summary: when an engine failure, ruined hair, and a dramatic boyfriend turn a rainstorm into an accidental date.
established relationship
warnings: pure fluff! reader wears makeup
word count: 1.1k
a/n: i know nothing about cars so i just rambled a bit lmfao don’t come for me if something’s wrong pls
── ᵎᵎ ✦
the rain came out of nowhere.
one second, the sky was just heavy with clouds, the kind that promised something later. the next, it split open like it had been waiting for the right moment, water crashing down in thick, noisy sheets that blurred the road almost instantly.
steve swore under his breath as the windshield wipers struggled to keep up. “okay, that’s—” he squinted through the glass, “that’s a lot.”
thunder rolled overhead, low and close, the sound vibrating through the car’s frame. rain hammered against the roof so loudly you had to raise your voice just to hear each other.
“this is not what the weather report said,” you said.
“it literally never is,” steve replied. “they lie for a living.”
the road narrowed into something that barely deserved to be called one, trees crowding in on either side. then the engine sputtered. once. twice. and died.
steve stared at the dashboard like it had personally betrayed him. “no, no, no, no.”
you felt the car roll to a stop beneath you, rain blurring the world beyond the windows into streaks of gray and green. steve twisted the key again. the engine coughed weakly, then went silent.
“oh my god,” he groaned, dropping his head back against the seat. “you have got to be kidding me.”
outside, the storm only seemed to grow louder, rain streaking down the windows in thick, slanted lines. “well,” you said slowly, “at least we’re not in traffic?”
he shot you a look. “i don’t care about traffic. i care about my car.”
you glanced around. “she looks… upset.”
steve sighed and shoved his door open. “i’m gonna check under the hood.”
“steve, it’s pouring.”
“i know,” he said. “but i can’t just sit here and let it, whatever this is, happen.”
the moment he stepped outside, rain plastered his shirt to him and flattened his hair in seconds. you watched through the glass as he popped the hood and leaned in, shoulders hunched against the downpour. wind shoved at him like it had a personal problem.
you waited. thirty seconds. a minute. he stayed there, staring into the engine like it might suddenly explain itself.
you unbuckled. “okay, that’s enough.”
by the time you reached him, you were drenched. water soaked through your clothes, hair sticking to your face, mascara already beginning to give up.
“what are you doing?” steve asked, startled.
“helping.”
“you’re gonna get sick.”
“so are you.” you raised your brows at him before glancing down at the engine, quickly realizing that you knew barely anything helpful.
“that’s different.” he kept his eyes trained on you.
“how?”
“it—“ he tried coming up with a believable excuse, but knew he couldn’t convince you anyway, “i don’t know, it just is alright?”
you leaned further under the hood beside him and immediately regretted it. cold rain slid down your neck, soaking your collar. thunder cracked overhead again.
“okay,” steve said quickly, “new plan. we retreat.”
“but—”
“no arguing.” he gently but firmly nudged you back toward the car. “you’re soaked.”
“so are you.” you repeated your words.
“like i said, that’s different.”
you both scrambled back inside, slamming the doors as rain continued to roar against the roof. the interior fogged almost instantly, heat cranked up in a desperate attempt to dry you both out.
water dripped from your hair onto your collar. steve looked at you, eyes widening. “your makeup—”
“i know.”
“no, like—” he waved a hand vaguely. “it’s… very expressive right now.”
you snorted. “have you seen yourself?”
he pushed wet hair out of his face. it fell right back down, curling strangely at the ends. “my hair is never going to recover from this.”
you tilted your head, studying him. water dripped from his lashes. his curls were flattened and misbehaving, refusing to do what they were supposed to.
“i think it’s cute,” you said.
he stared at you like you’d gone insane, “it’s curling.”
“yeah.”
“it’s doing things it shouldn’t.”
“steve.” you sighed, though it was meant affectionately.
“i can’t go outside like this.”
“you literally already did.”
rain kept pouring. the windshield fogged over, blurring the world into gray shapes. steve cranked the heat up even more, blasting warm air at your soaked clothes. you sat there, knees touching as steam continued to fog the windows as the car warmed.
steve groaned. “this is the universe personally targeting me.”
“for what?”
“i don’t know,” he said. “for being happy. for having nice hair. for thinking i could drive somewhere without consequences.”
“and me?” you asked. “what did i do?”
he looked at you, suddenly serious. “you went outside in this.”
“i was helping.”
“you were getting pneumonia.”
you rolled your eyes before reaching out and running your fingers through his ruined curls; slowly and deliberately. they were softer like this, water-dark and curling at the ends. “i kinda like it like this.”
steve froze as his brain visibly stopped working. “…you do?”
“yeah.”
“but it’s wrong.”
“you’re being dramatic.” you raised your brows.
“that’s fair.”
you brushed his hair back again. “you’re cute when you’re dramatic.”
he opened his mouth, then closed it. “…you’re not supposed to say that.”
“well, i did.” thunder rolled again and the rain softened slightly, still heavy but less violent.
steve exhaled. “this is not how i had planned tonight.”
“what did you plan?”
“driving. arriving. being dry.”
you smiled. “ambitious.”
he studied your face, rain-smudged makeup and all. “you’re gonna get sick.”
“you’ll take care of me.” you ran your hand through his hair one last time, your eyes going over his features.
