Chapter Text
“So, you're really sure you're okay with this?" you ask, studying Steve from the passenger seat of his car.
He’s sprawled in the driver’s seat, one hand flung over the steering wheel, his wrist resting lazily on top of it. It always drives you crazy when he does that, like the wheel might just slip right from under his arm, and send you flying off the road.
Still, when he pulled up to your dorm to pick you up in his car, instead of you picking him up in yours, you kept your mouth shut. Mostly because you know better than to question his baby — a 1983 BMW’s ability to trek the great outdoors. And also because he’s actually a really good driver.
He’s handling the snowy Indiana roads with practiced ease as you head upstate, always checking his mirrors, and using his blinker religiously.
“Yes,” he says, stressing the word. "Stop asking. Plus, it’s not like I was going home for Christmas anyway.”
You know he’s secretly grateful you asked him to come spend Christmas with you and your family, even if he’d never admit it. Because, as you recently learned, the alternative was him spending Christmas alone.
Alone.
Because his dipshit parents decided to skip town last minute on some last minute trip to a ski resort in Colorado and just assumed Steve would be with friends over the winter break. Either from Purdue, where you both attend, or with the group he’d hung out with in high school, all of whom he still sees regularly.
He glances over at you, “C’mon, you talk about this cottage all the time. Now, I get to see it!”
“Not about that,” you clarify, “I was talking about…the other part.”
“Oh, you mean the part where we pretend to be dating?” He teases. You roll your eyes.
“What?” He shrugs, lips tipping up in a smirk as he looks over at you again. “You can’t even say it, can you? It’s only for a few days, Ace. Not a big deal.”
Ace. A nickname from the first time you met. At freshman orientation at Purdue, they hosted a poker night, and you joined in for a round, beating Harrington with a pair of pocket aces. It stuck.
You rub your palms on your jeans and look out the window, gazing unseeing into the gray, overcast sky.
A few whole days, pretending to be Steve Harrington’s girlfriend. The way he says ‘not a big deal’ puts you on edge. Like you’re only one that thinks fake dating your best friend for Christmas is insane.
"It's — it's just, my mom,” you defend. “You know how she is.”
He shakes his head as he shifts gears, “Nah, Kristy already loves me. I mean, what's not to love? I'm charming, charismatic, — “
"Yeah, yeah,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "But, she likes you a little too much. She's been pushing for us to get together since she met you first semester freshman year. I’m sure, if we had known each other in high school she would’ve begged you to go out with me.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m so glad we didn’t date back then.”
You laugh nervously. Just talking about dating him is more than your body can handle.
“Shut up.”
"It's true!" he insists, “If we had, you would've taken one look at me in my Scoops Ahoy uniform and dumped me on the spot."
You look out the window at the blur of green and white trees and smile. You didn’t know him back then, that was the year before he came to Purdue. But, you’ve seen pictures of him in the outfit, thanks to his friend Robin who also works at the local radio station with him.
"I don't know,” you muse, “That outfit’s kinda sexy.”
“Your pants are on fire,” he quips, turning up the volume on the old dash.
An old Christmas song plays through the speakers and he hums along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, like everything’s just fine and dandy. The timber of his voice fills your ears and your seat suddenly feels too warm, too confining.
You reach over and adjust the vents, turning the heat away from you.
“Okay, but Steve,” you say, “if we’re going to do this — and I mean really do this— we need to set some ground rules.”
His long fingers reach across the console to turn down the volume so he can hear you better, and the sleeve of his red sweater brushes your arm. When his eyes snap to yours, there’s an amused sparkle in them that makes your breath catch for reasons you can’t explain.
“Ground rules? Seriously?” he asks incredulously, but he’s smiling.
“Yes, seriously. This is serious.”
The car slows to a complete stop at a stop sign, and the soft click of the blinker fills the silence as you wait for his reply. He makes a right over the icy road and the clicking stops. “Well, lets’s hear ‘em then.”
You already made the list in your mind, going over them and refining over and over, but you chew on your lip for a few moments, so he would think you were thinking of them on the spot.
“First, no sharing a bed.”
“No bed sharing.” He repeats, but there’s a smirk in his tone. You refuse to look at him, instead busying yourself with the blur of snowy trees outside the window. “Got it. I’ll sleep with Crystal, then.”
“You’re not stealing my cat, Steve,” you laugh.
Warmth blooms in your chest at the thought of the little white fur ball waiting for you at the cottage. You haven’t been home in ages, so your Dad promised to bring Crystal along so you could spend time with her over the holidays. “I’m sure Mom will find you an extra bed.”
“Fine,” Steve says, “But when Crystal inevitably chooses my bed instead of yours, I call little spoon. Next?”
You would laugh at his joke, but the next rule is already on the tip of your tongue, and you heart pounds as you open your mouth to say it out loud.
