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lighteyed · 4 months

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driving miss mayfield

steve harrington x fem mayfield!reader

[5.8k] steve gives you driving lessons, max gives you heat, you give yourself no time to daydream.

disclaimer- no mention of blood relation to max, no physical descriptors of reader, they are sisters in any way you want them to be.

“What do you mean you don’t know how to drive?” The disbelief in his words is almost as emphatic as the annoyance in yours, but he seems to be more disbelieving than you are annoyed at him, who could ever really be annoyed at him, so you let Steve gape at you and blink rapidly instead of telling him to mind his business.

You slurp down the rest of your soda from the general store in his passenger seat, shrugging, fighting to push down that urge to snap. Mayfield girls, you, Max, your mother when she wasn’t bogged down by a soul-sucking man-leech draining her lifeforce from her right before your eyes, had a less than lovely temper most of the time, and you tried very hard to keep it contained, especially around people who didn’t deserve it. It just felt like a ridiculous question. “I mean, why do you think I’m stuck drivin’ with Billy half the time? You think I get in that car willingly? You think Max gets in that car willingly?” You shake your head. “No way. If I had a license I would’ve been, like, halfway back to California the second you people started dragging me and Max into your science fiction monster crap.”

“As if she woulda let you,” Steve scoffs with a similar head shake, a lock of his hair falling nicely into place in the middle of his forehead. He swipes at it quickly. He has this ridiculous urge to never be anything less than perfect in front of you, you, who is perfect without effort, leading him to put even more effort into holding up this front for himself. “Besides, you’d miss this pretty face, right?” He points to himself, smiles, and waits for you to laugh. You do. It makes his heart constrict.

“Think you’d miss my pretty face, actually,” you snort, shoving your now empty shake in the cupholder.

“Yeah, I would,” he teases, just a little, just enough to make further attempts at breaking all that ice you’ve got protecting you, and he swears, he sees it crack the slightest amount, even though you don’t answer. You smile and stare down at your hands in your lap, twisting a mood ring around your finger and making sure you don’t look at him. He’ll take what he can get. “Well, anyhow,” he says, dramatically blowing air out of his mouth, the subject change swift and, in his opinion, a flawless execution, “I can’t in good conscience let you keep driving with him.”

“You already drive me and Max and all her friends everywhere, you don’t have to do anything else.” You don’t like being indebted to anyone. Even if it’s Steve, who insists on picking you up for school in the mornings and dropping you off in the afternoons and, if he’s free, taking you anywhere else you need to go. And he usually is free, because you, and the group of middle schoolers (almost high schoolers, to be fair) he’s adopted since he protected them from Billy and the Demodogs and the whole Mind Flayer debacle (you’re still fuzzy on the details, honestly) a few months ago, are his only friends nowadays, so it’s not like his schedule is packed and there’s no room to fit you in there. There’s more than enough room. If there wasn’t, he’d make it so. You both knew that.

“I love driving you,” he insists. “But the thing is, my dad’s cutting me off.”

“He’s what?”

“Like, you know, he’s gonna stop paying for my shit. I’m not goin’ to college and he thinks I’m a useless sack of nothing-“

“You are not a useless sack of nothing-“

“You tell that to him-“

“Take me there right now and I will-“

“Alright, alright, easy.” As much as he’d love to see you go toe to toe with his dad, and you’d be able to, he’s sure, he doesn’t want to talk about it any further than the basic facts of the situation. He’s not going to college therefore his dad has no reason to pay for anything he does anymore. His car insurance is his responsibility now, anything else he needs is up to him to to get, food, clothes, gas, if he has to go to the hospital he’s sure his dad would shove the medical bills onto him, too. He was like that, unfortunately for Steve. But it was one thing he could relate to you on. You had him slightly beat, though. You had two dads to complain about, both terrible in their own ways. Sam Mayfield: emotionally distant, didn’t bother to call, didn’t ask you to visit, too busy when you lived with him to spend any time with you anyway. And then, of course, there was Neil Hargrove: controlling, abusive, cold Neil Hargrove. How he’d charmed your mother into marrying him was a mystery to you and to Max, but you supposed, for as much as you loved her on principle because she was your mother and you pitied her and looked up to her all the same, she was easily charmed by men. It killed you a little more every time it happened, but this was the first time she’d actually brought him into your family, integrating them together in a way she thought would be seamless, but you and Max despised your stepbrother and he despised you both right back. “Point is, I’m gonna have to get a job, probably at that new mall they’re opening up-“

