Work Text:
You learn quickly that power doesn’t need to announce itself.
It lives in the way conversations falter when you pass, in the way lockers snap shut a little too fast, in the subtle dip of laughter a half-octave lower. It lives in the way teachers straighten their posture when they say your name, careful not to mispronounce it, careful not to waste your time. Hawkins High knows you before it even knows itself.
Valedictorian: not that you had planned on earning the title. Unofficial, but inevitable. Perfect grades. Perfect attendance. A transcript that looks less like a record of achievement and more like a subtle threat. You don’t campaign for admiration; it comes anyway, trailing behind you like a shadow you never asked for.
You walk the halls with your chin level, pace unhurried. You’ve mastered the art of appearing untouchable. It’s not that you don’t hear the whispers; you do. They just don’t get the satisfaction of knowing it.
Rumors swirl, of course. That you’re cruel. That you think you’re better than everyone else. That you could destroy a reputation with a single sentence. None of it is entirely true, but denying it would require effort, and effort implies concern. You didn’t need to be nice. You were already admired. So you let them believe what they want.
❀
Steve Harrington notices you the same way he notices a storm rolling in: inevitable, unavoidable, slightly terrifying.
He spots you near the trophy case, sunlight catching the edges of your hair, expression unreadable. You don’t look at him. You never do, and somehow that makes it worse. Steve has experience with attention. He’s used to admiration, to people expecting something from him. But you? You expect nothing. You need nothing from anyone.
His palms sweat.
Tommy says you’re mean. Carol says you’re stuck-up. Nancy, once, called you “intense”—a compliment and a warning at once.
Steve doesn’t know what to think. He just knows every time you pass, his chest tightens like he’s bracing for impact.
He imagines speaking to you. In his head, you’d raise an eyebrow. Tilt your head. Dismantle him with a sentence so sharp it’d take years to recover. He can already hear it. Your voice is calm, precise, devastating.
So he does what he does best. He avoids you.
❀
Your locker is three down from the math wing, dented like all the others, except yours never seems cluttered. No loose papers, no half-crumpled flyers. Just color-coded folders and a planner mapped months ahead.
You slide your calculus book into place, shut the door, and catch your reflection in the metal: Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.
A girl nearby whispers your name like it might summon something. You ignore it.
First period passes in a blur. By lunch, you’ve corrected two mistakes on the board, declined an invitation to a party you weren’t going to attend anyway, and reorganized your study schedule for finals months away. You sit at your usual table, not because no one wants to sit with you, but because no one dares.
Across the cafeteria, Steve Harrington pretends not to stare. He’s laughing too loudly at something Tommy says, leaning back as if he owns the place. Confidence like armor. But his eyes keep drifting back to you.
You’re reading while you eat, of course you are. Something thick, well-loved, with a spine just cracked enough to give it away. Steve doesn’t recognize the title. Most people wouldn’t.
You look… normal. Focused. Almost soft. It unsettles him.
❀
The guidance counselor’s office smells like old coffee and printer ink.
You’re here because you were asked, not because you needed to be. Mrs. O’Donnell smiles, the way people smile when relieved a problem has solved itself.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” she says, shuffling papers you don’t need to see. “As always.”
You nod politely. College recommendations, scholarships, futures stretched pristine and demanding.
Then she clears her throat.
“There’s also something else.”
You pause.
“We’re implementing a peer tutoring initiative,” she continues. “Very small. Select students.”
You don’t like the phrasing. “I’d like you to consider participating.”
Consider. Generous. You recognize the expectation wrapped in flattery.
“Who?”
She slides a file across the desk.
Steve Harrington.
The name sits between you, heavier than it should.
“Steve Harrington?” you repeat.
“Yes,” she says quickly. “He’s capable, but he could use academic support.”
You think of the way he avoids your gaze. Pretends not to notice you. Looks like someone told him he was good at one thing so often he forgot he could be good at others.
Inconvenient.
“I have a full schedule,” you say carefully.
“I know,” Mrs. O’Donnell replies. “That’s why I thought of you.”
Of course she did.
❀
Steve finds out the next day in the most humiliating way possible. Mrs. O’Donnell calls him into her office. He already knows he’s in trouble before he sits.
“We’re pairing you with a tutor,” she says.
Steve groans. “Mrs. O’Donnell—”
“They're very accomplished,” she interrupts. “Top of the class. Plus, it’ll help you earn extra credit in class.”
Steve’s stomach drops. You. He doesn’t even bother to listen to the extra credit part, not that it would make him feel better about the whole tutoring thing anyway.
When he leaves the office, the hallway feels narrower. Walls too close. He spots you at your locker, calm as ever, like the universe hasn’t just flipped his life upside down.
A folded slip of paper taped to his binder:
Peer Tutoring Assignment. Library. After school. Thursdays.
He looks up just in time to see you turn the corner. You don’t look back.
You feel it, though. The shift. The inevitability. Something has been set in motion.
Steve Harrington. The boy who watches you like a puzzle he’s afraid to touch. The boy you’re about to know far better than either of you expects.
❀
Steve Harrington has made it exactly three minutes into the library before deciding this was a mistake. He sits at a long wooden table near the back, posture stiff, hands folded like he’s waiting to be interrogated. The textbook was open, but the words stopped making sense. Peer tutoring. With you.
He drags a hand through his hair, checks the clock. Nothing.
He exhales slowly, rehearsing in his head. Hey. No. Too casual. Hi. Worse. Sorry, I’m bad at math—no, that sounds pathetic.
The library doors open. And there you are. You don’t rush. You never rush. You walk in like the space belongs to you, bag slung neatly over one shoulder, expression composed. Sunlight catches your edges like it’s conspiring against him.
Steve straightens. Jesus Christ. They're going to kill me.
You scan the room once. When your eyes land on him, there’s no surprise. Just recognition. Like you already expected this. You approach, set your bag down across from him.
“Hi,” you say.
Steve’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
“Steve Harrington,” you continue, glancing at the paper. “Library. Thursdays.”
He nods far too fast. “Yeah. That’s—yeah. That’s me.” Idiot.
You sit, ankles crossed beneath the table. Calm. Present. Not annoyed, not amused.