“No kissing.”
“No kissing?”
“Yes. No kissing.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, but his thumb starts tapping the steering wheel with the same tic he has when he’s about to cue up the next song in the studio. Waiting for just the right moment.
“How are we supposed to pull this off without kissing?” He asks, his voice inexplicably deeper. "You’ve kissed me before.”
Your stomach flips. “Um, I didn’t kiss you! You kissed me. And—”
“Actually,” he cuts in, “It was a mutual kiss. Sort of a—” he straightens both hands out on top of the steering wheel and pulls them together in a clapping motion, “— both-of-us thing.”
“God, I can’t believe you remember that,” you breathe.
“Hey, hey, you do too!” he counters. “You just admitted to it.”
Butterflies erupt in your stomach. That was ages ago, and the two of you haven’t talked about it since. Not once. And for some reason, just the fact that you have never broached the subject again makes the moment that more impactful of a memory.
“Okay, but I was drunk,” you defend, “And you— and it was dark, I could hardly even see you, and —” You cut yourself off, cheeks heating.
He chuckles softly.
“Shut up, okay?” You rush to gain control of the conversation again, “Just — listen. My family is…weird about this. They’re like obsessed with me finding the love of my life, and I just need to get them to back off this year. You know how bad it is.”
He nods. “And why do you think that is?”
And, here comes therapist Harrington. God, he’s annoying sometimes. “I don’t know.”
If you were being honest with yourself, you’d think about how your parents were high school sweethearts, married their first year of college, inseparable ever since. They live life like that, completely unaware of how anyone exists without being in love. They can’t imagine a life without their other half.
But that life hasn’t happened for you. It’s different for you than it was for them. You know they just want you to be happy, but sometimes their pushing gets to be too much. So much, in fact, that you have to resort to drastic measures.
Hence, the man sitting beside you.
Steve hums, glancing down to check the time in your drive. Twelve minutes. Your stomach flips again, and you nibble on your lip to mask your nerves.
“God, you really are nervous, aren’t you?” he muses, looking over at you, and shifting gears again. You stare straight ahead and unclench your fists from their place in your lap.
“Okay, let’s practice,” he says, clearing his throat. “Darlin’, why haven’t you found a nice guy? You know — had a relationship that lasts longer than a week or two? Such a darn shame, honey.”
“Stop that!” you reach over to swat at his shoulder, laughing at his poor adaptation of your mom’s Texas accent that’s only mildly faded since moving to Indiana for your dad’s work ten years ago.
You have a sneaky suspicion she practices her accent late at night while she watches her western shows, or reads those raunchy cowboy novels she’s always got lying all over the house.
“Go ahead,” he prompts in his normal voice, ”Answer the question. Might help.”
You groan so he knows how annoying he’s being. He just widens his eyes and nods along at you, as if that would give you the hint to start talking.
“Because,” you start hesitantly, “I’m just too picky.”
“Errrr,” he buzzes, like you're on a fucking game show. “Wrong answer! It’s because you only date—,” he taps out a quick drumroll on the steering wheel “—total douchebags.”
You shoot him an offended look. “I do not!”
“Oh yeah? What about Biker Boy? Such a thrill, ’til you found out he was only on campus to sell drugs.”
“Okay, but that was because he was —”
“I’m not done,” he interrupts, “Then there was the Partier. You remember him. The one you caught in bed with your roommate the one night you didn’t go out with him, remember that?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I know. That was not great, I—”
“Or, what about Baseball Guy?” he continues, “God, you tried so hard to like him, didn’t you? Until he became obsessed with you being his ‘lucky charm’, and all he cared about was winning. Made you wear his jersey to class, and demanded you were there at every game, no exceptions? Douchebag.”
You chew the inside of your cheek and risk a glance at him.
He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel now, eyes fixed straight ahead. His thick brown hair’s fallen just over his eyebrow again and he hasn’t raked his fingers through it yet. A tell-tale sign that he’s distracted.
His hair’s in his usual style today, pushed up and back, the front lifting just enough to catch the soft gray light outside, like he ran his hands through it once and somehow that’s all it took to look perfect. There’s a careless sort of confidence to it, and it suits him.
A part of you wishes you could have that kind of confidence, too. Maybe that’s why you were drawn to him in the first place.
“I just don’t think you do it by accident,” he says, voice quiet.
Your mouth drops open in shock, all thoughts of how good his hair looks fly out the window. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shifts in his seat and shrugs one shoulder, “You kinda…self-sabotage.”
“Okay, that is so not fair. I thought I had something with all of them, and then it’s not my fault I got cheated on, or Baseball Guy lost his game when I wasn’t there, or Biker Boy got arrested!”
When his eyes meet yours again, there’s no impatience there. Only a patient, understanding in his brown gaze that soothes your nerves.
“No, of course, it wasn’t.”
