as you are. Maybe worse. I’d give you the wrong advice and you’d end up alone forever, haunting Family Video like a sad polo-wearing ghost.”

Steve groaned, covering his face. “Great. Amazing. Cool. Perfect.”

Robin patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

He blew out a sigh, shoulder slumping- and then his widened like he’d just had the worst idea of his life.

“...I could ask Nancy?”

You and Robin both choked on air.

“NO,” Robin snapped instantly. “No. Absolutely not. That is a multiverse-ending-level bad idea.”

You nodded in agreement. “Steve, you cannot ask your ex to help you date other people.”

He winced, already regretting it. “Okay, yeah, yeah, that sounded bad in my head too.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, looking embarrassingly close to waving a white flag. “So what am I supposed to do? I need someone honest. Someone who won’t make fun of me the whole time. Someone who actually would give me good pointers.”

He looked around helplessly.

Then- only then- did he look at you.

His expression softened. Brightened. Hope flickering behind his eyes.

And your pulse skipped, then stumbled, then practically face-planted.

“What about you?” he asked.

“No way,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too defensive. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Because I already like you.

Because fake dating you is basically a death sentence for my heart.

Because watching you try to get better for someone else will shred me slowly, one date at a time.

Because I know exactly how this ends - I’ll sit there across from you, trying hard to remember all of this pretend, knowing you’ll eventually use everything you learned on a girl who isn’t me. I’ll be left in aisle four, next to the action movies, with a broken heart that only you can fix.

Out loud, though, nothing came out.

Your throat had sealed itself shut.

Robin leaned her hip against the glass counter, smirking. “Well dingus? Make your case.”

Steve turned fully to you, hopefully and unbearably earnest.

“You’re honest. You know me. You’ll tell me what I’m doing wrong. And… I trust you.”

The last part hit you like a soft blow to the chest. You were a goner.

Of course he trusted you. Of course he saw you as safe. And of course he had no idea that the safest place for him was the most dangerous place for your heart.

You swallowed hard. “This would be strictly practice. You understand that, right? I give you honest feedback, almost like a report card. And that’s it.”

Steve nodded eagerly. “Yes. Totally. No funny business, just practice. A training arc. Like Rocky but… romantic.

Robin snorted so hard she nearly dropped a tape.

But Steve wasn’t joking. His smile was boyish and relieved, like someone had tossed him a life raft after he’d nearly accepted drowning.

“So… Friday?” he asked softly. “Our first test run?”

Your heart was already aching - and yet you smiled anyway.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Friday.”

Steve pumped his fist and as he beamed at you - warm, grateful, oblivious to the storm he’d just invited into your chest - you knew this was going to hurt.

–

You shouldn’t have said yes.

That was the first thing you thought as you stared at yourself in the mirror one last time before the first “fake” date. Your stomach churned in anticipation as you smoothed down your clothes. The mirror reflected a version of yourself that looked calm, collected… which was a lie. Your chest tightened every time you thought about Steve; you already liked him. Way too much. And agreeing to fake-date him? Emotional suicide.

But it was too late.

Fuck Steve Harrington and his deep brown eyes and his perfectly coiffed hair.

Steve had insisted on picking you up, suggesting it should be as “realistic” as possible. You wanted to argue that making it realistic was exactly the problem—but then he flashed you that goofy Harrington grin, and that was it. You were doomed.

Your eyes flitted to your watch as you paced in front of the door. He was ten minutes late and it wasn’t helping your anxiety. Just as you were about to call him, you heard a knock that made you jump.

You hurried over, opening it to find him standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his denim jacket, his hair tousled to perfection. He grinned like he had won some private lottery.

“Hey, Coach,” he said. “Ready for… uh, training?”

“You’re late,” you said deadpan, trying to keep your cool as your heart betrayed you.

Steve scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… there was traffic?”

“In Hawkins?” you asked, incredulous.

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “Fine, I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

You exhaled, pinching the bridge of your nose. Of course. You waved off his tardiness although you made a mental note of it. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll love it, it’s a classic.”