“Alright,” you say, setting your notebook down. “What are you working on?”
Steve gestures vaguely at the textbook. “Uh… math.”
You tilt your head. “Which kind?”
He swallows. “The bad kind.”
A small smile creeps onto your face. “Fair enough. Chapter?”
He flips the page too far. “Four. No—five. I think.”
You lean slightly, close enough he can smell the faint scent of your perfume, clean, not sweet. His brain shorts out.
He slides the book toward you. You scan quickly. “Quadratic functions. Did you understand linear equations?”
Steve laughs, nervous. “Define ‘understand.’”
You hum thoughtfully. “Okay. We’ll start there.”
❀
By the third Thursday in a row, Steve Harrington is no longer terrified of the library.
This realization should concern him more than it does. The place still smells like dust and old paper, the overhead lights hum faintly, and the clock near the reference desk ticks too loudly but now, layered over the dread, is something else. Anticipation.
He spots you immediately. Seated at your usual table, notebook open, pen balanced between your fingers, bag tucked neatly beneath your chair. Of course it is. You look up as he approaches, expression neutral until your eyes flick to the clock.
“You’re late,” you say.
Steve checks his watch. “I’m three minutes early.”
You consider it. “I accept your apology.”
He grins. “You’re very forgiving.”
“I’m selective.”
He laughs before he can stop himself. Startled, you glance at him, but only briefly.
You’ve both settled into a rhythm now. He brings the right book. You know the chapter he’s on without asking. There’s an ease in the way you sit across from each other, knees almost (but not quite) brushing under the table. Almost is dangerous.
“You ever think about how weird this is?” Steve asks, leaning back, stretching his arms overhead.
“Define weird,” you reply, tilting your head.
“Like, if someone told me a month ago I’d be voluntarily doing math after school with the scariest person at Hawkins High, I’d have laughed in their face.”
You close your notebook with a soft thud. “Scariest?”
“Absolutely. You have… final boss energy.”
You snort before you can stop yourself. Unguarded. Steve freezes.
“Final boss?” you repeat, shaking your head. “That’s what I’m working with?”
He shrugs. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“You could be a pop quiz.”
You laugh again, fully this time, and the warmth in Steve’s chest spreads like wildfire.
Halfway through the session, Steve gets an answer right on the first try. He blinks at the page, then at you.
“I did it,” he says, shocked by his own competence.
“You did,” you confirm, calm and composed.
“I’m basically a genius,” he boasts.
“Let’s not get carried away,” you tease, tilting your head.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Unclear.”
Your eyes soften, just a fraction.
“You’re… smarter than you think,” you say, then quickly add, “In this. Specifically.”
Steve’s ears burn. “Wow,” he mutters. “Is that a compliment?”
You don’t look at him. “It’s an observation.”
“Sure it is.”
While he works on some problems, you excuse yourself to grab a book from the shelf. Steve watches without thinking, the way you scan titles like you’re searching for old friends, the way your shoulders relax when you find it. You return with a thick paperback tucked under your arm.
“Is that… sci-fi?” he asks.
You pause, just for a second, then shrug. “I contain multitudes.”
“Wait… you? A nerd?”
You scoff. “Says the man who color-codes his notes.”
“That was your idea,” he points out, sheepish.
“And a good one,” you say, matter-of-fact.
He hums. “I’ll admit, it’s kind of hot.”
You choke. “I—what?”
“The notes,” he clarifies. “Not—you. I mean—you’re—”
You’re smiling when he looks up, clearly enjoying this.
“Relax, Harrington. I know what you meant.”
“Oh my God,” he mutters. “Forget I said anything.”
“Impossible.”
The sun dips lower, turning the sky gold and pink. The library grows quieter, more intimate. Steve leans closer without realizing it. You don’t move away. Shoulders brush. Electric.
“You know,” he says softly, “you’re… funny.”
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t laugh much. But when you do, it’s—” He stops. Too much.
“It’s what?” you press.
“Disarming,” he admits.
Silence stretches between you. Then you scoff lightly. “Careful. People might think you like me.”
He meets your gaze. Holds it. “Yeah. That’d be a real problem.”
Your breath catches. When you pack up, the movement is reluctant. Delayed gestures. Lingering glances.
Steve clears his throat. “Hey… this doesn’t suck.”
Your smile is small. “I’ll put that on my résumé.” You pause at the door. “Same time next week.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he replies immediately.
You leave with a quiet smile tugging at your lips. Steve stares at the empty chair. Something has shifted. Warm, terrifying, entirely your fault. And for the first time, he doesn’t want it to stop.
❀
The library is empty the next time Steve arrives. That should have been his first warning.
He pauses just inside the doors. His footsteps echo louder than usual. The sun has dipped low, casting amber shadows. Dust motes float lazily in the light. Five minutes early. Progress, he thinks.
He scans the usual table. Empty.
They forgot. Or worse, they remembered and chose not to come.
Steve sets his bag down, flipping open his notebook, tapping his pen against the page. Then he hears it. A soft clatter, a low hum, the faint click of switches somewhere deeper in the library.
Curiosity gets the better of him. He follows the sound.
You’re in the AV corner. Steve almost doesn’t recognize you. Perched on a stool, sleeves rolled up, hair loosely tied back. Glasses sit low on your nose, reflecting the glow of a projector screen. Wires sprawl across the floor like controlled chaos you command.
“Steve!” Dustin pops up from behind a cart of equipment. “Oh my God, you’re early.”
Steve doesn’t respond. He’s too busy staring.
You mutter under your breath, flipping through a manual. “Dustin, if you touch that cable again, I will unplug your entire future.”
“See? Mom energy,” Dustin grins.
“I am not your mother,” you snap. Steve chokes.
Finally noticing him, you freeze. For half a second, the mask slips. Eyes widen behind the lenses. Posture stiffens. Air shifts.
“Oh. You’re… early,” you say.
“Yeah… I—uh—so are you,” Steve stammers.
Dustin looks between you two. “Wait. You two know each other?”
Steve laughs nervously. “Define know.”
You slide off the stool, reaching for your glasses to put them away. Too late. Steve has seen everything. The competence. The ease. The version of you that isn’t polished for survival.