“obviously.”
you smile again before leaning in to kiss him. it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t dramatic, it was warm and familiar and steady, like something you both knew by heart. when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “you okay?” he murmured.
you hummed softly in response. the rain eased into something gentler, tapping instead of pounding.
steve pulled back and turned the key again. nothing “fantastic,” he muttered. you smiled and nudged him. “your hair will survive. probably.”
he sighed. “let’s check under the hood again.”
you both climbed out, rain lighter now but still soaking. steve lifted the hood, stared into the engine, and paused. “…oh.”
“what?” you wrapped your arms around yourself as you stopped next to him.
“i think it’s just flooded.”
“so?”
“so, i might be an idiot.”
you laughed. “shocking.”
he wiped his hands on his jeans. “give it a second.”
you waited and watched as he tried again, turning the engine over. it started. you both stared at each other. “…i fixed it,” he exhaled.
“hero.” you smiled softly as you nudged his side.
you climbed back inside, laughing, still damp, hair a mess, windows fogged. steve reached up and tried to fix his hair. it failed, but you kissed him again anyway.
about: el’s hair is finally getting longer. her curiosity is piqued when she learns steve can braid hair
c.w. none, domestic fluff as usual, girl-dad steve because it’s biblically accurate, me pushing my adhd steve agenda if you really squint
a/n: i don’t love how this turned out but i’m trying to push through my writing slump, divider by cursed-carmine
“Hey look at that,” Steve smiles when he walks into the cabin, toeing off his shoes with a bag of something greasy in his hand. “Your hair is getting pretty long.”
He reaches out to ruffle El’s hair, with the hand that wasn’t holding the food, and she likes the sensation. He’s gentle and his fingers don’t linger longer than they should. She kind of wishes he did linger but she’s also glad he didn’t.
Feelings are confusing, she’s realized, but having words helps.
“It looks good,” Max calls out from where she’s lounging on the couch, still watching the movie you had rented.
Hopper is out at dinner with Joyce and told El she should have a “girls night.” El didn’t really understand but you and Max came over anyway. You brought a bunch of makeup, nail polish, a movie, and something you called face masks.
She really likes “girls night” so far. Maybe she can ask Hopper if they can do it every week.
After some begging from Max, you called Steve and asked him to bring some food. El doesn’t really know Steve but he’s your boyfriend and Max likes him a lot. The boys sometimes make fun of him which is weird because she can tell they also like him a lot.
“They’re idiots, they don’t wanna admit it but they all wanna be like him,” is what Max said when she asked her. She probably looked confused because Max added: “They pretend not to like him.”
“It is long,” you agree, running your fingers through it when you stand up from the couch. Your nails scratch her scalp a little and it’s surprising how good it feels.
“Have you tried braiding it?” Steve asks, washing his hands in the kitchen sink. He gets very annoyed by greasy hands.
“Braiding it?” El repeats hesitantly. Her hair is longer. It curls at the ends when it dries and sometimes she feels it on her neck and thinks a spider is crawling on her.
“Steve could probably do a french braid on you,” you chime in, grabbing some plates from the cabinet.
“‘Steve could?’” Max repeats, sounding very surprised.
“Oh yeah he did all sorts of braids on my dolls when we were kids,” you smile, something mischievous twinkling in your eyes.
“He wanted a baby sister so bad and he had to be ready to style her hair.”
“Hey!”
“Sometimes he helps me with my hair.”
“You’re a blabbermouth,” Steve complains, grabbing your waist to pull you in so he can tickle your sides.
You laugh and squirm in his arms, but you don’t bat his hands away. Steve looks down at the smile on your lips and his grin grows wider like he’s been infected.
“You can braid my hair?” El asks, something warm blooming in her chest.
Steve stops his assault on your ribs but still keeps his arms around you when he turns to El.
“Yeah of course I can, you want me to do it right now?”
“What about the food?” Max complains.
“You could learn patience,” Steve retorts and you give him a look. “Ugh fine, you two start eating, it won’t take me that long.”
She takes a seat on the couch while Steve rummages through your bag for a hairbrush. She can feel him come up behind her, gentle hands moving her hair so it’s gathered on her back.
Max, seemingly bored of the movie, pauses it and stands up to rummage through the takeout bags. You tell her to not fill herself up too quickly while she nibbles on an egg roll.
He starts by brushing her hair at the bottom, detangling the ends and working his way up. She should remember that because sometimes her hair gets all tangled and it hurts to brush.
“Tell me if I pull too hard, yeah?” Steve says, his voice quiet like the words are just for her.
He starts near the top of her hair with a small piece but she can feel him touching the rest of her head which is weird. He hums a little under his breath as he works, she’s noticed that Steve is not very good at sitting still or being quiet.
“…What are you doing?” El asks after a moment.
He pauses, hands stilling in surprise as he processes her question, but he relaxes just as quickly. “Oh you add in the hair as you go when you do a french braid, you’ll see in a sec.”
Steve is a strong guy. He gets into fights and for the most part can hold his own. That’s partly why the boys like him. But right now every movement and touch of his fingers feel purposeful. He’s taking extra care to not press too hard or tug on her hair, as if doing so would hurt her.
El decides she also likes Steve.
“There you go,” Steve announces softly, tying off the braid with a yellow scrunchie Max gave her. “Cmon, let's go to the bathroom so you can also see.”
She follows him into the bathroom and he opens a compact mirror, angling it so she can see her hair in the big mirror. She doesn’t understand how he really did it but it looks pretty. She feels like one of the girls in the magazines.