The drive over made your stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with your feelings. Steve had the stereo cranked so loud that every power ballad and synth riff rattled through the car, vibrating your chest and giving your pulse a nervous rhythm. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

When he pulled into the parking lot, you caught your first glimpse of Benny’s Burgers, far from the hometown diner you would have loved. The place reeked of old grease and something that might have once been cigarette smoke but had since evolved into its own species. The floor was sticky in a way that made your shoes feel unsafe, and men in faded denim jackets sat at the bar, leering in that slow, lazy way that made you pull your coat a little tighter around yourself.

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. “See? Totally chill.”

The waitress waved a notepad at him. Steve didn’t even glance at the menu, “Two burgers, extra pickles, large fries, a chocolate shake with two straws, please.”

You folded your hands in your lap, trying not to think about how this whole night was already a sinking ship. “Classic,” you muttered under your breath.

–

He leaned back in the booth, stretching out like he owned the place, one arm slung over the vinyl seat. The pose would’ve been charming anywhere else. Here, it mostly looked like he was trying very hard not to touch anything sticky. “Man, I haven’t been here since high school. The guys and I used to come after basketball practice. We’d cram like six people into one booth and try to beat the record for the tallest stack of ketchup cups.”

You hummed softly. “Basketball, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, missing your tone entirely. “Basketball, Swim, a little baseball when I felt like it. Coach used to say I could’ve lettered in just about anything if I put in more effort. But, y’know—” He grinned. “—girls were kind of a distraction.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. Of course they were.

He didn’t notice how your smile was strained.

He didn’t notice—the way Steve Harrington never noticed—when your heart pinched.

Instead, he kept talking, oblivious and charming in a way that made your heart ache.

“Okay,” he said with a grin that was too bright for the dim room. “Oh! Speaking of distractions - Family Video. You know we got some amazing returns lately and we’re running this, like, insane deal on rentals—"

You blinked. “Steve, I literally work there with you.”

“Right.” He laced his fingers together on the table, leaning forward with sheepish enthusiasm. “This lady brought in a bunch of old classics—like black-and-white classics. I kind of recognized the titles because Nancy made me watch some of them back when we were dating.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

There it was. Her name.

He didn’t even notice he’d said it.

“Yeah, like, uh… Casablanca. Rear Window. That stuff.” He waved a hand. “At the time, I pretended to be bored, but honestly? Some of them were pretty good. Don’t tell Robin or she’ll call me pretentious.”

You swallowed. “They’re… good movies,” you said carefully. Maybe it was a slipup, everyone deserved one mistake, right?

He snapped his fingers. “Exactly! And, like, I don’t know. It’s nice watching stuff that’s not just action and explosions. Nancy really opened my eyes to, like, the artsy side of film,” he finished with a proud smile, completely unaware that the conversation had been slowly siphoning the air out of your lungs.

You nodded, letting your gaze fall to the table. “Right. The artsy side. Makes sense.”

He brightened. “See? You get it!”

You didn’t know if you wanted to bang your head against the table for letting his words tear you apart or bang his head against the table for saying said words.

The rest of dinner wasn’t any better, then — as if he’d been saving the worst for last — he wiped his hands on a napkin, leaned back, and said, “This is the part where I would ask if my date would want to go back to my place.”

Your soul left your body.

He held his hands up fast. “But not—not you. Because this is training. And I wouldn’t, like, hit on you. Obviously.”

Obviously.

You pasted on a smile. “Good call.”

He grinned.

You wanted to scream. You didn’t know if you hated that Steve didn’t see you as worthy enough to ask him back to his place or the fact that he used this move on other girls.

The check arrived. You reached for your wallet. Steve, to his credit, did slap his hand over yours.

“No way — I’ve got it.”

Which would have been nice, if he hadn’t immediately followed it with:

“…Because obviously none of this is real or anything.”

Your smile tightened like a noose.

When you finally slid out of the booth, you felt dirty. Not in a fun way. In a why did the floor do that to my shoes? kind of way.

–

When he pulled up to your apartment, he flashed you that signature Harrington smile.