“Oh the horror-“ you feign a hand over your forehead and slump back in your seat- “Rich pretty boy Steve Harrington doing labor, at the fancy new mall, with those soft delicate hands of yours, whatever will you do-“

“Shut it,” he warns, but there’s a grin on his face anyway. “You just admitted I’m pretty, by the way.” He continues before you can dispute his claims. “I’m not gonna be around as much. So you need your license. Unless you wanna be stuck with Billy yelling in your ear all day long.” He pauses, thinking. “Which might make me kill him. So, actually, unless you want me to murder him in cold blood-”

“Please? I’m begging at this point,” you joke back.

“Let me get a word in would you?” He laughs and it sounds like music to you. You keep it to yourself. “I want you to be okay on your own. I don’t want him, y’know, hurting you guys, okay? So you need your license.” His words and his eyes go lovely and soft, all rounded ages, nothing jagged about them, just pure, undulated care and affection.

It makes you soften, too. You spend a lot of time looking after Max, it hits you hard when someone takes the time to look after you, too. “I don’t know, Steve, I wouldn’t be getting a car right after or anything, my job doesn’t pay enough, and we can just take the bus or something. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

‘I’m teaching you to drive, and you can take my car wherever you need to go. I’ll come pick you up, we’ll go on over to wherever I’m working, drop me off, and then you go wherever you need to go and come back in time to pick me up.” He says it so easily, as if it’s the most obvious answer to your problems in the world. He doesn’t even fathom how much it means to you.

“You’d let me drive this?” You brace both your hands on the dashboard, your turn to stare at him in incredulity. His car is nice. It’s beautiful, really, and you don’t know much about cars. It’s classic and shiny and new. And expensive. Expensive being the operative word. Billy’s car is nice, too, and it’s about the only thing he takes care of other than his physique, which he thinks about obsessively, but you don’t think it’s anywhere as nice as Steve’s. Not in your opinion, anyway. The fact that Steve is nicer in personality (and looks, quite frankly) might make you biased, though. “I can’t afford to replace anything if I scratch it or crash it or if it explodes.”

“You won’t scratch, crash, or explode it, you’re gonna be learning from the best.”

“And who would that be?”

“Me, obviously. Welcome to your first driving lesson, I’ll be your instructor, Mr. Harrington, thank you for joining us Miss Mayfield.” He tips an imaginary hat toward you. You’re not sure what driving instructors wear hats but you let him have his fantasy anyway.

“Right now?” You can barely process what’s happening before he’s popping open his door, lanky legs sliding right out. He raps the hood of the car with his knuckles, ducking his head inside to look at you.

“Yes, right now, Mayfield, no time like the present.” He comes around to the side you’re on and opens door for you, ushering you out. He holds your hand to help you out of the car, entirely unnecessary but a smooth move nonetheless, and your hands fit together in a way that makes him want to keep them clasped like that forever. He ushers you into the driver’s seat with a quickness that almost gives you whiplash.

Your hands prop up on the wheel, uneasy. Your palms start to sweat. “I don’t like this,” you tell him. You take your hands off and wipe them on your jeans. They immediately dampen again. You’re afraid of leaving sweat prints all over his wheel and leaving a car-shaped hole in the side of the now abandoned Benny’s Burgers, the parking lot almost empty, save for the car that you are now responsible for. It’s eight o’clock on a school and work night, so naturally no one else was around and Hawkins may as well have been asleep.

“You haven’t even attempted to drive yet.”

“My hands keep slipping off the wheel,” you grasp for his hand and press yours against it, raising your eyebrows. “Do you feel the sweat?”

