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dahliamae · 3 months ago

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track one: i wanna get off

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.” Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm. “I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it. But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well.

Summary: a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, steve is a slut (endearing), mentions of drugs (argyle)

Words: 15.4k

Before you swing in: SHES HERE !!! MY BABY !!!! ever since writing lonely hearts club ive been craving more band aus and then joe covered gasoline by haim fundamentally altered my brain so naturally i blacked out and outlined an entire series surrounding rockstar!steve so ,,, here we are lmao. this series is different from come home. steve is a bit edgier, more rough and mean but also still the same charming asshole. later there will be some excessive alcohol use and this is a slowburn of weird twisted feelings and messy situationship so ,,, prepare for that !

enjoy :)

The usual Sunday morning crowd has staked its claim in the cafe by the time your boots click softly on its tiled floors. Baristas call out names belonging to men in wool jackets and women with small children bundled beneath layers of scarves.

Freshly fallen snow lines your own wool jacket and falls to the tiled floor when you take it off, draping it across the chair of the first empty table you find. It’s a bit further back in the shop than you would’ve preferred, but it will have to do. Setting your scarf across the other seat in front of you, claiming the chair for yourself, you catch a barista’s eye and smile as you walk to the register.

You order a black coffee, no milk, only sugar, and a simple vanilla coffee for yourself. The barista tells you the drinks will be ready in a few minutes and you thank her. Heading back to your seat, you hope that you’ve correctly remembered Jonathan’s coffee order.

The last time you saw the man had been at your graduation back in May. You’ve loosely kept in touch since then through sporadic phone calls and gallery openings. Both having majored in photography and the visual arts, your friendship had been built upon red rooms and empty film canisters gallery halls.

Now, as snow falls and coats New York in pristine white, he’s asked you to meet for coffee. The sudden proposal admittedly confused you, though you accepted the invitation without any hesitation.

The barista calls your name right as Jonathan stumbles through the cafe’s door. His skin is flushed from the cold and snowflakes ravage his messy brown hair. Hearing your name, Jonathan grabs the drinks from the pick-up counter, spots you sitting in the corner, and quickly makes his way over to you.

He places the drinks down, wincing when a few drops spill onto the table. “Sorry.”

You wave his apology away and stand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him. “I got you black coffee with sugar. I hope that’s alright?”

“God, of course it is.” Jonathan sits down and takes his scarf off. “You didn’t need to get me anything, you know.”

“Figured you’d be running a little late.” You tease gently, fiddling with the straps of your camera.

“I’m only five minutes late. I’d consider that a new record in my book.”

“And would Nancy agree?”

You have fond memories of Nancy from your few interactions with her. She had been majoring in journalism and was in the running for a position at the New York Post the last time you spoke with her.

“No, probably not.” Jonathan snorts, now taking a sip of coffee. He sets the cup down and then leans over the table, arms bracing his weight. He raises his eyebrows at you. Smiles. “So, catch me up. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing much,” you admit. “Still doing freelancing.”

“I thought you hated freelancing?”

“Oh, I do. The pay is shit and the clients are almost always shittier. Theater majors are really annoying about ‘capturing their good side’.”

Jonathan frowns. “You’re way too talented to be stuck photographing wannabe actors.”

Now it’s your turn to snort. “We live in New York, Jonathan. We’re surrounded by wannabe actors desperate for camera time.”

“It still feels like a waste of your talent.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You wink at him playfully. “What about you, though? I think you were everyone’s favorite street photographer at the studio.”

Jonathan blushes at the praise and looks down at his coffee. “Well,” he clears his throat and looks back up. “I’m actually in a band now. A drummer.”

Your mouth falls open. “You’re kidding, right?”

It’s hard to imagine Jonathan Byers as anything other than a photographer. He was arguably one of the best in your class. His work was beautiful with such a natural edginess to offset the delicate scenery. Your professors raved about him whenever they could. His senior thesis gallery was such a success that the school had to prolong its exhibition dates an extra week.

Jonathan laughs at your disbelief. He’d been expecting it. “I’m serious, Y/N. Sure, I love photography, I always will, but…”

“Music was your first love.” You finish for him, remembering the times you were in his apartment with soft rock records filling the silence as the two of you developed film together.

“And I don’t regret it.” Jonathan’s fingers tap against the table. A nervous habit he was never able to break, and now you suppose that maybe he was never meant to break it. He shifts slightly in his seat, coughs as a sudden unease settles over him.

You tilt your head at him. “Why do you look like you’re about to walk into a confessional with a priest?”

“Christ, Y/N.”

“Correct. He’s who you usually confess your sins to.”

Jonathan sputters out a laugh and his shoulders fall, relaxed after being drawn tightly together moments prior. “Alright, you got me. I didn’t ask you to coffee just to catch up.”

Intrigued, you forward. “If you’re about to ask me to take engagement photos for you and Nancy, please know that I’m too broke to offer you a friend’s discount.”

“We aren’t engaged,” Jonathan’s face is even more red now. “Not yet, at least. But what if I asked if you were interested in being my band’s photographer?”

Your eyes widen slightly. “I’d ask you to elaborate.”

“Look, my band, we’re good, Y/N.” Jonathan tells you, eyes alight more than you’ve ever seen them before. “Sure, we’re still relatively small and you definitely haven’t heard any of our music, but we’re consistently booking three gigs a week. I mean, we can’t pay you any better than freelancing can, but we’d definitely be less shitty than your other clients.”

“Jonathan…”

“I’m not just asking you because you’re painfully talented.” Jonathan shakes his head. “I’m asking you because you were my closest friend in college and we always had fun working together. You have to admit, we made a good team.”

You throw a napkin at him. “Way to guilt trip.”

“I’ll say whatever if it means you say yes.”

And Jonathan’s sincerity is almost overwhelming. You’re hesitant, but not because you don’t believe him or the offer doesn’t interest you. If anything, you’re actually incredibly interested in being a band’s photographer. Portrait photography was never your favorite medium, and the mundanity of it is slowly driving you insane.

You’re hesitant because you really, really need money. Freelancing, as unreliable and shitty as it is, at least guarantees enough money to cover rent. But being a photographer for a band no one’s heard of? Not so much.

“As much as I want to say yes, I meant what I said earlier. I’m too broke, Jonathan. I have to sneak out the backdoor of my apartment building to avoid my landlord because she’s days away from evicting me.” Your head rests in your palm, sighing. “It’s grim.”

Jonathan, however, doesn’t seem to think that your current financial situation is bleak. If anything, he perks up and fucking smiles at what you’ve said.

“I’m sorry,” your eyes narrow at him. “But why are you smiling while I’m talking about getting evicted?”

Jonathan flinches at your brewing anger and quickly tries to explain himself. “Sorry, I just-it’s kinda a perfect dilemma?”

“You have five seconds to explain before hot coffee falls in your lap.”

“My bandmates are looking for a roommate!” Jonathan blurts out, unconsciously covering his lap with his hands. Surprised by his own outburst, he clears his throat and lowers his voice to a more neutral tone. “That’s why your dilemma is so perfect. I can talk to them for you, set up a time for you to meet them.”

Seeing that he has your attention now, Jonathan holds a finger up. “But only if you agree to be our photographer.”

Your head spins. It’s almost too perfect of a circumstance. The flesh on your lip stings as you bite down on it, uncertain. You’re tempted. Unbelievably tempted, but you don’t want to say yes just yet.

“Did I mention that they live in the same building as me?” Jonathan smirks, knowing the effect his words will have on you.

His apartment building is gorgeous. Positioned perfectly in the East Village with Tompkins Square a block away and lush green grass in the communal outdoor area reserved only for residents. You’ve complained to him a million times about how you’d kill to have as much outdoor space as he does in your own apartment building.

That, and it’s one of the few remaining goddamn rent controlled buildings in Manhattan.

“You’re evil, Jonathan Byers.” You stick your hand out and he laughs, knowing he already has you before you’ve shaken on the deal. “I better not regret this.”

“You won’t.” He promises.

–

A few days later you’re checking your watch nervously every few seconds. The silver on your wrist reflects in the moonlight. Small hand on the seven and long hand on the five, you curse under your breath. They’re still not here.

“Y/N!” A feminine voice, familiar, surprises you as two bodies round the corner.

Recognizing Nancy’s lithe figure and Jonathan’s awkward footsteps, you greet them, relief flooding through you. “Oh, thank god. Thought I was getting stood up.”

Nancy looks pointedly at her boyfriend. “Blame him. We would’ve been here ten minutes earlier had he not insisted on popping into a record store on the way home.”

“It was worth it.” Jonathan holds the record up. The Talking Heads bright and alive in the dim dusk light. “Sorry, Y/N.”

“Save the apologies for later. We still aren’t sure if I have a place to live after tonight.” You remind him.

Nancy rolls her eyes at the two of you before grabbing your hand. “C’mon,” she says, now opening the apartment building’s door. “In less than twenty-four hours this will be your home, too.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

Jonathan pokes your side to shut you up and you swat his hand away. A doorman tips his hat at you and the others as you walk past, his smile kind and warm. The apartment’s lobby is the same as you remember it being. Plush sofas pushed against a soft white wall. A grand mirror across from the elevator that has a few scuffs in it, yet is charming nonetheless. Simple, though elevated enough that you can’t help but feel that you don’t belong here.

Inside the elevator Nancy presses the sixth floor. When she sees your slight confusion, she laughs. “We may live in the same building, but they’re two floors below us.”

“Mike says it’s physical proof that he’s better than Dustin.”

You turn to Jonathan with a slight frown. “Mike is Nancy’s brother, right? And he lives with you guys?”

Nancy nods encouragingly. “And Dustin is one of his friends from high school”

Jonathan pokes his head between the two of you. “And soon to be your roommate.”

“Hopefully.” Your tight lipped smile looks more like a grimace. Your stomach twists with every floor you ascend. You try to remember all the names you’ve been told. There’s Dustin, Mike’s friend. Then there’s… Rachel? Robbie? You think you remember Jonathan mentioning someone named Stephen.

Already the names are floating around your head. There are so many of them to remember. New faces you’ll be meeting tonight and desperately trying to impress. And you’ve already forgotten half of them.

The elevator comes to a stop. Nancy and Jonathan step off, but you’re rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Please tell me this is a good idea.”

“It’s a wonderful idea, Y/N.” Nancy reassures you, grabbing your hand and gently pulling you from the elevator’s closing doors. Her eyes trace over your tense figure and she smiles sympathetically. The hand she isn’t using to hold yours plucks lint from your jacket, smoothing over its folds. “I promise you’ll love them.”

You really want to believe her. “And ‘them’ being…?”

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve.” Jonathan supplies. He’s smoothing your jacket down as well. The couple frets over your appearance in the narrow hallway and you almost feel like a lost child under their nurturing gaze.

“Dustin, Robin, and Steve,” you repeat under your breath, over and over again. Their names roll over your tongue and you like how the weight of it feels. “Okay, I can do this. I’m fine. This will be totally fine.”

Jonathan nods eagerly and then shoves you towards a door at the end of the hall. In faded gold plating reads 6B on the door’s purple frame. There’s a cheesy floor mat that greets you in cursive lettering.

“Ready?” Nancy asks you.

You inhale, close your eyes, and exhale the remaining fear from your bones. Opening your eyes, you nod at her.

Three soft raps against the door. There’s shuffling on the other side. Voices talking to one another. A set of footsteps running towards the door before a girl your age swings it open and lunges into your arms as if you’re lifelong friends.

“You’re here!” She exclaims happily, arms clasped tightly over your neck. You stumble back at the sudden embrace.

Jonathan sees your obvious overwhelm. “Ease up there, Robin. You can’t kill Y/N yet.”

The girl, Robin, you remind yourself, quickly releases you. Her freckled cheeks blush a pretty pink that matches the faded pink streaks in her choppy hair. “Sorry,” her blue eyes are wide and youthful. “I just-Jonathan and Nancy have been blabbing about you for weeks now and it’s just crazy that this is finally happening! I mean, you’re real! You’re here!”

She’s speaking a mile a minute and you’re trying your best to keep up with her, but you’re still nervous and deeply overwhelmed now and all you can say is, “Your hair is really pretty.”

“Thanks,” Robin’s bashful smile is beautiful. Her fingers tangle through her shoulder-length hair. “It was Steve’s idea. He helped me dye it.”

“Steve sounds nice,” you say, trying to keep the conversation going as Nancy and Jonathan watch the two of you quietly.

Robin laughs as if you’ve said something funny. She doesn’t say anything, though, and instead grabs your arm to pull you inside. She hardly gives you any time to look around the apartment before she’s talking a mile a minute once again.

“This is the kitchen,” she waves her arms out with a flourish, giggling when your jaw drops. There’s more counter space than you ever thought possible in a New York apartment. A kid, maybe a few years younger than you, is taking pizza out of the oven. “And that, my dear and new friend, is Dustin.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dustin sets the pizza down before giving you a thumbs up. “Pizza?”

Jonathan and his brother Will are already grabbing plates and cutting into the still hot food before you can even say yes. Jonathan hands a slice to Nancy while Will passes a plate to you. You thank him kindly, recognizing him from Jonathan’s senior thesis photos.

The moment you have your food, Robin yanks you away again.

“This is the living room.” Giant floor to ceiling windows that you definitely can’t afford replace the walls that should be in their place. The entire skyline of lower Manhattan winks back at you.

“No fucking way…”

A scrawny kid, maybe Dustin’s age, who looks a lot like Nancy snorts from the sage green couch that wraps around the area. “Isn’t it obnoxiously nice? I hate it.”

Robin flicks his head. “Ignore him. He isn’t relevant to our tour.”

“I take it he’s Mike?” You ask, again being at the will of Robin’s strong grip as she parades you through the apartment.

The decorations, though minimal, make the place feel like a home. There’s art hanging on the walls. Photographs of faces you recognize, though most are people you don’t. Belongings strewn throughout the space that tell you there’s stories and love within these walls.

“Unfortunately,” Robin stops in front of a set of doors. “We only keep him around because we like Nancy. Anyways, here’s the bathroom.”

