Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
Summary: After surviving the Upside Down, you learn to live with the scar it left behind — and the growing distance it carves into your relationship with Steve Harrington. When his careful hands and constant restraint make you question whether he still wants you, you decide to force the truth into the open. What you uncover isn’t rejection, but guilt — and the fragile work of learning how to heal together.
Warnings: ANGST!!! (Like we're soaking in it), Post-Traumatic Injury (Nothing too graphic), Miscommunication Trope, Hurt/Comfort, Body Image Insecurities, Emotional Breakdown, Survivor's Guilt. Let Me Know If I Forgot Something
A/N: Another Stevie fic!! This literally came to me at 3 AM and I was like MUST WRITE. I really like this one. Steve is just so good at hurt/comfort. Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoy and that you have a wonderful remainder of your day. -Nebula
Masterlist | Stranger Things Masterlist
You rub at the rough skin hidden beneath your shirt, thumb tracing over every ridge and raised line. It still aches sometimes, especially when it rains, but not like tit used to. Not like the sharp, blinding pain from those first weeks after the hospital. After the Upside Down. After everything.
Now it’s more of a dull, lingering reminder that never quite lets you forget.
You stare up at the cracks in the ceiling as you lie on Steve’s bed, listening to the familiar sounds of Hawkins drifting in through the open window.
Steve sits beside you, back against the headboard, one arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. His thumb moves in slow, comforting circles against your arm, just like it has a hundred times before. He’s always been good at this — being gentle, being steady, being there.
But lately, it’s been different.
His arm around your shoulders is warm and familiar, but there’s a distance threaded through it, something unspoken that presses heavier than the quiet in the room.
You shift slightly, angling your body closer to him, testing the space between you. He doesn’t pull away. He never does. But he doesn’t pull you closer either.
There was a time when Steve’s presence was effortless. When his hands found yours without thinking, when his closeness felt instinctual rather than intentional. Now everything feels deliberate. Like he’s constantly weighing something in his head, holding himself back, or forcing himself to stay exactly where he is.
You’ve tried to convince yourself you’re imagining it.
Trauma changes people. Healing isn’t linear. Of course things feel different after everything you’ve been through.
But still, your stomach twists, the truth becoming harder to ignore.
Somewhere along the way, this strange, hollow feeling erupted between you. Kisses grew softer, shorter. Lingering looks turned into quick smiles. Hands met with hesitation instead of hunger.
You don’t want to doubt him. Steve has never given you a reason to before.
But something is wrong. You can feel it, like a song played in the wrong key. And not knowing why — that’s the scariest part. The questions you don’t yet have words for, stacking up quietly in the back of your mind.
The weight of it settles behind your ribs, pressing there tenderly, relentlessly.
Steve shifts beside you, sitting up just enough to look down at your face. “You good?” he asks softly.
The question leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
He’s always been the perfect boyfriend. His ability to tune into the smallest changes in your mood, the slightest hitch in your breath is one of the things that make Steve… Steve. It’s just that right now it feels cruel.
Because in every other area of your relationship, Steve is perfect. He is the attentive boyfriend, the thoughtful friend, the guy who always shows up when you need him. During your recovery, he brought you your favorite snacks, sat through movies he hated just to keep you company, never once made you feel like anything less than the most important person in the room.
But when it comes to the next level of your relationship — the physical intimacy that once came so easily — it’s like there’s a wall between you now.
And it’s not that he doesn’t try to be affectionate. It just feels too controlled. Like he doesn’t want to go further than he has to, like he wants to give you just enough.
And when he looks at you with that soft concern in his eyes and asks if you’re okay, you want to scream.
I don’t want your concern. I want you to want me.
You take a deep breath, nodding and forcing a smile before looking up at him. “Yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie — not entirely.
You are exhausted. Exhausted from overthinking, from wondering why he always seems to shy away, from questioning whether your scar has become something ugly in his eyes. Whether he sees it as a mark of weakness. Whether that’s why his hands never linger the way they used to.
The months since the incident had blurred together into doctor’s appointments and whispered conversations you pretended not to hear. Into Steve hovering just a little too closely — always watching where you stepped, always ready to catch you if you stumbled. At first, it had been comforting. Proof that you were loved. That what you all had gone through mattered.