You settle back in your seat, somehow a little less tense. Eight minutes left.
“But,” he adds, and there goes that hand raking back his hair. “All that shit you just said, kinda proves my point about them all being douche—”
“Okay, well what about you, King Steve?” You snap, “You haven’t really dated anyone in what? Three years? That’s a long fucking time! And not to mention, the last girl you dated dumped you for someone else, so I don’t think you get to tell me—”
“Jonathan and Nancy deserve each other,” he says without defensiveness. Then, quieter, he adds, “They’re good together. They make sense.”
“Okay, now you really do sound like my mom.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his knuckles across his mouth as it pulls into a grin. You study him from beneath your lashes. He was a mess after it happened, but now, he really does seem to be at peace with it.
“Alright, any more rules I should know about?” he asks.
Just one.
The slushy sound of melting snow and gravel fills the silence between you as he turns into the long, winding driveway. Tall, leafless trees rise on both sides, their branches dusted with fresh snow, and arching overhead like a natural canopy.
The charming, storybook-style cottage you've spent the last eight Christmases of your life at rises into view. Soft golden light glows from the stone windows, edged in dark timber, spilling across the snow covered bushes in front. You notice dad’s made a fire in the fireplace as smoke rises from the old chimney, disappearing into the cold grey sky.
Just say it.
Just fucking say it.
“No catching feelings.”
The second the words leave your lips, something tightens in your chest. You hold your breath, waiting, desperate to hear what he’ll say.
Steve’s quiet for a long moment as you eventually roll to a stop and he parks the car to the side of the cottage.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and quiet. “Guess that’d change things, wouldn't it?”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Believe me, you don’t want to go there with me. I’m—I’m a train wreck when it comes to relationships.”
He hums. “I don’t believe you.”
What? He doesn’t believe you’re a train wreck? Or…he doesn’t believe that he doesn’t want to go there with you? You don’t get a chance to ask him what he means, because just was you open your mouth, the front door of the cottage slams open.
A blur of yellow races past, followed by a small hand slapping against the driver’s side glass Steve rushes to open the door before your little brother puts his fist through his precious window.
“Sam, man!” Steve laughs, “Get your greasy little fingers off my beauty, I just got her waxed!”
“Harry!” Sam squeals, bounding backward to give Steve space to climb out.
Steve high-fives him, then turns in a slow circle, surveying the snowy grounds. He groans dramatically, stretching his arms out, muttering something about being too old for long car rides.
As he lifts his arms over his head, his red sweater rides up, exposing a toned midsection and a tapered V that leads down to a trimmed happy trail. Your eyes nearly bulge.
You unbuckle quickly, practically flinging yourself from the passenger seat, heat rushing to your cheeks.
It’s not as if you’ve never seen Steve shirtless before — at the lake on a spring break trip, or at a shirts vs skins rugby game on campus. And you’ve always had a hard time not looking too closely. But, now, when you’re supposed to be acting like his girlfriend it feels…exciting in a way you can’t rationalize.
Sam darts around the car to throw his arms around your middle. His puffy yellow coat zips along your palms as you drop to the ground to hug him back.
“Missed you, Sammy.” You say into his dirty blonde hair.
“Missed you too,” he says, turning his head to look at you, brown eyes sparkling.
“God, you’ve gotten so big,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. It’s only been about nine months since you were home last, but six-year-olds grow fast.
“C’mon,” you say, taking his hand. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here!”
As you round the car, Steve steps forward, and without hesitation, slides his hand into your free one like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’ll get our things in a bit.” He says, casually.
You nod woodenly, mouth dry. His hand is so large and warm, fitting so perfectly against yours. You force your breath to steady as you climb the front porch steps. A bright squeal — not unlike Sam’s — sounds from inside and the red front door swings open just as you reach it.
“My darlin's!” Mom squawks, throwing herself through the doorway, and tackling you and Steve into a group hug, which Sam happily joins, clinging to everyone’s legs.
“Hi, Momma.” you say, smiling into her shoulder.
She smells like honey and cinnamon, probably from the delicious cinnamon rolls she bakes every Christmas. The scent loosens something in your chest, filling you with nostalgia. The warm, fuzzy kind, that makes you feel like a kid again.
You’re home.
And you’re with Steve.
And for some reason, your worlds colliding like this feels like the most natural, wonderful thing in the entire world.
“Good to see you again, Mrs.—” Steve starts.
“Ah!” Mom pulls back and holds a hand inches from his face threateningly. “None of that. It’s Kristy.”
He stays completely still, only his eyes turn to look at you and they widen slightly.
You laugh and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.
It’s instinctive, and you don’t even think about it, but the way his jaw drops just a fraction when he registers your touch sends butterflies erupting in your stomach.
Oh, God. This is going to be a long five days.