“This is for the middle school spring showcase,” you explain, gesturing at the projector. “AV needed help.”
Dustin nods. “They’re being modest. They basically fixed the whole setup.”
Steve blinks. “You… do AV?”
You cross your arms. “I’m capable of many things, Harrington.”
“I—yeah,” he says quickly. “I just—thought you hated… this kind of stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Nerd stuff,” Dustin interjects.
“Dustin,” you warn.
Steve winces. “He means—”
“I know what he means,” you say. Beat of silence.
“For what it’s worth,” Steve says carefully, “I think it’s cool.”
You scoff. “Of course you do.”
“No, really. You’re good at it.”
Your gaze sharpens. He’s seeing too much. You finish up quickly, movements precise but tense. Steve helps gather cables, anything to keep his hands busy. Dustin watches, amused.
“You guys are weird,” Dustin finally says.
Steve and you speak at the same time.
“Go home.”
“Mind your business.”
Dustin beams. “Definitely mom and dad.”
You groan. “Get out.”
Left alone, the silence is loud. Steve clears his throat.
“You don’t have to hide it.”
“Hide what?”
“This,” he gestures vaguely. “You.”
You laugh hollowly. “You don’t know me.”
“I’m starting to,” he says softly.
You turn to face him fully. “People like their boxes. They like knowing where to put things. I let them think I’m cold because it’s easier than correcting them.”
Steve nods slowly. “I get that.”
You pause. “You do?”
“They think I’m stupid, shallow, or that I don’t care about anything.”
You study him. Maybe… you misjudged him too.
Eyes meet. Fragile. Electric.
“The glasses,” he says suddenly. “They suit you.”
You blink. “They’re for seeing.”
“Still… they’re good.”
Cheeks warm. “Don’t get used to it. They’re not part of the brand.”
He smiles. “Shame.”
Later, at the table like usual, everything feels different. You’re aware of him, of how close he sits, how carefully he watches. Not afraid, just curious.
Brilliant. Funny. Glasses. I am in so much trouble.
You catch him staring.
“Problem?” you ask.
“Nope. All good. Totally normal,” he says quickly.
You smile faintly. He’s catching on. You’re not sure whether to stop him.
❀
You don’t take your glasses off this time. That’s the first thing Steve notices when you sit down across from him in the library the following Thursday.
They rest low on your nose, familiar now, like you’ve decided not to bother pretending this version of you doesn’t exist. Your notebook is open, pen ready, posture relaxed in a way he hasn’t seen before. There’s something unspoken in your calm, like you’ve carved out a little territory of self-possession and aren’t afraid to guard it.
Steve sits carefully, as if one wrong move might shatter something delicate.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply.
The simplicity of it feels loaded. Like the air itself is aware of what neither of you has admitted aloud.
The work comes easily tonight. Almost secondary. Steve’s improving, really improving, and you tell him as much without qualifying it, without wrapping it in sarcasm.
He ducks his head, embarrassed but pleased. “Don’t let this get around,” he mutters. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
You smile. “Tragic. Mine’s already ruined.”
He laughs softly, and the sound lingers longer than expected. There’s a warmth to it that presses against the subtle tension threading between you.
Halfway through, Steve pauses, pencil hovering over the page.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You don’t look up. “You just did.”
He exhales. “Why me?”
Your pen stills.
“For tutoring,” he clarifies quickly. “I mean, there are a lot of people who need help. Why agree to this?”
You consider the question longer than necessary, letting the quiet tick of the library fill the pause.
“Because,” you say slowly, “you don’t pretend you don’t need it.”
Steve blinks. “That’s… not a great quality.”
“It is,” you insist. “Honesty usually is.”
He swallows, chewing on your words. A beat passes, then quieter: “They don’t think much of me.”
You glance up, curiosity and caution mingling.
“My friends,” he adds, “my parents. Teachers. People in general.”
Your expression softens, the pen paused mid-line.
“They think I peaked already,” he says, forcing a small smile. “I’m just… here to look good.”
“That’s not true,” you say immediately.
He laughs, disbelieving. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” you correct, letting the words hang in the air.
Steve looks at you like you might break something fragile if you speak again. You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, feeling the weight of unspoken truths between you.
“They think I’m heartless,” you say.
Steve frowns. “I don’t.”
“I know,” you reply. “That’s new.”
You stare at the tabletop as you continue, letting your voice soften just enough to show the crack in your usual armor.
“It’s easier if they believe I don’t care. If I don’t want friends. Or affection. Or… anything.”
Steve nods slowly. His pencil hovers uncertainly over his notebook. “Because if you admit you do,” he says, “they can take it away.”
Your eyes flick up to his, surprised by how closely he’s listening. “Yeah,” you whisper.
The clock ticks, small and relentless, and the library seems to shrink around the two of you.
Steve reaches for his notebook, then hesitates. Instead, he slides it aside.
“You know,” he says, trying to sound casual, “I used to think you were terrifying.”
You smirk. “Used to?”
He chuckles. “Okay. Still a little. But now it’s more… impressive.”
“Careful,” you warn. “You’re flirting.”
His ears burn. “Am I?”
You tilt your head. “Are you?”
He meets your gaze.
“Maybe.”
Your breath catches.
You don’t pull away. Instead, you tell him something no one else knows.
“I got my glasses in middle school,” you say suddenly. “I stopped wearing them after people started noticing.”
Steve frowns. “Why would you—”
“Because I didn’t want them to look too closely,” you finish.
Something twists in his chest.
“They don’t change anything,” he says gently.
You smile faintly. “They change how people see me.”
He shakes his head. “Not how I see you.”
The words feel dangerous, intimate, and true. You gather your things too quickly, like proximity is suddenly a risk.
“Same time next week,” you say, voice steady.
Steve nods. “Yeah.”
As you stand, he clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “Thanks. For trusting me.”
You pause. “I don’t do that lightly.”
His smile is soft. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
You leave, heart pounding, each step heavier than the last. Steve stays behind, staring at the empty chair.
They trust me, he thinks.
The realization is heavier than any crush, more terrifying than attraction, because it means this isn’t just a passing thing. It means you’re rewriting each other’s narratives. And neither of you knows how to stop.