“So,” he said, hopeful, “be honest. How’d I do?”

You inhaled slowly. “Steve,” you said, steady, sure, “I didn’t even take my coat off.”

His face went blank with confusion.

You continued before he could say anything,“That’s how uncomfortable I was. I kept my coat on in a heated restaurant because men were staring at me and you didn’t notice.”

His expression collapsed slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“And that’s not even the start of it,” you added gently but firmly. “You were late. You didn’t ask a single thing about me. You talked about Nancy—not vaguely, not accidentally—by name. Multiple times.”

He winced.

“And then you mentioned taking girls home,” you finished softly, “and made sure I knew I wasn’t one of them.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” you said, and you did. He wasn’t cruel. Just oblivious. “But the thing is, Steve, dates are about presence. Not just showing up, but actually being there. Being aware. Being with the person you’re taking out.”

He stared at you with something that looked like regret, like dawning realization, like he was watching a reel of mistakes he didn’t realize he’d made.

“So,” he whispered, “that’s…an F?”

“That’s an F,” you confirmed.

He slumped in his seat, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit.”

You reached for the door handle.

“But,” you added gently, “you’ll do better next time. That’s the whole point.”

When you stepped out, closing the door behind you, you knew three things with absolute certainty:

He would do better.

And when he does get better you’re going to fall apart completely.

And even after everything tonight—after the staring men and the Nancy slip-ups and the obliviousness— you still liked him. Maybe even more than before. More than what you considered safe.

–

Steve was early this time.

Not dramatically early, not flowers-before-sunrise early, but early in the way that showed he tried — really tried — to get this one right. He waited outside your building, leaning against his BMW with his hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on his heels like he was psyching himself up for a job interview.

He gave you a bright, almost relieved smile when you stepped outside. “Hey Coach, you look nice,” he said, gently, causing a warm flicker in your chest.

The place Steve picked this time was an upgrade. Not a wow Steve Harrington has cracked the dating code kind of upgrade, but there were actual table cloths, steady lights, and families instead of men who looked like they collected DUIs the same way some collected stamps.

When he saw you shrug your coat off, you heard him murmur to himself, “See? Better already,” almost like he was checking boxes off on an invisible clipboard.

Steve pulled out your chair for you, and the surprise almost knocked you over more than the gesture itself.

“You good?” he asked, grinning like he knew he’d earned a gold star.

“Yeah,” you murmured, cheeks warming despite yourself. “Just… polite. Very unlike you.”

He made a wounded noise. “I can be polite!”

Menus open. Drinks ordered. The first ten minutes were lovely, you’re in “small talk territory,” which should be safe.

But then the conversation just… tanked.

“So,” you began, giving him an easy opening, “how was work today?”

“Fine.”

You blinked. “Fine… how?”

He shrugged. “Just fine.”

Silence spread across the tabletop like spilled ink. You tried again.

“Did you and Robin ever fix the VCR rewinder that kept eating tapes?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah… as in…?”

“Fixed.”

Your eye twitched.

Okay. Fine. Not all men were conversational juggernauts.

He drummed his fingers on the table. You wondered briefly if you slipped into a parallel universe where Steve Harrington forgot how to speak to women.

You tried again. “Any weird customers today?”

“No.”

No elaboration. No story. Nothing.

Your brain went flat. Airy. Almost amused.

He’s trying—but dear God, was he boring tonight.

You picked at your napkin. “So… movies. Anything good come through the store today?”

“Yeah.”

You exhaled in relief.

“We got a drop-off of older movies the other day. You know—black-and-white stuff.”

“That’s cool,” you said. “Did anything catch your eye?”

“Mm.”

The waitress arrived just in time with your food. You would’ve kissed her hand if it hadn’t been for her smile - a little too sparkly, a little too Hi, I’d like to sit on your lap. She rested her hand on Steve’s shoulder when she set down his drink and leaned a little too far when she asked if you needed anything else.

And Steve Harrington — without even noticing — turned on that effortless charm. Not flirty on purpose. Just… Steve. The Harrington Effect. She practically glowed.

