Surrender // Steve Harrington x Reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

"So you want to wait for it to bubble on top, and that's when we flip," Steve tells you, the pancake batter in the pan slowly turning from shiny to matte as it cooked. You were stood beside him as he held the pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, tongue pressed against his top lip in concentration.

His hair was tousled and he had a towel draped over his shoulder, the picture of domestication. Per your earlier request, he'd hurriedly gotten out of bed so he could teach you to make his personal favorite - chocolate chip pancakes.

He'd made them for you countless times so you knew they'd be good, but it was interesting to see exactly how they were made.

You hum your confirmation that you were listening, committing the recipe to memory and as bubbles begin to stipple the mixture, you point an accusatory finger at it. "Time to flip?" You ask, causing a chuckle to vibrate his chest as he nods. "Good, yeah. Time to flip." He edges the spatula underneath and flips it over, the pancake on the other side now a toasted brown shade.

This close to him, your elbow occasionally brushed against his and as you lean closer to peer into the pan, his signature scent drifts into your nostrils, mixing with the scent of fresh pancakes into something entirely delicious all on its own. 

Some pop music drones on quietly from the radio on the kitchen counter, and you found yourself smiling at the way Steve bops ever so slightly to the beat of it. He seemed so carefree this morning, so calm and serene. It was almost entirely reflected in your own mood, unable to focus on any of your worries from how much fun you were having doing something so simple.

"Hey, how 'bout we eat breakfast in the back yard today? Sun's out, so could be nice." He suggests and you take a step back, considering the idea a moment before nodding your agreement, fingers finding the dial of the radio to turn it up a fraction. "That sounds good."

"Cool." He smiles to himself, flipping the pancake out onto a plate before adding some fresh batter into the pan. "Could you make us some coffee while I finish this up, please? I'll be out in just a sec." He requests and you wordlessly get to work on doing as you're told -- no, not told. Asked. 

The cups of coffee steam as you take them outside into the chill of the fall morning, shades of orange and brown and yellow littering the yard with the leaves that had begun to fall from the trees. 

The cold sends a shiver through you, so you head back inside to kick on your sneakers and slip into another of Steve's sweaters. He was still wearing black sweatpants when he joins you, though he'd put a grey hoodie on over his navy sleep shirt. There was a large stack of pancakes balancing on one hand while two smaller plates sat in the other. He sets the large plate in the middle of the small white bistro table, rusted from the weather, between the cups of coffee before sharing out the plates and the cutlery that was atop them at either side as well. 

You sit across from one another, the sun just beginning to shine into the garden and heat it up for the day. The pool was covered, but a thin sheen of water on the cover glistened under the sun's reflective light. 

Eating together in a contented silence, you were practically drooling by the time the pancake hit your tongue, a hum of satisfaction low in your throat. "We did well on these," You say, though you had absolutely nothing to do with it and simply watched while the master worked.

He doesn't correct you though, simply snorts in his amusement and talks around a mouthful of pancake. "Sure did."

Neither one of you had spoken about the shift in dynamic between you. It wasn't because either of you felt ashamed, or embarrassed, but rather that it simply felt like a natural flow to just keep going with your morning and not address it. It didn't feel like a big deal, though you knew it should, but rather an unspoken understanding of your comfort with one-another.