❀
You don’t expect to walk into Steve Harrington’s living room and immediately be handed a juice box. Yet here you are.
“Apple or grape?” Steve asks, already juggling too many things at once: his math textbook wedged under one arm, six kids spread across the couch and floor, and a phone balanced between his shoulder and ear. His hair is slightly mussed, eyes darting between tasks, and there’s a faint crease of stress across his forehead.
“An hour,” Nancy’s voice crackles through the line. “My mom’s rules. They cannot be left alone, but I really need to run this errand with Jonathan And yes, I know you were supposed to study.”
Steve nods furiously. “I can do both.”
There’s a pause. “…Can you?”
“Yes,” he lies, but there’s a certain sincerity in the way he says it, like he’s convincing himself more than anyone else.
Nancy sighs. “You owe me.” The line goes dead.
Steve exhales and looks at you like you might be his last lifeline. “I swear,” he says quickly, “this wasn’t part of the plan.”
You glance around the room—the open textbook, scattered notes, the chaos incarnate. Mike and Lucas are mid-argument over something D&D-adjacent but completely incomprehensible. Dustin asks what a quadratic is and then refuses to accept the answer. Max watches with a skepticism so sharp it could cut glass, and Will flips quietly through a comic, utterly detached from the storm. El sits calmly beside you, observing everything with a detached curiosity.
“I gathered that,” you say evenly. “Midterm?”
He groans, collapsing onto the couch for a second, pencil dangling from his hand. “Tomorrow.”
You wince. “Bold.”
“I didn’t choose the babysitting life,” he mutters. “It chose me.”
Dustin looks up immediately. “You literally did choose it. Traitor.”
Chaos unfolds with a speed and intensity that feels almost operatic. Cups clatter, a pencil rolls across the floor, and a squabble over seating arrangements erupts. Steve’s expression is simultaneously heroic and exasperated.
You step in before he combusts. “Alright,” you say evenly, projecting authority without raising your voice. “New rule. Study hour.”
Everyone stops and stares at you.
“Study hour?” Steve repeats, blinking.
“Yes,” you confirm, looking around at the group of kids. “Sixty minutes. You can survive sixty minutes without chaos. I believe in you.”
Max smirks. “I like them.”
“Thank you,” you reply, letting your voice carry calm and certainty.
Steve watches in awe as you glide across the room, taking control of the pandemonium with an effortless grace. You slide the textbook onto the coffee table, reorganize Steve’s notes in about thirty seconds, and start explaining concepts in language that doesn’t sound like it was written to intimidate teenagers.
“Wait,” Steve says, jaw slack. “That’s it? That’s what that means?”
You nod. “Yes.”
“…I hate math.”
“You hate bad explanations,” you correct.
Dustin leans over, eyes wide. “They’re like… mom.”
You freeze. “I am not—”
“They totally are,” Max interjects, eyes gleaming. “But like… cool mom.”
Steve chokes, face red. You suppress a laugh. The absurdity is too perfect.
El tilts her head thoughtfully. “Steve is dad.”
Silence crashes down. Steve buries his face in his hands.
You stare very intently at the textbook, considering the magnitude of your influence over this small, chaotic ecosystem.
“Okay,” Steve says too fast. “We are not assigning parental roles.”
“You already did,” Dustin says. “You hand out snacks.”
On cue, Steve wordlessly passes you a juice box to distribute. You take it without comment, the weight of the gesture lingering more than you expect.
Later, things settle. Steve works through practice problems with surprising confidence, occasionally glancing at you with a mix of awe and something softer—something like admiration, or maybe fear of how much he’s enjoying watching you command the room. You sit beside him on the floor, your shoulder brushing his occasionally, and each time it happens, he loses his place, the pencil pausing mid-scribble.
“You’re doing fine,” you murmur when he messes up a sign.
“Easy for you to say,” he replies. “You’re terrifyingly competent.”
“That’s my brand,” you quip, and he laughs quietly, a sound that mixes relief and disbelief.
Dustin sprawls nearby. “How many kids do you want?”
Steve nearly drops his pencil. “Why is that relevant?”
“Hypothetically,” Dustin says, eyes gleaming. “For the future.”
Steve scratches the back of his neck. “I dunno. Like… six?”
You glance over. “Six?”
He shrugs, expression serious. “Big family. Seems nice.”
You smile faintly. “Try being Catholic and wanting a hundred.”
Steve freezes. Good with kids. Smart. Funny. Patient with him. His chest tightens.
Max squints. “Yeah. Definitely mom and dad.”
You groan. Steve hides his face in his hands.
When Nancy returns, the kids are calm, Steve’s notes are legible, and the textbook is no longer threatening. Nancy raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”
Steve gestures helplessly. “They saved my academic career.”
Nancy smiles at you. “Thank you.”
You shrug. “Efficiency.”
Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze betrays him.
As everyone files out, Dustin waves. “Bye, mom.”
“Goodnight, Dad,” Max adds, and Steve watches you slip on your jacket, heart racing.
“Hey,” he says softly, voice low, almost hesitant. “Thanks… for everything.”
Your smile is gentle and unguarded. “Anytime, Harrington.”
The door closes behind you. Steve sinks back onto the couch, staring at his notes, realizing he aced the practice problems.
But the real problem is worse.
I want this, he thinks. I want you.
For the first time, he doesn’t know how to pretend he doesn’t.
❀
You told yourself it was casual. A small party at Tina’s. Music, snacks, a chance to see Hawkins from the outside.
Mostly, you were going for Steve.
The moment you step inside, you realize you weren’t ready.
The house smells like soda and late summer air, a mix of excitement and carelessness that hits you in waves. Streamers hang crooked, and teenagers cluster in groups, drinks in hand, voices overlapping in laughter and conversation. The walls shake faintly with bass from the stereo.
And then you see him.
Steve Harrington. Leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at something someone says, perfectly at ease. His hair catches the light just right, the kind of effortless messy-cool you’ve noticed before but never seen in this casual setting. A girl you don’t know leans close, whispering in his ear, and he laughs. A genuine, easy laugh that has never been yours.
Your chest tightens. Your stomach churns. You freeze near the doorway, reluctant to step further. The noise of the party suddenly feels like it’s pressing in, suffocating.
