Steve Harrington is your best friend. In your words, he's your 'best friend in the entire world', and in his words, you're his 'best friend till we both drop dead'.

You know you love Steve, and he knows he loves you too. He loves how you're always smiling around him, enveloping him in a cozy warmth that rivals the sun's. He loves the way your nose scrunches when you laugh loudly, especially when he tells the jokes. He loves how you always linger next to him—even when there's so much space around you, you choose to stay stuck to him like a stubborn barnacle. He loves it.

Steve loves you, and it takes him a ridiculously pathetic amount of time to realize that it's more than just in a 'best friend' way. He truly, deeply, loves you.

He's going red-cheeked now, thinking about it. You're slouched deep in a ratty couch in someone's house, he doesn't know who, in some party in the middle of the night. The scent of cheap booze and weed hangs heavily in the air, and it's making Steve feel a little dizzy. Though, he could just blame it on the fact that you're all cuddled up into his side, drunk out of your mind. And that he's stupidly in love with you.

"Hey," his words come out all slurred as he tucks a hand under your jaw, thumb swiping lazily across your flushed cheek. You feel a lovely kind of warm under his palm. "Y'okay? Do y'wanna go home?" Instead of answering, you give him a half-hearted, sloppy grin that melts his insides.

Gosh, he just wants to gobble you up.