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Steve is sitting on the edge of your bed. Legs spread comfortably. You ramble on about human cells and DNA, but Steve gets distracted. Fidgeting with the silver lighter in his pocket.
"A ribosome is made of RNA, which synthesizes protein…" You look up from your textbook, side tracked by the clink—flip sound. Steve keeps flickering his lighter open and closed with his restless fingers.
You finally stop talking and narrow your eyes at him. "Steve," you say. "Can you focus for like two seconds?"
He freezes, mid flick. "What?—I am focusing."
Except he's absolutely not. He shrugs. You didnt buy it, but he does this pathetic puppy dog thing with his eyes. You continue to read the margin of highlighted notes, Steve won't look at you for more than a minute at a time. When he does, you notice he is only watching your lips rather than listening.
"Steve!" You shouted, lunging a pillow at him. He groaned, arms raised in surrender. "What was that for?" he said. "You're totally unfocused right now, and you keep fidgeting like you're about to explode. What is going on with you?"
He sighed. "Okay...fine," he says. Shoulders falling, giving up the act. He looks at you, then looks at the lighter, then back at you again.
"I'm bored." He admits. Soft and boyish.
You blink. "That's it? That's the big dramatic reveal?"
He groans, flopping back on your bed for a second. Then he runs his hands through his hair. "No I mean—I'm bored, and I can't sit still and my brain is doing that thing where it won’t shut up.” He flicks the lighter again. “And I was thinking…” he pauses.
"You were thinking what?" You say. Steve reaches for the text book in your hands, fingers brushing—a lingering touch. He closes the book, putting it aside. You’re not sure what he’s doing, or what he’s up to. For an instant, your fiery eyes search his for an answer.
"Maybe..." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a little bag with something green and definitely illegal inside. "Maybe getting high will make everything shut up for a while."
You stare at it. At him. Then back at it.
His eyes flicker, something daring, like he's waiting to see if you'll take the bait.
"What—no!" You shout, louder than intended. "My mom would kill me," you say. Steve raises his eyebrows. "Your mom's not home." He shrugs.
He tilts his head, this time his eyes are pleading. He bounces the lighter between his fingers. You’re stunned.
"Hey—it's just a little," he says. "We don't have to go crazy or anything, besides I bet this’ll help me ‘focus’."
You stare at him, curiously. You'd thought he was out of his mind. His eyes trace your features and your expression. You were nervous, cheeks flushed, in a cute way.
"...have you ever gotten high before?" Steve asks you. You shake your head, muttering, "No," short and simply.
His knee bounces. He looks at you like he’s trying really hard not to smile.
“What?” he asks. “You seriously never even thought about it?”
You fold your arms. “No, I haven’t thought about it. I don’t wanna get grounded until I’m, like… thirty.”
Steve laughs. “You won’t get grounded. Your mom isn't psychic."
"Whatever," you fire back. "M'not doing it."
He bites his lip to hide a grin, then scoots a little closer on your bed. He flashes a smile, that Steve Harrington smile. “C’mon,” he says, voice dropping into that soft tone he does when he wants something. “I’ve had the world’s longest week, and my brain won’t shut up, and you’re the only person I like being around when I’m losing it.”
You blink. That part wasn’t what you expected. Your cheeks flush a little, you hoped he didn't notice it. He did. He so did. “I just thought… maybe it’d be fun,” he says quickly. “With you. Not alone. Not with the dinguses. Just...” He lifts the bag between two fingers. “Us.”
You stare at him, and he’s giving you this hopeful, restless look, like he’s already halfway committed to this and just waiting for you to meet him there.
“Steve,” you sigh, “I don’t know…”
He leans in, shoulder brushing yours, and whispers like it’s a secret just between you two, “we’ll open the window. We’ll spray air freshener. We’ll eat, like, an entire bag of chips after. Totally untraceable.”
You try not to laugh. “This is a terrible idea.”
He grins. “I know,” he says. “So… is that a yes?”
You stare at him for a long moment. He stares right back, trying not to look hopeful, but failing miserably.
“Steve,” you warn again.
"y/n," he says, eyes wide, like he’s the innocent one here.
You groan and drop your face into your hands. “This is so dumb.”
He nudges your shoulder with his. “But…?”
You peek at him through your fingers. He’s smiling this soft crooked smile like he already knows you’re about to cave.
“…Fine,” you mutter.
Steve freezes.
“Fine as in… ‘fine,’ or fine as in fine?”
“Don’t make me change my mind,” you warn.
He immediately sits up straighter, his smile spreading across his face like he’s trying to hold in the excitement. “Okay. Right. Cool. Chill. I’m chill.”
He is absolutely not chill.
You reach over, snatch the lighter from his hand, and point it at him. “Rules first.”
He raises both eyebrows. “Rules?”
“Yes, rules,” you say, trying to sound authoritative.. though the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth ruins it. “We’re opening the window. And if my room smells like weed, I'm dead." You point at Steve. "And you're dead."
He nods quickly. “Window, check. Airflow, check. No death, ideally.”
"If my mom somehow finds out..”
“She won’t,” he says confidently, walking across your bedroom to push the window open.
You sigh, watching him open the window, your floral curtains lifting from the wind. “Why do I let you talk me into things?” you mutter.