He grinned too wide. Sat up straighter. Gave her that easy, golden-boy attention he wasn’t even aware he was giving.

Meanwhile, you sat there hoping you were back at Benny’s, At least the waitress there knew how to keep her hands to herself.

God. What a sentence.

How had your life gotten here?

You forced a smile at your food, pretty certain that the couple at the next table thought you’re the third wheel.

–

The meal itself was fine. Pleasant. Easy. Steve was a gentleman in all the mechanical ways—doors, chairs, napkins, the check—but not in the ways that required intention. He asked about your day, but he didn’t follow up when you answered. He smiled at your jokes, but only after a beat. His attention was here, but not anchored here.

By the time he pulled up to your building, you were both quiet. He tapped the roof of the car and glanced at you with that hopeful grin.

“I guess this is the end, right?” he asked.

You raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t even going to walk your date to the door?”

Steve’s eyes widened. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Uh… sorry. I… I’m an idiot sometimes.”

You chuckled softly. “Sometimes?”

“Okay, all the time,” he admitted with a shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin.

You shook your head, smiling. “You’ve got to be careful around people like me. I hold grudges.”

He leaned back against the car, crossing his arms mock-seriously. “People like you? Dangerous types?”

“Extremely dangerous,” you said, poking his arm playfully.

“Noted,” he said with a grin. Then he tilted his head, mock-curious. So… uh…Better than last time, right?”

You exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t bad, Steve.”

His face lit up — prematurely.

“But…” you added gently.

He froze.

“This is a C. A low C. Like… C-plus on a curve.”

He looked wounded, like you’d taken a bat to the King Steve ego he swore he no longer had. “What? Why?”

You tilted your head at him. “Steve, you didn’t even come to my door before or after the date, and you flirted with the waitress more than you talked to me.”

“What? I didn’t—” He stopped. Brow furrowing. “Was I? I swear I wasn’t flirting.”

“I know you weren’t intentionally flirting,” you said. “But some girls might not be okay with… all that.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah. Fair.”

“And the date was just… bland,” you said finally. “Very not-you, you didn’t tell any real stories, you didn’t— I don’t know — open up. Honestly… you were kind of boring”

He winced. ““Boring? I— I was trying to be normal.”

“Don’t look so shocked,” you interrupted, “We talked about the weather like four times Steve.”

“I didn’t wanna screw it up. I wanted to be a better version of myself. So I figured… fewer words equals fewer screwups? I didn’t mean to be boring.”

You stared at him.

“That is not how talking works.”

He groans, throwing his head back. “Okay, okay, noted.”

“That Steve,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward him, “at the restaurant, the one who was quiet, careful, trying to be perfect? That’s not you. Your personality is the best part of you - the Steve who’s ridiculous and charming and makes people laugh without even trying. Don’t lose him. Anyone would consider themselves lucky to date the real you.”

He blinked at you. “Really?”

“Really,” you said, smiling. “When I told you to ‘stop talking about yourself’ on the first date? I didn’t mean you should change who you are. I meant… also get to know your date, too. Not replace yourself.”

Steve’s grin widened, the kind that made your chest twist and ache in equal measure. “Got it. Be myself. And pay attention.”

“Exactly,” you said, laughing. “That’s all anyone could ever ask for, don’t be too hard on yourself. A C is still passing, mediocre, but passing. Just keep in mind that not every girl is okay with mediocre.”

“I’ll do better than mediocre next time.” he promised.

As you closed your door, you thought—Steve Harrington, in all his messy, oblivious, charming glory, was far too dangerous for your heart.

–

You weren’t supposed to look forward to the third “date”.

You told yourself after last week, you were going to turn off your emotions and stop letting your heart fling itself against Steve. But then he knocked -exactly on time this time- holding the most beautiful bouquet.

He smiled sheepishly, boyishly. “Uh… these are for you. I don’t know what any of them are called but the lady said they were pretty.”

Your heart stuttered, the warmth in your chest almost searingly painful. “Thank you, they’re really pretty.”