Though small, it’s nice, and you nod appreciatively. Satisfied with your response, Robin flings open another door. Inside are piles of screws and wires belonging to various unfinished technical exploits and it takes you a moment to realize that there’s even a bed in this room.

“Dustin’s room?” You guess, remembering the City College of Technology logo that was on his hat.

“Correct,” Robin then opens another door, this time revealing a room full of rosie pinks and deep purples and blues. A keyboard rests on a bed. There are vinyls everywhere and pink hair dye spilled on the small desk. “My room. Admire her while you can. I deeply hate people in my space.”

You laugh. “Noted.”

Robin slams the door and turns to the next one, though she hesitates. “Technically, Steve also really hates people in his room, but the douchebag is late even though he promised he’d be here on time so,” she opens the door. “Voila.”

While you want to respect the wishes of the roommate you still have yet to meet, curiosity wins. You peek inside. The room is a mess of guitar picks littering the floor. You see a dark blue acoustic guitar in the corner, its edges almost midnight black, and an unmade bed full of vinyls. On the walls are photos. Some are of bands that you’re familiar with. Most aren’t. In between it all, however, are photos who you can only assume are Robin and his other friends.

There’s a desk shoved to a corner that has pen marks and papers with messy writing scrawled on them. Everything inside the room is used, worn, though somehow there’s still a sense of calm within the chaos of it all.

“None of you are neat freaks, huh?”

Robin winces. “No, but I promise we’re clean. Scout’s honor. Please just ignore the blatant oxymoron of our rooms.”

You laugh and shake your head, telling her it’s fine. Robin beams once again and takes your hand one last time to guide you back to the kitchen. Everyone is gathered around the counter, pizza in their hands as lazy conversation fills the room.

And even though an hour prior you were afraid that you were in way over your head, you fall into conversation easily with everyone else. Dustin is charismatic and asks for your thoughts on the apartment. Will’s soft spoken nature is comforting. Mike is witty and enjoys that you play into his jokes. A little later a young girl named Max appears and she’s just as enigmatic as her red hair and asks you a million questions about photography.

Robin doesn’t stop poking your skin and clothes and fretting over you the entire time. You adore her within minutes.

“Alright,” you say after finishing the last of the pizza. “Tell me. Who’s in this alleged band I’m putting all my blind faith in?”

Dustin throws his head back and groans. “God, don’t get them started.”

Mike hits his shoulder. “Dude, shut up.”

“We call ourselves the Februarys.” Jonathan ignores the boys bickering.

“The Februarys?”

“Guess which rocket scientist thought of it.” Dustin snarks.

Mike hits him again and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, I like it. It’s a bit odd, but interesting. Unique.”

“You’re perfect. Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” Robin throws her arm over your shoulders. “Anyways, I play the keyboard. I’m good with my fingers,” she wiggles them at you with a sly wink, “and sometimes lend my voice to songs if Steve allows it.”

“He’s the lead vocalist,” Jonathan explains. “He also plays the guitar, but he mostly just likes how cool it makes him look.”

“It doesn’t, by the way.” Mike rolls his eyes. “Not unless it’s an electric guitar, which I do play.”

You raise your eyebrows in shock. “Aren’t you a little… young to be in a band?”

Loud cackles tumble out of Dustin and Robin while Jonathan tries to hide his own snickers behind Nancy’s amused smile and Will’s soft laughs. You look around with wide eyes, terrified you’ve said the wrong thing, when Max crosses her arms at you.

“Find someone who can play the bass as well as I can. I dare you.”

Her unwavering confidence in her ability leaves you breathless. Your uncertainty crumbles the moment her knowing smirk spreads across her face. She knows she’s good. She doesn’t need your approval.

“My apologies, Mayfield.” You nudge your shoulder against hers.

Mike scowls. “Do I get an apology, too?”

“No,” you and Max say at the same time.

This time everyone laughs and you’re amazed by how easy this is. Talking to them, laughing and teasing them with the shared understanding of respect. You’ve been welcomed into something warm and precious, friends who seem to have years stretching between them.

A series of clicks and the scraping of metal before the front door swings open. A man stumbles inside, cursing and swearing under his breath when his foot catches on a stray shoe and he nearly falls. It’s a cacophony of sound and discarded energy and Robin watches it all with a bored frown.

“You’re late.” She greets the intruder.

He hunches over, hands on his knees. “Give me a second,” his breaths are heavy and brown hair falls in his face. He brushes it aside haphazardly with a practiced habitual ease. “Christ, I ran ten blocks to make it here on time.”

“And yet you’re still late.” Robin turns to you, frown etching her soft features. “I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Hearing your name, the guy’s body suddenly snaps up from its prior hunched posture. Brown eyes land on you. Curious, excited, and then slowly interested. They travel up your body once, twice, then a third time. He fixes his hair again and smiles at you. “Is this our new roommate?”

“Possible roommate.” You correct him, a hint of a smile back at him. “You must be Steve.”

His smile widens. “The one and only.”

Strong jawline, doe eyes that are soft enough to be vulnerable, yet teasing. Hair that’s just long enough to curl over the nape of his neck. Classically handsome, Steve’s delicate features are juxtaposed by the silver nose ring that catches the light, by the matching latch earrings that parallel the moles that line his neck and jaw.

Steve knows he’s beautiful. And he knows how to use it to his advantage as he drapes an arm over you, grabs a piece of pizza from your plate, and sits in your chair that is already too small for one person. It forces him to be pressed tightly against you. His jeans dig into your waist, his thick silver bracelet on his wrist cools your heated skin.

“Hi, beautiful,” he winks at you, taking a bite of the food he’s stolen. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Robin gags and everyone else rolls their eyes at Steve’s exaggerated charm. They’ve seen this before. They’re used to his theatrics and need to be the center of attention for every girl he meets.

“Steve’s a bit of a flirt, if you couldn’t tell.” Jonathan shoves his friend away from you with a slight eye roll. “If he gets too much, just spray him like a cat.”

You watch Steve, studying him. He’s charming and beautiful, putting on a show for you, and underneath the performance is a shallow surface. He’s exalted by the attention. It’s not that his actions aren’t genuine, but they border on fictitious.

The fictitiousness is intriguing.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” to everyone’s surprise, you pull Steve back into the chair. He makes a startled sound, caught off guard by your forceful hands, and completely infatuated with them already. Pleased, you pinch Steve’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, handsome?”

You feel him lean into your touch, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s studying you the same way you’ve been studying him. A pause, your fingers linger on his cheek. Just before you exhale, Steve grabs the hand that strokes his face. His grip is loose on your wrist. He kisses the inside skin that’s the thinnest, veins beating.

“You’ll move in tomorrow.” He murmurs against your skin. “And your first gig with us is Friday.”

It isn’t a question, and you don’t correct him.

Already it’s been decided.

–

The heater in your apartment broke a year after you moved in. Your landlord promised she would fix it come winter, but as pockets of snow fill the window’s ledge, your hands are numb from the brisk air and lack of heat.

Packing is easy enough, though seeing your small assortment of belongings piled into boxes causes a tug of longing in your stomach. The brick walls of your apartment are worn and scuffed from previous tenants and the floorboards creak with every breath you take. It’s an awful, old and frigid apartment, but it was also the first place you ever called home in New York.

“This really all you have?” Steve looks at the handful of boxes with skepticism. Being the only one who doesn’t have classes or a day job, he happily volunteered to help you move your things to the new apartment.

You tape the final box shut. “For the most part, but there’s a box or two in the bedroom.”

“I get to see your bedroom?” He wiggles his eyebrows and you throw a balled up wad of tape at him. He dodges easily, laughing. “Want me to go get them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back, gorgeous.”

Gorgeous. Beautiful. Babe. All compliments Steve has showered you in since meeting him fifteen hours prior. They fall from his lips without any hesitation, always accompanied by a charming smile or sly wink.

If it were anyone else, you would’ve told them to fuck off by now. But with Steve there’s no weight behind his praise. No expectation of you to return them. He praises you because he wants to, compliments you because he likes the way you blush afterwards.

You’ve only known Steve for fifteen hours, and yet you’ve never felt this comfortable alone with anyone else.

“I know this may sound like I’m sucking up considering I’m trusting you to make my band look cool, but,” Steve carries two boxes, arms straining under the weight and you watch as his biceps ripple under his tanned skin. He sets them down, opens the top one, and then pulls out a collection of your photographs from within it. “You’re insanely talented, Y/N.”

“I sent you to get my boxes, not go through them.” You try to take the photos away, but Steve is fast and holds them out of your reach.

“No, I’m serious. I mean, Jonathan is cool and all and we all cried seeing his thesis show, but you?” He holds up one of your favorite photographs. He huffs in disbelief, eyes roaming over the image with a hunger of amazement and awe. “I almost feel bad that we can’t pay you what you’re worth.”

The photo is one you took when you first moved to Manhattan. Eighteen and naive, you viewed the city through your lens greedily. Your first few months in the city all you did was carry your camera around with you and use up canister after canister of film. The images were fine, nothing monumental, until one day, somehow, they were.

An older woman sitting on a park bench. There is no one sitting next to her. Her head is down, hands clasped in her lap. There is a bird mimicking her downward posture beside her. Almost out of view, almost a shadow, and there’s something tender in the image that you’ve never quite managed to capture again.

“The apartment makes up for it. I mean, floor to ceiling windows? Fucking insane.”

Steve chuckles, agreeing silently. “How’d you get into photography, anyways?” He picks through some more of your pictures, uncaring of the fact that you’re shy of your work.

“My mom was a photographer and gave me my first film camera when I was nine.” You shrug, a nostalgic smile on your face. “I didn’t stand a chance.”

“I get it,” Steve hums, still admiring every image of yours that he finds. “That’s how music was for me. I was eleven and my parents weren’t home so I snuck into their room. They had this giant record player. I remember being so amazed by it, but God forbid I touch it.”

Steve looks down at his hands, tight smile and narrowed eyes. “Anyways, one day they weren’t home, so I ran right up to their room, laid my head right next to the record player, and played the first record I found.”

“What was it?” You ask softly, curious.

“The Velvet Underground. I inherited a lot of things from my father, but thank god he gave me my music taste. The moment I heard Sterling Morrison’s guitar strings in Heroin, I was a goner. Begged the old man for my own guitar the very next day.”

“And did you get it?” The question is more to keep the delicate look on Steve’s face. He unravels when he talks about music, almost softens at its melodies. He’s beautiful, he always is, but music only makes him glow.

“I did,” Steve nods, proud. He walks up behind you, arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you in, his chest solid and warm. He kisses your hairline, smiling into your skin. “Want to know a secret?”

“Tell me,” your body leans closer to his.

“I’m going to be a rockstar. Me and everyone else in the Februarys. One day, everyone will know our name.”

Steve’s childish declaration mirrors every other young boy’s dream. Every artist’s dream since they were a child. Dreams of grandeur, recognition, of creation and passion and freedom. You twist your head around, wanting to look at the man holding you. His face is calm, open and unapologetic. He believes what he’s said. There isn’t a hint of uncertainty or hesitancy within the lines of his cheeks.

And you believe him, too. Steve has the charisma to set the city on fire, an ease to his movements and beauty that’s addicting. Devastatingly handsome. It’s inevitable that the world falls to its knees before him one day.

“Think you’ll ever write a song about me?” It’s meant to be a joke, a tease, but when you turn to face him your nose brushes his cheek. This close, you can count his freckles. The proximity catches your breath.

Steve wraps his entire body around you. The kiss he places at the base of your neck burns. “I think all my songs will be about you, angelface.”

And yet another name, this time accompanied by his fingers digging into your ribcage to get you to squeal out laughter. You twist in his grasp, shrieking at Steve to stop, but he has you right where he wants you.

“Ow!” Steve rips his body away from yours after you land a particularly hard pinch to his arm. He rubs the forming bruise, glaring at you. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re the one who started it!”

He sticks his tongue out and all you can do is roll your eyes at him. Catching your breath, you remember where you are. There are still boxes everywhere. You sigh, bend down, and start sliding them against the wall.

“What are you doing? Don’t do that.” Steve swats you away, offended you’ve even considered moving the boxes yourself.

You blink at him. “Did you just hit me?”

Steve ignores you, focusing on the boxes instead. He stacks them one by one in front of the door. Hair falls in his face and you have to remind yourself to look away. After he’s done, Steve studies the boxes before him, their appearance deceptively multiplied when piled all together.

Dropping his head, he groans, “This is going to suck.”

The two of you will have to carry all the boxes down five flights of stairs and into a taxi that will almost definitely be too small to sit in. In the February snow and midday commute.

“Yup,” you pat Steve’s chest. “It’s a good thing you’re so strong, right?”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Is that how you’re supposed to talk to your subordinate? I mean, I am working for you now, right?”

“Please pick up a box and shut up.”

–

Robin helps you unpack everything in your room. The space itself is beautiful, arguably the biggest room in the apartment. Wood flooring, cream walls, and even a window that overlooks the park. You ask her who died for you to be able to live here, and she confesses that the only reason she and the others didn’t claim your room when their old roommate moved out is because they didn’t feel like keeping the large space clean.

Who knew laziness could get you a giant room with a view?

Except Steve’s room is next to yours, and after a few days of sharing a wall, you quickly realize that one: he brings a new girl over every night, and two: Robin is a liar. Her and Dustin weren’t lazy, they just didn’t want to share a wall with Steve.

And you can’t blame them. The first night it’s jarring hearing the subtle thuds and moans that leak through the thin plaster. The second night, you roll over, hit the wall once to signal to Steve to keep it down, before grabbing your walkman and slipping on headphones.

Soon you learn the signs. The slam of a door, feminine giggles, his breathy voice as he guides them past your room to his. After the second night and your annoyed thud, Steve starts playing music to drown out the unwanted sounds.

The third night, you’re in the kitchen working on some film when the front door slams. You look up at the clock, cursing the late hour. You’d been so engrossed in your work that you forgot that any minute Steve would be home with yet another girl.

They don’t see you at first. Her face is buried in Steve’s neck and he’s caressing her bare skin that her small top doesn’t cover. They’re laughing, slightly intoxicated as they stumble through the living room.

“Wore this just for you,” the girl murmurs against his lips. Her hands yank her top down, to bring his attention to it. “I remember you said you liked green.”