And for a while, the scar felt like a badge of honor.
You’d survived something impossible. You’d fought monsters and came back. Sometimes, when you caught glimpses of it in the mirror you’d think, Yeah. I did that. I lived.
But things have changed. Slowly. Quietly. Like a song fading out before you realize it’s ending.
And you’re starting to think maybe he doesn’t want you like that anymore.
The thought twists dark and ugly in your stomach. But you don’t want to tell him that. Don’t want to burden him with these spiraling doubts. Don’t want to feel like you’re asking for something he isn’t ready — or willing — to give.
So instead, you give him a much simpler answer.
Steve seems to accept it, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your hair.
Except this one is different.
It isn’t one of the careful, distant kisses he’s been giving you lately. The ones that make your chest tighten in a way you’ve tried not to think too hard about. This one lingers, just a second longer than usual. A warmth that makes you feel like he’s really there, like he isn’t holding anything back.
Like he’s trying to say something without words, trying to close the distance between you in a way he hasn’t for a while.
You swallow hard, trying not to overthink it. But that small moment, that quiet press of his lips against your hair, sends a spark of hope through you.
You shift in his arms, turning toward him, your knee brushing his thigh. The contact is brief, almost accidental, but you still feel a spark run through you. It feels like an invitation, like he’s finally letting the wall between you crack just a little.
You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He smiles immediately — that familiar, heart-aching smile that once made your knees weak without effort. You pull your lip between your teeth, anticipation coiling tight in your chest. His gaze drops to your mouth, and his lips part as he exhales, warm and shaky, the breath ghosting over your skin.
The air between you has changed. Thickened with something unspoken.
You can feel his warmth close to you, like a pull you can’t resist. His eyes lift back to yours, and there’s something different in them — a flicker of desire, maybe, or longing. You’re not too sure. But it’s enough to make your pulse stutter.
Everything about this feels more… present. More urgent. Like he’s finally letting his guard down enough for you to see him — to catch a glimpse of the real Steve. Your Steve.
You want more. You need more.
Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, closing the distance between you. There’s no turning back now.
His lips brush yours, light at first — tentative — but when you don’t pull away, the kiss deepens. Loses all the careful restraint from before. It’s hungry. Desperate.
His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth as the heat between you flares. The spark you felt before ignites into something wild and undeniable. You shift instinctively, settling over his lap, your heart pounding as you cling to the hope that this crack in the wall will finally become something more.
You kiss him harder, more urgently, desperate to feel the connection again — to know this isn’t just a fluke. His lips move against yours with a fervor you didn’t realize how badly you’d missed. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and for one fragile moment, it feels like everything is finally aligning. Like the distance between you is melting away.
But just as quickly as it began, Steve pulls back.
His hands remain on your waist, but the grip loosens, like he’s forcing himself to let go.
You blink up at him, breathless, your pulse racing as the world shifts beneath you. You can see it immediately — the wall rebuilding behind his eyes.
“Hey, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, his voice trailing as he searches for words. “I, uh... I’m kinda tired,” he mutters, almost sheepish. “It’s been a long day.”
His thumb absentmindedly traces a slow circle against your arm — a familiar, once-comforting gesture — but it does nothing to ease the ache spreading through your chest.
“I just want to hold you close right now,” he adds, as if that makes it better, but the words don’t land like they used to.
Your heart sinks, disappointment clawing up your throat so sharply it nearly steals your breath. You’re not even angry.
It’s just… you’ve never felt more alone in his presence.
Even with his hand still resting on your waist. Even with his voice gentle and his words meant to comfort. All you can feel is the distance that’s growing between you.
You inhale shakily and force a small smile, hiding the hurt as best you can. With a nod, you slide off his lap, the loss of his warmth immediate — jarring.
"Yeah," you say quietly, trying to sound casual, "It’s fine. I get it."
You move to the other side of the bed, folding your legs beneath you like a shield, pulling your knees to your chest as if the space between you will ease the tightness behind your ribs.
But the emptiness only grows.
You tell yourself not to read into it. That Steve Harrington loves you. That he’s still here. Still choosing you. Still perfect in every way that matters.
But as you stare out into the dark beyond the window, feeling the careful space he keeps between your bodies, a quiet, terrible thought begins to take root.