“Jesus, yeah.” He squeezes your hand with encouragement anyway. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m a much nicer driving teacher than anyone you could hire at the school. You’re in good hands. Great hands. The best ones. Perfect, amazing hands.”

Your eyes flick down to Steve’s hands. You have to agree. “I don’t even have a permit. You could get in trouble.”

“By who? Chief Hopper? Officer Callahan?” He nearly cackles at the notion. “You’ll be fine, don’t sweat it.”

“Bad choice of words.”

“Enough stalling, let’s get to the lesson.” He claps his hands together. His face retains a serious, focused quality to it. It’s very handsome (he’s always handsome and it kills you a little because you don’t have time to daydream). “Alright, hands here, and here,” he taps the wheel to show you the correct position. He thinks he might die if you connect your hands again. “That’s called the 10 and 2 position.”

“Why’s it called that?”

“I don’t know, it just is, doesn’t matter, that’s where they go so you have the best control for making turns and steering.” You do as he says. “Okay, so now, you have to relax.”

“Girls love hearing that, Steve,” you grind your teeth.

But your rigidity and discomfort is obvious, especially to you, and you know it can’t be natural to drive all scrunched up and tense like this. “You’ll be fine. You can’t be all stiff if you ever want to get comfortable doing this.”

“But I’m not comfortable.”

“Hence why we’re doing this, yeah?’

“I thought we were doing this so me and Billy don’t strangle each other.”

“That too. Can’t have my only friend dead. Then I’ll be stuck with all the kids by myself.”

“Can’t leave Max alone, either,” you say, more to yourself than to him. You think about her most of all. While you spend all this time with Steve, you worry over her all the time. You constantly check in to make sure she doesn’t feel left out. You fret about her being left alone with Billy. She occupies almost all of your thoughts.

“Never,” he agrees, even if you weren’t talking to him. You give him a thankful smile. His heart almost stops but he clears his throat to snap himself out of it. “Okay, now, let’s turn the key, turn the car back on.”

“Turning the key,” you nod, licking your lips. You turn the key in the ignition until the engine rumbles to life. The car vibrates in response. You hate it.

“Clutch pedal down with your left foot,” he says, pointing. You do as he says. “Move this,” he pats the gear stick, “into first gear, right here, left then up.” He watches you carefully, nodding back. “Good, okay, press down on the acceleration with your right foot now, gently,” he adds. He can tell by the furrow in your brow that you hate it. “You’re doing good,” he praises.

“Yeah, yeah, continue.”

“Now you gotta lift the clutch until you feel it vibrating, okay, then release the handbrake, keep slowly moving off the clutch until you’re moving with just the acceleration, okay?” He finds the deeply serious expression you’re wearing kind of endearing. “If it stalls we’re gonna start again, but don’t worry about it.”

But you don’t stall. The car moves as it should, with you controlling it, in the empty parking lot by the neighborhood park. “Great, great, almost perfect” he tells you, “we can probably go faster if you wanna try that-“

“No, we cannot,” you say tightly, your shoulders hunched.

The laugh he lets out makes your spine tingle. “You have to relax your face, I promise you’ll drive better if you’re not all… scrunched up,” he motions to your shoulder area.

You try. You roll them back as you keep focusing on the road, trying not to furrow your brows so much. You’ll get a permanent forehead wrinkle at this rate.

“See, there we go,” Steve reassures. Your let out a little huff, but your face goes placid, still. “Beautiful.” He’s not sure if he means to say it. If he should. He says it anyway.

You look sideways at him as you drive through the parking lot. You’re driving slow. Slower than slow. You’re practically inching along. “You can’t possibly be flirting with me right now.” It’s not that you don’t like it. You do. It hurts how much you do. If he wasn’t freshly single and you didn’t feel so obligated to focus most of your time on taking care of Max, you’d flirt back. You weren’t new to it or anything. You knew your way around a guy. Even a gorgeous one like Steve. But he was only a few months over Nancy and you saw the grimaces he did when she and Jonathan crossed his path. You weren’t sure if he was over her. Or if Max was comfortable and secure enough here to be a little more independent.