Maybe they aren’t new girls every night, you think. Then, promptly remembering that you aren’t supposed to be here right now you then think, oh God, do I need to duck behind the counter?

Steve doesn’t bother looking down at her top. “Cute,” he says simply. Nothing more. Like he doesn’t care to say anything further.

He tries to kiss her instead, impatient and done with the attempt at conversation. It’s odd seeing him like this. Displaced, almost cold in a calculated way that you suppose can come off as charming.

Only the girl pulls away, obviously displeased with the throwaway comment. Her eyes squint at him, but before she can either tell him to fuck off or to keep kissing her, her unhappy gaze lands on you.

“Who the hell are you?”

You should’ve ducked behind the counter. “I-uh. Live here.”

“I was here last week. You weren’t.”

“Quick turnaround period?” You’re awful with confrontation and Steve isn’t helping, arms crossed and smiling like a goddamn saint while you’re drowning. You glare at him. “A little help would be nice.”

Steve grabs the girl and spins her once, twice, before pulling her into a kiss. Not at all caring that you’re watching, he slips his tongue into her wanting mouth and moans. She clutches his chest, and the second he has her pleading, he pulls away.

“Go wait in my room, I’ll be right there.” He tells her, kissing her again before she can argue. “Promise I’ll make it up to you. Don’t I always?”

The girl sighs, as if he’s taken her ability to say anything else away. She nods at him, starts walking to his room, and she’s gone without another word.

“Charming,” you shake your head at Steve, who now leans against the counter and looks at the film developing. “Not the way I would’ve handled the situation, though.”

“So I wanna get off, doesn’t everyone?” He’s coy, peering over your shoulder and his hair tickles your skin. “New project?”

“Testing aperture settings for Friday.” You point at a grainy photo, ignoring his previous words about getting off. “Too dark. I need to figure out how to get the best lighting out of a dim venue.”

“You’re cute when you try to impress me.”

You pinch his side. “Don’t you have a girl waiting for you?”

“Do I sense jealousy, Y/N?” Steve bites the inside of his cheek, looking you up and down.

“Not in the slightest.”

And there really isn’t any jealousy. You don’t mind that Steve has a different girl in his bed each night; you knew that he was this way before Robin even had to warn you. You saw through him the moment you met him.

You’ve known men like Steve. Their wanting ways and sugar coated praise; he isn’t any different.

The outline of Steve’s figure becomes blurry when he’s with these girls. A thin layer of film over how he normally is, like his words and actions aren’t quite real. Superficial, putting on a show for them that you somehow know he only reserves for the stage.

“Anyways, I’m exhausted.” You rub your eyes, vision blurred from staring at images for hours. You ruffle Steve’s hair fondly. “Try not to keep me up tonight, please.”

He catches your hand that falls and kisses the same spot on your wrist that he’s come to inhabit. Soft eyes and honest lips, he promises you, “whatever you ask, angelface.”

Soft. Steve is always soft with you, genuine to the raw way in which he looks at you. For some reason he’s different this way with you.

“Goodnight, Steve.” Though you linger for just a second. He sees it.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

Tomorrow you’ll inevitably find him in the kitchen making breakfast for the apartment. He’ll be shirtless because he gets hot when he cooks. You’ll see the scratches down his back and the hickeys on his neck and the physical reminder of the marks on Steve’s body will be a reminder to step away.

The flirting is fine. You enjoy being adored by him and making him laugh at your quick responses. Even if the adoration is fake, even if sometimes Steve’s eyes make you wonder how you can capture them with your lens, he’s quickly becoming your best friend. Robin, too. And Dustin and Jonathan and everyone else entangled in your life now because of Steve.

You don’t want to jeopardize this, even if you still aren’t really sure what this is. The Februarys, the apartment, the people within it.

But whatever this is, something tells you that Steve doesn’t want to jeopardize it either.

–

The heat of the apartment coats the loud buzz of the people in the crowded space talking over one another the next night. It’s full capacity in the apartment. Voices mix together and there’s hardly any room to breathe.

Steve had warned you it’d be like this. The night before a performance is always this way: bodies crammed into the apartment, all intoxicated on the rush of figuring out a setlist and chords.

The intoxication leaks into your blood, too. Cheeks aching, you can’t stop smiling. The excitement, the giddy curiosity, now fulfilled as you finally get to see the band in action.

Steve’s curled around you on the couch, his body heat only overheating you more, but his insistence of crawling into every seat you inhabit is easier to let happen than fight. He’s talking animatedly with Robin and Jonathan as they agonize over a list of songs while you and Nancy watch, silent.

“We could play Clear and Void?” Robin suggests to the boys, pencil in her mouth with her eyebrows knit together. “Or maybe Happening New?”

Neither songs are songs you’re familiar with, though you remember Jonathan telling you that the Februarys had a working collection of four of their own songs. The problem is that most venues require a minimum of six for a gig.

“We played both of those last week.” Steve shakes his head. “Isn’t Higgy’s more of a cover venue, anyways? Shouldn’t we just pull from our covers set?”

Jonathan bites his cheek. “I say we do Clear and Void, Happening New, and then mix in a few covers before closing with Limerick. Three of our most popular songs and three covers. Balance it out.”

Steve doesn’t look convinced, but a shout from the corner of the room pulls your attention.

“I’m not crawling through a goddamn cellar to get to our gig!” Max scoffs at Mike, both of them hunched over the kitchen counter with a paper between them.

“Got any other brilliant ideas, then?”

A girl, who you’ve been introduced to as El, places a hand on Mike’s shoulder in what you can only assume is a feeble attempt at calming him down. He tries to say more, but El shakes her head softly, so he curses again and messily erases whatever he’d been writing on the paper.

“This is stupid.” Mike spits out. “Why the hell is twenty-one the deemed age to get shitfaced?”

“Prohibition,” Dustin says, as if it’s obvious. He swings an arm around Will and grins. “What are the odds they make it in?”

“Pretty terrible.”

Lucas, who you've also met tonight, looks wearily at Max and Mike, scared they’ll overhear the taunts. He lowers his voice and turns to his other friends. “Can we not piss them off more? You’re not the ones who have to go home with them.”

Max, however, does hear this. “Insinuate I’m a pain in the ass when I’m angry again, Sinclair. Go on.”

Lucas shuts his mouth and the boys all snicker at his misfortune. Max and Mike go back to their metaphorical drawing board of figuring out how to sneak into a twenty-one and up venue. Their situation is amusing, even if you do feel slightly bad that they have to jump legal hurdles to perform.

“What if we just get Dustin to print us fake IDs?” Mike proposes, a glint in his eyes.

“No!” Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all shout at once.

Mike lets out an obnoxiously loud groan and Max flips off the older adults, though none of them pay them any attention. Instead, they go back to their list of songs and resume their own argument from earlier.

“What do you think, Y/N?”

Steve’s question surprises you. He’s turned to you and he’s expecting a response, wanting your input on a matter that you have no knowledge in. He knows you’re more interested in photography than music, he knows you’re still figuring out the music scene with the Februarys.

Yet Steve still wants to consider your input.

All eyes on you, your dry mouth swallows sticky saliva. The only thing you can think of is the length of Steve’s neck when he recounted a childhood memory to you in your snowy apartment.

“I guess, uh. Cool It Down?” You stumble slightly, worried you’ll embarrass yourself and suggest a song everyone hates.

Steve, however, is so in love with the idea that he practically crawls into your lap to take your face into his hands and kiss your cheek, loud, wet, dramatic and infatuated. “God, I’m in love with that angelface of yours.”

Robin and Nancy look at each other in disgust.

Jonathan doesn’t share this disgust. His eyebrow jumps in interest, watching the two of you. “The Velvet Underground?”

He doesn’t ask as a way to clarify who sings the song. He asks because he knows that the band isn’t the usual music you listen to. He’s had their albums playing before and not once have you ever showed any interest.

“Higgy's once had them play a gig there.” It could be a lie. You aren’t really sure. All you know is that Jonathan seems far too interested in your sudden change in music taste. “That’s why I suggested it.”

“I didn’t know they played there.”

Steve’s nose presses into your neck. “Leave her alone, Byers. She’s a born and bred musical genius. Don’t be jealous.”

Jonathan ducks his head, surrendering, and you exhale a shaky breath. In being a photographer, Jonathan has learned to see the smallest details that often go overlooked. It’s a quality you both share, but now, with his knowing eyes on you, you’re really pissed off he graduated top of your class.

“How should we arrange the chords?” Robin breaks the remaining tension between you and Jonathan. You don’t think she’s even noticed it, but you’re grateful for her nonetheless.

“Chords?” Mike’s head pops up from the crowd of his friends. “Did we get a setlist arranged?”

Robin holds up the list. “Read it and weep, Wheeler. Help us figure out tuning.”

Mike runs over and Max isn’t far behind him. Soon they’re all talking over one another again. You’ve lost the Februarys to the lyrics and chords that swarm around them. They all come alive when they talk about their music. They’re beautiful when they talk about their music.

Nancy catches your eye, thinking what you are. She smiles. You smile back.

A little while later the apartment’s buzz dies down. Mike and the young teens all crowd themselves in Dustin’s room. Robin tells you that they all grew up together in Indiana. Inseparable then, inseparable now.

Steve is with her in the kitchen. She had a craving for ice cream and he had a craving for caramel. Naturally, they’re now rifling through the pantry for sundae ingredients at nearly midnight.

You’re sorting through film cartridges on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan sitting beside you. They’re whispering to themselves, lost in their own world, and you almost forget they’re there until Jonathan’s voice reminds you.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he shifts a bit closer to you so that he can look over your camera set up. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Do you need to borrow any of my equipment?”

You shake your head. “No, I did some test trials a few nights ago and I think I’ve finally figured out the right aperture for the venue. The photos came out pretty good, actually.”

“They were amazing!” Steve butts in, voice carrying from across the room.

Jonathan and Nancy snort and you pretend you didn’t hear him. “As for the plan, I was thinking some behind the scenes photos, you know? Take some of the band while you’re getting ready before the show and then once you’re up I just, I don’t know. Glue myself to the barricade and pray?”

Jonathan hums, pleased with what you’ve come up with, though Nancy pokes your knee. “I’ll be right next to you the whole time, so don’t worry about getting lost in the crowd.”

“Thank god.” Then an idea comes to you. “Oh, what about taking pictures of the crowd, too?”

When Jonathan and Nancy tilt their heads at you, not quite following, you’re quick to explain. “I mean, wouldn’t it be cool to have documentation of a growing crowd? Compare your earlier gigs with hopefully bigger and better ones in the future.”

“I’d kiss your face, but I’m afraid Steve might throw a spoon at me.” Nancy says, voice purposefully loud so that the intended audience will hear.

“I’m armed, Wheeler.” Steve holds a spoon up and glares at her.

You all laugh and she reaches over to squeeze your hands excitedly. “I think documenting the crowd is a brilliant idea.”

Jonathan kisses his thumb, presses the finger to your nose as you giggle, and ruffles your hair. “A stupidly brilliant idea.”

You bat his hand away as Nancy laughs at the two of you. From the kitchen, in between your laughter, you hear Steve’s disgruntled, “What did I say about being armed, Byers?”

–

Higgy's is a shitty venue in an even shittier location with a history so rich and complex that you can’t help but admire its delicate and stained walls as you walk around the dressing room. Signatures from artists like Hendrix and Joplin line the walls. Someone has signed the mirror in thick ink with the words, know your history and then tear it apart.

“Isn’t it incredible?” Nancy murmurs, standing next to you as you both admire the walls.

“It is,” you softly agree. Raising your camera, you take a picture of the mirror. “I can’t believe your boyfriend is performing here.”

“Neither can my boyfriend.”

A pounding noise can be heard from beneath you. You look at Nancy, silently asking her what the hell the sound could be, but she shrugs at you, also confused. The pounding happens again, this time forceful enough to rattle the floor, and you jump back and find that you’d been standing on top of a hidden hatch beneath the purple carpeting.

The hatch’s door swings open, revealing a very angry Mike and Max.

Guess they found a way into the venue, then.

“Did you really have to stand on our escape plan?” The boy sneers, his glare deepening when he sees you and Nancy holding back laughs. “This isn’t at all funny.”

Only he looks so small down below the hidden cellar routes that remain from the prohibition days, and you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing excessively.

“Just help us up.” Max pleads, annoyed and sweaty and covered in god knows what.

Taking pity on them, Nancy offers her hand and helps them crawl out from the hatch of death. “If mom ever asks,” she says to Mike. “Tell her I’m taking really good care of you here in New York.”

“Ha, ha.” He responds drily, though he shrieks in upset when a flash goes off and he realizes you’re taking pictures of his and Max’s situation. “What the fuck, Y/N?”

“Well, children.” You take another photo. “I’m capturing behind the scenes content.”

Max scoffs and steps past you, her shoulder clipping against yours, leaving Nancy to deal with her brother’s outrage so that she can help him get ready. You wish her luck and she waves you off, focusing on Mike now.

Camera in hand, you take pictures of anything that your gaze lingers on. More signatures on the wall. The bands only sign that hangs above the door frame. Robin’s platform sneakers that lay abandoned next to her chair. Steve’s guitar next to the sneakers.

And even though there is so much history within these walls, so many intimate details that you know you want to capture forever, your lens draws you to Steve. Body turned to his, you find him through your viewfinder.

Robin sits at the vanity. Her eyes are smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and the blue of them shine. Steve stands next to her, styling his hair with sticky pomade and hopeless fingers. A silver chain hangs from Steve’s neck, his white t-shirt strains against his back, muscles outline faintly in the dim lighting as he bends towards Robin to tangle his fingers in her hair, too, styling it as she wants.

They don’t see you at first. It isn’t until you’ve brought the camera back up to your face, eye squinting in the viewfinder to focus on the expanse of Steve’s taut back, do they see you. Robin winks into the mirror and Steve tips his head back, smiling lazily at you.

Something tight grips your throat, but you swallow it down.