What if he’s only staying because he feels like he has to?
And for the first time since the scar healed, it doesn’t feel like proof of your strength.
It feels like the beginning of something breaking.
You stand in front of the mirror, fingers hovering at the lace trim of your lingerie, staring at your reflection like it might tell you something you’ve missed. The room is quiet — too quiet — and your heart is beating faster than it should for something as simple as getting ready to see your boyfriend.
You chose this babydoll set with intention. One of Steve’s favorites, a birthday gift you had gotten him before the world went to shit again. It feels strange, suddenly being so deliberate about something that once came so easily.
Your hands move automatically to the scar marking your skin. It itches — not painful, just there. A constant, quiet presence you’ve been trying not to connect to the growing distance between you and Steve.
But the thought keeps circling back anyway.
The idea had crept in slowly, insidiously, until it stopped feeling dramatic and started feeling… inevitable. What else made sense? What else explained the way he wanted to be near you, but never with you anymore?
You think about the first time it happened. Curled together on the couch, legs tangled, a late movie playing softly while his fingers traced idle patterns against your sleeve. You’d shifted closer, let your hand slip beneath his shirt, only for him to still — just enough for you to notice.
“Maybe later,” he’d murmured gently, stopping you before you could go any further.
Then there was the kitchen. Standing too close while he washed dishes, pressing kisses along his jaw until you felt his shoulders tighten. He’d turned his head at the last second, your lips landing against his cheek instead of his mouth.
“Careful,” he’d said with a small smile. “You’re gonna make me drop a plate.”
You’d laughed because it felt easier than asking what he meant. He’d laughed too and the moment dissolved.
The worst was the night in bed. Facing each other in the dark, knees brushing, your hand resting over his heart. You’d leaned in slowly, deliberately, giving him every chance to stop you.
“I’m just… not in the headspace tonight,” he’d whispered, hand closing around your wrist. “Can we just sleep?”
You’d nodded. Of course you did. You always did.
And you started noticing things you wish you hadn’t.
The way he changes in the bathroom instead of with you in the room now. The way his hand hovers near your waist before settling higher, safer. The way his gaze flickers — just briefly — whenever your scar might be visible.
You exhale shakily, turning your gaze from the mirror before you. You walk over to your dresser where your small collection of perfume bottles sit. You reach for the one with the golden top, spritzing a little at your wrists and neck. The familiar scent blooms in the air, and despite yourself, you smile.
The one he once buried his face into your neck over, laughing, saying you were trying to kill him.
The memory twists something tight in your chest.
You hate that you’re doing this. Hate that you’re planning something that feels so much like a trap. Hate that you need proof at all.
But you can’t live in this in-between anymore.
You can’t keep wondering if every rejection is actually about you. About the scar. About what your body looks like now. About whether he’s still attracted to you or just staying because he feels like he should.
So tonight, you won’t let him hide behind excuses.
Tonight, you’re going to give him every reason not to pull away.
You stop at the mirror one last time, fluffing up your hair to add more volume. You meet your eyes in the mirror, searching for hesitation. For guilt. For some sign that you should stop.
Instead, all you see is resolve — fragile, aching, and desperate.
If Steve still wants you, you’ll know.
At least the not knowing will finally be over.
Steve’s house is already lit when you pull into the driveway.
The sight of it — warm, familiar — makes your chest tighten in a way you don’t have time to unpack. This place has always felt safe. A second home. Somewhere you belong. Tonight, it feels like a question.
You sit in the car for a moment longer than necessary, fingers curled tight around the steering wheel. Your heart is still racing, thudding loud in your ears. You take a steadying breath, catching a faint trace of your perfume on your wrist as you move.
Too late to turn back now.
When you knock, the door opens almost immediately.
Steve stands there in soft sweats and an old Hawkins High sweatshirt, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. The sight of him hits you harder than you expect — the familiar comfort of him mixed with something sharp and aching. His face lights up when he sees you — easy, familiar, unguarded. Relief washes through you.
He still looks at you like that.
“Hey,” he says, smiling easily. “You’re here.”
Like there was ever a doubt.
He pulls you into a hug and you let it linger.
Your arms slide around his neck, your body settling against his chest instead of pulling back like you usually do. His hands rest at your back, steady and warm — and then you feel it. The subtle shift. The way his breath stutters just slightly as he inhales.