“So are you,” he said shyly. His eyes widened—like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud—but he didn’t take it back either. He just scratched the back of his neck, cheeks pink, and motioned toward the car.

Steve’s car rumbles down the quiet road, headlights cutting through the dusky gold of late afternoon. You hadn’t expected mellow music - not for him at least. Not from the guy whose tapes were usually a rotation of upbeat pop and hair-band rock.

You glanced at him. “You, uh… switched up your playlist,” you said, trying to keep your voice casual.

Steve shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Yeah. Though you might like it a bit more.”

Your chest tugged as you stared out the window so he wouldn’t see your face soften too much.

The rest of the drive stayed quiet - but not awkward. Just warm. Comfortable in a way that made your nerves flutter in excitement rather than dread.

Twenty minutes later, Steve turned into a parking lot and cut the engine. You blinked looking around the familiar sign. “Steve… the museum?”

He only smiled, shy but a little proud. “You told me once - that day Keith made us reorganize the entire sci-fi section - that you hadn’t been back since our elementary school field trip. And how you always meant to come back, but something always came up.”

You stared at him in awe. He remembered that? You barely remembered saying it.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… though it’d be a good place. Figured it was about time you make new memories.”

You didn’t know what to say, at least not at first. Because no one ever picked dates based on something you said offhandedly. No one bothered to remember the small, throwaway things you said to pass the time at work.

But Steve had.

“Steve,” you whispered, almost breathless, “this is perfect.”

His smile turned soft, not charming, not cool - just… real.

“Good,” he murmured, opening his door. “C’mon. I wanna show you something inside.”

You followed him through the museum’s towering front doors, your steps echoing across the marble floors.

Inside, the air was cool and still, dust motes floating lazily in the streams of light from the skylights. The familiar childhood awe tugged at your chest — but something else tugged harder.

Because Steve Harrington looked completely at home here.

Like he’d been waiting for this more than he let on.

“You come here a lot?” you teased.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, almost bashful.“Uh… maybe.”

Your brows shot up.

He huffed a laugh. “Okay, yeah. I mean, not like a lot a lot. Just… sometimes. It’s quiet. And kinda cool. And—”He paused in front of a display of old astronomical instruments, glancing sideways at you.“I like knowing stuff,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Real stuff. Not just… whatever people think I’m supposed to know.”

You stepped closer to him without even thinking.

“What’s your favorite thing here?” you asked softly.

That lit him up.

“Ooh. Okay. Come here — look.” He guided you toward a huge bronze armillary sphere.“This thing,” he said, hands animated, “I used to think it was just a big metal ball, but it’s actually like— it maps the sky? The stars? Sort of like a 3D calendar but cooler.”

You blinked. He wasn’t fumbling his words. He wasn’t pretending.

He knew this.

And he liked it.

“You’re kind of a nerd,” you whispered, unable to stop the stunned smile spreading across your face.

Steve flushed immediately. “Okay, wait—”

“No,” you laughed, “a cute nerd.”

He froze.

Blinking.

Processing.

Then that slow, shy smile — the one he never used on anyone else — spread across his face.

“Well… then maybe I don’t mind being a nerd,” he said quietly. “If it gets that smile out of you.”

Your heart tripped in your chest. And as you wandered deeper into the exhibits, it got harder and harder to tell the difference between real and pretend.

He asked questions — real ones. He listened, not the “waiting for his turn to talk” kind of listening. The real kind.

He told you stories too — not the polished King Steve ones. The honest ones.

How he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be anymore.

You watched him rub the back of his neck, embarrassed.“I don’t know,” he murmured, fiddling with a brochure. “I think… I’m still figuring stuff out. Who I am now. What I want. Some days I think I’ve got it, and then other days…” He exhaled slowly. “…yeah.”

Your chest tightened in a soft, aching way.

“Steve,” you said quietly, “you’re allowed to figure things out.”

He looked up at you like no one had ever said that to him before.

Like it mattered.

Like you mattered.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “That was… a lot.”

“It wasn’t,” you murmured. “It was real.”

He smiled — small, shy, tender.