“You like it?” Steve asks, there’s a hint of something in his voice. She doesn’t have the word for it yet but she can tell he wants her to like it.
please continue to write for harry, you are one of the only authors on here that do 😭😭
AAA stop i know there’s such a harry fic draught on here😭😭
i haven’t really had motivation/ideas to write for him, but i’ll for sure try to continue my harry series!!!! i’ll get back to my notes and whip something up for you after my deadlines<3
summary: steve likes to keep a photograph of you somewhere (anywhere). he thought he could keep it a secret, until you start finding them
established relationship
warnings: slight season 5 epilogue spoilers, nothing else really, just a bunch of fluff :)
word count: 3.2k
a/n: in honour of baseball coach steve harrington<3 i’ve had this idea for so long and the epilogue finally tied everything together for me to write this
── ᵎᵎ ✦
his wallet
the theater lobby glowed in soft neon, reds and blues bleeding together across the polished floor. the smell of popcorn clung to everything, mixing with the faint tang of soda syrup and cleaner. it was busy without being overwhelming, the kind of place that hummed rather than roared, full of people killing time before the lights went down.
steve walked beside you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be on a friday night. his hand rested at your lower back, thumb moving in slow, absent arcs as the line inched forward. it was an unconscious thing by now, his way of keeping you close without making a show of it. you leaned into the touch just as naturally, shoulder brushing his arm when you shifted your weight.
“this one looks awful,” he said quietly, nodding toward a poster plastered with explosions and overly dramatic taglines.
“you say that every time,” you replied.
“and i’m right every time.”
you smiled, tilting your head to read the tagline. even though the movie looked ridiculous, you’d probably end up seeing it anyway, just not tonight.
the two of you had been dating long enough that dates like this didn’t come with nerves anymore. no awkward silences, no second-guessing where to stand or how close was too close. just the easy comfort of shared space, of knowing exactly how the other person took their popcorn and which previews they’d complain about.
when you reached the counter, you stepped forward first. “one large popcorn,” you said, then glanced back at steve., “and two sodas, please.”
“cherry coke,” he added, quick, like he didn’t want to be difficult.
“i’ve got it.” you said as you reached for your bag.
steve immediately straightened, “no, you don’t.”
you paused, wallet halfway out “steve.”
he shook his head, already smiling. “i asked you out. that means i pay.”
“you’ve already paid for the tickets.” you kept your eyes on him, wallet still secured in your hand, “and you paid last time, too.”
“exactly,” he said, like that proved something. “it’s tradition now.”
you playfully rolled your eyes. “it’s just popcorn.”
“and i’m still paying.” he stepped closer, gently pressing your wrist back toward your bag with two fingers. “let me.”
you studied him for a second, then sighed, smiling despite yourself. “fine. but i’m paying next time.”
he huffed a quiet laugh. “we’ll see.”
you turned back toward the counter, half-focused on the rows of candy behind the glass. that was when movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention. steve opened his wallet. you weren’t trying to look, it just… happened. a flicker of worn leather, folded bills, and a small rectangle tucked neatly into one of the clear sleeves; a photo.
your breath caught before you could stop it.
it was you.
the image registered all at once, sharp and unmistakable. you were sitting sideways on the hood of his car, knees bent, hair loose and caught mid-motion, mouth open in a laugh you didn’t remember posing for. you remembered the day, though; the sun, the warmth, steve insisting the light was ‘better this way’ while you told him to hurry up.
the wallet snapped shut.
steve paid, thanked the cashier, and turned back toward you like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “you good?” he asked, handing you a soda.
you took it, nodding “yeah, thanks.”
you didn’t mention what you thought you’d seen. the moment had passed too quickly, and you weren’t sure you trusted your own certainty. besides, saying something felt like it might turn a quiet thing into a conversation it didn’t need to be.
steve led the way down the hallway, popcorn tucked under his arm, holding the door open as you stepped into the theater. the space was cool and dim, the screen already lit with previews. you found your seats without much thought, close enough to share the armrest, close enough that your shoulders brushed when you sat down.
he settled in easily, stretching his legs out, passing you the popcorn. you leaned back, letting the familiar rhythm of it all take over; the previews, the low chatter, the way he glanced over during the louder moments just to see your reaction.
when the lights dimmed fully, steve reached for your hand without looking, fingers sliding into place like they belonged there. you squeezed once, grounding yourself in the moment. whatever you’d seen, whether it was real or imagined, you let it stay unspoken.
not in a dramatic way, nothing overpowering, but in the subtle accumulation of familiarity. clean upholstery with a hint of whatever soap he used, old leather warmed by the sun, a trace of something sweet that might’ve been gum or cologne. you noticed it every time you stepped inside his car. this time however, you slid into the driver’s seat, fingers curling instinctively around the steering wheel. “oh my god, okay.”
the door on the passenger side shut with a solid thunk, and steve leaned back into his seat like this was the most natural thing in the world. he turned his head toward you, mouth already twitching with amusement. “relax,” he said.
“i am relaxed,” you replied, sitting straighter despite yourself. “i just— this is your car.”
“yeah,” he said easily. “and you’re driving it.”
“that’s the problem.”
steve laughed softly, shaking his head. “you’re acting like i handed you a newborn.”
“you care about this car,” you said, glancing around at the pristine dashboard, the lack of clutter, the way everything seemed exactly where it belonged. “like… a lot.”
“i care about it a reasonable amount.”
“you named it.”
“that was a joke.”
“you wax it.”