In the corner Nancy is fixing Jonathan’s jacket and you take a picture of her tender hands around his waist. You photograph Mike and Max tuning their instruments; the girl’s red hair almost glows besides the boy’s fluorescent skin. As Robin and Jonathan go over the setlist for any last minute changes, you take a picture of their downcast heads, their similarly colored hair blurring into one body.

The excitement in the room is tinged with tension, with apprehension, but still there is a breathlessness to it.

Steve watches your every move as you walk around the room. His eyes are a pleasant warmth that simmers on your skin. You take a photo of his hands wrapped around his blue guitar neck. His fingers picking at the strings. His lips humming a song.

He lets you.

“Five more minutes.” A man, tall and large, knocks on the dressing room door. “Get ready.”

The static in the air multiplies at the announcement. Steve jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands. “Alright, everyone. You know the drill.”

They fall into formation. Jonathan, Mike, Max, and Robin all in a circle facing Steve.

He brings his arms around them, forcing them into a huddle. Their eyes are bright and smiles wide and you take one final photo of them, just like this, just like little kids, grinning mischievously at one another and flushed faces.

“It’s just us.” Steve tells them. “Just us up there on stage. No one else. Not one fucking any person but us.”

They repeat him. Just us. Just us just us just us.

Steve licks his lips at the sound, coating the cheshire smile on his face. He leans closer, impossibly closer to his bandmates, words edging his lips as they wait, dangling before them, desperate, waiting, before finally, finally–

“Showtime.”

–

The cold metal of the barrier digs into your stomach. Nancy stands next to you, her own body flush against the railing that separates the barricade from the main stage. The small section is reserved only for you and Nancy, separate from the rest of the crowd, yet hardly big enough for the two of you to stand comfortably.

Loud, disorienting noise surrounds you. Higgy's is one of those smaller venues that insists on cramming as many people as possible inside. Your heartbeat pounds along to the sound of drunken conversation and Nancy’s reassuring glances.

“You ready?” She shouts into your ear, barely heard above the crowd.

“Not at all,” you admit to her. Your camera is poised in your hands. You’re anxious to see the Februarys perform, to see who exactly you’ve chanced your career on. “I swear to god, if Steve can’t sing I’m making him pay me double what he’s already–”

Your words get drowned out by a deafening wave of cheers and screams. The sound vibrates your skin, rattles your bones, and when you look up, all you see is the stage flooding with color as Steve and the others fill it.

Jonathan sits at his drum set, its white reflecting the stage’s fluorescent purple lighting. Max plugs her bass to an amp and its deep maroon hue ignites the dark around her. Next to her Mike’s sage green electric guitar makes a small click sound as he connects it to its own powersource. Robin places herself behind her keyboard, its effervescent multitude of colors that she’s painted onto its body a commotion of everything that exudes who she is.

And then there’s Steve, standing front and center on the stage, holding the same acoustic guitar you saw in his room the day you met him. Dark blue, its edges black, the fingers wrapped around it tanned and rough.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” Steve grabs the mic, still engulfed in the colors. You think you see him smile at the crowd’s excited response. The flash of his white teeth vivid against his pink mouth.

Steve extends his arms out towards the band. “Over here we have Robin Buckley on keyboard,” she playfully bows. “Jonathan Byers on drums,” deft fingers twirl drumsticks before colliding them onto cymbals. “Playing bass we have Max Mayfield,” the girl smiles coolly at the crowd, completely at ease. “And Mike Wheeler on electric guitar,” he twists the instrument and releases a cacophony of sound and the venue explodes into howls.

“And finally,” Steve presses his mouth against the mic again, eyes only on the crowd. He lets his words hang, the cheers become feminine, the howls become wanting. He laughs at the reaction. The sound is infectious. The flex of his arms ripples in the lighting. The beauty of his features only melts into the air, cages your lungs, and you see, in the end, just what every girl he takes to bed sees.

Only when he has the crowd in the palm of his hand does he finally introduce himself, “I’m Steve Harrington.”

Your voice joins the screaming chorus and Steve grabs the mic with both hands and shouts, “We’re the Februarys, let’s go!”

No buildup, no anticipation, the band dives right into their first song.

And they’re fucking incredible. They flow together well, losing themselves in the songs and chords they’ve created, and it isn’t their talent that makes you believe they’ll be a sensation one day. It’s the genuine compassion they have for one another on stage.

Steve and Robin trade off on vocals easily, without any mixed cues or forgotten lyrics. Steve never strays away from her during the entire performance, always right next to her, always sharing his mic with her just because he can, because he enjoys her presence.

Mike and Max harmonize and their voices mix so well together that you’re momentarily stunned. During every song Mike plays his chords to Jonathan, always looking to the older boy for a reaction, always eager to please, and Jonathan plays right back to him.

Max and Robin do an intricate handshake between the songs. The quick movement of their hands are a blur on stage but their smiles are vibrant and saturated in clarity.

The Februarys are addicting to watch, they’re indescribable, even, but Steve is too unspoken to even capture on camera.

His body sways with the beat, singing in a whiskey colored tone that hits you like a sucker punch to the heart. The dip of his nose runs against the mic’s edge. The veins in his hands contrasted by the flash of lights.

You take what feels like endless pictures.

Your film roll becomes overwhelmed with images of the crowd, alive and swarming to get closer to the stage. With images of Steve, beautiful and raw. Nancy and her fondness and pride watching Jonathan. Max’s hands interlaced with Robin’s during their handshakes. Robin’s pink streaks in her hair and their vibrancy in the purple light.

More, your body screams at you, humming with the images that you’re aching to capture. More, more, more.

The lights shine down and you crawl over the security barrier, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder. Nancy doesn’t realize what you’re doing until your body is already over the railing. You think she calls out to you, but you’re gone before you can question what the hell you’re doing.

A security guard steps towards you but you quickly flash him the flimsy VIP badge you and Nancy were given when you were placed into the security area.

You press against the edge of the stage with your camera angled up and as close as physically possible to the music.

Steve finds you immediately.

He bends down, peers over the edge of the stage as he continues to sing. He’s dripping in sweat and his t-shirt clings to his wet skin. His chest heaves every lyric and his voice, this close, this full, makes you bite your lip to steady your shaking hands.

“Don’t you know, honey, you can get it so fast?” He sings into the camera, silver chain dangling in front of the lens. He’s close enough for you to smell, to feel the heat of his body as he performs. “But of course, you know it makes no difference to me.”

Steve sings into the camera, looks right through its lens, finds your eyes through its viewfinder.

He’s performing for you.

Only for you.

–

In the dim, cramped hallway that connects the dressing rooms to the main stage, you wait with Nancy after the show. You’re both exhilarated and still riding the post concert high and you’re showing her all your pictures and she’s breathless and her hair is wild and you don’t think you’ll ever get used to this type of adrenaline.

A mixture of cheers and celebratory shouts echo down the hall and you hear, before you see, the Februarys returning. They’re equally drunk on the adrenaline that courses through your veins.

“Did you see that?” Mike flies straight to Nancy, a little kid in his older sister’s arms. “I swear, the crowd was a fucking monster.”

Jonathan is by Nancy’s side in an instant, throwing his arms around her and joining Mike’s excited ramblings.

“They were singing our songs!” Robin screeches at the top of her lungs as she runs straight towards you, Max not far behind. “Y/N, did you hear them? God, please tell me you took a picture of the crowd–”

Suddenly you’re weightless, feet lifting from the ground as your body spins recklessly around. You scream, hands clutching your camera in alarm, until a rough and familiar voice kisses into your ear, “Angelface.”

“Steve!” You hit his arms playfully, belly full of laughter. “Put me down!”

“I couldn’t take my eyes off of you all night,” his hands slide down your waist and your feet touch the ground once more. “Christ, you look fucking amazing in the purple lights.”

Standing on the tips of your toes, you fix the messy pieces of Steve’s hair. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the entire night, I mean, look,” giddy, you shove a small camera in his face. “I shot some digital, I knew you’d be too impatient for the film to develop. And as much as I hate to admit it, the stage loves you.”

Steve’s mouth parts, momentarily surprised you’ve done this small, unnecessary thing for him. You only agreed to shoot the band in film, that was all they could afford to pay you for, and yet here you are, once again surprising him.

“God, you’re my favorite fucking person ever.” Steve hungrily grabs the device, licking his lips. He flicks through the images in a maddening frenzy and his heartbeat almost deafens his ears. “Holy shit, I look like a rockstar.”

He says it as if to gloat, to exude your talent once more, but deep down, Steve’s stomach twists a feeling he’s never felt before. Screaming crowds and late night lyrics felt cliche, ingenuine, but now looking at the pictures you’ve provided solely for him, this is the first time he’s ever truly felt like a rockstar.

Your perfume invades Steve’s senses. Your cheek presses against his bicep and he can feel your grin. You point to his face in one of the pictures. “You get really red when you perform.”

“I’m going to pretend that’s your poor attempt at flirting with me.”

You laugh. “No, it wasn’t. You get all rosie,” you look up at him and your smile softens slightly, more tender, delicate. “I think it’s cute.”

“Rosie, huh?” Steve’s heartbeat spikes again. The haze your perfume has left him in threatens to overspill into his wandering hands. His eyes wander to your lips; you see it.

“Share with the class, Harrington,” Robin snatches the camera from him. “Quit hogging Y/N’s talent.”

Steve immediately tries to grab the camera, but Robin is fast. She runs to the others, ducks behind Jonathan, and Steve glares at her. “Buckley, I wasn’t done–”

“Let them look, Steve.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling him back. “You’re not the only one paying me, you know.”

Steve wants to roll his eyes, to say that actually your pay comes out of his bank account, but then he sees the pure joy in your eyes as you watch the Februarys pour over the photos. You try to suppress your obvious pride by biting your lip and all arguments die in his throat.

There aren't a lot of pictures, not nearly as many as you’re sure you took on your film camera, but watching the band’s eyes light up as they see your work is like molten chocolate coating your stomach. Syrupy and indulgent and lovely.

“I’m framing this one,” Robin announces, holding the camera up. “Because holy fuck do my tits look great from this angle.”

“Wasn’t my artistic intent, but please feel free to frame your tits.”

Max points to an image of her with her eyes closed, fingers soft and poised over the bass strings. “I look so… holy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way, right?”

“I think so.”

“Good enough for me.”

Mike smacks Jonathan’s shoulder, not even bothering to look up from the camera. “Why the hell did you hide Y/N from us for so long?”

Nancy pinches her brother and Jonathan rubs his sore skin, and while he tries to explain that no, he hadn’t been hiding you this whole time, Steve’s lips graze your head and he wraps himself around you, steadying your body that sways with amused and childish laughter.

–

Life becomes a blur of venues and gigs and flashing lights and developing film and Steve and his lips and soft voice humming to himself most mornings.

He’s always awake before the others. Your habit of working on your film late into the night leaves you the only one up when he rises.

It’s become a sort of tradition, spending quiet mornings together. Steve makes you coffee and goes over the film with you from the night before. When he’s done admiring your work, he prepares a lazy breakfast and you sit at the counter and listen to his soft hums.

“What do you think of the lyric, ‘left for want and wanting’?” Steve asks you one morning, the sizzle of eggs on the greased pan threatening to burn his exposed chest.

“Is it a play on ‘left for want and nothing?’” He nods and you tilt your head. “I think I like it, though Robin might say it’s redundant.”

Steve sighs. “Every time I show her what I’ve written it’s like sophomore English all over again.”

His annoyance makes you laugh, though you do pity him. Following the gig at Higgy's, Steve and the others decided that they needed more than their four original songs. The crowds are getting bigger, demanding more than just covers and a handful of songs.

With this demand came late night bickering between Steve and Robin over lyrics and chord progressions and, more often than not, Mike frantically running down to the apartment at odd times with a line he’s thought of to insist they write it down.

“If it’s any consolation, I like the stuff you guys are coming up with.” Steve and Robin are a good team and Mike’s sudden strikes of inspiration only add to their music. From the little you’ve heard, the new songs are already more mature, even better, than their old ones.

“You’re biased,” Steve sets a plate down in front of you and kisses your cheek. “You’re supposed to like everything I do.”

“The only thing I like about you is your face, rosie.”

Steve snorts, going back to the stove so that Dustin and Robin have their own meals to wake up to, and a comfortable silence falls over the two of you once more.

In the blur of gigs and venues and music comes another blur of barely legal teens and their symphony of adolescence.

Max and Lucas stop by the apartment often with El in tow. Somehow Will and Mike are never far behind despite having their own apartment upstairs.

“Why do you guys always take over my apartment? Why can’t you go upstairs?” You ask the teens, eyeing your kitchen counter that has been buried underneath mounds of school assignments.

“We like it here better.” Will shrugs. “Plus, you and Dustin help us with our work.”

You and Dustin do, unfortunately, enjoy helping them figure out math problems and essays, so you can’t really argue with that logic.

Dustin becomes your accomplice in more than just assignments, though. Being the only one not in the Februarys, he’s your solace when the apartment fills with Mike and Steve arguing with Robin over a chorus or bridge or whatever else they’re stuck on that night.

“If I didn’t enjoy the idea of knowing rockstars, I would’ve moved out by now.” Dustin pounds on his bedroom wall, connected to Robin’s, where yet another argument floods the silence, and shouts, “Knock it off!”

A thud, then a door slams, before Steve comes barreling into the room and collapses at your side. “Robin said I’m trying too hard with my lyrics.”

“Oh, sure, come right in.”

Steve ignores Dustin’s sarcasm and pouts at you. “I mean, can you believe her? Me? Trying too hard?”

Then Robin launches into the room, nearly trips on the wires that litter the floor. “He’s too in his head right now! The songs all sound like slimy poetry!”

You frown. “Isn’t that what songs are–”

“You guys got rid of my seafoam gloom line?” Mike’s agitated voice is the only warning the precedes his stumbling presence into the already overflowing bedroom and yet another argument rises between the three band members.

Dustin is pinching the bridge of his nose and you’re sympathetic to his lost cause of a room. Standing up, you grab his hand. “C’mon, let’s hide out in my room. My door at least has a lock.”

“You’re leaving me?” Steve cries out, betrayed, but his voice is muffled by the door’s closing.

