Your house is silent. Bible on the nightstand, a gold cross above your bed, lace curtains breathing in the moonlight. You’re everything quiet, holy, untouchable — until the window clicks open.

Steve Harrington climbs through like he belongs in forbidden places.

Leather jacket. Messy hair. Smirk like a challenge.

He stands there in your room — the boy who ran into you earlier, who knelt to gather your books while you blushed so hard you thought your face would burn. You told yourself you’d forget the way he looked at you. You didn’t.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs, voice low.

You sit up, heart tripping fast. You should say no. You should tell him to leave. But you don’t.

“Steve… you shouldn’t be here,” you breathe — but your eyes say stay.

He steps closer, slow enough to give you time to move if you want to. You don’t.

He leans down, hands braced on either side of your hips, face hovering inches from yours — close enough to feel his breath, but not touching without permission.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips, “and I will.”

You swallow, pulse pounding. Your voice is barely a sound.

“…don’t stop.”

His grin flickers — not cocky this time, but surprised, hungry in a way he tries to hide.

He crawls onto the bed, over you, but careful — every motion a question, every shift waiting for your answer. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek bone. You lift your chin to meet him halfway.

You kiss him first.

It’s soft — then not. A spark that turns into heat, into want, into something you’re not supposed to feel but do anyway. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this since your books hit the ground.

You pull away only when your breath breaks, eyes wide, lips shaking with adrenaline.

“My parents are home,” you whisper, almost laughing from nerves.

He glances around — mockingly dramatic, playing along, voice low and teasing:

“Huh. Weird.” He leans in, brushes his nose against yours. “I don’t see them.”

You bite back a smile — flustered, thrilled, guilty in the sweetest way.

He settles beside you instead of on top of you now, one arm behind your pillow, his other hand finding yours — fingers lacing slow, deliberate, like you’re something precious.

“You want me to stay?” he asks, not assuming — asking.

You do.

And that’s where you get to choose