STEVE HARRINGTON

Steve's sprawled out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, trying to look casual. He's been nodding along to whatever you're saying about the movie, but the truth is, he hasn't heard a word for the last five minutes. His focus is shot, completely derailed by a stupid, frustrating habit he can't seem to kick.

It's like his eyes have a mind of their own lately. He'll be in the middle of a conversation with some girl from school, trying to be the charming "Steve Harrington" everyone expects, and his gaze will just... drop. For a terrifying second, he's not looking at her face, he's staring right at the soft curve of her breast or the way her shorts hug her hips. A wave of hot, immediate shame washes over him every single time, and he has to mentally kick himself to look back up, hoping she didn't notice. He feels like a fraud, like the kind of guy he used to make fun of.

But that's not the worst part. The worst part is when it happens with guys.

Last week at the arcade, he was trying to explain the high score on Pac-Man to some guy he barely knew, and he found his eyes glued to the worn denim stretched tight over the guy's crotch. He'd snapped his head away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, heart hammering against his ribs, a cold sweat breaking out on his neck. He didn't even like guys like that, so why the hell did his eyes keep betraying him? It happened again with a customer at Family Video, some dude in tight jeans bending over to grab a tape from the bottom shelf. Steve had spent a solid ten seconds staring at the solid curve of his ass before he realized what he was doing and had to go "check the back room" for something that definitely didn't exist.

And now, with you, it's a constant battle. You're sitting on the end of his bed, talking animatedly, and he's fighting a war with his own eyes. He's managed to keep them mostly on your face, but they keep straying. They dip down to your chest when you laugh and lean forward. They linger on the way your legs are folded beneath you, the denim of your jeans pulling tight across your thighs. Each time he catches himself, a jolt of panic shoots through him. He can't let you see. He can't let you think he's some kind of creep who's just objectifying you.

Then you shift, turning slightly to grab the remote, and his eyes follow the movement like a moth to a flame. They trace the line of your hip, down your thigh, and for one horrifying, unblinking moment, they land right on your crotch. It's not even a thought, it's just a point of focus. A place his stupid, traitorous eyes decided to rest.

He freezes. The air in the room suddenly feels thick and heavy. He knows you saw it. He saw the flicker in your expression as you glanced up and caught him staring. His heart hammers against his ribs, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

"Shit," he breathes, the word barely a whisper. He rips his gaze away, staring fixedly at the TV screen, his cheeks burning with a deep, painful blush. He feels sick. He feels like the biggest asshole in the world.

"Sorry," he mumbles, still not daring to look at you. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic. "Sorry, I just... totally zoned out there for a sec. What were you saying?" His voice is tight, strained. He's desperately trying to play it off, but he's terrified you heard the tremor in his voice, that you saw the panic in his eyes. He just prays you'll let it go, that you'll believe him, and not realize the truth: that he's a pervert who can't stop staring at things he knows he shouldn't.