A lot of nights follow a pattern like this, bickering between friends, torn scraps of paper left throughout the apartment, slamming doors and laughter that follows. Sometimes the monotony is broken by Jonathan’s comforting presence helping you develop the film as Nancy brews tea.

Tonight is like any other night. Robin has gone to bed, Mike left with his sister and Jonathan a while ago, Dustin is in his room hunched over a project for school, and Steve is in your bed, tired fingers plucking over guitar strings as you go over your photos from a gig the night before.

Along the walls of your room are a series of photos, some film, some digital, varying in size and shape. Though some of the images are from recent performances, most aren’t even of the Februarys themselves.

One photo is of Dustin laughing about something with Will. There’s a few of Max, one with her hand shyly clasped in Lucas’ as they watch a movie. Multiple images are of Robin and Steve, always eager to pose for you whenever your camera is near. Nancy, her beautiful side profile admiring Jonathan.

Your room has become a collection of images of everyone you love, and slowly, it becomes Steve’s room, too.

He tells you he prefers your room over his because it’s cleaner, though really you know it’s because he also enjoys being surrounded by everyone he loves.

Soft acoustic notes float through the room. The silence is comfortable, as it always is with Steve. His eyes are closed and he simply plays whatever comes to mind. He’s the most at ease when he’s playing music, and truthfully, tucked in your bed with his hair framing his face, you think he’s the most beautiful this way.

“I have a question.” Steve rolls his head to look at you. The song he’s playing doesn’t waver and this act of talent, albeit small, still amazes you.

“When don’t you have a question?”

He pokes your thigh. “Be nice, it’s a serious question.”

Placing your film down, you give him your attention. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s up?”

Steve places his guitar down and rolls onto his side. He stares up with tired eyes and he hesitates for a moment. Opens his mouth, closes it, looks away.

“Steve?” You don’t like the uncharacteristic hesitancy.

Sighing, he faces you again. “Why did you take this job?”

Your confusion must spill over your face because Steve inhales and tries again, tries to articulate something that you can tell has been bothering him for a while. “What I mean is, why did you decide to put your faith in the band? Work for shit pay, live with complete strangers? Aren’t you, I don’t know, worried that we’ve somehow jeopardized your career by making you stay?”

A part of you wants to deflect, to make a joke about how you never really had a career anyways. Except Steve is looking up at you and you see a flicker of insecurity in his eyes, doubt that has never been there before.

“Because,” you tell him, easily and without any doubt yourself. “One day everyone will know your name. You’ll be known as Steve Harrington, lead member of the Februarys, a band that will be remembered for generations to come.”

You reach out, tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. “And, selfishly, I want to be a part of the history you make. Even if only as the photographer.”

“You really believe that?” His golden smile is bashful.

“I do,” your lips fall to his cheek, a fluttering reassurance. “The Februarys, you guys are special. There’s something in your band. Something good. I can feel it.”

Steve grabs your ankle, skims the flesh there with the pad of his thumb. He watches himself trace your skin, smiling still golden and youthful. “I can feel it, too,” he admits to you as if it’s a secret. “Thank you, you know. For believing in us.”

Removing your ankle from his grasp, you curl your body into itself, falling against his chest, forgetting about the photos and guitar and simply laying on him. Listening to his heartbeat. Music somehow innate within him.

“Yeah, well,” you throw your leg over his. “Just don’t forget about me when you’re a rockstar.”

Steve rubs your thigh now. Up and down, slowly, in soothing rhythms. He turns to you, close enough that your noses brush. Your breaths mix, his air becomes yours, and Steve squeezes the skin beneath his palm.

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, so soft that you almost don’t hear it.

But you’re watching his lips. Your ear is pressed over his heart. The swell of his chest anchors your chin. You hear Steve’s promise because it would be impossible not to, and you believe him for these very same reasons as well.

–

After a month of multiple arguments, insults, tears, midnight snack runs, and emotional outbursts, the Februarys’ EP, creatively titled The Februarys, is finished.

“You agonize over these songs for weeks on end and then you name the EP The Februarys?” Dustin makes a face. “Were you too burnt out to think of anything better?”

Robin throws a pillow at him and Steve has to leave the room before he screams.

“Is now a bad time to ask how you guys plan on recording an EP without, you know, a studio or any connections to a studio?” The death glare Robin sends you immediately shuts you up. “Yeah, okay. Bad time.”

The dilemma of not having a studio or even a record label to help produce the EP is quickly solved by the grace of one Jonathan Byers.

“Okay, I have a plan.” He sits everyone down a few nights later, looking like King Arthur at the head of the round table. “I can get us into a studio.”

Max tips her chair back and crosses her arms. “If it involves anything illegal, I’m out. My mom said I can’t keep abusing the family lawyer.”

“You have a family lawyer?”

“Focus, Y/N.” A pen gets thrown at you and Jonathan sets his gaze on Max. “And no, it isn’t illegal. Technically.”

“I’m listening.” Mike leans forward in his seat.

Nancy frowns. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

You nod in agreement, eyeing her brother, to which he scoffs at you both.

Jonathan either doesn’t see this or he simply doesn’t care. “Do you guys remember my old coworker Argyle? It was back when I worked at that deli on fifth.”

Everyone nods, you included. You vaguely remember the stories Jonathan told you about his time at the deli. It was run by an old man who didn’t care about labor rights but in a way that only benefited the employees. Unlimited breaks, a disregard for public health codes, and free food if you worked overtime.

You never set foot in that deli for obvious reasons, though Jonathan loved every second of it.

“Well, turns out he managed to bypass mandatory state drug tests and got a job working security at Major Tom’s.”

A lot of things happen at once.

Robin, who had taken a poorly timed sip of her water, spits it out all over Steve. Cringing at the attack, his knee hits the table, eliciting a pathetic yelp from him. Mike slams his hand on the table and screams something about fate, and Max, who had been tempting the limits of how far her chair could tip back, is so surprised by the news that she leans too far and ends up on the floor.

“Oh, Jesus.” In dire need of damage control, you quickly stand up and help Max off the ground. On your way you toss a roll of paper towels to Steve and tell him to clean himself up.

“Major Tom’s?” He screeches, a wet paper towel hanging from his face.

Jonathan gulps, nods. “Yeah.”

Robin’s rapid breathing borders on hyperventilating and Mike and Max are in stunned awe. Meanwhile, you’re getting ice from the freezer to ease the sting of the girl’s fall, completely caught off guard by everyone’s startled reactions.

“In fear of looking like a moron,” you hand the ice to Max. “What the hell is Major Tom’s?”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, just the most culturally significant recording studio in the world.” Steve sputters a laugh. “It’s where every fucking rock band who’s recorded there becomes a household legend.”

You sit back down. “Oh, so this is like. A pretty big deal.”

“It’s a huge deal!” Robin exclaims. She clasps her hands in front of Jonathan, goes flying to her knees before him. “Byers, light of my life, love of my beloved Nancy Wheeler, apple of my sour eye, please, for the love of god, talk to Argyle.”

He gently grabs her arm and forces her back into her seat. “I thought I told you to stop begging for things like that. It creeps me out.”

“That’s why I do it.”

“Nancy said I need to work on expressing how I’m feeling, and I really dislike that you continue to do something that makes me feel–”

Now it’s Max’s hand that slams down on the table. “Hey! Assholes! Can we go back to Argyle finally being useful?”

“I’ve always thought he was useful.”

“You’re about to be banned from this conversation, Y/N.”

Steve, who has been shockingly quiet throughout all of this, calmly says, “Byers, you need to talk to Argyle.”

“That’s the thing.” Jonathan leans his weight against the table, crosses his arms in a smug manner. He looks around at everyone and shrugs. “I already did. He agreed to sneak us into the studio for three days. For free.”

This time there’s an even bigger reaction and it isn’t until hours later, deep into night with Steve staring up at your bedroom ceiling, does the adrenaline finally die down.

Argyle’s deal with Jonathan is simple. The Februarys get three straight days of studio time. That’s all he can afford to give them before he risks his own job. All they have to do is record, edit, and mix eight songs in three days.

All for the price of Jonathan’s film canister so that he can sneak weed to work.

And while the three day limit seems impossible, it’s more than enough for the band. This is too big of an opportunity to fuck up. They’ll stay up those entire three days, work themselves to the brink of death, if it means that they finally have a chance.

Which is ultimately what ends up happening.

A maddening rush settles into the band’s veins and they spend the rest of the night drawing up a plan.

Day one will be recording all eight songs. Steve won’t say a single word unless needed so that he can preserve his voice. Extra guitar strings will be stashed in Robin’s bag. Bandaids. Aspirin, whatever they can possibly need. No one leaves the studio until the final lyric has been sung and the final chord has faded.

Day two will be the production day. With Mike and Steve mixing the songs, they’ll be at the mercy of Robin, Max, and Jonathan. Everyone gets a say in what happens. Every soundbite, every amplification of bass or keyboard gets approved by everyone. If they don’t agree with each other, they get one veto each. That’s it. There won’t be any time for arguing or stale compromises.

Day three, the final day, will be the last minute edits. They’ll re-record if needed. Change a progression or note. It has to be perfect; it has to feel perfect. There is no other option.

“We’ll see you and Dustin in a few days.” Steve throws a few more things into his bag. He’s called a taxi that will be at the apartment any minute. “I’ll leave some cash so you guys can order out. Don’t miss me too much, alright?”

Dustin looks offended. “Why are you making it sound like Y/N is my babysitter?”

“Because technically she is.”

“I’m eighteen.”

“Which puts the ‘baby’ in ‘babysitter’.”

“Not to interrupt this groundbreaking conversation but,” your bag, which you’d been hiding behind your back since coming into Steve’s room, lands on the bed beside his. “I’m coming with you, Harrington.”

Both Steve and Dustin look at you as if you’re insane.

“You’re leaving me all alone for three days?”

“Thought you didn’t need a babysitter, Henderson?” Dustin closes his mouth and glares at you. Meanwhile, you flash Steve a wide smile. “Any complaints from you?”

“No,” there’s still an odd look on his face. “I mean, definitely not. I get you for three straight days? Heaven. I just… we can’t pay you for whatever pictures you take. It isn’t in our budget. You know that, right?”

“Keep your money,” Steve’s concern of valuing your work melts your skin. “I meant what I told you. I want to be a part of your history. And your first recording session at Major Tom’s? That’s history, rosie.”

Early morning sunlight streaks the hardwood floor of Steve’s room. His guitar is packed away in its case. His bag overflows with more than he probably needs. He’s kneeling on his bed, one leg in front of you, body angled towards yours, and the raw and vulnerable way his eyes soften when he looks at you, it’s worth more than anything he could ever pay you.

“Taxi’s here!” Robin bangs on the doorframe. “Let’s go, wombats.”

Steve tosses your bag and grabs your hand, spinning you as he tugs you out the door. You’re used to his boyish antics by now, but still you laugh like a schoolgirl and follow him wherever.

“So I’m really gonna be alone for three days?” Dustin calls out, following right behind.

“I’ll call Luas and have him stay with you.” You placate. “And Steve will leave even more money for food.”

“No I won’t–”

“Bye, Dustin!” You kiss his head, ruffle his hair, and then extend your arm out towards Steve, palm facing up, expectant. “Cough it up.”

His amused smile betrays his downturned eyebrows. “Why do you treat me like the bank?” “You grew up rich. This is financial compensation for everyone who is poor.”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. It’s economics.”

Steve sighs, knowing he won’t win this fight, and hands the kid an extra five dollars on top of the twenty he’s already left on the counter. “I hate you both.”

“Guys!” Robin’s scream can be heard from the street below. She’s outside the taxi now and her glare can be felt from six stories up. “Let’s. Go.”

“That’s our cue.” Steve grabs your hand, cocks his head at you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

–

Major Tom’s recording studio is deep in the West Village. A few blocks away resides the Hudson. The building itself is small, no more than five floors, yet it’s a maze within its lush walls. Deep red lines the velvet walls. Amber wood flooring, gold plated chandeliers, and records spanning decades.

Similar to Higgy's, so much history can be felt within the walls. Icons from eras passed, their music transcending their vitality.

No one has time to admire the studio’s beauty, though. The second Argyle sneaks everyone inside, they scatter like bugs. Steve runs straight to the first recording booth he finds. Jonathan grabs a drum set base, Max digs through drawers for music stands, and Mike and Robin pick at a locked door to see what’s inside, hoping for at least a few mics.

Knowing better than to get in their way, you stay back. Keep to the shadows in their chaos. All you do is silently take pictures, documenting it all.

Before you know it the band has managed to cram their way into the booth and they’re performing the first song in minutes. Seeing them working together so fluidly is beautiful. Argyle, with limited knowledge of how music production works, monitors the soundboard.

Despite the time constraints and the pressure to get everything right in just one take, Steve performs every song as if he has all the time in the world.

His smooth voice and dropped vowels coat the soft hums of Robin. He moves slowly, his eyes closed for every song. He gets lost in the music and you get lost watching him.

The Februarys finish recording all their songs right as the sun starts to set. By this point, Steve’s voice is raw and the flesh of Max’s fingertips and Mike’s palms are cut up and bleeding. Jonathan has splinters from his drumsticks. Robin’s feet ache from standing.

But they’ve never been more alive.

They talk over each other and surround the soundboard, itching to hear what’s been captured and even more anxious to pick it apart and stitch it back together again.

Throughout the night they tear over melodies and chords. They work until they can hardly keep their eyes open, and still they insist on listening over and over again to the songs. Late into night they take turns sleeping, never allowing for more than two of them to sleep at the same time in fear of losing daylight.

The second day follows this pattern. By the end of the night, they can feel the exhaustion in their bones. And yet, despite this, there has never been more laughter, more quips and tears and sentimental smiles, between them.

The third day is slower, easier. The final stretch. Somehow they manage to stay on track and with only a few more songs to finalize, the energy in the room shifts. The once manic, frenzied static that coated the room becomes mellow, calm, like quiet acceptance.

“We’re really good.” Steve murmurs to you, resting his head beside yours against the wall. He was forced to take a break a while ago and sits down next to you on the ground.

“You are.” Though you’re not sure if you’re affirming a belief of doubt or a belief of quality. “Everything you’ve done is incredible.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice thick with tears. “We’re really good.”