Something inside you unspooled so gently it almost hurt.

And he made you laugh. Really laugh. The helpless kind.Every time he did, he looked proud, like your laughter was a rare collectible he’d spent years trying to find.

Somewhere between the mellow music in his car, the dusty halls, the way he remembered offhand comments from months ago…

You realized:

You were in trouble.

Because Steve Harrington wasn’t trying to impress you. He was showing you who he really was.

And you were falling for him anyway.

–

Steve insisted on opening the car door for you again when he drove you home, which would’ve felt old-fashioned coming from anyone else… but from him it just felt sweet. Gentle. Like he actually wanted to.

The quiet hum of the streetlights filled the space between you as you walked up the path toward your front door. Neither of you talked. Neither of you needed to. The whole night had been full — full of laughter, full of stories, full of things that felt too important to ruin with small talk now.

When you reached the step, you turned to face him.

Steve stood a little too close, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes flicked over your face, then down to your shoes, then back up again — nervous. Really nervous.

Not King Steve. Just… Steve.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh… I had a really good time tonight.”

You smiled, soft and real. “Me too.”

His breath caught. It was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

He rocked back on his heels. “Can I—” He stopped, tried again. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

Because you wanted to. God, you wanted to.

But it wasn’t real. Not to him. Not the way it was to you.

Still, you nodded.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You can.”

Steve stepped forward, slow like he was afraid you’d disappear. His hand lifted, hesitated, then gently cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, feather-light.

And then he kissed you.

It started soft — questioning, almost chaste — but when you exhaled against his mouth, he leaned in, deepening it just slightly, just enough to make your knees weaken. His other hand slid to your waist, holding you steady, like he couldn’t help it.

It felt like a promise.

It felt like possibility.

It felt like everything you’d secretly wanted.

And it meant nothing.

When he finally pulled back, the cool night air rushed between you.

Steve looked dazed.

Really dazed.

His eyes dropped to your lips, then lifted again, searching your face as though he was trying to memorize it.

“Same time next week?” he asked, voice low, hopeful.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

You forced a laugh — light, breezy, like your chest wasn’t cracking apart. “No. I think you’ll be okay.” You tapped his arm gently, teasing even through the ache. “That was at least an A-. Consider yourself graduated.”

Something flickered across his face — surprise, confusion. Like he’d genuinely forgotten this was supposed to be fake.

But then he blinked, straightened, and the mask slipped back into place.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it off. “Sure. Graduation. Cool.”

You smiled like it didn’t kill you.

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Goodnight.”

You stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind you. And the second it latched, your back hit the wood and your legs gave out. You slid down the door until you were sitting on the floor, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound.

But the sob still clawed out of you.

Because no matter how sweet he’d been — no matter how gentle, how real, how warm the night felt —it wasn’t real for him.

Not the way it was for you.

And that was the part that hurt the most.

–

Steve didn’t sleep that night.

Not really.

He laid in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night like he was afraid letting it fade would make it unreal.

The museum. Your hands brushing. The way you looked at him when he talked—not confused, not bored, not judging.

Just… seeing him.

And the kiss. Jesus. He could still feel the tremor in your breath, the way you’d leaned in like you didn’t want it to end.

He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He just knew that when you told him he didn’t need another fake date… something inside him had fallen out. Perhaps his heart.

The idea of not seeing you again—not seeing you like that—made his stomach twist painfully. And somewhere between midnight and dawn, he realized something that shook him so hard he sat upright:

He missed you.

Not the version of you from the fake dates.

You.

He itched to grab the phone and call you. The only thing stopping him was that you deserved a good night of sleep. Little did he know, a few streets down, you were caught in a similar dilemma—sobbing into your pillow until exhaustion finally claimed you, dragging you into a restless sleep.

–

The next morning right as the clock struck eight, Steve called you, forcing you into the reality of headaches and heartbreak.

“Hey,” Steve said, voice too bright, almost jittery. “I… I need your help again.”

You blinked, still trying to clear the fog from your head. “With what?”

“There’s this girl,” he said. “I like her. And I wanna ask her out… the right way this time. She’s… different.”