You feel his chin dip, almost unconsciously, like he’s trying to place the scent. Like it’s hit something deep and automatic in him. His grip tightens — not much, just enough that you notice.
For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move at all.
You stay right there, cheek against his shoulder, giving him nowhere to escape the feeling. His thumb drags slowly across your back, a grounding gesture that’s suddenly a little less controlled than usual.
“You smell…” he starts, then trails off, clearing his throat softly. “Nice.”
It’s understated. Too understated. But his voice is lower now, and you feel the words more than you hear them.
When you finally pull back, you don’t go far. You stay close enough that your hands are still resting on his shoulders, your bodies still brushing. His eyes flick down your face, lingering just a fraction too long before meeting your gaze again.
You watch his Adam's apple bobs just a fraction too quickly, betraying the control he’s trying to maintain.
You step inside, letting him close the door behind you. The house smells faintly of clean laundry and whatever he cooked for dinner earlier. Normal. Domestic. Everything the last few months have been trying to convince you is enough.
“Do you want me to take your coat?” he asks.
“No, I’m okay for now,” you reply, not quite ready for him to see what lies underneath.
He gives you a strange look, but otherwise accepts it.
He leads you into the living room, settling onto the couch like he always does, patting the space beside him in silent invitation. You sit, leaving no space in between you like you normally would. Your thigh presses against his, solid and intentional. Steve shifts — just a little — like he’s suddenly aware of every point of contact. His knee bumps yours. He doesn’t move it away.
Steve glances down for half a second, then back up at you, a faint crease forming between his brows.
“You okay?” he asks, reflexively.
You smile. “Yeah. I missed you.”
Something in his expression falters at that. Not discomfort — something softer. Something dangerous.
The movie he queued up for you plays, forgotten. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his instead of resting them loosely like you have been. Your thumb traces slow circles over his knuckles, absentminded enough to feel natural.
Steve’s jaw tightens. You feel it in the way his hand curls more firmly around yours. In the way his shoulders square, like he’s bracing himself against something he doesn’t want to name.
You lean your head against his shoulder.
The air between you feels heavier now — thick with everything neither of you is saying. You shift in your seat, rolling your shoulders slightly.
“It’s hot in here,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.
Steve glances over. “You want me to—?”
“No,” you say quickly, already standing. “It’s fine.”
Your fingers curl around the zipper, tugging it slowly downward. The movement is deliberate, measured, casual — but you know the effect. You slide the jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
It’s such a simple motion. Casual. Almost careless.
But the moment the fabric slips from your shoulders, Steve freezes.
His eyes are wide and unmistakably caught. The babydoll set you’ve chosen with care — delicate lace, soft fabric that clings just enough — is laid bare before him.
For half a second, he forgets himself.
His gaze drags over you like his brain is trying to catch up with what he’s seeing. His mouth parts. His hand tightens around the edge of the couch, knuckles whitening as if he’s physically anchoring himself in place.
It’s barely a sound. But it hits you harder than any touch could.
Heat blooms in your chest — sharp and terrifying and hopeful all at once. This is what you needed to see. This reaction. This proof that you’re not imagining it.
Steve swallows, visibly. His eyes flick away, then back again, like he can’t decide which is worse — looking or not looking. He drags a hand through his hair, restless, a tell you’ve known forever.
“You— uh,” he starts, then stops, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it. “You okay? I mean— yeah. You’re—”
He cuts himself off again.
The restraint is almost painful to watch.
His knee bounces. His jaw tightens. Every line of his body is screaming don’t, even as something else is clearly pulling him forward. His hands stay glued to his own thighs, fingers flexing like they’re fighting muscle memory.
You just stand there, heart hammering, letting him see you. Letting him struggle. Letting the truth sit in the space between you.
Because whatever he’s afraid of — whatever’s been holding him back — it isn’t lack of attraction.
And you can see it all over him.
Steve finally looks away — hard, like it takes effort. His jaw tightens, shoulders tense, as if holding himself together is a conscious fight.
He exhales, a rough, frustrated sound that fills the quiet space between you.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, but the words hit your chest anyway.
You take a step closer — not into his space, not yet. Just close enough that he can’t pretend you’re far away. The electricity between you hums, low and taut, vibrating in the air like a wire stretched too tight.