Nancy spots you immediately. “Oh! You came!”
You force a small smile, your throat tight. “Yeah. Just… stopping by.”
Steve notices eventually. His grin falters slightly, eyes flicking toward you. Something in his posture stiffens. But he doesn’t move toward you. Doesn’t call your name. He continues talking, laughing with her. The girl’s hand brushes his arm, the casual familiarity of it making your chest tighten further.
Of course it does.
Throughout the night, you drift through the party, keeping a careful distance, watching him in small snapshots. Someone nudges him. “Hey, have you met the new kid? They’re… kind of scary, in a good way.” It’s almost sarcastic.
Steve laughs awkwardly, letting the comment pass, letting you pass, without acknowledging you. Your stomach twists, sharp and cold. Every laugh he shares, every careless brush of his hand with her—it feels like a deliberate exclusion.
You try to move closer, hoping for some acknowledgment.
“Steve,” you murmur, voice low.
He glances over, face unreadable.
You step forward, heart hammering. “Hey—”
The girl interrupts, laughing, leaning closer.
He smiles at her.
Your hands curl into fists, nails pressing into your palms.
“You okay?” Nancy asks, eyes sharp.
You force a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”
Every word he exchanges, every tilt of his head in her direction, it’s a knife. You’re not even sure why it makes you so angry. You want to vanish before you say something you’ll regret, but your feet won’t move. You’re trapped by your own heart, tangled in the way he tilts his head when he laughs, the warmth in his voice, none of which is meant for you.
Finally, the girl drifts away, distracted by the snack table. Steve’s eyes catch yours, but still, he says nothing. And it hits you: he has no idea you came just for him. He doesn’t know that you saw everything.
Moments later, you leave, stepping out into the quiet night, letting the door shut behind you. Steve stands frozen inside, confused, heart tight. He has no idea how close you came, or how deeply the sting of being overlooked cuts you. And now… things are different.
❀
The library feels smaller than usual.
You slip in, backpack tight against your side, avoiding his eyes. The chairs, the hum of the fluorescent lights, even the faint smell of old paper—all of it used to feel safe. Now, it feels like a stage.
Steve is already there, scribbling in his notebook. He glances up as you drop your bag, offering a small, hesitant smile. You don’t return it. Silence stretches between you, thick and uncomfortable.
“Late,” he mutters, voice low.
“Traffic,” you reply automatically, clipped, arms hugging your notebook.
He blinks. “Right. Traffic.”
The work begins, but it’s different. Every correction, every instruction from you is sharper, colder than usual. You hold nothing back, masking the hurt from the party in stern efficiency.
“Steve,” you snap when he miswrites a number. “Check your work. Again.”
He freezes. “Right. Okay.”
“Basic algebra,” you add, voice clipped.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”
And yet… he can’t stop noticing the little things. The way your hair falls slightly into your glasses. The crease in your notebook. The tap of your foot against the floor as you concentrate. Every small, intimate habit that used to make his chest tighten now feels impossibly far away.
I screwed up, he thinks. I should’ve said something. Anything.
“Why are you so quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice low.
You stiffen. “Why are you asking?”
Steve swallows. “I dunno… it’s weird. We used to—”
“Used to what?” you echo, tone sharper than intended.
“Nothing. Never mind,” he says quickly.
Silence returns. Every problem, every line of work, feels like a battlefield. You correct him too harshly. He apologizes too quickly. Neither of you laughs.
The tension coils around your chest, tight, suffocating. He doesn’t know, you think bitterly. He doesn’t know anything about me.
When the session finally ends, there’s no lingering, no smiles, no jokes.
“See you next week,” you mutter, voice hollow.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, mirroring your tone.
The door closes behind you. Steve stares at the empty chair, pen still in hand, chest aching.
I might have already lost them, he thinks.
❀
You’re at your locker, juggling notebooks and textbooks, trying to organize everything before the next class. One book slips from your grasp. You bend down to grab it, tugging the loose strap of your backpack over your shoulder.
Somewhere behind you, whispers start.
“…Yeah, did you see them at Tina’s the other night?”
“…Totally cold. Heartless. Always fake.”
“…How do people even like them? They don’t care about anyone.”
Your hand freezes mid-reach for your binder. Your chest tightens. The familiar sting of judgment, of misunderstanding, settles in your stomach. You force yourself to ignore it. Focus. Just get your things together.
But your eyes keep flicking over your shoulder.
Steve rounds the corner, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s just finishing a conversation with Nancy, reminding her about Thursday tutoring. His voice carries faintly, but the second he notices your posture—rigid, defensive—his attention snaps entirely to you.
The whispers continue, softer now, almost conspiratorial. His steps falter.
What the hell did they just say about them?
Steve quickens his pace, weaving through the cluster of students as you stand up, your notebook clutched tight, staring at the floor. Your heart hammers, loud enough that you’re certain he can hear it.
“You okay?” he asks quietly as he reaches your locker, voice low enough to be private.
You glance up, forcing a small nod. “…Yeah… just… fine.”
His eyes flick over your shoulder and catch the group of kids a few lockers down. They’re whispering, pointing, looking guilty the moment they meet his gaze. But he doesn’t wait for their approval.
“Hey,” he says, stepping closer to the group, tone sharp, eyes blazing. “Just ‘cause you think you’re better than them doesn’t mean you are.”
The whispers die instantly. A few kids open their mouths, then close them again. Steve doesn’t back down. He doesn’t smile or joke. He just stands there, steady and unyielding.
“They’re smart,” he continues, voice low but controlled, carrying a weight that makes everyone stop and listen. “They’re funny and way cooler than you’ll ever understand.”
Your chest tightens, but this time in a different way—warmth, gratitude, something raw and fierce. You blink, unable to stop yourself from staring at him.
He turns slightly toward you, face still tense, jaw set. His hand gestures vaguely at the group, still gripping his backpack strap. “Dipshits,” he mutters under his breath, soon glancing over at you. “You don’t deserve that.”
Your throat tightens, and for a moment, words fail you. “…Thanks,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
Steve shrugs, awkward, as if it’s nothing, but the flush on his cheeks betrays him. “I just… don’t like people talking about you.”