“I am not,” he scoffs. The blush creeping up his neck onto his cheeks betrays him. You shift your eyes to look at him again but he points, “eyes on the road, by the way.”

“You were flirting, you just can’t help yourself, can you? King Steve, right?” You snicker, recalling the nickname from when you’d first met him, the one that had been rescinded just as fast. It’s easy to hide the fact that you liked the way he said beautiful, like a caress, like a kiss, behind your banter and snark. Maybe it’s one thing you and Billy could have in common. Everything’s easier when you hide it behind an attitude.

“I wouldn’t say that stating a fact is… flirting,” he shrugs, flippant. At least, he hopes it appears flippant. You don’t give yourself much time to ponder this.

“It is when you say it in that voice,” you retort.

“Huh? What voice?” He balks at that. He does not put on a voice.

“Like, low and sultry,” you flick some hair away from your eyes. It had been the way he said it, after all.

“You think my voice is low and sultry?” His ears practically perk up like a puppy’s. You don’t answer. It’s actually all the answer he needs. “I think you’re the one flirting with me now, Mayfield, not the other way around.”

You scoff. You are scoffing and he is laughing away. “In your dreams, Harrington.”

“Every night.” The joke registers with that one but it still makes your stomach clench. Every butterfly in the western hemisphere makes its way into your gut and builds a home there, an uncontrollable influx of new neighbors, fluttering madly, demanding to be seen and known and understood. You understood them, you just didn’t want to. “See, now that, that was flirting,” he says, satisfied at your quiet. “And you sound like your stepbrother when you say my last name like that, by the way. Excellent Billy impression.”

You’re doing slow, lazy laps around the parking lot at this point, your nerves still present but for entirely different reasons now. “I do not sound like Billy.” You grimace. “And you probably shouldn’t be flirting with anyone when you just got out of a relationship, like, not even four months ago. I don’t think you’re ready to be flirting again.” You, again, are saying it more to yourself than to him. A subtle reminder of the predicament you’re in.

“Hence why I’m not flirting,” he informs you.

“Uh huh,” you say, unconvinced.

“But if I was-“

“Which you’re not-“

“Which I am not,” he agrees, “how would you feel? Just for, y’know, future reference.” He juts his lip out, wondering.

“Let’s circle back to that when you’re not still reeling from the Nancy incident.”

“Well,” he shifts around in his seat. He wouldn’t say he’s still reeling. Still hurt, sure. But hurt sticks around longer than heartbreak does. You can be hurt by something someone did and not still be heartbroken over them. He wouldn’t say he’s still heart broken. Looking at you, his heart feels very much intact. Nothing broken here, no, definitely not. “That’s why it’s for a hypothetical future reference.”

“Right, of course,” you slow the car to a stop. “Then I wouldn’t be opposed. Hypothetically.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“I wouldn’t.” But, you remember, suddenly, that it’s not just you that you look out for. “Once Max is all settled, of course.”

“Settled?”

“Like, y’know, feeling better about being here.”

“She’s got a massive group of friends she sees all the time.”

“I know, but-“

“You worry about her, I get it,” he places a hand on your knee, very light, not asking for anything. “Who worries about you? You should- you should be happy, too, is that crazy to say?”

You place your hand over his. “I’m happy. I’m happy, I promise. I don’t need you to worry about me, I’m okay.”

“You should do more things for yourself.”

“Like getting my license,” you gesture to the car.

“Like getting your license, yeah.” Like going on a date with me. Like letting me show you how serious I am about you.

“I’m okay how I am.”

“I’m making it my job to look out for you, y’know.”

You smile again. Very soft, almost embarrassed. You hated the attention being on you but you had to get used to it, being around him. “Yeah, Steve, I know.”

