Steve’s in the kitchen when he hears you—leaned over the counter, rummaging through a grocery bag he definitely shouldn’t be trusted with. He perks up instantly at your voice, because he always does.

“Yeah?” he calls back, already moving before you even repeat yourself. A second later he appears in the doorway, socked feet sliding slightly on the hardwood. He’s wearing one of his worn Hawkins High tees, hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it too many times. “What’s up, babe?”

You’re standing in the middle of the living room, arms folded behind your back, trying—and failing—to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. Steve notices immediately. He always notices.

“…Why are you smiling like that?” he asks, suspicious but amused, brows lifting. “Do I need to be scared?”

“No,” you say quickly, then pause. “Okay—maybe a little. But in a good way.”

That earns you a soft laugh as he steps closer, closing the distance without even thinking about it. He tilts his head, studying your face like you’re a puzzle he actually wants to solve. “You’re being weird,” he says fondly. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” you insist. “I just need you to come here.”

“I am here.”

“Closer.”

Steve snorts but complies, hands settling easily at your waist like they belong there—which they do. His thumbs brush absent little circles into your sides. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I’m close. Now what?”

You take a breath, heart thumping harder than it should for something so silly. Then you lean in.

At first, it’s soft. Just your lips against his, lingering longer than a peck. Steve freezes—not pulling away, not moving forward—just… pausing. Like his brain needs a second to reboot.

Then you kiss him again. Deeper this time. Slower. Your hands come up, fingers sliding into his hair, and you can feel the exact moment he melts.

It’s like someone flipped a switch.

His shoulders relax, his hands tighten at your waist, and he makes this quiet sound in the back of his throat—half sigh, half whine—that tells you everything you need to know. He leans into you fully, kissing you back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he could stay right here forever if you let him.

When you finally pull back, just a little, his forehead drops to yours.

“…Wow,” he breathes, eyes still closed. “What was that?”

You grin, triumphant. “Just wanted to see something.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dazed and smiling like an idiot, nose brushing yours. “Did I… pass?”

“You completely melted,” you say. “Like, full-on Steve Harrington goo.”

He laughs softly, cheeks pink, then presses another kiss to your lips—short, sweet, devastating. “Yeah,” he admits quietly, arms tightening around you. “That happens with you.”

And honestly? He doesn’t even sound embarrassed about it.