Inside, your suspicions are immediately confirmed. A fresh dish of warm, sticky cinnamon rolls sits on the long wooden counter.
You let go of Steve’s hand to go grab one, partly because you haven’t eaten since breakfast, but also because your hand was starting to sweat being that close to him.
And nobody likes holding sweaty palms.
Right?
You’re overthinking this already.
Sam beats you to the dish, sticking his tongue out at you as you reach for the same roll. The top right corner ones are the best. You tousle his hair and he races off with his prize.
“Wow,” Steve breathes behind you.
You turn, a second-best cinnamon roll raised halfway to your mouth, but he’s not looking at you. His mouth is slightly open as he cranes his neck to take in the tall A-frame cieling.
“You never told me the cottage was a mansion, Ace!"
Mom blushes, delighted, as she takes in Harrington’s awe. You narrow your gaze on her, but she just chews on a long pink nail suggestively and widens her eyes at you.
The message is clear: He is cute. Don’t fuck it up.
You roll your eyes just as the pitter-patter of tiny paws sounds down the hall. You spin just in time to see a white fluff ball rocket around the corner.
“Gotcha!” You scoop up your cat, pressing your face into her soft fur.
Crystal purrs loudly as you stroke her belly, the vibration steady and comforting under your fingers while Mom launches into a full blown tour of the cottage. Clearly for Steve, though there have been a few renovations since you were last here, so you follow along.
The open-concept living room is the same, with a roaring fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the snowy forest. A dining room, complete with a full oak dining table sits nestled next to the entryway. Outside, a new stone patio boasts a built-in fire pit and new grill.
Two bedrooms branch off the hall behind the kitchen, hosting your parents’ room on one side, and Sam’s on the other, with a bathroom at the end.
Upstairs, there are two more rooms. One, is your bedroom. The other is Dad’s office — better known as The Lair, — and it’s the exact same as the last time you saw it.
Dad isn’t in here, but the walls show every sign he’s been spending time here recently, writing his next romance bestseller.
A soft lamp illuminates his walls that are covered in a messy array of notes, photos, and red yarn pinned into sprawling story maps that always remind you of a crime scene.
The room smells like wood, paper, and old coffee, and it pulls you straight back into your childhood. Several half-empty mugs already crowd the desk, even though they’ve only been here for a day prior to your arrival.
“This is his writing hat!” Sam announces, strutting over to the hat rack and pulling on a newsboy cap. The brim slips down over his face like a lopsided cake and he cackles from underneath it.
Steve’s face breaks into a devestating smile, and he turns to look at you. “So that’s where you get your thinking-glasses thing from.”
That makes you smile.
You do have a pair of blue-light glasses you swear you can’t write any assignments without wearing them. It doesn’t make logical sense, but you feel more focused when you put them on — probably due more to the habitual act of putting them on, than any science behind it.
You’re a lot like your dad. Maybe not in every good way, but the fact that Steve noticed warms something deep in your chest and makes you drop your gaze to the wood floor.
It’s just because it feels nice to be known. He’s your best friend, of course he’s noticed that quirk of yours.
While Mom’s back is turned, and Sam’s busying himself with Dad’s array of writing robes, Steve picks up a book on the edge of the desk and silently holds it up for you to see.
The title, Her Favorite Stallion is printed on the front in a bold font. The cover boasts a man with rippling abs, his shirt ripped open, a cowboy hat tipped low over his brow against a blazing sunset.
You shoot Steve a look that says, I told you so, and he chuckles quietly before setting it back down where he found it.
Just before your little tour turns to your room, Sam grabs Steve’s hand and tugs him toward the stairs, begging to show off the snowman he built earlier while waiting for you both to arrive.
Steve glances over his shoulder at you as he follows, leaning back slightly like he’s asking for permission, and it catches you off guard.
You recover quickly, nodding and offering him a soft, girlfriend smile.
He blinks and holds your gaze a second too long before hurrying after Sam, who’s already halfway out the door.
─── ✻ ───
“So, let me get this straight,” Mom says. “What you’re tellin’ me is that ya’ll’ve never screwed?”
“Oh my God, Momma.” Your hands fly to your face, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Please. All I asked for were two beds.”
“Well, honey, you’re in college. I know you have sex.” Just the way she says the word sex, like ‘sayxe’, in her Texas twang makes it sound downright filthy. “But you’re tellin’ me in the two months you’ve been datin’, he’s never made a move?”
Okay, yeah. Maybe two months was a little overkill.
You only called her a few days ago to tell her you and Steve were together now, and were going to attend Christmas as a couple. And when she asked how long it had been official, you panicked, desperate to receive her approval. Since no other relationship had lasted longer than a month at most, you doubled it. Just to be safe.
“Mom, stop,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m begging you.”
“Well, then, what is it? Oh!” she exclaims. Her blonde hair brushes your shoulder as she leans in, conspiritorially. “Did you two get in a fight?”
