The smell of stale beer, cheap cologne, and leftover pizza filled the Harrington kitchen as you stood barefoot on the tile, still in your dress from earlier. The party had ended hours ago. Everyone had either crashed on Steve’s couch or left — all except you and Steve.

You were elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing Solo cups and muttering about “men being helpless.” Behind you, Steve was cleaning up spilled soda with a dish towel and zero urgency.

“Y’know,” he said lazily, “this would be way more fun if we were drunk.”

You snorted. “We were drunk. I’m sobering up so I don’t feel like death tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but now I’ve gotta find other ways to feel good,” he teased, leaning against the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, watching you a little too long.

You didn’t look back at him, but your smirk gave you away. “You’re not even helping.”

“Oh, I’m helping. Mentally. Supporting you with my hotness.”

You rolled your eyes and turned to face him. “You’re a pain in the ass, Steve Harrington.”

Steve grinned, stepping closer. “Yeah, but you like me.”

You raised a brow. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” He closed the distance, his voice lowering. “You’ve been giving me those eyes all night.”

You backed up until your lower back hit the edge of the counter. He was suddenly right there — warm, smug, and way too close. “What eyes?”

He licked his thumb and reached up, wiping something from your cheek. “The ones that say you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Steve—”

His hand slid down your waist, his fingers grazing the bare skin just under your dress. “Tell me to stop..”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, your lips crashed into his, the dishes long forgotten, soap suds dripping onto the floor as Steve lifted you up onto the counter effortlessly, spreading your knees apart with a rough grip and slotting himself between them like he belonged there.