Steve glances back over his shoulder, grin soft and warm in the fading light. “Because you like me,” he says. He's joking, also half hoping.
Your heart stops for a second.
“…shut up and pass it,” you say.
He laughs and sits beside you on your bed, close enough that you feel the warmth of his body.
he rolls the joint pretty neatly, tongue sticking out a little in concentration. When he finishes, he holds it up like he’s presenting you with an award.
“Behold. The… thing.”
You snort. “This inspires zero confidence.”
“Shut up,” he laughs, nudging your knee with his. He puts the end of the joint in his mouth.
You flick the lighter for him, your fingers brushing his, so close in a way that has nothing to do with the lighter. He leans in and cups your hand around the flame, his breath brushing your knuckles as he lights the end. He inhales too fast. Immediately coughs. Immediately pretends he didn’t.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Smooth.”
"Swear that doesn't usually happens," Steve mutters.
You take it from him, amused despite yourself, and take a small, careful inhale. You hand it back to him, eyes watering a little, and he grins like he’s weirdly proud of you. "Are sure this is your first time?"
"Yup. Definitely is." Your throat burns from the smoke.
"Hm—you're a rookie," he teases, nudging your knee. You mirror his laughter.
A few minutes pass in a cycle of shared hits, small coughs, and giggles. The room feels warmer now, and the air is thick. The sound of your record player, spinning your Fleetwood Mac record, Dreams, fading into the buzzed silence. Your eyes fixed on every detail of your bedroom. You were definitely high now, the euphoria kicking in.
A bowl of chips and m&m’s spread in the center.
Steve’s shoulder is pressed fully against yours now, and he hasn’t seemed to realize it, or maybe he has, because he isn’t moving.
He tilts his head back against the wall, eyes half open, his hair falling over his forehead.
“Okay,” he says, voice lazy and loose. “I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“This.” He gestures to the air vaguely. “The… the quiet. My brain’s usually doing, like, a hundred laps a minute, and now it’s just…”
He makes a soft whooshing noise, like a plane gliding.
You laugh and maybe it’s the high kicking in, or maybe it’s him.. but everything about him suddenly feels softer and more open.
He turns his head toward you, eyes lingering too long.
“You’re really pretty,” he says.
You blink. “You’re very high.”
He nods earnestly. “And you’re very pretty.”
Your face warms, “Steve…”
“I mean it,” he adds, quieter now. “I always mean it. I just...” He pauses, like he’s sorting the thoughts in slow motion. “It’s easier to say when everything is… quiet.”
Your heart beats a little too hard.
He shifts, leaning into you more fully, his thigh pressing against yours, and your hands nearly close to touching. He looks at you, feverish. “Are you mad?” he asks softly.
“Why would I be mad?”
“Because I keep saying stuff I’m not supposed to say.”
You swallow. “Like what?”
His eyes search yours, warm, unfocused, honest.
“Like the part where I… kinda like you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “A lot.”
For a second, you don’t breathe.
“…Steve,” you say again, but this time your voice isn’t a warning, it’s a question.
He tilts his head against yours, eyelids falling closed. He smells like cologne and smoke—something undeniably him.
“You can tell me if that’s bad,” he murmurs. “I can handle it.”
You’re pretty sure he absolutely cannot handle it.
But you don’t want to tell him it’s bad. Maybe it was the high, but Steve’s confession made your heart beat faster, your eyes tracing the carved shadow of his face in the warm lamp light.
You raise a hand and brush a curl off his forehead, slow and gently, more intimate than anything you’ve done all night.
“It’s not bad,” you whisper.
His breath stutters.
Then he smiles softly, relieved, and so sweet it hurts.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
He exhales a laugh, leaning closer, lips almost brushing yours,
And then stops.
“Can I?” he asks quietly.
High or not, it’s the most sincere you’ve ever seen him.
You don’t answer him right away.
You just look at him — at the way his eyelashes lower shyly, the way his breath catches, the way he’s suddenly so still for someone who spent the last twenty minutes unfocused—now he was focused on you. Undeniably. Completely.
Your hand slides from his forehead to his cheek, your thumb brushing the warm skin there. He leans into the touch instantly, pathetically melting into it, like he’s been waiting for it all night.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You can.”
Steve doesn’t rush. He exhales a trembling relieved breath. Then he moves in slowly, giving you every second to pull back if you want to.
You feel his fingers brush against your thigh hesitantly, like he’s asking permission without words.
Your other hand finds his knee, steadying him.
That’s all he needs.
The kiss deepens. His hand finally settles on your waist, fingers curling lightly in the fabric of your shirt, holding you like you’re something fragile and precious.
When he pulls back just far enough to breathe, his forehead stays pressed to yours, lips brushing yours when he whispers..
“Wow.”
You smile, blushing, eyes still low. “Yeah?”
the tiniest laugh escaping him, breathless and stunned and so-so full of warmth.
“That was…”He swallows, searching for the word. “..really nice.”
You open your eyes and find him looking at you like you hung the stars.
“It was,” you whisper back.
He leans in again, not quite kissing you, just resting his mouth against yours in a soft, lingering almost kiss.
And then he finally murmurs, against your lips.
“Please tell me we can do that again…”