In his brown eyes you see a dream being fulfilled. A realization that more will come from this. That years of sleepless nights and strained vocal cords has amended him this: a quiet moment between childhood friends getting everything they’ve ever wanted.

The final song plays over the speakers. There isn’t a breath released during its entirety. Robin's keynote fades. The key evokes an image of goodbye. The clapping that follows from behind you evokes terror.

Everyone turns around. The room stills.

Leonard Branham, manager and producer of Major Tom’s, stands in the doorway.

He’s a short man, more belly than body. His white hair is almost translucent against his pale skin. Large sunglasses rest on his veiny head. A cigarette dangles from his wrinkled mouth and when he smiles, his teeth are yellowed, aged.

“Well, what do we have here?”

Steve is the first to react, scrambling to his feet. “Mr. Branham, sir, I–”

“Do not.”

The silence turns into terror. For three days the Februarys have been using the studio without explicit permission. They snuck in through the backdoor and illegally used equipment worth thousands.

And now, just as they’ve completed their mad dash to the finish line, the owner of Major Tom’s has caught them, quite literally, red handed.

Maybe Max’s family lawyers will be useful.

“Mr. Leonard, uh. Branham. Sir. Sorry, do I call you sir?” Robin’s squeaky voice of fear rings in your ears. “I-okay. Not important. Can I just ask you not to arrest us–”

“Please don’t arrest us. My sister will kill me and she’s really annoying–”

“I know a good lawyer.”

“God, my dad is an asshole and I know I’m twenty-four but he’s fucking terrifying and–”

“My step dad is a cop, I know my rights–”

Leonard hands up his hands and his loud voice booms, “Enough!”

Silence. Pure, utter silence.

“Jesus H. Christ,” the man puffs out smoke. Flicks the ash onto the expensive carpet like it’s nothing. “You’re not getting arrested, alright? I’ve known you were using my studio since the first day your asses got here. Your little friend over here,” he waves his cigarette at Argyle. “Can’t keep a secret to save his chubby little life.”

“It’s true, dudes.”

Steve’s mouth tightens. “So we’re… fine?”

“Fine?” Leonard cackles. “I don’t know, boy. You tell me!”

“Full transparency, sir, I think I’m about to have a heart attack.”

Leonard exhales more smoke. “Now that, my boy, better be the nerves talking. I don’t sign druggies to the label. It’s a bad image when they kneel over and I’m the one managing them.”

Steve pales and for a split second you really do think he’s having a heart attack. “I-I’m sorry. Did you say sign?”

“Told you. I’ve known you were here the entire time. I have cameras. This equipment cost more than my third fucking divorce.” Leonard kicks at a speaker and huffs. “But that’s besides the point. I’m here because I like you guys. Your songs sound like the colors blue and yellow and I fucking love that they make green. You understand?”

Robin laughs nervously. “Can’t really say I do. Personally.”

“Christ, doesn’t anyone listen these days?” Leonard flicks ash off his cigarette and stares at the group. “I’m giving you guys a chance. I want you to join my label. Is that English enough for you?”

Mike screams. Full on, knees to the ground, screams. Max isn’t any better, joining him immediately and grabbing onto his body to try and support her own failing one.

Robin’s eyes roll back and she nearly faints. Jonathan has to be the one to catch her, because Steve just stands there, eyes wide, shell shocked and unmoving. His entire body tenses up and you wouldn’t be surprised if ends up fainting as well.

In the midst of everyone’s overwhelmed reactions, you’re the only one coherent enough to step forward and shake Leonard’s extended hand.

“I hear you loud and clear, Lenny.” He smiles, impressed with the confidence to call him by his name. “The Februarys will happily sign with you.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Leonard clasps his hand over your intertwined ones, shaking it aggressively.

A weight gets thrown upon you and Steve’s arms tear you from Leonard. He clings onto you from behind, nearly sending you to the floor, as he laughs and cries and screams. He’s in your arms and around your waist and in your neck and your stomach and he’s swallowed entirely by the bliss that erupts in the room.

The beginning of it all.

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dahliamae · 4 months ago

Text

offically

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve panics as he has never had that talk with you, and staying true to form, he overthinks the situation entirely

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, m oral reciving, thigh riding, steve being a nervous sweetheart <3

a/n: idk if i'm happy with this BUT i had to get it out of my mind. also this could be counted as switch!steve so do with that what you will!

series masterlist

A low rumble of thunder echoed outside, and the rain tapped steadily on the classroom windows as Mr Harrington huddled on the floor with his group of second graders.

It was indoor recess—a golden opportunity for this nail-biting Jenga showdown. Steve’s team and the opposing side of giggling kids faced off over a tower stacked higher than it had any right to be, teetering ominously near the top.

Everything else in the room was buzzing with activity—board games and colouring sheets spread out on tables—but the teacher’s full attention was on the wooden blocks in front of him. He was as serious as any professional athlete under stadium lights. Tension thrummed in his chest, and he could swear the kids on the other side were practically holding their breath, too.

“All right,” he murmured, leaning closer and tapping at a lower block. “What are we thinking, guys?”

One of the students on the other team let out a sharp gasp.

“That’s cheating!” She accused, pointing at Steve’s probing finger.

“Not cheating,” he huffed out a laugh. “It’s called strategy.”

He rolled his shoulders back, confidence in his eyes and his heart pounding at the childish competition.

“What does that mean?” A young boy asked with a confused expression.

“Strategy means…” He glanced around the tower, “figuring out how we’re gonna win.”

He sent the kid a playful wink. Instantly, a small chorus of giggles broke out across the table.

“Pick that one!” one of his teammates whispered urgently, pointing to a precariously wedged block near the middle.

“Yeah, bud, I think you’re right,” he agreed, feeling a surge of pride that this little second grader had even braved an opinion in such a pressure-cooker situation.

Without further hesitation, he leaned forward slowly, fingertips tingling with anticipation. The room seemed to hold its breath.

He nudged the block—just a hair’s breadth out of place. It was going smoothly at first, half the block was free—until suddenly, the entire tower swayed and came crashing down with an echoing clatter. Wooden pieces scattered across the carpet as laughter, shrieks, and theatrical groans erupted from all sides.

“That’s your fault!” wailed one of the kids on Steve’s own team, arms flopping in exasperation.

“Mine?” Steve exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up in feigned offense. “You’re the one who told me to pick that block in the first place!”

The child folded his arms, trying to keep a straight face.

“Yeah, but I would’ve done it so it didn’t fall.”

Steve burst into laughter, tossing a block gently back into the box.

“Okay, hot shot. Next time? I’ll let you take the lead.”

He glanced at the clock mounted high on the wall, signalling the end of playtime. With a clap of his hands, he stood tall and called out over the ruckus.

“All right, party people, fun’s over,” he announced. “You’ve got five minutes to get this place looking like it did before we started.”

He fought a grin at the unified chorus of dismayed groans. He raised his brows, crossing his arms in a mock-stern stance.

“If you don’t put it away, next time we don’t play. Got it?”

A smattering of Yes, Mr. Harrington, rang out, and the kids jumped into action. He allowed himself a moment to watch them scatter—tiny hurricanes of energy, racing to scoop up board game pieces, crayons, and Jenga blocks from around the room.

Teaching was his chance to make a difference, sure, but also to indulge in childlike wonder—when everything felt hopeful.

His gaze flicked to the farthest table, the one that always looked like a rainbow explosion had taken place—glue sticks, coloured pens, and tiny scraps of construction paper littered every inch of it.

With a soft chuckle, he strolled over to help. Beginning to collect lids and snapping them onto markers, relishing the simple, grounding routine. One of his quieter students, Alfie, stood nearby, cradling what looked like a small, folded card against his chest.

“Hey, Alfie,” he said gently, tilting his head toward the colourful paper in the boy’s hands. “Whatcha got there?”

Alfie blinked up at him, eyes wide with shyness. He held out the card.

“It’s for Ellie,” he mumbled, voice barely audible over the rustle of paper scraps.

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked. The name tugged at his heart in a different way than usual—he thought briefly of you. Seems like love has been on everyone's minds recently.

Ellie was busy putting them away now, small arms struggling around the stack, and Steve felt a pleasant feeling in his chest at the simple reminder of your first meeting, all spurred on by a simple request for children's reading material. He shook his head as he returned his gaze to his younger student.

“Special occasion?”

The boy’s cheeks pinked as he fiddled with the corner of the card.

“I’m…gonna ask her to be my girlfriend.”

He had to bite back a grin; the pure earnestness was almost too sweet to bear.

“That’s a big step, bud,” he said, tone soft as he screwed the cap onto a glue stick. “You nervous?”

“Kinda.” Alfie’s shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “I’ve never asked someone before.”

There was such bravery in those words that triggered a familiar swell of empathy. He crouched down so he could be eye-level with the kid, giving the card a closer look.

“Well, you’re doing it right.” He said as he got closer. “A nice card? Thoughtful. Girls like that.”

“What if she says no?” Alfie peeked at the little hearts he’d drawn in the corner.

“Then that’s okay,” Steve replied, voice warm and unwavering. “Just means she wasn’t the right one for you.”

The boy studied his own artwork, as if absorbing some ancient wisdom.

“Go put it with the rest of your stuff so it doesn’t get lost,” he patted him gently on the back. “It’s important, right?”

Alfie nodded, teeth catching his bottom lip in a shy smile before he scampered off to tuck the card safely in his cubby.

Steve straightened, scooping scattered crayons into a box. He was keenly aware of the other children zooming past, arms full of supplies and games, but his mind drifted toward a realisation that made him pause.

He had never actually asked you to be his girlfriend. Not in any official sense, anyway.

His thoughts began that familiar racing which was practically muscle memory at this point.

You and him were clearly together—you spent half your evenings with each other, cooking dinner, stealing kisses around your shop, taking turns meeting the other from work. You even called each other on nights when neither of you could slip away from your busy schedules.

And that other day in your kitchen, on the counter, his head between your—

The memory threatened to flood him with heat, and he cleared his throat, forcibly shutting down that train of thought.

There were children present, for crying out loud.

But still, he couldn’t shake the question. Should he say something? Did you even want him to? You’d always been so content with the small gestures—picking up your favorite snack at the movies, leaving a sweet note behind the register.

He’d been out of the dating game for God knows how long, but this—this felt like a crucial step, one that couldn’t be ignored or fumbled.

Running a hand through his hair, he surveyed the classroom. The kids were nearly done, the once-messy tables now growing tidy. He hefted the box of coloured pencils and returned them to their spot on the shelf. In his chest, the question still glimmered, stubborn and insistent.

Are you his girlfriend?

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry all the pent-up yearning in his heart, and wandered back to his desk. As he sank into his chair, he knew this thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Not until he found the right moment to bring it up with you.

And with his luck, it was sure to be more of a challenge than necessary.

Sunday in Hawkins was supposed to be mellow—just a quick coffee, maybe a grocery run—but alas, things don't always go to plan.

You had somehow transformed this simple outing into a mini shopping spree, darting from shop to shop with that almost pleading expression he could never say no to. And while his arms were definitely beginning to ache, he wasn’t one to complain. Not when he got to watch you light up at the sight of each new treasure you found.

He followed you into a cosy little home goods shop, the kind with shelves stacked to the rafters with mismatched antiques, colourful glassware, and odd knickknacks. You drifted to a shelf with an impressive selection of vases—round ones, tall ones, some painted with delicate flowers.

“It’s… very you.” Steve teased safely as you eyed up a beautiful glass vase, soon holding it up for his opinion.

“What?” you shot back, grinning over your shoulder. “You don’t like my interior design choices?”

He shifted the other bags onto one arm, the lingering weight reminding him just how many stops you’d made that afternoon.

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, giving you a playful smirk. “It’s just…do you really need another vase?”

Your shelves were already pretty cluttered, and he just couldn’t see how you could possibly fit anything else up there. And that’s not to say he didn’t like the eclectic style of your flat, but the practicality was something he was finding difficult to ignore. Even with your excited expression.

“Uh, no?” You didn’t miss a beat, your matter-of-fact tone making him roll his eyes. “I want it. There’s a difference.”

“Sound argument,” he conceded as he followed you to the counter, trailing behind you good naturedly.

He had some experience shopping with women, and he learnt pretty fast that questioning the validity of such purchases was a redundant argument.

But hey, if you're happy, so is he—and it meant getting to spend more time with you.

He watched quietly as you paid. He’d tried to do it himself in the first shop you'd visited, but you'd quickly shot him down—not that it stopped him from wanting to. You were rather insistent when you set your mind to something. But that was alright; he’d just have to get creative in the future.

If he really thought about it, this could even count as market research—practice for when he got you something special himself.

As soon as you finished thanking the young woman behind the till and tucked your wallet back into your bag, he swept in, picking up your purchase before you even had the chance to reach for it.

If he couldn't pay with money, he could at least help this way. Besides, he enjoyed the glances he received from people on the street. The approving looks that confirmed he was doing something right.

“You think I shouldn’t have bought that?” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours.

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He relied as he pushed the door open with his shoulder, following behind you once again.

“If it’s too heavy, you can just say that.” You smirked, eyes dancing with mischief.

He let out a small, theatrical huff as he shook his head.

“You’re lucky I like you, y’know that?”

Your face softened, a grin blooming so sweet it made his stomach do a small flip. You hooked your arm through his as he fell in step with you.

“I am lucky,” you said, your voice warm and fond. “And hey, you look good carrying my stuff.”

His cheeks warmed at that, a heat spreading as he basked in the little thrill your words always seemed to ignite. And yes, he had to agree—he did look good carrying your things. He looked like your boyfriend carrying your things. Once again, that same nagging thought resurfaced, the question of whether you two were ‘official’ pulling insistently at the edges of his mind, just as it had all week.

Before he had a chance to vocalise any of his racing thoughts, the clouds that had been looming overhead all afternoon finally decided to make themselves an issue.

A single raindrop splattered onto the tip of your nose. Another hit his arm, quickly followed by a deluge that washed over Hawkins in a matter of seconds. You let out a startled squeal, gripping his sleeve in an attempt to dodge the worst of the sudden downpour.