He rises abruptly, like sitting is no longer an option. Now you’re eye-level, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.
His hand lifts slowly, almost unconsciously, hovering near your waist. There’s a tremor in his fingers, a hesitation that betrays the months of restraint he’s been carrying.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough, raw — a mixture of command, plea, and confession.
You close the distance slowly, deliberately. Your chest brushes against his, the heat and scent of him hitting you full force. Every nerve in your body hums with anticipation, with longing you can’t name.
His eyes meet yours — desperate, conflicted, yearning — and in that instant, everything he’s been holding back shatters.
He kisses you like he’s been holding his breath for months, hands finally gripping your waist firmly, lips hot, rough, and urgent. It’s not frantic; it’s relief, confession, and desperation all wrapped together. Every careful, measured restraint crashes down at once.
His hands roam over your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you into him like he can’t believe you’re really here, really in his arms. Every inch of you is alight, every nerve on fire, and for the first time in months, it feels like the world has melted away.
You cling to him, letting yourself feel every ounce of what’s been denied for so long. Your fingers thread through his hair, tug lightly, anchoring him — daring him to give in fully.
And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t pull away. Not for a second. Not even as the world around you seems to collapse into that one, searing kiss.
You melt into him. His lips part, tongue brushing yours in a slow, teasing, urgent rhythm. Relief, longing, and want crash together so violently it makes your head spin.
This is what you’ve been missing. The weight of him close. The warmth. The way his breath stutters when you shift just a little closer, the quiet sound he makes like he’s forgotten how to be careful.
You tug at the hair on the nape of his neck, and he exhales against your mouth — low, shaky, wrecked. For a moment, it feels like the world narrows down to this.
You guide him back a step, just enough that he bumps into the couch. He lets out a soft laugh against your mouth, breathless, and sits without breaking the kiss, hands still anchored to you like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.
You climb into his lap, careful but confident, and this time he groans — quiet, involuntary, immediately swallowed as his arms tighten around you. One hand slides up your back, warm and steady, fingers spreading like he needs to feel all of you.
He’s kissing you like there’s no wall. Like there never was.
His hands roam, exploring, lingering and, almost without thought, his palm glides just a little farther, brushing the skin where the fabric has shifted.
The change in him is instant.
Not pulls away — locks up. Like someone flipped a switch inside him. His breath catches hard in his throat, chest halting mid-rise. His hand goes still against you, fingers splayed like he’s been burned.
You feel it before you understand it.
He breaks the kiss abruptly, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he inhales sharply, like he needs air. His hands fall away from you completely, retreating to his own knees.
“I—” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
The words hit you like ice water.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes aren’t on you anymore. They’re fixed somewhere over your shoulder, jaw tight, guilt written all over his face.
“Steve?” you whisper, voice trembling.
Steve moves before you can process what’s happening.
His hands come up — not rough, not angry — but sudden, misplaced, pushing at your hips just enough to break the contact. You slide back onto the couch cushion with a soft, startled breath as he stands abruptly.
He backs away a step, hands running through his hair and stopping there, elbows flared like he needs the pressure to keep himself grounded. “I— uh…” He swallows hard, voice tight, scrambling for something that feels safe, anything that will explain why he’s suddenly acting like this.
Your heart is pounding too loudly now. You’re still warm. Still dizzy. Still very much where he left you emotionally, even if he’s already somewhere else.
“Steve,” you say again, quieter this time.
He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping, breathing hard like he’s just run a mile instead of crossed a room. He won’t look at you.
“I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he says finally. “I’m just— I’m tired, okay? It’s been a long day.”
The words feel wrong the second they leave his mouth.
You stare at him, chest tight, trying to reconcile the man standing in front of you with the one who had been kissing you like he was afraid to let go.
Your vision blurs before you realize you’re crying.
It’s silent at first — tears slipping down your cheeks without a sound. You swipe at them quickly, embarrassed, but it’s too late.
Steve notices immediately.
“Hey— hey,” he says, panic flashing across his face as he moves toward you. “What’s wrong? Hey, c’mere—”
Not away — but still enough to stop him short.
That’s when he really looks at you.