“i maintain it.”
“you talk to it.”
he opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. “okay, no, i don’t talk to it.”
you smiled despite the nerves buzzing in your chest and adjusted your grip on the wheel, suddenly very aware of how unfamiliar the driver’s side felt. the angle was wrong. no, everything was wrong.
you reached down and pulled the lever, sliding the seat forward a few inches. the sound was sharp in the quiet car. then you leaned back, testing it, and adjusted again. steve watched you with exaggerated patience, elbow propped against the door. “you know you’re allowed to move things,” he said. “it’s not permanent.”
“you say that now.”
“i mean it.” he smiled softly.
you tilted the seatback, then shifted it forward another notch. the steering wheel felt too high, so you lowered it, then nudged it closer. lastly, you adjusted the rear view mirror carefully until the view felt right.
steve tilted his head. “you good?”
“almost,” you said, tugging the lever to tilt the seatback once more. “your legs are longer than mine, and you sit like you’re auditioning for a commercial.”
“i sit like a normal person.” he acted insulted, but a smile was playing on his lips.
“you sit like you’re posing.”
he leaned slightly closer. “you like it.”
the sun slanted through the windshield, bright and low, hitting your eyes directly. you blinked against it, tension creeping back into your shoulders. something steve noticed immediately, “hey,” he said softly.
you turned your head toward him. he leaned in without hesitation, one hand coming up to rest at your jaw, thumb warm against your skin. he kissed you; slow, unhurried, familiar in the way that always made your thoughts settle. it wasn’t flashy or teasing, just steady, like he was reminding you where you were. when he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “you’re doing fine,” he said quietly. “i trust you. and the car will survive.”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “you’re very calm about this.”
“that’s because i know you,” he replied.
you smiled, nerves easing. the light still poured through the windshield, though, sharp enough to make you squint again. you reached up and flipped the sun visor down.
you startled as a small rectangle fluttered down, landing softly against your thigh. “what—”
when you picked it up you saw it was a photograph. it was small and slightly worn at the edges, like it had been handled more than once. once the image came into focus your breath caught, not sharply, just enough to still the moment.
you were pictured holding a giant teddy bear, a multitude of coloured lights caught your face, and your mouth was curved into a smile that looked unguarded and real. your hair was up in a ponytail, with a couple loose strands, most likely because of the wind. you remembered the day dimly; it was one of your first dates with steve, he’d won you the teddy bear at the town’s yearly fair.
you turned your head slowly and saw that steve had gone very still. “that—“ he started, then stopped.
before you could say anything, he reached over and took the photo from your hand a little too quickly. “okay,” he said. “so— before you ask—”
you stared at him. “steve.”
“it’s not—” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s not a big deal.”
“you keep a photo of me in your sun visor.”
“it was convenient,” he said immediately, then winced. “that sounded bad.”
you waited, eyebrow raised.
“i didn’t want it to get bent,” he added. “or lost.”
“that’s your explanation?”
“yes.”
“it’s not a great one.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly pink. “i’m not lying. i’m just—”
you cut him off as you held your hand out. he looked at you and after a beat, he gave the photo back. your fingers brushed briefly as you took it before looking at it again, slower this time. “how long has this been here?”
steve hesitated. “a while.”
you smiled, something warm settling in your chest. eventually, you slid the photo carefully back into the visor pocket and flipped it up again, smoothing it like it belonged there.
“there,” you said. “seems safe.”
steve watched you, a little dazed. “you’re not mad?”
“no.”
“not weirded out?”
“steve,” you said gently, “we’re dating. you liking me isn’t exactly shocking.”
he laughed softly, relief obvious. “yeah. i guess.”
you smiled and placed a quick kiss on his cheek before turning back to the dashboard. you adjusted your hands on the wheel, and finally reached for the ignition. “alright, now I’m ready.”
the engine hummed to life, smooth and steady. steve smiled, settling back into his seat. “told you. you’ve got this.”
you arrived early, mostly because you didn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t.
the middle school field looked different than you expected, smaller, obviously, but also brighter somehow. the grass was cut too short, the chalk lines too clean, the bleachers still cool when you sat down. parents filtered in slowly, carrying folding chairs and coffee cups, voices low and conversational. someone’s little sibling ran past you with a foam finger twice their size.
you scanned the field without meaning to.
steve was easy to spot.
he stood near the dugout in a windbreaker that still looked a little too new, clipboard tucked under one arm, cap pulled low against the sun. he was talking to one of the kids, crouched slightly so they were closer to eye level, expression focused but gentle. when the kid nodded and jogged off, steve straightened, clapped his hands once, and called something you couldn’t hear.
your chest did something small and stupid at the sight of him. you’d seen him nervous before, about plenty of things, but this wasn’t that. this was anticipation. pride. the kind of careful attention that came from wanting something to go right for reasons that weren’t about him.
when the game started, you settled in easily. it was a lot of starts and stops, the kind of pace only kids could manage without getting bored. steve paced near the dugout, occasionally calling out encouragement, sometimes crouching to talk quietly with a player before sending them back out. he celebrated small victories like they mattered. a solid throw. a clean catch. a kid remembering to back up first base. you found yourself smiling more than you expected.
by the third inning, you’d learned which kid was too serious, which one kept adjusting his helmet, which one looked at steve after every play like he was checking for approval. he gave it freely, without fuss; thumbs-up, nods, a quick clap.
the game was close. too close, judging by the way the parents leaned forward in their seats.
when it ended, hawkin’s team winning by a single run, the field erupted in uneven cheers and scattered applause. the kids piled toward steve, who laughed and herded them into something resembling a line, handing out high-fives like it was a sacred duty.
you waited and eventually, the crowd thinned. parents collected bags, kids disappeared toward cars, the field returned to something quieter. steve lingered, talking to one of the parents, gesturing animatedly, grin still stuck on his face like it hadn’t worn off yet.
when he finally looked up and spotted you, his smile softened into something familiar. he jogged over. “you came.”