“Shit—this way,” he called, reaching for your wrist and gently tugging you along. Rain pelted the pavement, soaking through his hair and dampening his jacket. His shoes splashed in gathering puddles, and he could feel you stumbling to keep up, breathless laughter tumbling from your lips.

“Steve!” you gasped, half-exasperated. “The car is in the other direction!”

He cradled the bags protectively to his chest, blinking raindrops from his eyelashes.

“Yeah, well, someone decided to go off track with all those extra stops,” he retorted, voice raised above the hammering rain. “My apartment is closer!”

“Seriously?” you said, eyes widening even as you followed him down a side street. The walkway glistened with water, and your shoes squeaked on the slick pavement.

“Yeah, so follow me if you don’t wanna get drenched,” he insisted. Though you were both already pretty soaked, the idea of shelter felt too good to pass up. There was just one small detail that caused a surge of excitement in your chest.

You’d never been to his apartment before. Not once.

You'd spent plenty of time at your place, curled up together on the sofa after closing, or wandering aimlessly around town—giggling in coffee shops and buying far too many pastries along the way.

But his apartment?

This was new.

It wasn’t like he’d intentionally hidden it from you; it had just never seemed to fit naturally into your plans. Whenever you went on a date, he usually just walked you back to your doorstep. After work, your place was conveniently on his way home. And whenever he was in town, you always seemed to be there, somewhere close by.

His place had simply never come up.

The thought of you stepping into his home—into the space where he felt safest—felt like a huge step. He valued it deeply, the one place where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything other than himself.

Inviting you inside meant sharing a significant part of who he was.

When the two of you finally tumbled inside his apartment, the door slammed shut behind you with a dull thud, muffling the roar of the storm outside. Rainwater dripped from the hems of your clothes, creating a small puddle at your feet. Steve, still balancing your many shopping bags, set them down by the door with a sigh. You might've felt guilty about him carrying everything, but the excitement of being inside his flat quickly overshadowed any lingering worries.

He turned to you, taking in your damp hair and the tiny droplets clinging to your lashes, and felt a gentle tug of tenderness in his chest. Without thinking, he reached out, carefully brushing a few strands away from your forehead, his expression softening with concern.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice light, “you’re drenched.”

A delighted laugh bubbled from your lips as you raked a hand through your soaked hair.

“Yeah, well, so are you.” Your gaze swept over his own waterlogged sweater, making him acutely aware of just how chilled he was.

“Point taken,” he conceded, trying not to shiver. He glanced at the window, where sheets of rain still pounded against the glass. “Hang on, I’ll grab you something dry.”

“Steve, seriously, it’s not—” You moved to protest, arms folded beneath your chest.

He shook his head, a firm but amused glint in his eye.

“You’re gonna catch a cold like that.” His tone was teasing, but he meant every word—he couldn’t bear the thought of you being uncomfortable on his watch. “Just—stay here,” he added, vaguely gesturing for you to wait by the couch.

Without giving you a chance to argue further, he ducked into the short hallway that led to his bedroom. As soon as he was out of your line of sight, he let out a soft exhale and ran a hand through his hair, sending droplets flying, nerves building slightly. You were here, in his space. And rather than scaring him, it filled him with excitement.

The last person he'd brought here had been Robin, but that hadn't felt particularly special—she was around so often, comfortable enough to make herself at home without asking. But now you were his guest, and suddenly he was playing host. It made him giddy, his thoughts drifting to fantasies of coming home to find you already waiting, or casual phone calls where he'd simply just tell you to come over.

He flicked on the bedroom light, mentally cursing the scattered laundry he’d forgotten to fold. The room felt lived in, the walls adorned with movie posters he'd sneakily acquired from his old job, and a modest bookshelf tucked neatly in the corner.

He snatched a dry sweater from the closet for himself—quickly changing out of his soaked one—before rummaging for something comfy in his drawers, settling on a soft, oversized number he hoped would fit you well enough.

As he padded back into the living room, tugging his own fresh change of clothes more into place, he caught you gazing at one of the framed photos on his bookshelf.

You couldn't help yourself as you continued to look at all of his photos, each one turning his space into a gallery of vivid memories. Everywhere your eyes landed was something positive, something bright.

It was clear he had crafted this intentionally—surrounding himself with reminders of joy and comfort, so whenever anxiety or overwhelm crept in, happiness wouldn't be far away. And now, seeing you here in the middle of it all, it felt as though he'd included you in that gentle optimism, too.

“Here,” he said, offering you the bundle of clothing. The jumper practically swallowed his arms—he’d picked the largest one he owned. “It’s probably too big, but at least you’ll be warm.”

“Thanks.” You took it, fingertips skimming the worn fabric.

Then, as casually as if you were in your own home, you peeled off your soaked shirt. He froze, his pulse jumping to his throat. You were still wearing a bra, sure—but you might as well have been waving a neon sign because he couldn’t look away.

In the grand scheme of things, you'd both done far more intimate things together, yet this caught him completely off guard.

A surprise, absolutely, but definitely not an unwelcome one.

“You staring?” You arched a brow at him, a cheeky grin playing on your lips.

He cleared his throat, snapping his gaze to a nearby lamp.

“Uh—no,” he lied, feeling heat flare across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he added, but there was no real bite to his words.

Your laughter came soft and sweet, he felt a fierce ache of pride that you were comfortable enough to joke like this around him. Watching you pull on the jumper, he couldn't help but notice how perfectly it fell just past your hips.

He was just about to tease you—some witty remark about how good you looked in his clothes—but then your fingers moved to the button of your jeans, and his heart nearly short-circuited.

You shimmied out of them, leaving you in nothing but his sweater, which barely concealed your underwear. You held out your wet clothes at arm’s length, droplets pattering onto the floor.

“Can you…” you trailed off, offering him an apologetic smile.

“Yeah,” he said, breath catching. “Y-yeah, of course.”

Gingerly, he took the soggy bundle, hyperaware that his brain was racing at the mere sight of your bare legs. He forced himself to turn away, inhaling a calming breath.

“I’ll put these on the radiator.”

Slipping into the adjoining room—an open doorway that led to a compact kitchen and a laundry nook—he carefully spread your clothes over the warm metal. A burst of thunder rattled the window, shaking him from his smitten spiral. He cleared his throat, ran a towel quickly over his hair, and then made his way back to the living room. You were already curled up on his couch, legs tucked beneath you, your attention drawn to the rain hammering the glass.

Something about the sight—you, looking so relaxed and at home—melted the last of his hesitation.

He sank down beside you, the old couch cushions dipping under his weight.

“Better?” He asked, voice quieter than usual.

You turned, letting your gaze lock with his. “Much better.”

He sighed in relief but had to make a very conscious effort not to stare at the bare skin of your legs, no matter how tempting it was. He glanced away quickly, hoping you hadn't noticed, but when his eyes drifted back to yours, he saw that playful glint in your expression—clear evidence you'd caught him red-handed.

His heart jumped, a little embarrassed, but you weren't going to let him off easy; he knew that mischievous look far too well.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice already betraying him with a slight tremor.

Instead of answering, you shuffled closer. Closer still, until the thin cushion separating you ceased to exist and you were practically pressed against his side.

What were you planning?

“You still cold?” he teased, trying and failing to keep his composure as you inched even nearer.

Sure, it was a silly question—he was the one who felt like his blood was on fire—but the words spilt out before he could rethink them. His own breath caught in his throat as he began to catch onto what was happening.

“Maybe,” you replied, a playful lilt to your voice.

He was about to muster another snarky comeback, maybe tease you about the goosebumps on your legs, but you swung yourself over his lap before he had the chance. You leaned in to sweep away the stray strands clinging to his forehead. The simple gesture sent a warm flush skittering through his veins.

You clearly wanted to play with him.

“Wh-what are you doing?” he managed, voice just a bit hoarse. The way he looks when he’s flustered only urging you to tease him further.

“Nothing,” you murmured, tilting his chin gently upward until his gaze locked with yours. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

The words echoed in his mind, and he blushed so hard that he was sure you could feel the heat rolling off his face.

“I mean—yeah, you—” He stammered, unable to form a coherent response before you leaned down and pressed your lips softly against his.

His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly, hands drifting up to settle on your waist as he held you close. You pulled back just for a moment, your breath fanning across his cheek, and he swallowed thickly in anticipation.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “what are you—”

“I’m saying thank you for today,” you whispered, sliding your mouth over his again. A shiver ran through him at the warmth of your lips, the gentle press of your body against his. His fingers curled in the fabric of his own sweater you were wearing, anchoring you closer.

Your lips trailed a path to his neck then, soft and insistent. His breath hitched, and his mind went blank save for the electric pulse racing through his body. He felt your teeth graze delicately against his skin, and a low groan escaped him, unbidden. The next instant, he was arching up, a rush of heat coursing from his neck all the way down to his toes.

“Gonna let me thank you for real, Steve?” you purred against his ear, followed by a nip that had his vision hazing around the edges.

He was so easy to fluster—it was almost unfair, but you couldn't deny how adorable it made him. Especially when all he could manage was a ragged exhale. The sensation of your lips skewing his ability to think straight.

“Shit,” he mumbled, voice wrecked and hardly recognisable. “I—yeah, yes—please,” he breathed, mind whirling.

Any coherent thought dissolved when you leaned back and studied him, your eyes dark with want.

“Wanna try something,” you murmured, and every nerve in his body lit up at once.

He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Whatever you want.”

And he meant it. He trusted you—completely.

You could take care of him; he knew that deep down.

You slipped off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. A jolt of pure, dizzying shock flared behind his ribcage at the sight, sending his heart into a frenzied rhythm. He blinked, mind scrambling to keep up.

You brushed your fingers gently along his thigh, your movements deliberate and careful—letting him know without words exactly what you were doing. His breath caught softly, grateful that you were communicating so clearly, even if words escaped him entirely right now.

He vaguely registered your hesitation about undressing him, aware you hadn’t quite crossed that bridge yet. Normally, he'd have appreciated your thoughtfulness, but right now, his mind was struggling to concentrate on anything other than your touch.

Your hands were purposeful, nails grazing the denim lightly, and he nearly jolted at the sensation. When you looked up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, he felt an embarrassing hitch in his stomach. You were wearing that almost-innocent expression that never failed to make him want to do anything you asked.

“Look so pretty like this,” you said, voice low and soft as you let your hand creep to the waistband of his jeans.

And he did—eyes blown wide, lips flushed and parted—he was a vision, utterly breathtaking. You couldn't tear your gaze away, captivated by how beautifully undone he looked above you.

“Fuck, angel,” he mumbled, fighting the urge to sink deeper into the cushions. “Can’t just say stuff like that.”

“What?” you teased, tugging gently at the button of his fly. “It’s true.”

A strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. You had his zipper halfway down, and he barely remembered to breathe as you began peeling away the damp denim from his hips.

The thought that this is happening looped wildly in his mind, making it impossible to focus on anything other than the smooth press of your palms against his skin.

Some part of him was still spinning—still tangled up in the swirl of half-voiced questions about what, exactly, you and he were. When your fingers found the elastic of his boxers, he felt his pulse spike. You were about to tug them down, already leaning in closer, when a burst of panic fused with desire in his chest.

“Hey, wait, no—wait, stop,” he blurted, placing a hand gently over yours.

You froze, wide-eyed and contrite.

“Sorry,” you whispered, already starting to withdraw your hand as though you’d touched something forbidden, terrified that you took things too far. “I’m sorry, what did I do?”

Fuck.

“No—no sweetheart, you didn’t—” he rushed to reassure, heart twisting at the worried look on your face. He swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

As you stayed there, still on your knees, hand resting on his thigh, he felt heat flush his cheeks. God, you looked so concerned. And he felt utterly ridiculous for choosing now, of all times, to bring up the one conversation he’d been dancing around for days.

“What are we doing?” he asked, voice cracking on the question.

You blinked up at him, confusion knitting your brow.

Wasn't it obvious?

“Um, I was gonna—” and the embarrassment colouring your cheeks made his stomach clench. You looked as though you thought he was rejecting you—which couldn't have been further from the truth.

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his messy hair.

“Not that—definitely not that,” he clarified, wincing because this was probably the worst way to go about this. “I just…” A groan rumbled in his chest as he struggled to string his thoughts together. “Are we…are we, like, together?”

Silence stretched for a moment, his heart hammering relentlessly in his chest. He watched you carefully, catching the uncertainty in your expression. He knew you weren’t misreading him—you never did. You always seemed one step ahead, taking his hesitation without question and guiding him towards an answer.

Even now, you understood him. You saw past the nervousness, the awkward pause, the apology in his eyes. He was still learning—still figuring out how to put his feelings into words without tripping over them—but you didn’t need him to say it outright. You could read between the lines, pulling meaning from the things he couldn’t quite articulate.

“What do you mean?”

You had an inkling of what he meant, had already pieced it together in the way he looked at you, the way he paused—but hearing him say it, hearing him put it into words, made it all the sweeter.

“I mean…” His frustration with himself flared. He pressed his palms against his eyes, mortified by the timing. “Are we, you know, together?”

There it is.

A knowing smile curved your lips as you leaned in, letting your hand trail just a little higher on his thigh. Slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, and you could practically see the anticipation warring in his expression.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Which part, exactly?” you asked, unable to hide your amusement. “The part where you spend all your free time in my shop? Or the part where you fall asleep on the phone with me practically every night?”

He let out a tortured groan, hiding his burning face in his hands again.

“This is so not how I wanted this conversation to go,” he muttered, shoulders tense even as he recalled the soft memories.

“Oh, wait—was it the part where you carried all my bags today?” You paused, as if savouring how flustered he was, before lowering your voice further. “Or maybe it's the part where you ate me out on the kitchen counter?”

Your words snapped something inside him, and his head lifted sharply, heat rushing straight to his cheeks as he desperately tried to silence the sinful image of you unraveling above him—an image that was both utterly filthy and entirely unhelpful in clearing his scattered brain.

“Stop,” he managed, somewhere between a whine and a protest.

“Alright,” you relented, your grin practically lighting the room as you decided he had been tortured enough. “I’m done. Promise.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, relief tangling with embarrassment.

