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The first time someone had called you clingy, it had been your best friend. You were seven years old and hadn’t really understood what it meant. All you knew was that she stopped being your best friend shortly after that.
The next time—it was a boyfriend who had called you needy. He had said it affectionately. You were fifteen and he was older. Much older. You hadn’t questioned it. Just smiled and clung to him a little tighter. But over time needy became clingy and clingy became suffocating.
Suffocating. That was what he had called you once. It had been during an argument but you knew he meant it. You had noticed when he had started to recoil at your touch. How he would roll his eyes when you would try to hold his hand in public. How he turned his head when you leaned in for a kiss.
You stopped reaching for him after that.
He stopped trying entirely.
Needy. Clingy. Suffocating.
Those words had lived under your skin for four years now. They had buried themselves in your veins and refused to leave.You had built walls up in every relationship since—something to protect yourself from falling hard again. You had stopped yourself from clinging onto someone who would inevitably despise you for it.
But then Steve Harrington came along like a damn wrecking ball and tore down those walls that you had built.
You had met through your cousin Robin—after multiple attempts on her part to set you guys up. You had finally given in after she had promised you that he wasn’t the guy you had known in high school. That he was—in her words—a great guy. It was a mark of how much you trusted Robin that you had finally agreed.
You were annoyed to find out that she had been right. Steve had taken you to Enzo’s and you had laughed over his terrible pronunciations of Italian food. He had laughed when you pointed out that the waiter seemed to be wearing a fake moustache. Steve had asked you questions—a lot of questions in fact and seemed genuinely interested in your answers. In every way, it had been a perfect date. Steve had been perfect.
He didn’t kiss you that night—just a simple kiss to your cheek after he drove you back home and left you with a promise of a second date. The fact you had wanted him to kiss you told you that you were in deep already.
You considered cancelling the second date. You had considered telling Steve you had changed your mind—that you wanted to remain friends. That he was nice but not your type. Not because you truly meant it but because the thought of another guy one day finding you suffocating made you want to run for the hills.
But you didn’t. You decided to go on the second date. You decided to see where things went.
Four months and numerous dates later and it was undeniable now—you were in deep. You were fully in love with Steve Harrington.
The realisation that you loved him had hit you out of seemingly nowhere two weeks ago. You had been his plus one to his cousin’s wedding. He had looked ridiculously handsome in a suit and tie—a tie that perfectly matched your sage green dress. Which had felt like a statement of unity that told everyone that Steve Harrington was yours and you were his. Over the course of the evening, you found yourself staring at him. Not only because he looked so handsome (though, in fairness, it did contribute) but because being at a wedding with Steve, it had made you think about your own wedding one day.
You found yourself wanting to ask him if he wanted to get married. Whether he wanted a big church wedding or a small, intimate wedding. If he wanted to elope, even. You wanted to ask him if he wanted kids—how many he wanted. If he wanted to get a dog or cat or both. You wanted to ask him about the future and it was that moment—as you watched as he twirled one of his little cousins around the dancefloor—that you realised you loved him. You really fucking loved him.
It had scared you so much that you had found yourself wanting to pull away. You felt the need to cling to Steve after that. You felt as though you wouldn’t be content until you were able to crawl into his skin and live inside of it. Steve never seemed to mind—he always smiled when you would reach out to hold his hand during dinners. He didn’t seem to mind when you would cuddle up to him during a movie. How you always greeted him with a hug. But there was that little voice in the back of your head—the one that sounded suspiciously like your ex-boyfriend—that told you to stop being clingy. A voice that told you that if you wanted Steve to not grow tired and annoyed at your need to touch him every five seconds, then you needed to pull back.
And so—you did.
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Steve Harrington was starting to wonder if he had done something wrong.
He had noticed how you were beginning to pull away from him. He noticed how when he had picked you up from work the other day that you didn’t hug him. How you didn’t even lean over the centre console to kiss his cheek the way you usually did. How the last time you went out for dinner you didn’t hold his hand beneath the table. How you didn’t reach for his hand as you walked down the street together. How you seemed to stop reaching from him entirely.
Steve felt it—especially now when you were sitting on the other side of the couch instead of curled up next to him, your head resting against his chest as one of your hands slipped beneath his shirt to trace patterns on his skin. Run your fingers through the hair on his chest.
But instead, your hands were tucked beneath your thighs—a respectable gap between the two of you. One that felt more like a chasm than just the space between you. It makes Steve feel on edge. Makes him think about Nancy—how she had pulled away from him. How he didn’t even realise it was happening until it was too late. The thought makes Steve look over at you—makes him think about everything he could have done wrong over the past two weeks.
Was it that time he had forgotten to get the chocolate you wanted from Bradley’s? Was it that he hadn’t taken you to see the fifth Friday the 13th movie before had stopped showing at the movie theatres? Was it that he hadn’t noticed your new haircut the other day?
“You okay?” Steve finally asks you—trying to sound normal, like he wasn’t spiralling on the other side of the couch. Like he wasn’t losing his damn mind because you weren’t touching him.
You turn to look at Steve, your eyes softening slightly when you look at him because all you wanted to do was curl up on his lap. Kiss his stupidly handsome face. Tell him that you loved him.
But the thought of Steve growing tired of you—of thinking you needy, or clingy or suffocating—it kept you rooted to the spot.
“Yeah,” you say finally, looking away from him and back at the movie you were watching. “I’m okay.”
You don’t elaborate. You don’t trust yourself. Don’t trust that you won’t drop the L bomb if you look at those big brown eyes of his for a second longer.