Your stomach dropped like it had just been punched. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast, like he was trying to fill the silence. “And I want it to be perfect. I just… I need someone who can help me figure it out.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. You shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be helping him plan a date for someone else, but your fingers itched to pick up the phone, to hear him. Because even in heartbreak, it was him. Always him.

“What kind of date are you thinking?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Something… meaningful,” he said. “Thoughtful. Quiet. Nothing crazy. What would be your perfect date?”

And because you were a masochist, because a part of you still loved him more than your own self-preservation allowed, you told him exactly what you’d dreamed of once upon a time:“Something quiet. A picnic under the stars. Lowkey, but special.”

There was a pause on the line. Then, softly, “Got it.”

Got it.

Your chest twisted. He got it.

There was a pause, and then he said, almost nervously, “Could… could you come by Lover’s Lake around six? I… I need your help setting it up.”

You hesitated. Your mind screamed at you not to go, not to put yourself through it. But the sound of his voice, the way he was holding himself so carefully on the other end of the line, made you falter.

“I… I don’t know, Steve,” you murmured.

“I get it,” he said quickly, like he was afraid you’d say no. “But… please? I can’t do it without you. I just… I really want it to be right.”

Your fingers itched to hang up, to run away from this mess of feelings. But another part of you—the part that had been hopelessly tangled in him since day one—softened.

“Okay,” you said finally, your voice quiet, reluctant. “Six.”

“Thanks,” he said, relief softening every syllable. “See you then.”

And just like that, the call ended, leaving your chest aching with a mix of dread and something else, something you couldn’t name, as you braced yourself for whatever awaited at Lover’s Lake.

–

When you arrived at Lover’s Lake, your steps slowed. The air was cool, the water reflecting the faint pink of the setting sun, but your chest felt tight, like someone had pressed a fist against it. You had expected to help him—maybe lay out blankets, arrange candles, set up a little picnic—but what you saw stopped you cold.

The blankets were already spread. Lanterns were softly glowing along the edges. A wicker basket sat ready, your favorite snacks peeking out as if someone had peeked into your private thoughts.

And Steve… Steve was standing there, just beyond the blanket, hands shoved nervously into his pockets, shoulders tight, eyes flicking to you every few seconds like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked too long.

You couldn’t breathe. “This…” you whispered, voice trembling. “Steve… what’s going on? I thought you needed help – I… ”

Steve shifted, hands twitching in his pockets, avoiding your gaze for a moment. He swallowed, a nervous sound that made your stomach twist. “I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know until last night, when… when you said you were done. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how you looked at the museum. About how you laughed. About how… kissing you felt.” He took a shaky breath, voice low. “Like… everything.”

You felt dizzy. Floating. Heart caught somewhere between hope and fear.

“I like you,” he said simply. “I think I’ve been liking you for a while. And I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’m sorry I made you grade me like a report card just to figure out how to be good for you.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Every nerve in your body screamed, but your feet moved anyway, bringing you closer, hesitant, afraid of what would happen if you got too near. “Steve,” a shaky laugh slipped out of your lips.

He took a careful step closer, lifting your chin gently with his fingers. “Can I kiss you?” he murmured, soft, tentative.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. And when he kissed you, it wasn’t practice. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t a graded exercise.

It was Steve, warm and real and entirely yours. When he finally pulled back, forehead resting against yours, he grinned, wide enough to make your chest ache. “I can’t believe you said yes after all those crappy dates.”

You snorted, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. “But I liked those crappy dates.”

“Why?”

“Because they were with you.” You smiled, soft, certain.

Steve choked out a laugh, relief and affection lighting up his whole face. “Well,” he whispered, pulling you closer again, “good news then.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, and murmured against your lips, “Because from now on… they’re real.”

Steve thought his crown was gone, that he’d lost his place, his touch, his King Steve. But it had only been tucked away, tangled in noise and pretense, waiting for something real. Waiting for you. Now it settled on him easily, warmly, carrying the weight of someone who finally knew what it meant to love—and be loved in return.

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