You tilted your head, eyes still dancing with affection.

“So go on,” you urged softly.

“Huh?”

“Ask me what you want to ask me,” you murmured, guiding his hand to rest against yours on his thigh again, your skin warm beneath his touch, letting him know that you’ve got him.

He stared, trying to corral his thoughts into something understandable. His pulse thrummed through his entire body.

“Are…are you my girlfriend?”

He cringed inwardly, mortified at how childish he sounded. Hell, even his students could probably navigate this conversation better than he was currently butchering it.

“Do you want me to be?” you asked, fingers toying with his own.

“Yes,” he said, maybe more forcefully than he intended. “Yes, I want you to be my girlfriend.”

The reward of hearing him finally ask you officially was more than worth the trial you'd just put him through.

In truth, you had already considered him yours. There was no question of where his heart lay, no doubt that his gaze was fixed solely on you. But this uncertainty had been eating away at him, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts for days. Honestly, you were more than happy to put his mind at ease.

Even if you had a little fun with it first.

“Good,” you cooed, then trailed your palm over the front of his boxers. He shuddered at the sensation, heart flipping as you teased. “Because I’d really like to make my boyfriend feel good," you paused, glancing up to meet his eyes, "if he’ll let me?”

He swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly.

Boyfriend.

The label settled over him like a perfect fit, especially when it came to you. It felt right.

More than that—it felt earned.

After years of therapy, of unlearning, of piecing himself back together, he had finally reached a place where he could be that again. Where he could embody that for you. And God, if he could, he’d shout it from the rooftops—because after everything, he was finally here.

“Anything. Anything you want, just—” His breath came out shaky as he watched you hook your fingers into the waistband and finally ease him free, the sight of your hand on him making his brain sputter out.

He was fully at your mercy, and he knew it.

You freed his cock from his jeans, fingers wrapping around his length with a touch so deliberate it sent a shiver through him. Your strokes were slow, teasing, dragging out his anticipation until he was fighting the urge to buck into your hand. The pace was torturous in the best way, every movement intentional, every flick of your thumb over his tip pulling ragged curses from his lips.

“Please,” he rasped. It felt like an admission—like you’d unraveled him so completely that the only word he could utter was a plea.

The playful glint in your eyes didn’t wane for a second.

“Since you asked so nicely,” you murmured, leaning down to take him into your mouth.

His vision went momentarily white at the initial jolt of pleasure.

“Ah—fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice breaking on the last syllable.

His hand shot out, gripping the couch cushion to keep from tugging you closer too quickly. Every nerve in his body screamed to feel more—to sink deeper into that warm, wet heat of your mouth—but he wanted you in control, you setting the pace. No matter how undone he was becoming.

His heart thundered at the smug little curl of your lips around him, and a full-body shudder tore through him. You’re a fucking minx. The way you thrived off his torment, off every broken sound he made, was downright sinful—and God, he loved it.

“You’re—you’re gonna be the death of me.” He managed to choke out, though there was more desperation than accusation in his tone.

You didn’t answer—only laced your free hand with his, threading your fingers together. That tender gesture clashed beautifully with the wicked rhythm you kept, your mouth sending jolts of pleasure through every inch of him. Intimate and filthy all at once, and the contrast was dizzying.

He squeezed your hand to ground himself, giving another breathless moan that might have sounded embarrassing if he’d been capable of caring about anything other than how good you felt.

When you finally pulled back for air, you looked up at him, flushed and triumphant. The sight knocked the wind right out of him.

“Want you to cum like this,” you murmured, your voice low and sweet as you guided his palm to the side of your face. “Let me make you feel good.”

You settled over him again, lips wrapping around his cock, and his grip tightened involuntarily. This time, he couldn’t fight the broken whine that tore from his throat.

He tried—God, he tried—not to push you too hard, but every brush of your tongue shattered a piece of his self-control. The way his fingers twitched against your cheek and travelled to your hair, urging you deeper and apologising for his urgency.

“You are—” he managed to babble, voice raw. “You—God, always—” The rest of his sentence disintegrated into a choked, needy noise as you quickened your pace. His breathing came in short gasps, and his pulse hammered so fiercely that he felt it in his fingertips.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, the words half-lost. He couldn’t stop the slight thrust of his hips, the heat coiling in his abdomen reaching a breaking point. The blissful pressure threatened to overwhelm him.

“Shit, wait—baby—” His voice broke, hands trembling around you. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” you whispered. And then you were taking him even deeper, pushing him right over that dizzying brink.

It was too much, too intense—pleasure slammed through him, wrenching a ragged cry from his chest that he barely recognised as his own. His body went rigid for a moment, and then he felt it all wash over him in waves that left him trembling. Throughout it all, you held him, your hand entwined with his, guiding him through the spiralling bliss until he finally went boneless against the couch.

When the reeling from the blissful high began to dissipate, he glanced down at you, taking in the sight before he dared to move.

He leaned forward, his elbows braced against his knees so he could meet your gaze on equal footing. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and he had to remind himself to breathe steadily, to find some semblance of composure. Yet the moment his eyes absorbed your flushed cheeks and the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, any hope of calm unravelled.

God, just look at you. By some miracle, you were his—truly, officially his.

“You’re something else, y’know that?” he murmured, voice a little hoarse. There was a soft reverence in his tone, as though he still couldn’t believe his own luck.

A flash of self-satisfaction curved your lips, and before you could respond, he closed the distance. His kiss was as gentle as he could manage, though there was no denying the heat behind it.

You melted into him, arms looping around his neck, your fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. The scent of you—slightly musky from exertion, threaded with the faint warmth of your body wash—made his head spin all over again.

When he guided you onto his lap, you went willingly. The move ended with you straddling his thigh, and the firm press of his denim against your underwear made you jerk in surprise.

He felt the tremor that shivered through you and swallowed down a groan. Despite how tender he was still feeling from his release, an echo of desire began to thrum low in his stomach, and his mind latched on to a new idea—one that had him downright giddy with anticipation.

“Mmm,” you teased, smile dancing on your kiss-bruised lips, “you just figuring that out now?”

He scoffed softly, but the playful glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. Pulling back a fraction, he rested his hands on your waist, tracing small circles into your hips through the fabric of his sweater—your sweater now, technically, but it bore his scent and that fact made him hum with satisfaction.

Your brows furrowed in curiosity as he edged you slightly backward, enough to slip his palms over your hips. Then—so subtly you almost questioned if it was by accident—he dragged you forward over his leg. The friction had your breath hitching, your eyes going wide with recognition when he repeated the motion.

“Oh,” you breathed, voice hitching, and he couldn’t help the slow grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” he rasped, dragging out the syllable, “oh.”

You braced your hands on his shoulders. The lazy confidence unfurling inside him felt new but exhilarating—after all those times you’d teased him into a breathless mess, it was his turn. He watched your cheeks burn hotter, and the awareness sank in that you’d realised exactly what he was planning.

His girlfriend. Official. Right here, perched all pretty on his lap, pliant enough to shatter on his thigh. A possessive thrill coursed through him at the thought. He wanted to make you feel as incredible as you’d just made him.

And from the look in his eyes—the slow, self-assured fire that glowed beneath his lashes—you knew it too. You might’ve been the one teasing him earlier, but by the gleam in his expression, you could tell he wasn’t going to relent until you were undone.

“Steve,” you started, your voice low and edged with apprehension and want.

He merely grinned, letting his hold on your hips tighten, urging you to move again.

“No, angel,” he drawled, mischief lacing his tone. “Don’t back down now.”

He continued guiding your hips, the gentle pressure of his palms keeping you tethered. When you tipped your head back, exposing the graceful line of your throat, he fought the urge to dip in and kiss every inch of skin he saw. Desire coiled low as he watched the way your body moved with each drag across his denim.

“Feel good, baby?” he asked, voice catching with that newly emboldened edge. His gaze swept over your flushed cheeks, your parted lips.

You only managed a strangled murmur that it felt so good, and he smiled—completely enthralled, slightly smug. He was the one rocking you like this, making you whimper and cling to him, and the knowledge shot straight through him like a jolt of adrenaline.

“Gonna get off like this?” he pressed, flexing his thigh more pointedly beneath you. Your only response was a nod, desperate and unequivocal. “Good,” he murmured. “Use me all you want. I’m all yours now, aren’t I?”

It was such a shift from the breathless, near-begging mess he’d been earlier. That single reassurance you’d given him—claiming him—seemed to have flipped a switch inside him.

Steve Harrington never was the type to do anything by halves once he’d given his heart away, and this, right here, was proof he was ready to take care of you just as thoroughly as you’d done for him. He flexed his leg again, and you let out a shaky whine, head lolling back.

“No, none of that,” he chided playfully, giving your thigh a light tap. When your gaze fluttered to his again, he softened ever so slightly. “Keep those eyes on me, alright? Wanna see you.”

Your stomach knotted with need at his command, and you dug your hands into his shoulders for balance. Each roll of your hips sent pulses of molten pleasure through your core, and his steady grip on your body only pushed you closer to the brink. The intensity of his gaze, locked on yours, made it all the more dizzying.

“One day,” he said, breath hitching at your frantic movements, “gonna have you ride me like this.”

“Fuck—Steve,” A quiet gasp escaped you, surprised at how confidently filthy he’d become. Instead of blushing and letting the moment go, he kept going, emboldened by the way your eyes widened.

“Yeah, you like that?” He rasped, “ S’okay to want it, baby, I' know you do.”

You swallowed thickly, clinging to him as you sped up, each stroke of friction bringing you higher, closer. He watched your hands quake slightly where they gripped his sweater.

“Just know you’d take me so well,” he went on, voice rough with longing. His thumb slid across your belly, pressing gently just above the waistband of your underwear. “Gonna feel me right here—can’t wait to see it, gonna look so fucking beautiful, I just know it.”

Your control began to unravel. The pleasure built too high, too fast, and the broken syllables falling from your lips told him everything he needed. He held you steady as you tried to warn him, though it came out garbled, your body tensing in telltale desperation.

“Oh, I know—I know,” he whispered, coaxing you right to the edge. “C’mon, show me, angel. You can let go.”

And with that, you did. Each quiver and wave of your release pulsed against his thigh, the grip you had on his shoulders almost bruising. He welcomed every ounce of it, eyes locked on your face. He wore the raw, awestruck expression of a man witnessing something indescribably precious—like he wanted to imprint this moment forever.

When the tremors finally subsided, you slumped forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. Steve’s arms came up around you in an instant, holding you securely, chest heaving with exertion. He skimmed the back of his knuckles along your spine in soothing strokes, dropping a few featherlight kisses against your hairline.

He sensed the flutter of self-consciousness in the way your cheeks glowed pink as you pulled back, and it only made him grin wider.

“Oh? You shy now?” he teased, voice low.

Your immediate no, came out suspiciously soft, which made him snort. He tugged you closer and felt his heart skip at how you pressed against him so naturally, even through the bashfulness.

“So,” you ventured after a beat, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips, “do you feel better now?”

“Which part?” His mouth quirked up as he asked in a mock-innocent tone. “Because the part where you were on your knees—”

“No, not that,” you groaned, heat creeping up your neck. “Jeez, is that all you keep me around for?”

His laugh was unabashed this time, eyes shining with mischief.

“Well, if I’d known you could do that, I would have asked you a lot sooner,” he bantered back, just to rile you up.

You huffed and moved to stand, but he was quicker, shoving his arm out to stop you in your tracks.

“Wait, wait, no—come back here,” and pulled you back onto his lap with a gentle but insistent tug. His fingers drifting absentmindedly as he traced small patterns into your skin. You realised with a jolt of warmth that he was already more openly affectionate, more physically clingy.

Maybe the relationship label was all he’d needed to show this side of himself.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to ask,” he murmured, tone now serious. “I was being stupid.”

You shook your head and looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck.

“You’re not stupid,” you said softly. “It was…kind of sweet.”

He snorted, a playful scoff, as if unconvinced.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.” But the corner of his mouth quirked up, betraying how relieved he was to hear you say it.

Your eyes drifted to the window then, and you frowned. The steady drumming of rain had quieted, replaced by a gentle, sporadic dripping against the glass. He felt you tense in his arms and immediately straightened, concern flitting across his face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice laced with that newfound protectiveness. He was clearly prepared to fix whatever had put that crease in your brow.

“We should probably head back to the car." You sighed. "Looks like the storm’s over.”

He followed your gaze to the clearing sky, then shook his head.

“We don’t have to,” he said quietly, eyes flicking back to you. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Confusion flickered over your features.

“Steve, you have work tomorrow. It’s Sunday—”

He shrugged, sliding his hands up and down your sides.

“Yeah, but you don’t. And I can…what, pack my bag or something in the morning?” He rolled his eyes in good humour. “It’s not like I need much time to check I got my stickers.”

A small giggle escaped you, and your fingers toyed with the neckline of his sweater. He could tell you weren’t truly convinced, though he also sensed your reluctance came more from courtesy than disinterest. He smoothed a hand over your spine, trying not to beam too much with how badly he wanted you to stay.

“Please?” he added softly, his eyes bright and earnest. “I’m asking nicely.”

A warm flush spread across your cheeks; you chewed on your lower lip as though mulling it over. He recognised you were almost certainly going to agree, so he threw in one last incentive for good measure.

“I can order pizza for dinner.”

That sealed it.

“Sold!” you exclaimed, the tension in your body dissolving instantly.

With a sudden rush of affection, you flung your arms around his neck and buried your face in the crook of his shoulder. He laughed, the sound light and filled with relief, cradling you to him as if you were something precious.

He was really going to have a sleepover with his girlfriend.

His heart fluttered with excitement he didn’t even try to hide. Visions of you sprawled on his couch, rummaging through his secret stash of Family Video flicks, drifted through his mind. He pictured your socked feet propped up on his coffee table as you dozed against his arm. Maybe you’d share a blanket, occasionally sneaking kisses during the slow scenes.

His arms tightened around your waist. Leaning his head against yours, he allowed himself to revel in the moment. Because this was exactly the thing he told himself he would never achieve again.

But here you were—in his arms—proving his theory entirely incorrect.

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