“i said i would.”
“i know,” he said, a little sheepish. “still.”
you tilted your head. “you did good, coach.”
he laughed, shaking his head. “they did good. i just tried not to mess it up.”
“you didn’t.”
he hesitated, then nodded toward the building behind the bleachers. “you wanna see the office?”
you immediately said yes and walked after him eagerly. “this is it huh?” you asked as you followed him inside, the door creaking slightly. “the big leagues?”
he smirked. “careful. you’re standing where the magic happens.”
“is that what we’re calling it?”
he flicked the light on, revealing a small, functional space that smelled faintly of coffee and dry-erase markers. a desk shoved against one wall, a filing cabinet, and a bulletin board crowded with schedules, team photos, and handwritten notes from kids in uneven penmanship.
steve leaned against the desk, still buzzing. “okay, so— this is where i pretend i know what i’m doing.”
you stepped farther in, taking it all in slowly. “you look like you know what you’re doing.”
“that’s because i practice in the mirror,” he said easily. “very convincing.”
he straightened and moved around the room as he talked, pointing things out; equipment lists, lineups, the whiteboard where he’d written reminders in blocky handwriting. you half-listened, content to watch him instead. he was animated in a different way here. looser. like this space had made room for something in him.
“and then,” he continued, tapping the bulletin board, “we’re supposed to have another game next week, but the schedule might change if—”
you drifted closer to the desk without realizing it and that was when you saw it: a photograph, tucked into a simple frame near the corner of the desk.
you stopped.
the noise of steve’s voice faded into the background as you leaned in slightly, recognizing it instantly.
it was from his birthday last year.
you remembered the night clearly; the cake that leaned a little to one side, the way he’d laughed when someone lit the candles crooked, the warm blur of voices and music. in the photo, you were smiling directly at the camera, relaxed and carefree.
steve was turned toward you, eyes fixed on your face like the camera didn’t exist. his expression wasn’t dramatic. just open and intent. like you were the only thing he’d registered in that moment.
your chest tightened.
“…and yeah,” steve was saying, tapping the edge of the desk. “that’s where i keep all the paperwork i’m definitely not losing this season— hey.” his voice softened when you didn’t answer.
you hadn’t realized you’d stopped moving until he did. you were standing near the desk now, gaze fixed on the framed photograph tucked neatly beside a stack of folders.
steve followed your line of sight. “oh,” he said, smiling immediately. “you found that.”
you glanced back at him, then at the photo again. “i didn’t know you brought this here.”
he crossed the room and leaned against the desk beside you, casual and unbothered. “yeah. thought it deserved a better view than a drawer.”
you laughed quietly. “you’re ridiculous.”
“hey,” he said, mock-offended. “that’s a great picture.”
“it is,” you agreed. you tilted your head, studying it more closely. “i remember that night. you wouldn’t let anyone cut the cake until dustin got back from the bathroom.”
“he picked the flavour,” he defended. “he deserved the first slice.”
you smiled, eyes tracing the familiar details. “i look happy.”
steve’s grin widened as he stepped closer to you. “you were.”
you nudged his hip lightly. “you weren’t even looking at the camera.”
he didn’t pretend not to know what you meant. “yeah,” he said easily. “i know.”
“why?”
he shrugged, relaxed, like the answer was obvious. “because you were right there. why would i look anywhere else?”
you rolled your eyes, but there was no bite in it. “you’re such a sap.”
“and you love me for it.”
you turned to him, smiling. “unfortunately.”
he laughed, warm and unguarded, the sound filling the small office. “i figured if i’m gonna be stuck in here half the week, i might as well have something that makes me smile.”
you gestured around the room. “the inspirational sticky notes from twelve-year-olds aren’t enough?”
“they help,” he admitted. “but this one’s my favorite.”
your chest warmed in that familiar, steady way; no rush, no surprise, just the comfort of knowing exactly where you stood. “you did really good out there,” you said, nodding toward the field. “they adore you.”
steve shrugged, but he looked pleased. “they’re good kids. i just try to show up.”
“you do more than that.”
he reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “means a lot that you came.”
“you kidding?” you said. “i wouldn’t miss your first official game.”
“coach harrington,” he teased.
you snorted. “don’t let it go to your head.”
he grinned. “too late.”
you leaned in and kissed him, quick and familiar, the kind that comes from years of shared space and quiet certainty. when you pulled back, he was still smiling. “think you’ll keep the photo here all season?” you asked.