Your shoulders are shaking now. Your hands are clenched in your lap like you’re holding yourself together by force alone. The wall you’d been building inside your chest finally collapses.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, the words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean to—this is stupid, I know it is, I just—”
“Hey,” Steve says urgently. “No. Don’t do that. Talk to me.”
You let out a broken laugh that sounds more like a sob.
“I just thought—” You swallow hard. “I thought maybe tonight would be different.”
His brow furrows. “Different how?”
The question lands like a knife.
You look at him then, really look at him—at the space between you, at the careful way he’s holding himself, at the concern in his eyes that never quite turns into want.
Your voice is small when you answer.
“I thought maybe you’d want me again.”
The room goes very still.
Steve’s mouth opens. Closes. His face drains of color.
“You don’t have to do this,” you rush on, the words spilling out now that you’ve opened the door. “You don’t have to stay with me out of obligation. I know things are different. I know I’m different. And I just— I don’t want you to feel like you owe me something because of what happened.”
Steve shakes his head slowly, like he doesn’t understand the language you’re speaking.
“Where is this coming from?” he asks, stunned. “Why would you think that?”
You gesture helplessly between you. “Because you won’t touch me anymore. Not like you used to. And every time I try, you pull away. And tonight—” Your voice breaks. “Tonight was all I needed to know.”
He stares at you, realization dawning too late.
Because he finally understands.
You don’t wait for him to say anything else.
You inhale slowly, the way you do when you’re trying not to cry in front of someone who doesn’t deserve to see it. When you exhale, something in you goes quiet.
The words come out too steady. Too practiced.
You slide off the couch, smoothing your hands over your thighs like you’re brushing the moment away. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn’t just let yourself hope for something you knew better than to expect.
Steve looks up at you sharply. “Wait— what are you doing?”
You’re already reaching for your jacket.
The motion is casual. Dismissive. Final.
“I should go,” you say lightly. “It’s late.”
Your fingers find the sleeve, tugging it toward you. You don’t look at him as you slip one arm in, then the other. It’s easier that way. If you look at him, you might remember the way he kissed you five minutes ago — like he never wanted to stop.
Panic hits him all at once.
“Hey— hey, wait, no, that’s not—” Steve lunges forward, stopping just short of grabbing your arm like he’s afraid that would be crossing another line. “You don’t have to leave. I didn’t mean it like that. I just— I’m not—”
He exhales sharply, hands dragging over his face.
“Just stay,” he blurts. “Please. I didn’t mean— I just— I’m not thinking straight, okay? I’m bad at this, I always have been, but that doesn’t mean—”
He stops when you finally look at him. The look on your face seizing him.
Your expression isn’t angry.
It’s careful. Closed off. Like something important has already been decided.
“You don’t have to do this,” you say gently. “You don’t have to stay with me because you think you’re supposed to.”
“What? No— that’s not—” he starts, voice breaking. “That’s not what this is.”
“But it is,” you insist gently. “You’re a good person. You always do the right thing, even when it hurts you. Especially when it hurts you.”
You tug your jacket the rest of the way on, like armor.
“And I think you’ve been staying because you think you should. Because you think leaving would make you a bad guy.”
Steve shakes his head hard. “No. No, that’s not—”
You smile a little, sad and resolute. “Steve.”
The way you say his name sounds like a goodbye.
“You’ve been so careful with me,” you continue, voice soft. “And I appreciate it, Steve, I do. Everything you’ve done for me. But I don’t want to be something you feel responsible for,” you say, voice trembling despite yourself. “I don’t want you forcing yourself to want me. That’s not fair to either of us.”
You watch his face — the way the confusion shifts into horror, into guilt so sharp it almost looks like pain. His chest feels tight. He takes a step toward you, desperate now.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. You can see the words stacking up too fast, the guilt choking him before he can grab onto anything solid.
“No, no. That’s not—” he says, the words tumbling over each other. “You don’t understand—”
“I understand enough,” you cut in softly. “And I love you too much to make you stay somewhere you don’t want to be.”
The sentence hits him like a punch. His chest feels like it’s caving in.
“I don’t want to break up,” he says, voice barely holding together. “Please don’t say that like it’s already decided.”
You swallow hard, eyes shining. “I’m not deciding anything. I’m just… giving you an out.”