“Momma —”
She blinks at you. “What’dya do?”
“Oh,” you scoff, “thanks for assuming I’m the problem!”
She waves a hand in the air dismissively, “That boy’s an angel. You, on the other hand…”
And there it is.
You’re not good enough for him, a voice in your head whispers, dark and thready.
“So, maybe this is just the push he needs!” She continues, completely unfazed by the glare you’re giving her through your lashes. “I mean, look around baby! It’s so romantic in here! Snow fallin’ outside, a cozy fireplace—”
“What exactly is the end goal here?” you blurt, glancing around the wood-paneled room, “Is Grannie’s baby-making quilt hiding in the closet, too? I mean, what the fuck, Mom?”
“Okay, okay!” she relents, giggling and raising both hands in front of her in surrender. “If it really makes you crazy, there’s always the cot in the basement.”
You shudder. “You mean that rat’s nest next to the dryer that sounds like an airplane taking off? How about the couch?”
She shoots you a look. “Honey, once all six-foot-two of him is laid out on that couch, it’s going to look like a loveseat. His hair and feet will stick off the ends of that thing!”
You bite your lip as you think. The couch is on the smaller side. “Maybe if we pushed one of dad’s recliners— wait, how do you know how tall Steve is?”
She shrugs coyly. “He told me. Well, technically he got all bashful about it and said ’six-foot, I think? Give or take,’ like that wasn’t the most obvious lie I’ve ever heard. So, I took that to mean what it actually means from a guy like him.” She winks at you. “It means, six-two.”
“I can’t believe you asked him that,” you groan, hiding a smile beneath your hand as you picture the flustered look on Steve’s face while she sized him up.
“Well,” she sighs dramatically, turning back to the room in front of you. “We could shove him into that twin-size bed with your brother. I’m sure Sam wouldn’t complain. Although, you know, he does still wet the bed occasionally. Have to change the sheets in the middle of the night, it’s a whole—”
“Okay, that’s not happening.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “He’ll sleep here.”
“Atta girl,” she chuckles, clearly amused at the pink in your cheeks. “I knew ya’ll weren’t fightin’. At least not for long. I saw the way he looked at you. Held your hand back there.”
Steve doesn’t look at you any certain way. Just…the way a friend would.
She’s going to misinterpret things because she wants this to work out so fucking badly. Dad’s corrupting her with all his romantic ideas. Or, it’s those dime-store westerns and their only one bed trope that really has her scheming right now.
Still, you try not to let her words go to your head.
You sigh, but she just pats your back like you’re a football player leaving the bench, about to hop in the game at direction of your coach.
“Everyone’s so excited to meet him, ya know,” she adds gently.
You nod, staring down at your shoes.
Tomorrow, your entire extended family will be introduced to Steve Harrington as your boyfriend. Even as part of you dreads it, your stomach still does a defiant flip at the thought.
You mentally scold yourself, reminding your body that this is only temporary. You both only have one more semester left before you graduate, before real life pulls you in different directions.
In six months, you won’t live within a hundred feet of your best friend anymore.
The thought makes your chest ache, so you shove it aside. When you get back to school, you’ll tell your family you and Steve broke up because you’re better off as friends. Then, everything will go back to normal between you.
Right?
“I’ll find Sam to help me set the table,” Mom says, startling you. You’d almost forgotten she was still here. “And I’ll ask Daddy to bring in your things.”
“Mom, you’ve got to stop calling Dad that.”
She looks up at you with wide brown eyes. “Why?”
“I know what books you read, you know why,” you remind, shooting her a look.“It’d be great if you stopped calling him that forever, but at least while Steve’s here.”
“Oh,” she smirks, “Will it make him uncomfortable? Is he a little prudish? Little vanilla?”
“Oh my God, Mom!” You rake a hand through your hair, and an unbelieving laugh escapes your chest.
“Alright, alright!” She laughs brightly, blonde hair swinging over her shoulder as she opens the door to the upstairs landing. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty!” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing down the stairs.
You look around the room, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to to this.
Share one bed with your best friend.
Easy enough, right?
Fuck.
─── ✻ ───
“King Steve!” your dad, Ed, calls from the head of the table as you enter the dining room together. He stands to press a kiss to your temple, then shakes Steve’s hand firmly. “When I heard you two were finally together, I looked at Kristy and I said ‘about damn time!’”
He settles back into his seat again, grinning and looking between you two like you might spark his next bestseller.
“Yes sir, I said the same thing,” Steve jokes easily, taking the chair to your left. You catch the way his palms rub over his thighs beneath the table as he surveys the spread of food with a polite smile.
Is he…nervous? He certainly didn’t act like this earlier in the car.