“absolutely,” he said. “unless you object.”
you shook your head with a small smile playing on your lips. “nope. just don’t let it distract you.”
he glanced at the frame, then back at you. “no promises.”
you laughed, leaning in for another soft kiss as the late afternoon light filtered through the window. outside, the field was empty now, quiet and sunlit, but inside the office everything felt full.
summary: steve likes to keep a photograph of you somewhere (anywhere). he thought he could keep it a secret, until you start finding them
established relationship
warnings: slight season 5 epilogue spoilers, nothing else really, just a bunch of fluff :)
word count: 3.2k
a/n: in honour of baseball coach steve harrington<3 i’ve had this idea for so long and the epilogue finally tied everything together for me to write this
── ᵎᵎ ✦
his wallet
the theater lobby glowed in soft neon, reds and blues bleeding together across the polished floor. the smell of popcorn clung to everything, mixing with the faint tang of soda syrup and cleaner. it was busy without being overwhelming, the kind of place that hummed rather than roared, full of people killing time before the lights went down.
steve walked beside you like he belonged there, like this was exactly where he was meant to be on a friday night. his hand rested at your lower back, thumb moving in slow, absent arcs as the line inched forward. it was an unconscious thing by now, his way of keeping you close without making a show of it. you leaned into the touch just as naturally, shoulder brushing his arm when you shifted your weight.
“this one looks awful,” he said quietly, nodding toward a poster plastered with explosions and overly dramatic taglines.
“you say that every time,” you replied.
“and i’m right every time.”
you smiled, tilting your head to read the tagline. even though the movie looked ridiculous, you’d probably end up seeing it anyway, just not tonight.
the two of you had been dating long enough that dates like this didn’t come with nerves anymore. no awkward silences, no second-guessing where to stand or how close was too close. just the easy comfort of shared space, of knowing exactly how the other person took their popcorn and which previews they’d complain about.
when you reached the counter, you stepped forward first. “one large popcorn,” you said, then glanced back at steve., “and two sodas, please.”
“cherry coke,” he added, quick, like he didn’t want to be difficult.
“i’ve got it.” you said as you reached for your bag.
steve immediately straightened, “no, you don’t.”
you paused, wallet halfway out “steve.”
he shook his head, already smiling. “i asked you out. that means i pay.”
“you’ve already paid for the tickets.” you kept your eyes on him, wallet still secured in your hand, “and you paid last time, too.”
“exactly,” he said, like that proved something. “it’s tradition now.”
you playfully rolled your eyes. “it’s just popcorn.”
“and i’m still paying.” he stepped closer, gently pressing your wrist back toward your bag with two fingers. “let me.”
you studied him for a second, then sighed, smiling despite yourself. “fine. but i’m paying next time.”
he huffed a quiet laugh. “we’ll see.”
you turned back toward the counter, half-focused on the rows of candy behind the glass. that was when movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention. steve opened his wallet. you weren’t trying to look, it just… happened. a flicker of worn leather, folded bills, and a small rectangle tucked neatly into one of the clear sleeves; a photo.
your breath caught before you could stop it.
it was you.
the image registered all at once, sharp and unmistakable. you were sitting sideways on the hood of his car, knees bent, hair loose and caught mid-motion, mouth open in a laugh you didn’t remember posing for. you remembered the day, though; the sun, the warmth, steve insisting the light was ‘better this way’ while you told him to hurry up.
the wallet snapped shut.
steve paid, thanked the cashier, and turned back toward you like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “you good?” he asked, handing you a soda.
you took it, nodding “yeah, thanks.”
you didn’t mention what you thought you’d seen. the moment had passed too quickly, and you weren’t sure you trusted your own certainty. besides, saying something felt like it might turn a quiet thing into a conversation it didn’t need to be.
steve led the way down the hallway, popcorn tucked under his arm, holding the door open as you stepped into the theater. the space was cool and dim, the screen already lit with previews. you found your seats without much thought, close enough to share the armrest, close enough that your shoulders brushed when you sat down.
he settled in easily, stretching his legs out, passing you the popcorn. you leaned back, letting the familiar rhythm of it all take over; the previews, the low chatter, the way he glanced over during the louder moments just to see your reaction.
when the lights dimmed fully, steve reached for your hand without looking, fingers sliding into place like they belonged there. you squeezed once, grounding yourself in the moment. whatever you’d seen, whether it was real or imagined, you let it stay unspoken.
not in a dramatic way, nothing overpowering, but in the subtle accumulation of familiarity. clean upholstery with a hint of whatever soap he used, old leather warmed by the sun, a trace of something sweet that might’ve been gum or cologne. you noticed it every time you stepped inside his car. this time however, you slid into the driver’s seat, fingers curling instinctively around the steering wheel. “oh my god, okay.”
the door on the passenger side shut with a solid thunk, and steve leaned back into his seat like this was the most natural thing in the world. he turned his head toward you, mouth already twitching with amusement. “relax,” he said.
“i am relaxed,” you replied, sitting straighter despite yourself. “i just— this is your car.”
“yeah,” he said easily. “and you’re driving it.”
“that’s the problem.”
steve laughed softly, shaking his head. “you’re acting like i handed you a newborn.”
“you care about this car,” you said, glancing around at the pristine dashboard, the lack of clutter, the way everything seemed exactly where it belonged. “like… a lot.”
“i care about it a reasonable amount.”
“you named it.”
“that was a joke.”
“you wax it.”
“i maintain it.”
“you talk to it.”
he opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. “okay, no, i don’t talk to it.”
you smiled despite the nerves buzzing in your chest and adjusted your grip on the wheel, suddenly very aware of how unfamiliar the driver’s side felt. the angle was wrong. no, everything was wrong.
you reached down and pulled the lever, sliding the seat forward a few inches. the sound was sharp in the quiet car. then you leaned back, testing it, and adjusted again. steve watched you with exaggerated patience, elbow propped against the door. “you know you’re allowed to move things,” he said. “it’s not permanent.”