The words devastate him. Steve Harrington looks at you like that might be the worst thing anyone has ever offered him.
And that’s enough to keep you right where you are — standing there with your jacket on, fingers curled around the zipper like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
Steve’s chest rises and falls too fast, eyes shining with something raw and terrified and far too close to the surface.
“You think I don’t want you,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The space between you is already full of it.
Steve swallows hard, jaw flexing like he’s bracing for impact. When he speaks again, his voice is rough — scraped raw by weeks, months of holding this in.
“I can’t look at it,” he admits.
“The scar,” he clarifies quickly, like he hates himself for not saying it right the first time. “I can’t—” He breaks off, dragging a hand over his face. “I can’t look at it without seeing exactly where I screwed up.”
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest. “Steve—”
“I was supposed to protect you,” he says, the words tumbling out fast and wrecked. “That’s my job. That’s always been my job. And I didn’t. I failed. And every time I touch you, every time I get close—”
The room feels unbearably still.
“I remember how scared you were. How much it hurt. How I wasn’t fast enough. Or strong enough. Or smart enough to stop it. And I just—” He shakes his head, breath shuddering. “I don’t know how to want you without hating myself at the same time.”
You feel another wave of tears sting your eyes.
“You think I pull away because I don’t want you?” he continues, eyes finally lifting to yours, glossy and desperate. “I pull away because I don’t deserve to. Because touching you there feels like admitting I failed you. Like if I let myself want you the way I used to, I’m pretending it didn’t happen.”
His voice drops to almost nothing.
“And I can’t do that. I can’t forget.”
The words land heavy and awful. You stare at him, heart aching in a way you didn’t expect.
“I see that scar and all I can think is that you trusted me. You were with me. And you got hurt anyway.” His hands curl into fists. “So yeah. I get careful. I get stupid. I convince myself that wanting you makes me selfish, because wanting you means touching something I broke.”
His breathing is uneven now. He looks terrified — not of you, but of what he’s admitting.
“I don’t see something ugly when I look at you,” he says fiercely. “I see you. I see what you survived. And I see my failure.”
“And I don’t know how to live with that.”
The confession hangs between you — raw, unpolished, devastating.
And suddenly, painfully, you understand.
You don’t move right away.
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him — at the boy you love standing in front of you like he’s bracing for a blow he thinks he deserves.
Your chest aches. Your hands tremble at your sides.
“Steve,” you say slowly, carefully, taking a step toward him.
He tenses like he expects you to pull away again, like he’s already preparing himself for the loss.
One word, and his shoulders sag just a little.
His eyes snap back to yours.
“You didn’t cause it,” you continue. “You didn’t choose it. And you didn’t leave me. You were there. You’ve always been there.”
Steve shakes his head, overwhelmed. “But you got hurt.”
“Yes,” you say quietly. “And I lived.”
The words settle between you — firm, unyielding.
You lift his hand before he can stop you, pressing it over your heart. His fingers tremble under yours.
“This scar isn’t proof that you failed,” you say. “It’s proof that I survived something awful. And you don’t get to take that away from me by turning it into a punishment.”
His throat works as he swallows.
“You don’t owe me distance,” you whisper. “You don’t owe me restraint. And you definitely don’t owe me suffering.”
Tears spill over now — his, silent and wrecked. He looks at you like he’s coming undone from the inside out.
“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say, voice softening. “I need you to be here. With me. Not hiding from me because you think you don’t deserve me.”
You reach for his face, hesitant — giving him time to pull away if he needs to.
Your thumb brushes his cheek, wiping away a tear before it can fall.
“I don’t see my scar and think about what I lost,” you tell him. “I think about the fact that I’m still here. I think about how hard I fought. How hard we fought.”
Steve exhales a broken sound, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’m not fragile,” you murmur. “And I’m not something you broke. I’m still me. And I still want you.”
The words undo him completely.
His forehead drops against yours, breath shaking, hands gripping your arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice wrecked and bare. “I never stopped. I just… didn’t know how to forgive myself.”
You close the distance fully then, wrapping your arms around him, holding him the way he’s been holding himself together for too long.
“We’ll figure it out,” you promise quietly. “Together. Okay?”
He nods against you, clinging now — not out of guilt, but relief.
For the first time all night, the space between you disappears.
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