You’re speechless. All the notebooks, pens, and school chaos around you feel irrelevant. The only thing that matters is him—standing there, defending you, seeing you in a way no one else has.
The group of kids mutters excuses, shuffling away. Steve watches them go, then finally exhales, tension leaving his shoulders in a slow, deliberate exhale.
“Thursday,” he says, voice catching a little as he tries to return to neutral ground, to something routine. “Tutoring. Don’t forget.”
You nod, still dazed, gripping your notebook tighter. “…I won’t.”
He looks at you for a long second, eyes softening, almost hesitant. “Just… don’t let people talk like that about you. Ever. They’re wrong.”
Your lips twitch into a small, almost imperceptible smile. They are wrong.
Your chest warms, heart racing. You want to tell him everything—how seeing him stand up for you makes your chest ache in a way you’ve never felt before—but the words get caught, tangled in something fierce and shy all at once.
Steve notices your small smile and tilts his head slightly, faint amusement breaking through the tension. “You okay?”
You nod, still holding the notebook like a shield. “…Yeah. Better.”
For a moment, you just stand there, the hallway around you fading into the background. Steve’s presence presses in, comforting and strong, the kind of safe space you didn’t know you were craving.
And for the first time in a long time, you feel… seen.
Really seen.
❀
The library is quiet, almost impossibly so. The hum of fluorescent lights and the faint rustle of pages feel louder than usual. You sit across from Steve, your bag still at your feet, textbooks open but untouched.
The words you’ve been holding in your chest all day swirl around your mind, jagged and insistent. You glance down at your notebook, fingers gripping the pen, knowing it won’t help. The words need to come out, and they need to come out now.
“I overheard,” you say, voice low but steady, cutting through the quiet.
Steve freezes mid-scribble, pen hovering over the page. His gaze snaps to yours, confusion and a flash of guilt crossing his face. “What?”
“At Tina’s,” you clarify, cheeks warming, the memory still sharp. “The party. I saw… you with… someone.”
Steve blinks, heart sinking. “…Oh.”
You press on, urgency catching in your throat. “And I know… maybe you didn’t mean anything, but I just… I wanted to be there. For you. And then I saw it, and—”
You break off, gripping the edge of your notebook to keep from shaking. The quiet feels suffocating. Every sound—distant footsteps, the scratch of a pen, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights—anchors you to this moment.
Steve exhales, shoulders slumping slightly. He leans back in the chair, running a hand through his hair, voice low, hesitant. “I… I should’ve said something. I should’ve talked to you right then, instead of… I don’t know… letting it happen.”
You look up, startled, vulnerability cracking through your carefully held mask. “You… you knew?”
He nods slowly, gaze fixed on the table. “I heard what people were saying, and I didn’t… I froze. I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want to… I don’t know. I didn’t want to make it worse. But I regret it. Every second. I wasn’t thinking about you. Just… trying to—”
“Protect my reputation?” you mutter, half-joking, half-bitter.
“Not exactly,” he admits, voice low, quiet enough that it feels intimate. Finally, he meets your eyes. “I was… scared. Scared of messing up with you. Of saying the wrong thing. Of—”
He stops. His swallow is audible. The weight of unspoken words hangs in the air, raw and heavy, almost pressing down on you.
You lean forward slightly, heart hammering. “You were scared… of me?”
“No,” he says quickly, shaking his head, a nervous laugh escaping. “I… I just didn’t know how to… handle how much I… care.”
Your breath catches, chest tightening. For a moment, the library, the quiet, the old smell of books, the fluorescent lights, vanishes. All you can feel is the pull of him, the raw honesty in his gaze.
You swallow and let yourself be honest too. “I care too,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, but steady. “And I hate that I let myself… watch, and assume the worst. I… I thought maybe you didn’t care at all.”
Steve’s lips part slightly, caught between words and disbelief. “I do. I do care. And I hate that I didn’t show it before.”
A pause settles over you both. The kind of pause that stretches the air tight around your chest, making every heartbeat deafening. Every instinct in you says to pull back, to mask yourself again but a smaller, braver voice whispers: not this time.
You exhale, finally letting go of the edge you’ve been holding for weeks. “I didn’t know how to… not be the… mask,” you confess, voice trembling slightly. “The untouchable, the smart, the perfect… thing I’ve been pretending to be. And I think you… you see the real me anyway.”
Steve leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes soft but intense. “I do. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that I do. That I like all of you. Not just the mask.”
You finally smile, small, uncertain, but genuine. Relief washes over you, and the tension that’s been building for weeks melts slightly. “Good. Because I like all of you, too.”
He exhales, a laugh catching somewhere between nerves and relief. “Good,” he mutters, almost to himself, then straightens slightly. “Because I’ve been trying to… I don’t know, wait for the right moment, or figure out how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”
“You’re already sounding like you mean it,” you tease gently, letting your shoulders relax just a bit. “And that’s enough.”
Steve reaches out tentatively, his fingers brushing against yours across the notebook. The contact is electric, tentative, deliberate. You don’t pull away. Instead, you let the warmth settle between you, filling in the spaces that fear and misunderstanding had carved out.
For the first time in weeks, the library doesn’t feel like a stage. It doesn’t feel like a battlefield. It feels like the two of you, honest and real, are finally in sync.
And in that quiet, tentative moment, you both realize: this—whatever it is—is worth risking everything.
❀
Steve’s car is parked just outside the library, angled slightly toward the curb like he didn’t quite know how long he planned to stay. The late sun hangs low, stretching through the windshield and spilling gold and amber across the dashboard and the seats.
Steve lingers next to you by the passenger side door, keys dangling loosely from his fingers. He clears his throat, shifting his weight, eyes flicking anywhere but directly at you.
“Do you want me to… drive you home?” he asks. Casual. Almost too casual. But there’s hesitation tucked into every syllable, like the question itself might crack the fragile bubble surrounding you.
You shrug off your jacket, folding it over your arm, heart thudding just a little too loudly in your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “That’d be nice.”
Something eases in his shoulders. He opens the passenger door for you, an instinct and effortless, and you slide into the seat. The door closes with a soft click, and immediately the scent of him fills the space: clean shampoo, warm skin, something faintly familiar that settles deep in your chest like a memory you didn’t know you had yet.