“you say that now.”
“i mean it.” he smiled softly.
you tilted the seatback, then shifted it forward another notch. the steering wheel felt too high, so you lowered it, then nudged it closer. lastly, you adjusted the rear view mirror carefully until the view felt right.
steve tilted his head. “you good?”
“almost,” you said, tugging the lever to tilt the seatback once more. “your legs are longer than mine, and you sit like you’re auditioning for a commercial.”
“i sit like a normal person.” he acted insulted, but a smile was playing on his lips.
“you sit like you’re posing.”
he leaned slightly closer. “you like it.”
the sun slanted through the windshield, bright and low, hitting your eyes directly. you blinked against it, tension creeping back into your shoulders. something steve noticed immediately, “hey,” he said softly.
you turned your head toward him. he leaned in without hesitation, one hand coming up to rest at your jaw, thumb warm against your skin. he kissed you; slow, unhurried, familiar in the way that always made your thoughts settle. it wasn’t flashy or teasing, just steady, like he was reminding you where you were. when he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours. “you’re doing fine,” he said quietly. “i trust you. and the car will survive.”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “you’re very calm about this.”
“that’s because i know you,” he replied.
you smiled, nerves easing. the light still poured through the windshield, though, sharp enough to make you squint again. you reached up and flipped the sun visor down.
you startled as a small rectangle fluttered down, landing softly against your thigh. “what—”
when you picked it up you saw it was a photograph. it was small and slightly worn at the edges, like it had been handled more than once. once the image came into focus your breath caught, not sharply, just enough to still the moment.
you were pictured holding a giant teddy bear, a multitude of coloured lights caught your face, and your mouth was curved into a smile that looked unguarded and real. your hair was up in a ponytail, with a couple loose strands, most likely because of the wind. you remembered the day dimly; it was one of your first dates with steve, he’d won you the teddy bear at the town’s yearly fair.
you turned your head slowly and saw that steve had gone very still. “that—“ he started, then stopped.
before you could say anything, he reached over and took the photo from your hand a little too quickly. “okay,” he said. “so— before you ask—”
you stared at him. “steve.”
“it’s not—” he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s not a big deal.”
“you keep a photo of me in your sun visor.”
“it was convenient,” he said immediately, then winced. “that sounded bad.”
you waited, eyebrow raised.
“i didn’t want it to get bent,” he added. “or lost.”
“that’s your explanation?”
“yes.”
“it’s not a great one.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, cheeks faintly pink. “i’m not lying. i’m just—”
you cut him off as you held your hand out. he looked at you and after a beat, he gave the photo back. your fingers brushed briefly as you took it before looking at it again, slower this time. “how long has this been here?”
steve hesitated. “a while.”
you smiled, something warm settling in your chest. eventually, you slid the photo carefully back into the visor pocket and flipped it up again, smoothing it like it belonged there.
“there,” you said. “seems safe.”
steve watched you, a little dazed. “you’re not mad?”
“no.”
“not weirded out?”
“steve,” you said gently, “we’re dating. you liking me isn’t exactly shocking.”
he laughed softly, relief obvious. “yeah. i guess.”
you smiled and placed a quick kiss on his cheek before turning back to the dashboard. you adjusted your hands on the wheel, and finally reached for the ignition. “alright, now I’m ready.”
the engine hummed to life, smooth and steady. steve smiled, settling back into his seat. “told you. you’ve got this.”
you arrived early, mostly because you didn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t.
the middle school field looked different than you expected, smaller, obviously, but also brighter somehow. the grass was cut too short, the chalk lines too clean, the bleachers still cool when you sat down. parents filtered in slowly, carrying folding chairs and coffee cups, voices low and conversational. someone’s little sibling ran past you with a foam finger twice their size.
you scanned the field without meaning to.
steve was easy to spot.
he stood near the dugout in a windbreaker that still looked a little too new, clipboard tucked under one arm, cap pulled low against the sun. he was talking to one of the kids, crouched slightly so they were closer to eye level, expression focused but gentle. when the kid nodded and jogged off, steve straightened, clapped his hands once, and called something you couldn’t hear.
your chest did something small and stupid at the sight of him. you’d seen him nervous before, about plenty of things, but this wasn’t that. this was anticipation. pride. the kind of careful attention that came from wanting something to go right for reasons that weren’t about him.
when the game started, you settled in easily. it was a lot of starts and stops, the kind of pace only kids could manage without getting bored. steve paced near the dugout, occasionally calling out encouragement, sometimes crouching to talk quietly with a player before sending them back out. he celebrated small victories like they mattered. a solid throw. a clean catch. a kid remembering to back up first base. you found yourself smiling more than you expected.
by the third inning, you’d learned which kid was too serious, which one kept adjusting his helmet, which one looked at steve after every play like he was checking for approval. he gave it freely, without fuss; thumbs-up, nods, a quick clap.
the game was close. too close, judging by the way the parents leaned forward in their seats.
when it ended, hawkin’s team winning by a single run, the field erupted in uneven cheers and scattered applause. the kids piled toward steve, who laughed and herded them into something resembling a line, handing out high-fives like it was a sacred duty.
you waited and eventually, the crowd thinned. parents collected bags, kids disappeared toward cars, the field returned to something quieter. steve lingered, talking to one of the parents, gesturing animatedly, grin still stuck on his face like it hadn’t worn off yet.
when he finally looked up and spotted you, his smile softened into something familiar. he jogged over. “you came.”