He’s diligent in his effort to give you driving lessons. He takes you driving almost every day after school, Max in the backseat if she’s not with her friends, both of them encouraging and kind even when you hit the curb more often than not. You were a good driver, for all intents and purposes, even though your palms still sweat every time you got behind the wheel. It was a gradual comfort process. They were less sweaty than the first time, and that had to count for something. You even get comfortable enough to drive through Main Street, which nearly sends you into a panic and leads to a shouting match between the two of you while you furiously honk your horn at the other people of Hawkins on the road, Steve slumped in his seat to avoid eye contact with everyone, but after that, you’re a pro.

A few weeks of this pass when he says to you, out of the blue as you drive aimlessly, “So, I set up your road test for you.”

You’re still not used to this whole looking out for you thing he’s got going on. You almost stop the car short. “Did you really?”

“I think you’re ready. You’re great, you’ll pass easily.”

“You think?” You’re typically confident, strong-willed, but sometimes he sees those flickers of insecurity crop up and he attempts to smother that right then and there.

“For sure,” he nods. “They’ll be begging you to be on the road.”

“You flatter me.”

“You deserve it.” His eyes, his smile, trained on you, always, is devastating. Maybe you do. Maybe you do.

At your dinner table that night, you, Max, your mom, Neil, and Billy, Max does what she should never do in front of Neil or Billy, and that’s open her mouth.

Billy had been going on about how he was sick of being the chauffeur, even though he really wasn’t anymore, and that if he was going to get a job this summer before college like Neil wanted you two would have to learn to get around on your own, because he can’t be responsible for two people if he also had to be responsible for a job.

“She’s getting her driver’s license tomorrow,” she jerks her head toward you, a proud, beautiful smile on her face, and you want to drag her by the hair into your shared bedroom to ask why in the world she’d ever tell that to everyone and also give her the biggest hug for the evident pride she takes in the fact that you’re independent and doing things on your own and she looks up to you so, so much. You bite your lip as Neil’s fork scrapes noisily across his plate. “And Steve’s been driving us around anyway, so I don’t know what you’re going on about-“

You interrupt her with a hard, socked foot coming down on her own. Your eyes go wide and your head tilts in her direction, a please oh please stop talking expression.

“Who has been driving you, exactly?” Neil asks, eyebrows raised.

“My friend from school, it’s no big deal,” you answer, staring down at your plate and then back up at him. His cold gaze is fixated on you.

“What happened to the agreement we had?” Neil turned his sneer to Billy, rendered speechless by Max’s unexpectedly bold statement. Billy then glares at you, and you really don’t want an argument, so you cut in.

“It’s only sometimes, like once a week, and he doesn’t drive us to school, he drives us home. Rarely. Rare occasions. I promise.” A lie, flowing easily from your lips, and because Neil thinks you’re a smart, good girl, and his son is always up to no good and lying, he relaxes, and so does Billy, though you’ll get no thanks from him, not now, not ever.

“Well, who’s been teaching you to drive where you feel ready to take your test?” Neil stretches across the table to get another helping of the meal your mother prepared from the middle of the table.

“Steve, when we’re both free.” Every day.

And because Billy can’t let you have anything, because he needs to instantly make you regret ever doing anything nice for him, he says, “I’m not a big fan of this Steve guy.”

“Hm, and why’s that?” Neil continues eating.

“It’s a petty high school rivalry,” you interrupt, narrowing your eyes at him.

“He’s got a reputation with girls, you know. I wouldn’t want to see something bad happen to you.” Billy’s stupid grin eats shit. The feigned care makes your skin crawl.

“What sort of reputation is that? You shouldn’t be hanging out with that sort of person,” Neil frowns. Again, with that feigned care. It’s not about genuine worry for you. It’s about control. Dominance. You won’t fall for it.

“It’s all rumors. He had a serious girlfriend for a year. And we’re not together, anyway. He’s my friend.”

“Guys all want the same thing,” Billy says back.

“How would you know?” You push, nearly slamming your hands on the table.

“I’m friends with the basketball team, there’s locker room talk, you get the picture.” He continues smiling in that mocking way of his that makes you want to jump across the dining room and put your fork through his eye.

“You don’t actually know anything, though, do you, considering you’re not friends with him?”