The table looks beautiful this year. Every Christmas, your mom picks a new color theme for the centerpiece, and this year it’s apparently red and gold. Small, polished reindeer prance along the scarlet runner, and gold candelabras hold lit candles, casting an inviting glow over the glass dishes and silverware.
Dinner is several trays of grilled fish — whole fish — with a handful of hearty sides. There’s even another batch of cinnamon rolls on the table for dessert.
Mom really went all out for Steve. And why shouldn’t she? This is, after all, the first guy you’ve ever brought home.
“Now, I’m glad you’re both here,” Dad says, interrupting your thoughts.
He plucks his reading glasses from their throne atop his dark head of curly hair, and places them on the very tip of his nose. He holds a notepad full of scribbled, handwritten notes at an arm’s distance away, the sleeve of his plaid writing robe nearly dipping into the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“You can give me a fresh perspective. What sounds better — ‘his member pulsed in her hand,’ or, ‘his pulsing member filled her hand?’”
Steve promptly chokes on his water, coughing and sputtering.
Your open palm meets your face.
“Daddy!” Mom chides from the other side of the table, spooning more broccoli onto Sam’s place which he eyes with disgust. “No smut talk at the table.”
“Mom!” you exclaim, shooting her daggers over the fucking reindeer.
Dad shrugs innocently, setting down his notebook and picking up his fork. “I’m just stuck on this scene, you know...”
Steve’s eyes meet yours and you laugh out loud at his expression. His brows are raised and drawn together, but there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s both frightened and amused in equal measure.
Halfway through dinner, you start to feel antsy. Steve’s been quiet — unusually so. And despite yourself, your thought begin to spiral.
You pick at your food, wondering if your family is scaring Steve off. Or, if it’s the whole fake dating thing. He chimes in here and there, clearing his plate with a charming smile.
But you still worry he’ll just look over at you and say, You’re crazy for suggesting this ridiculous plan, before bolting for the door.
Crystal winds around your ankles, caressing you with her fluffy tail, hoping for scraps from your plate.
Your family hasn’t noticed your inner turmoil at all. They’re all passionately arguing over which Christmas move is the best ever.
Sam votes for The Grinch.
Mom insists on Die Hard.
And Dad chooses, of course, Love Actually.
“I tried to warn you,” you whisper to Steve. “They’re crazy.”
You have to lean in to keep your words just for him, and your nose brushes the sliver of exposed skin between his neck and collar. He inhales sharply, a quiet hiss of breath, and your pulse stutters.
Before Steve can reply, Mom looks over at the two of you and narrows her eyes into little mascara slits.
“What nefarious plans is she putting you up to, Steve?”
A disbelieving sound jolts from your chest, somewhere between a huff and a laugh.
Steve carefully sets down his fork, wiping the edge of his mouth with a red napkin. “No nefariousness, happening here,” he says easily.
“No, she’s up to something.” Mom says, “I can always tell. You see, she was a bit of a wild child, back before you knew her.”
“Mom—”
“No, listen,” she laughs, undeterred. “Steve, we have to tell you the stories sometime. I mean, the things this girl got away with, it’s—”
“This girl, here?” Steve asks, unbelieving, gesturing towards you.
You just want to crawl under the table and disappear through the floor.
“Yes!” Mom exclaims, throwing her head back with a bright laugh that sends her gold hoops swaying. “Really, Steve, it’s a miracle you’re still here. We love our girl, but she put us through the wringer! Always sneaking out late to parties, getting into trouble. I mean! Did you know she actually dated a drug dealer? True story!”
Your gaze could burn a hole through the threads of your jeans as you sit, unmoving in the chair, your dinner completely forgotten.
You can fucking feel Steve’s eyes on you, but you refuse to look at him.
She’s always been like this about you. It’s nothing traumatic, or even really intentionally cruel. But it still stings.
“Well,” Steve starts, and you hold your breath. He could chime in, talk about exactly how much he hated all those guys too. What did he call them in the car earlier? A bunch of douchebags.
“I don’t know,” he says instead. “She’s always seemed pretty great to me. Smart. Responsible, even.” His mouth curves slightly. “But now I’m kinda feeling like I missed out. I don’t hate a little trouble.”
Your breath catches at his reply and his eyes meet yours over his glass.
A soft, warm pressure lands on your knee, and you glance down to see his hand resting there on your kneecap.
You swallow hard and jerk your gaze back to your plate.
Mom’s moved on, bantering lightly with Dad about the exact definition of a certain word, but you’re not listening. Every cell in your body is intensely aware of every millimeter of Steve’s skin against yours through the denim.
It’s a soft touch, gentle, and grounding. And it feels like him. Like you have someone in your corner, but not just anyone. Steve.
You excuse yourself early and spend far too long sitting against the wall in the bathroom, rubbing at your knee like you might erase the way his hand felt there, and arguing with yourself over what it means.
And what it doesn't.