Steve circles the hood and gets in beside you, the seat creaking slightly under his weight. He glances at you once before looking away again, fingers brushing the steering wheel.
“Long day,” he mutters, reaching for the ignition.
“You think?” you tease lightly, propping your bag on your lap, trying to keep your tone easy even as your pulse thrums. “Being famous and untouchable must be exhausting.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Careful,” he says, eyes flicking toward you. “I might start thinking you’re mocking me.”
“Mocking?” you echo, eyebrow arching. “Me? Never. I’d never.”
He snorts, the sound soft and fond despite himself. As he reaches up to adjust the rearview mirror, his shoulder brushes yours.
It’s brief. Barely anything.
And yet you both freeze for half a heartbeat.
Then he laughs awkwardly, pulling his shoulder back just a fraction. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly, laughing too, though your chest feels tight in a different way now. The warmth of the contact lingers, ghostlike.
“You’re weird,” Steve says, glancing at you with a crooked smile. “You know that, right?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” you reply, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow—accidentally, of course. “But I’ve also been told I have excellent taste in people.”
He groans, tipping his head back dramatically. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself too much.”
You grin, leaning slightly closer, voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial. “I won’t. I’m just stating facts.”
The air between you thickens—charged, heavy, impossible to ignore.
You meet his gaze, holding it this time. For a moment, there’s no teasing. No deflection. Just the two of you, the hum of the car, and all the things you haven’t said out loud yet.
You take a breath, leaning just a little closer, heart hammering. “You know,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos in your chest, “I like you.”
Steve stills completely.
His eyes widen, breath catching like you’ve knocked the air clean out of him. “You… like me?”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “And not like… just a friend.”
His hand twitches toward yours, stopping halfway, fingers flexing like he’s afraid of crossing an invisible line. The tension becomes almost unbearable, stretching thin between you.
You laugh nervously, breaking it. “Guess that means I’m taking the lead.”
Before he can respond—before he can overthink it—you lean in.
Your lips meet his.
It’s soft. Unhurried. Confident in its gentleness.
No fireworks. No dramatics. Just warmth, real and steady, spreading through your chest and settling there like it belongs.
Steve freezes for a fraction of a second, then exhales, his hands lifting uncertainly before settling lightly against your arms. He doesn’t deepen it. Doesn’t rush. He just… stays. Present. Careful. Like he’s memorizing the feeling.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads brush, breath mingling.
“Did…” he whispers, breathless, “did that just happen?”
“Yes,” you say softly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all day. “And I don’t regret it.”
He lets out a laugh you feel more than hear—short, disbelieving, entirely his. “Good. Because I—” He stops himself, cheeks flushing as his fingers drum nervously against his thigh. “Never mind.”
You nudge his shoulder lightly, smiling. “Never mind what?”
He hesitates, eyes forward now. “I’ve been trying not to freak out,” he admits. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
Your grin is small but genuine as you lean closer again, arms brushing. “Yeah? Me neither.”
The contact lingers, deliberate now. His hand hovers near yours, uncertain, and you let the silence stretch—let the moment decide for itself.
❀
In the days that follow, the world doesn’t get any quieter, but your space with Steve does.
You pass each other in the hallways, exchanging small smiles that linger a beat too long. All of your calls have teasing precision, inside jokes that make your stomach flutter. Your elbows brush as you reach for books at your lockers, your hands accidentally meeting over a shared notebook in the library. Every glance, every brush of skin, every soft laugh is a reminder: this isn’t just a fleeting thing. It’s mutual. It’s real.
At lunch, he slides into the bench across from you, casual as ever, but the warmth of his presence presses against your shoulder. “You’re impossible,” he says, teasing but soft, tugging at the edges of a conversation only the two of you understand.
“And you like it,” you reply, letting your knee bump his under the table just a little on purpose.
“Maybe I do,” he murmurs, leaning back and letting his arm rest behind your back, close enough that the warmth is undeniable.
And yet, there’s restraint. No words of love yet, no grand gestures. Just slow, deliberate touches, glances that linger, shared laughter that feels sharper because of the intimacy it hides. Every time he smiles at you, your chest tightens. Every time you joke, he laughs like it’s the only sound that matters.
Each small moment builds. Each brush of fingertips across notebooks or arms feels like a confession, every accidental touch a tiny acknowledgment that you are both completely, utterly aware of the other.
The world outside your quiet bubble—the hallway chaos, the noise of other students, the pressures of school—doesn’t matter. It can wait. Because right now, in these stolen moments, in these soft touches and lingering glances, you know something undeniable:
You like each other.
And it’s terrifying.
And perfect.
❀
The auditorium smells like polished floors and fresh flowers. The air hums with excitement and nerves, a symphony of applause, laughter, and rustling programs. You sit in the first row among your classmates, your cap perched perfectly on your head, tassel swaying slightly with every small movement.
Your fingers drum lightly against your robe, heart racing. Each minute feels like eternity, until you hear your name echo through the speakers.
You feel a sharp pinch in your chest. You adjust your robe, smooth the cap, and take a deep breath. Hands trembling slightly, you step toward the stage, each footstep sounding louder than it should in your own ears. The spotlight hits you, bright and warm, and for a moment, it feels like the entire world has funneled down to this single beam of light. Your heart races uncontrollably.
You’ve got this. Just… be yourself. That’s all anyone really wants.
The microphone feels heavier than it should, like it’s absorbing every ounce of your nervous energy. You glance over the audience, but the familiar blur of faces fades, except for one. Steve Harrington—leaning casually against the back railing, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you like you’re the only person in the room. Pride, awe, something protective—it all shimmers there. The sight steadies you more than anything else.
A small, nervous laugh escapes your lips. “Hi… everyone,” you begin. “I didn’t exactly grow up thinking I’d be standing here today, giving a speech. Honestly, I’m still figuring out what I’m supposed to say.”
A ripple of chuckles breaks through the audience, and the sound feels like a small wave of warmth washing over your nerves. You take a deep breath, letting your hands settle on the podium, grounding yourself.
