Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

The Case of the Missing Lifeguard

Steve barely slept a wink, just lay in bed all night, staring at the ceiling, overwhelmed with his mind fully saturated in thoughts about you, until he couldn't think about anything else except how blind he's been all this time. No, wilfully blind.

Even when he tried to close his eyes, there you were again, haunting his dreams.

Blurry visions of the softness of your skin. Your perfume. What it must be like to taste your lips, and other places. How pretty you must sound panting his name. And what other little noises he could coax out your throat.

Each time one of these fantasies slipped into his slumber, he'd snap immediately awake to go get a glass of water or walk to the bathroom to splash his face.

When dawn broke, Steve had come to the undoubted conclusion...

He's got it bad for you.

That morning, he met you outside Starcourt before the start of your shift. Meanwhile, you cluelessly chattered away - about your truck, about work, about how Robin seems quippy and cold but she'll grow to like him eventually, about how Dustin is growing up far too fast, and most notably about this Russian business and what it all means.

Steve nodded and hummed in agreement, but his head felt full. Each time he'd attempt to concentrate and pull together some semblance of keeping his cool, his mind wandered off again, gaze shifting to your plush lips gleaming under the white morning light, your silken skin glowing, your eyes bright and alert...

Are you even listening? You had said.

Gulping down the embarrassment, he forced a laugh to wave away any hint that you were turning him to liquid, too flustered to remain composed.

You're his best friend. Not only that, you're his only friend besides Dustin, which no offense to the kid, is unbelievably tragic. This means any rash decisions that might ruin things between you both are prohibited. In another sense, you're forbidden fruit.

Still, the mere sight of you makes Steve insatiably hungry.

And fruit that tastes like sin can be so sweet.

So today, in the early morning, seeing you coolly lean against a wall, face backlit by the sun to the point where you looked angelic... it spurred on a sudden urge to spill everything in a clusterfuck of clumsy confession, but he dried up like a barren sea and was left a tight-voiced, tittering bag of nerves. The reason why was unbeknownst to you, who simply assumed he was also anxious about the Russian stuff.

He decided has no choice: keep his mind off these emotions and the growing desire to take your face into his hands and press his lips to yours.

So right now, to distance himself from the ever increasing intrigue over what it might taste like if he licked a stripe of flesh along your neck, he's grudgingly agreed to resume what's become the ritual whenever it's your turn to open up the shop...

"You fucked up on the high-kick again. From the top!" You raise a finger to the air.

...Choreographing dance routines in the back.

Resting against his own knees in exhaustion, Steve breathlessly heaves, "Y/N... please. You're killing me."

You sip your water, beholding the boy stood before you, trying with all his might not to crumple into a heap on the floor.

"You said you wanted to learn the dance to Footloose while we wait for Robin and Dustin. I did warn you, it's rigorous." You shrug.

"And I have many, many regrets."

He places his palms to his hips in his typical Steve stance, taking one big, deep breath.

You march up to him and take his two hands into yours whilst pacing back a few steps and ignoring his petulant groans. As you walk him, his head tips back, shoulders slack, bending at the knee slightly to accompany the scrunched up face of displeasure he wears.