─── ✻ ───
You’re just stepping out of the bathroom when Steve’s silhouette appears at the end of the hallway.
You don’t even think before lunging for him. Your palm hits his chest, warm even through his sweater, as you push him farther into the shadows. His eyes widen, and his hair — that perfect hair — bumps softly against the wall.
“What the fuck was that, Harrington?” you hiss.
“What!" he sputters, "What are you talking about, Ace?”
“The hand! The fucking hand-on-my-knee shit?”
He scoffs, chest caving as his exhale ghosts along your skin. “You’re my girlfriend, I —”
“Okay we’re alone,” you snap. “You can drop the act for a second. That touch, it wasn’t— visible! Nobody could even see it, so it didn’t need to happen!”
“What did you think this was going to look like?” His eyes flash in the dim light, and curl of hair slips over his brow as he leans down and lowers his voice even more. “Even if we weren’t doing this,” he gestures with one finger between the two of you. “I’d still have your back. You know that.”
You do? You do. It’s Steve. He’s always had your back. But, right now, you feel flayed open in front of him. Gut and displayed, bones and all, just like that fish on the table.
“What are you scared of?” He asks quietly.
You open your mouth to answer, but no words come out. His heartbeat pulses beneath your hand, warmth spreading through you, and you can’t seem to pull away.
He blinks down at you and leans in.
Your eyes drop to his lips.
“Harry?”
Sam’s voice calls from the dining room.
You spring apart.
Steve rakes a hand through his hair, and you stare at each other for a single heartbeat before both of you look away.
He turns quickly and disappears down the hall towards the kitchen.
Were you…were you about to kiss him?
You can hardly think about it without your stomach flipping. Just because he’s your best friend, doesn’t mean you haven’t noticed how attractive he is. You’ve noticed, over the years. Of course you have. How could you not?
The way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip when he slides his headphones on in the radio station, waiting for the break to cue the next song.
The way he plants his hands on his hips and tips his head down when he listens to you, like he’s making sure to catch every word.
How his brows draw together slightly and his eyes roam your face when you’re upset, like he’s desperate to fix it.
But he’s your best friend.
And getting involved with him would make things insurmountably more complicated.
You can’t do that. The risk of losing him is too much.
Still, it takes you far longer than you hoped to steady your breathing before heading back into the fray.
─── ✻ ───
You’ve always hated how quiet the cottage is.
It’s not like your home back in the suburbs, or your college dorm room. There’s no car horns. No drunk students stumbling home late. No alarms, or sirens, or footsteps.
One Christmas a few years back, you even shoved your bed against the wall that shared a side with The Lair, just so you could hear your dad’s frantic typing and half-muttered dialogue clips as he talked himself through a scene he was writing. It calmed you to hear his voice filling the empty space.
But even the Lair is silent tonight. There’s not even any wind whistling through the trees. Just the silent, steady fall of fresh snow drifting past your window pane.
But even with the deadly silent, your room’s never been louder.
You hear every breath that leaves Steve’s chest from his place on the floor next to the bed. Every grunt as he tries to get comfortable. You set him up as well as you could with a few decent blankets and a pillow. At least he’s not sleeping with a rat or a bed wetter.
Or, of course, sleeping with you.
That would be the worst idea in the entire world.
You shiver under your blankets. Mom traded out your worn quilts for a stupid down comforter that makes a rustling sound every time you shift in bed, no doubt alerting Steve to each and every twitch you make.
“This isn’t working.”
Steve’s voice cuts hrough the stillness, and you freeze.
“What?” You whisper. The word sounds too loud in the dark, and you wince. You were right. He does want to leave.
“This,” he says, and you hear his palm hit his chest, like he just gestured vaguely between you before letting his hand fall back down.
You jolt upright and peer over the edge of the bed at the dark shape of him stretched out on the floor beneath his pile of blankets.
“Have something to say, Harrington?” You mutter. “Just say it.”
“So defensive,” he huffs.
You watch warily as he shifts into a seated position, bracing his palms on the ground behind him. In the low light of your window, you can just make out the outline of his hair, and the line of his shoulders beneath the thin T-shirt, muscles flexing as he moves.
It would be much more convenient for you if he weren’t so goddamn attractive.
“Okay, you know what? Fine.” he grunts, “You’re a horrible actress. You’re going to get us caught by day three. You flinch whenever I reach for your hand.” He pauses for a second, and you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat like you can. “This only works if you commit to it, too.”
“Fuck you, Harrington!” you snort. “I’m just—getting used to the whole idea. That’s all.”
“…such a pain in my ass.” He mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his opposite shoulder like ehe’s working out the tension there. “All I did was put my hand on your knee under the table, and I practically got mauled in the hallway for it.”
He turns his head, and your eyes meet in the dim light. “Just admit it, Ace. You’re freaked the fuck out.”