“I think I know enough to know that this isn’t the type of person my sister should be associating with-“

That gets you going most of all, which is giving him exactly what he wants, and you can’t help it. “We are not siblings-“ your chair drags across the floor with a loud screech as you remove yourself from the table, just as Neil is telling you both to settle down.

“C’mon, honey, sit back down, you can hang out with whoever you want, I’m sure this boy is very nice,” Susan coaxes you gently but you don’t even look at her, too caught up with the fact that it’s all her fault you’re here in this place with these people, these strangers, that you hate so deeply it makes your bones ache.

“’M done eating, going to my room,” and you don’t care how annoyed it makes Neil that you’ve gotten up before he’s finished eating, which has become practice in this house now, you can’t even celebrate the fact that you’re achieving a milestone, getting your license, God damn it, without it turning into the Billy Hargrove one man show. He makes everything, everything, hurt.

Max comes in a little while later, her footsteps light and hesitant on the floor. She crawls into your bed even though hers is across the room and she hasn’t slept beside you since your first night here.

“Are you mad at me?” She asks. Her eyes are big and blue, worried.

“’Course not.” You smooth her hair back. You’re not mad at her, truly. It’s not her fault Billy ruins everything. “I know you were just trying to get back at him for his complaining. S’not your fault, lovie.”

“I should’ve known it would turn into that,” she frowns, uneasy. “It always turns into that.”

“You don’t have to know anything. You should be allowed to say whatever you want to our parents, that’s what they’re there for. Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” You boop her nose with the tip of your finger. You’ve been sulking in your room because of him, not her.

“Can I ask you something?” You’re face to face with each other, both your heads lying on your pile of pillows, hair fanned out behind you. Her expression is earnest and endearing.

“Always.”

“I thought you and Steve were dating already.”

You hesitate. “That’s not a question.”

“Okay,” she rolls her eyes. There’s no malice behind it. “Why aren’t you dating?”

You crinkle your nose, dismissive. “Because, I’m- I’m, like, busy, with stuff, and he’s not over Mike’s sister and I just, I don’t wanna get mixed up with some silly boy.”

She admires your dismissive attitude toward boys, and it might be why she breaks up with Lucas every other week in exasperation with his boyish faults. She just thinks it’s crazy that you have this attitude when a guy like Steve is the one following you around with shiny looks and dreamy smiles. She’s sure that you’d never deny Steve, who, when she observed you both from the backseat, did everything in his power to make you feel comfortable, safe, secure, was kind to her while also maintaining a brotherly banter, something she thought she was getting when Billy had been introduced to her, was funny, and generous. He was always letting you drive his car and buying you both food and making sure you had a ride somewhere if you needed it. And she drove her and her friends around everywhere even if you weren’t there, too. Steve seemed perfect.

He was easy on the eyes, too, but it brought a hot flush to Max’s cheeks to admit that, so she never would.

“He’s not a silly boy, he’s Steve.”

“A boy is just a boy no matter who he is, you know that.”

“Yeah, but,” she huffs, indignant, “he really likes you. I bet he’d go out with you if you asked.”

“I’m not asking him out, and he doesn’t like me like that. He’s a good friend. And I told you, I’m too busy for him.”

“Busy with what?” She cries, exasperated. “Busy driving with Steve, busy doing homework with Steve, busy getting dinner with Steve, busy-“

She’s running out of fingers to write her list on. You grab her hand to stop the count. “I get your point.”

“You can’t be too busy for someone if you already spend so much time with them, is all I’m saying.” She has a point. You scratch your arm absentmindedly. “What’s the real reason?”

“What real reason? You’re saying that’s not the real reason?”

“Definitely not the real reason.”

“Says who?”

“Says your best friend.”

You sigh at her, a loving sound. “Oh, yeah, her.” You run a hand through her hair again. The softness of it soothes you. “I don’t wanna leave you alone.”

She pokes your cheek. “I’m not alone. I have my friends.”