“But… I’ve learned a few things,” you continue, voice soft but gaining strength. “I’ve learned that it’s easy to hide behind a mask. To act as everyone expects you to, to fit into a mold… to be ‘perfect’ in the eyes of others. But being yourself—truly yourself—is harder. And rarer. And worth it.”
Your gaze finds Steve again, and for the first time all day, your chest feels light. The knot of anxiety loosens. “I found someone who… makes me want to be myself. Someone who lets me break out of my shell, even when I’m terrified of what people think. Someone who sees me, the real me, and doesn’t blink. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that finding that person, that kind of love, is the best kind of victory anyone could ask for.”
A hush follows. Then, gentle applause begins, the kind that swells slowly but deliberately, like the audience is savoring your words. The blush creeps over your cheeks, but it’s different this time. Warm, not shameful. Your voice shakes just slightly as you finish.
“So… thank you, to everyone who helped me get here. And to the person who makes me brave enough to be myself… thank you for existing.”
You step back from the podium, heart hammering, and find Steve grinning at you. His hands are tucked in his pockets, but his eyes shine bright, unwavering, like he’s memorizing you in every detail. Relief, pride, and longing shimmer in that single look.
Outside, the sun dips low, casting the school grounds in gold and rose. The crowd bursts into celebration. Caps sail through the air, friends laugh, parents cheer, and you weave through it all until you find him waiting. Leaning casually against the school entrance, he looks impossibly at ease, like he’s been there for this moment the entire time.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, eyes scanning every inch of you. “You killed it.”
You grin, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Yeah, nervous wreck, but… I survived.”
“Not just survived,” he corrects gently, taking a step closer. His gaze roams you, but there’s softness, pride, and something deeper—a slow, quiet awe. “You were… perfect. Brave. Amazing.”
Your chest tightens. You reach for his hand, and when your fingers interlace, his thumb brushes along your knuckles, grounding you. “I had a really good reason to be brave,” you murmur. “You.”
Steve’s grin softens, becoming tender and real. “I’m proud of you,” he says simply. “And…” His voice drops lower, hesitant, unsure. “…I’m really glad you picked me.”
You squeeze his hand, your own voice barely a whisper. “Me too.”
Time slows. Caps swirl above your heads, laughter echoes around you, but for this moment, none of it matters. It’s just the two of you—hands intertwined, hearts aligned, knowing without words that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.
“I promise,” Steve murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “that whatever happens next… we figure it out together.”
You lean into him slightly, breathing in the warmth of his presence. “Promise.”
And as the sunset paints the sky behind him, with the noise of celebration fading into a blur, you think quietly to yourself: Being valedictorian was impressive. Being with Steve Harrington felt like winning.
❀
The sun hangs low over Hawkins, painting the streets gold and warm. Summer has finally arrived, carrying that lazy, easy energy that only small towns seem to possess—kids riding bikes, ice cream trucks jingling down the avenues, the occasional buzz of lawnmowers slicing through the heat. The air is fragrant with freshly cut grass and sun-baked asphalt.
You step out of your front door, backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder, hair messy from a long day of tutoring at the library. The sharp edges of your reputation haven’t dulled—you’re still smart, witty, still capable of making a room go silent with a glance—but there’s a softness now. A warmth that didn’t exist a few months ago. A quiet confidence rooted in knowing someone sees the real you.
And someone is waiting at the end of the sidewalk, leaning casually against his car, eyes scanning until they find you.
Steve Harrington.
He grins as you approach, the sunlight catching highlights in his hair, wind tousling it just so. The way he looks at you now, it’s not admiration anymore. It’s awe, obsession, that slow, deep kind of love that makes his chest ache and his heart hammer whenever you’re near.
“Hey,” he calls, voice light, teasing, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “You’re late.”
You roll your eyes, smirking. “Shocking. Me, late? Never.”
“Mm-hmm,” he says, stepping closer, hands in pockets, leaning just slightly so the sunlight is blocked from your eyes. “You really think you can get away with saying stuff like that and still look that good?”
“I just do,” you reply smoothly, letting the corner of your lips twitch into a grin. “It’s a talent.”
Steve laughs, shaking his head, utterly enraptured. “God, you’re impossible. And somehow… I love it.”
You reach his car, leaning casually against it, backpack sliding down your hip. His hand brushes yours almost by accident—but you let it linger, letting the sun, the heat, the hum of summer make that tiny touch feel like electricity running straight to your chest.
“You know,” he murmurs, low and teasing, “I think I might be obsessed with you.”
“Maybe a little,” you tease back. “But it’s fine. I’ve got a few obsessions myself.”
His grin falters for a heartbeat, enough that you see the heart behind it. “Yeah? And I’m one of them?”
“Absolutely,” you confirm, bumping your shoulder lightly against his.
The days are long and golden. Afternoons drift into lakeside trips, milkshakes at Benny’s, long drives with windows down, music blasting. Laughter spills over everything. Steve is always nearby, absorbing every word, memorizing your laugh, every little habit, the quirks that make you… you.
As the sun sets over the lake, streaking the water in pinks and gold, you sit side by side on the dock, feet dangling over the edge. Steve’s arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves it away.
“I think,” he murmurs, voice soft, slightly awed, “that this… us… It’s kind of perfect. You and me.”
You lean your shoulder against his, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s definitely perfect enough for me.”
He turns slightly, eyes bright, fingers brushing yours deliberately this time. “Perfect enough doesn’t feel like enough. I want… more. I want everything with you.”
You laugh quietly, warm. “I think I can handle that. But you'd better keep up, Harrington. You know I’m still feared.”
“I’ll keep up,” he says, voice full of certainty, devotion, and awe. “And I’ll never get tired of it. Or of you.”
The sun catches his smile perfectly, golden light spilling across his face. For a long, slow moment, there’s nothing else. No school, no chaos, no whispers—just the two of you. Sharp, smart, untouchable, soft. Real.
Finally, you rest your hand against his, letting him hold it. Summer stretches ahead, and for the first time, you don’t feel the need to hide. You’re brilliant, brave, untouchable… and in Steve Harrington, you’ve found someone who loves all of it.
And Steve? He’s utterly and completely obsessed.