“No, I’m not, Steve.” You rush to reassure him, even as you don’t know why. You just can’t let him think you don’t want to do this. Because you do. Even if you shouldn’t want it so badly, you do anyway. “It’s not you. It’s just…” you trail off, eyes falling back down to your lap, unsure of how to explain this feeling.
The only sound in the room is the comforter whispering as you trace absentminded patterns into it with your fingernail.
You’ve never been protected like that before. Not really. No boyfriend ever checked in with you before leaving for awhile. None of them shook your dad’s hand or held your hand in front of your mom like it meant something. You’ve never had someone put a steady, honest hand on your leg like they knew you. He knows you.
It’s a lot to process. And to make matters worse, you can’t stop replaying any of those moments in your head. It’s like a brutal form of self-torture. But, he wouldn’t understand that, because he doesn’t think of you like that.
Sure, you kissed once. So, there’s mutual attraction there. But, he’s never pursued you.
Not like you’ve really given him a chance to. But, still…
“I get it, you know,” Steve says softly. “You’ve only dated douchebags, so you expect douchebag behavior.”
Defensiveness rushes through you, and you sit up straighter, eyes snapping to his again. “Listen, I told you earlier — I didn’t date them because they were douchebags!”
“Okay, okay, but—” he lifts a placating hand. “What I mean is…you don’t know what it’s like to date a non-douche. That’s why you fall into that pattern, you go with what’s familiar. Comfortable.”
You flop back onto the mattress, turning your eyes to the window again.
Here we go, therapist Harrington. Or, maybe babysitter. Babysitter Steve is better. But you can’t deny the way his words land, deep beneath your ribs.
“What are you suggesting, Harrington?”
You glance back just in time to see him shrug, shoulders lifting almost sheepishly up to his ears.
“Just commit to the bit,” he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “It’s not the real deal, so you don’t have to worry about screwing it up. You don’t really know what it’s like for a guy to treat you right. Just— let me show you okay?” he hesitates, then exhales. “Just for the next five days.”
He stares down at the ground like he’s processing what he just said before he rakes a hand through his hair and stretches back down onto the ground. You feel a flicker of guilt at the fact you’re making him sleep there. But, irritation rises quickly as his words fully sink in.
“Okay, King Steve,” you scoff into the darkness. “You are aware of how conceited you sound right now, right? Why do you even care?”
Even with all your defensiveness, the words come out small and fragile. You mentally curse yourself for it. Of course, he cares — he’s your best friend.
Still, there’s something about the careful cadence in his voice, the breathy pauses, the way he’s choosing every word like it matters. Like he’s afraid of you bolting out that door, too.
He’s quiet for so long you almost wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But, when he speaks again, his voice is clear and steady.
“Your Mom shouldn’t have said those things. Tonight, at dinner.”
“Yeah, well,” you sigh, suddenly exhausted. “That’s just her.”
“But…” he says hesitantly, “you know you’re...good...right?”
Fuck, his voice is so soft.
If you looked over the bed right now, you know what you’d see.
That messy hair curling over his eyes. His long fingers rubbing absently over his mouth, like he does when he’s thinking. So, you keep your eyes on the window instead, watching the fat snowflakes drift from the stars through the gap in your sheer curtains.
You try to scoff at his sweet statement, but you’re too tired, so it just comes out sounding like a sigh.
“Go to sleep, Harrington.”
“No,” he huffs, “I’m serious.”
“You’re my best friend, you kind of have to say that,” you joke, even as your knee still burns with the memory of his hand there. You close your eyes tight.
“No, Ace,” he argues quietly, “I’m saying it because I know you.”
He does know you. Probably better than anyone.
“So…” he adds after a beat, “you gonna be my fake girlfriend for real tomorrow?”
Oh, God.
You’re not strong enough for this. You thought you were, but you’re not. Because all you can picture is another day — another four days— of more hands on your knee. Of more almost-kisses in the hallway. More defenses to protect your heart. More walls up between you and your best friend.
But there must be something wrong with you. Because even though you know how this story ends — even though you can see the crash-and-burn-third act from a mile away — you want it anyway.
And beneath it all, there’s the curiosity. Sharp and undeniable, quietly blooming from its hibernation since the first and last time your lips met his. You can’t deny it anymore. You’re desperately curious to know what kind of boyfriend Steve Harrington would be. And he’s offering you the chance to find out.
Not for real, but not real is real enough for you.
You’re quiet for a long time. Long enough for the tension in the room to soften around the edges, for the sting of arguing with him to fade into something aching and desperate.
“Yes,” you whisper, into the darkness.
Steve doesn’t reply. You’re not even sure he heard you or not, or if he’s already asleep.
But you know one thing for certain.
You have to lock away your heart and throw away the key. Because if you don’t, you’re going to fall for him.
And everyone never fails to remind you of how good you are at ruining good things.