Steve nods—his throat feeling tight as he watches your expression carefully. He notices how you tense your jaw, how your eyes are a little glassy. Part of Steve—the part of him that remembered how Nancy had pushed away his affection—told him not to press you. To just let things be. You’d talk to him when you were ready.
But the other part of him—the part that knew he loved you—told him not to do that. Told him to not let you dwell on whatever it was bothering you.
Steve finds the remote behind one of the sofa cushions between you and he turns off the TV before he could second guess himself.
You blink—looking over at Steve in confusion.
“Why did you—”
“—I don’t think you’re being entirely honest with me,” Steve interjects, setting down the remote on the coffee table before he turns his body to face you fully. His hands twitch as though itching to reach for you.
You swallow, looking at him properly now and seeing how his face twists with worry and concern and you feel something that feels an awful lot like guilt settling in your gut. Because he was right—you weren’t being honest with him.
So you say nothing, you look at him as you wait for the inevitable—for him to tell you that you were too much. That you were too needy. Too clingy. Too suffocating.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead—he leans over to you, wraps his fingers around both your wrists to pull your hands out from under your thighs. Then—he laces his fingers through yours without breaking eye contact. It does funny things to your heart. Makes your stomach feel fluttery.
“Something’s up,” he murmurs, lifting your hand so he could kiss the knuckles on your right hand. Then, he does the same with your left. Eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me. Please. Whatever it is—I promise you, it’s okay.”
His voice is so soft, so tender, so loving that you want to be wrapped up in it. You wanted to be cocooned by his gentle words and velvety voice until you felt okay again.
“It’s silly,” you whisper finally, so quietly that Steve has to scoot closer to you on the couch—that carefully constructed space between the two of you lessening.
“Baby, if something is bothering you—it’s not silly,” he says, so matter of factly it makes your face warm. “Especially if it’s something that I’ve done.”
You look at Steve, brows furrowed in utter confusion. “Something you’ve done?”
Steve nods, squeezing your hands gently. “Yeah. I mean—I must have done something wrong. You’ve been so distant lately. You don’t touch me the way you usually do.”
Your breath hitches, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth as your fingers twitch against his.
“I just—” you begin, trying to find the words but struggling as your fear of rejection comes bubbling dangerously close to the surface. “—I just didn’t want you to think I was too needy or clingy. I don’t want you getting sick of me.”
Steve looks at you for a long, long moment before his face breaks out into a smile. For one horrifying moment, you think that he’s going to laugh at you. But then, he gently lifts one hand to cup your cheek. Holding your face as though you were made of something precious.
“Sick of you?” Steve murmurs, his thumb gently rubbing over your cheek as his eyes danced over your face. “Baby—I can’t get enough of you.”
“You say that now but—”
But Steve is already shaking his head, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your nose. He then places one on your forehead. Another to your left cheek—then your right. Before he finally places a gentle but firm kiss to your lips. One that takes your breath away. One that you lean into and kiss him back before you could let doubt seep in.
Just as your hands reach up to grip the front of his shirt, he pulls away and you let out a small whine at the loss of his lips. Steve smiles at that but looks at you with an almost stern gaze.
“But nothing,” Steve says finally. “I don’t know who the hell has made you think that you could ever be too much but they were wrong. They were so fucking wrong. I love that you want to touch me all the time. I love knowing that you want me—I love that you make it known that you want me—that you can’t go five minutes without a kiss.”
The concerns of your mouth twitch, looking back at him as his thumb continues to gently caress your cheek. “I think five minutes is a stretch,” you mumble.
Steve smiles, rolling his eyes before he places a chaste kiss to your lips that you find yourself wanting to melt into.
“I think it’s accurate,” he murmurs against your lips before he pulls away to look at you carefully.
It’s quiet then for a few moments, him just looking at you and you leaning into his touch like it was all you ever needed.
“I need you to know something,” Steve says, breaking the almost silence between you. “I need you to know that—that you could never be too much for me. Never. You are—fuck, baby—you’re my favourite person. I could never get tired of my favourite person. I want to be near you all the fucking time. I’m like the most pathetic guy because of you—Robin and Dustin tell me that all the time—how much I talk about you. How many times I have this stupid smile on my face when I’m thinking about you.”
You bite back a smile, your chest feeling warm and eyes beginning to sting a little because you had never been wanted like this. Steve notices and wipes your tears away before they could fall.
“You—are never going to be too much for me,” Steve tells you. “Never, baby. I mean that.”
You’re speechless—genuiely speechless.
And the only thing you can think to say is—
“I love you.”
Steve’s thumb stops brushing over your skin. His eyes widened. His heart might have even stopped beating.
For a split second, he says nothing. You think the worst. That you had said it too soon, that you misunderstood his speech as something more—
But then Steve is kissing you and all you can think about is him. About Steve and his hands that still held you as though you were made of gold. Steve and his ridiculously perfect hair that only you were allowed to mess up.
He pulls away—though it’s clear he doesn’t want to from the way his breathing is erratic. The way his forehead presses against yours.
“I wanted to say it first,” Steve whispers.
“Too slow,” you say quietly with a small smile.
He laughs and then—he’s kissing you all over again. The space between you is nonexistent as he pulls you onto his lap. As his hands find your waist and yours find their way into his hair.
“For the record,” Steve says as he pulls away for a moment to catch his breath. “I love you too. More than you love me.”
You laugh and it’s a sound Steve hopes to never forget. And you? Well—you don’t question whether Steve Harrington thought that you were too much ever again.