“Didn’t you hear that we’re best friends? I can’t leave you in the dust.” It’s more playful than you really feel. You don’t want to burden her by unburdening yourself, relaying all your fears about what would happen if you spent more time with Steve, things like her resenting you, something awful happening between her and Billy, her getting hurt, injured, killed, your brain delved into all sorts of dark, terrible places, and these spiraling thoughts led to one conclusion: you would never, ever, let your focus waver from her. “I take care of you, okay? I don’t have the time to think about anything else. Besides, he might not even be over Nance, remember?”

“He is. He is over her. I promise,” she insists, placing her hands on your arms. “He looks at you like he’s in love, I’ve seen it!”

“You don’t know what you’re seeing, babe-“

“I do.” She shoves herself off your bed, your hand, where it was twined in her hair, falling back onto the covers. You sit up, confused, as she stomps off to her own bed.

“Are you mad at me right now?” You ask.

“I’d be happy if you were happy.”

“Max, stop, I am happy-“

“Not happy enough. He’s nice. You should just go out with him. Stupid to worry about me all the time.” She flicks off her lamp light and turns away from you toward her wall. You sigh. You think. Your stomach twists itself in a knot you don’t want to think about. Eventually, when her stubbornness about it overrides yours, you turn back toward your own wall and turn out your own light. Your eyes strain from trying not to cry, so eventually, you cave in to that, too.

Your hands shake at your road test the next day. For a multitude of reasons. You look at Steve differently, with your head tilted toward him like the head of a flower tilts toward the sun, waiting and wanting. You’re running over all the ways it could go wrong. You resign yourself to never doing a thing about it.

He notices your quiet, so unlike yourself, and attributes it to your nerves about the test. He rubs your shoulders, an attempt to hype you up. “You got this, okay? You’re gonna kill it. You’re gonna be the second best driver in Hawkins.”

“Lemme guess, you’re the first?” It’s the first smile you’ve cracked all day and he takes it as the victory it is.

“Well it’s certainly not Billy,” he rolls his eyes. “Seriously, how you feelin’?” He spins you around and the gaze he bores into you is too intense to bear. You look away fervently.

“Fine, ‘m fine, nervous, but fine, should be good, my driving instructor was excellent.” He beams with pride at that, a blinding flash.

“World renowned, I heard,” he brags.

“Let’s see if I pass first.”

“You will,” he says. Confident, assured. It makes you feel assured in turn.

And you do. You pass. By a hair, truth be told, but you pass. It thrills you, clutching the paper declaring your triumph in your fist, walking outside to greet Steve who leans against the hood of his car in his devastating way of his, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he taps his foot in wait. When he sees you come out, he brightens, straightening himself out.

“What’s the verdict?” He asks.

You wave the paper around. “I passed!” You can’t fake it for a second, your joy at this little bit of freedom absolutely inescapable. He lets out a loud, thrilled whoop for you, and his joy brings you even more of it. He picks you up off the ground and spins you in a circle, and when you’re back on the sidewalk, steady, he envelopes you in a deep, encompassing hug.

When he hugs, his whole body goes into it, if that makes any sense. He throws his all into it. There’s no hesitancy, no timidity, he’s not ashamed of it in the slightest. He hugs you, hard. He’s that proud. And he likes holding you. You pull away first and he’s not surprised.

“Proud of you,” he squeezes you arm again.

“Couldn’t have done it without, Steve, really. You- you’re the best, y’know that?”

He decides to push his luck. “Good enough to go on a date with?” He can see already that you’ll say no. That you want to say yes but you’re going to say no. He doesn’t care. He’ll wait until you’re sick of him.

“You don’t wanna go out with me,” you squeeze his arm back.

“You’re real silly, you know that?” His voice is warm and awfully fond.

You can’t bring yourself to let him all the way in just yet. You walk with him back to the car and agree with him. Yes, you’re real silly, indeed.

#if u have requests for more mayfield reader content. pls hit me up. i am in fact begging.#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x mayfield!reader #steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #STEVE CROWD WAKE THE FUCK UP #mayfieldreaderverse

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