“i said i would.”
“i know,” he said, a little sheepish. “still.”
you tilted your head. “you did good, coach.”
he laughed, shaking his head. “they did good. i just tried not to mess it up.”
“you didn’t.”
he hesitated, then nodded toward the building behind the bleachers. “you wanna see the office?”
you immediately said yes and walked after him eagerly. “this is it huh?” you asked as you followed him inside, the door creaking slightly. “the big leagues?”
he smirked. “careful. you’re standing where the magic happens.”
“is that what we’re calling it?”
he flicked the light on, revealing a small, functional space that smelled faintly of coffee and dry-erase markers. a desk shoved against one wall, a filing cabinet, and a bulletin board crowded with schedules, team photos, and handwritten notes from kids in uneven penmanship.
steve leaned against the desk, still buzzing. “okay, so— this is where i pretend i know what i’m doing.”
you stepped farther in, taking it all in slowly. “you look like you know what you’re doing.”
“that’s because i practice in the mirror,” he said easily. “very convincing.”
he straightened and moved around the room as he talked, pointing things out; equipment lists, lineups, the whiteboard where he’d written reminders in blocky handwriting. you half-listened, content to watch him instead. he was animated in a different way here. looser. like this space had made room for something in him.
“and then,” he continued, tapping the bulletin board, “we’re supposed to have another game next week, but the schedule might change if—”
you drifted closer to the desk without realizing it and that was when you saw it: a photograph, tucked into a simple frame near the corner of the desk.
you stopped.
the noise of steve’s voice faded into the background as you leaned in slightly, recognizing it instantly.
it was from his birthday last year.
you remembered the night clearly; the cake that leaned a little to one side, the way he’d laughed when someone lit the candles crooked, the warm blur of voices and music. in the photo, you were smiling directly at the camera, relaxed and carefree.
steve was turned toward you, eyes fixed on your face like the camera didn’t exist. his expression wasn’t dramatic. just open and intent. like you were the only thing he’d registered in that moment.
your chest tightened.
“…and yeah,” steve was saying, tapping the edge of the desk. “that’s where i keep all the paperwork i’m definitely not losing this season— hey.” his voice softened when you didn’t answer.
you hadn’t realized you’d stopped moving until he did. you were standing near the desk now, gaze fixed on the framed photograph tucked neatly beside a stack of folders.
steve followed your line of sight. “oh,” he said, smiling immediately. “you found that.”
you glanced back at him, then at the photo again. “i didn’t know you brought this here.”
he crossed the room and leaned against the desk beside you, casual and unbothered. “yeah. thought it deserved a better view than a drawer.”
you laughed quietly. “you’re ridiculous.”
“hey,” he said, mock-offended. “that’s a great picture.”
“it is,” you agreed. you tilted your head, studying it more closely. “i remember that night. you wouldn’t let anyone cut the cake until dustin got back from the bathroom.”
“he picked the flavour,” he defended. “he deserved the first slice.”
you smiled, eyes tracing the familiar details. “i look happy.”
steve’s grin widened as he stepped closer to you. “you were.”
you nudged his hip lightly. “you weren’t even looking at the camera.”
he didn’t pretend not to know what you meant. “yeah,” he said easily. “i know.”
“why?”
he shrugged, relaxed, like the answer was obvious. “because you were right there. why would i look anywhere else?”
you rolled your eyes, but there was no bite in it. “you’re such a sap.”
“and you love me for it.”
you turned to him, smiling. “unfortunately.”
he laughed, warm and unguarded, the sound filling the small office. “i figured if i’m gonna be stuck in here half the week, i might as well have something that makes me smile.”
you gestured around the room. “the inspirational sticky notes from twelve-year-olds aren’t enough?”
“they help,” he admitted. “but this one’s my favorite.”
your chest warmed in that familiar, steady way; no rush, no surprise, just the comfort of knowing exactly where you stood. “you did really good out there,” you said, nodding toward the field. “they adore you.”
steve shrugged, but he looked pleased. “they’re good kids. i just try to show up.”
“you do more than that.”
he reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “means a lot that you came.”
“you kidding?” you said. “i wouldn’t miss your first official game.”
“coach harrington,” he teased.
you snorted. “don’t let it go to your head.”
he grinned. “too late.”
you leaned in and kissed him, quick and familiar, the kind that comes from years of shared space and quiet certainty. when you pulled back, he was still smiling. “think you’ll keep the photo here all season?” you asked.
“absolutely,” he said. “unless you object.”
you shook your head with a small smile playing on your lips. “nope. just don’t let it distract you.”
he glanced at the frame, then back at you. “no promises.”
you laughed, leaning in for another soft kiss as the late afternoon light filtered through the window. outside, the field was empty now, quiet and sunlit, but inside the office everything felt full.
summary: steve wears a cap for the first time. it’s backwards. and it looks a bit too good
established relationship
warnings: minor s5 spoilers, other than that none really! just sappy fluff, might be considered slightly suggestive
word count: 1.3k
a/n: i’m such a sucker for backwards cap steve. i can’t stop thinking about him. pls help
── ᵎᵎ ✦
while pacing the radio station you pulled your hands into the sleeves of your sweater, trying to protect yourself from the cold. you had been at the wsqk station numerous times, but it never failed to amaze you how the wind always managed to creep inside, past the closed doors and windows. the place smelled like dust, old electronics, and adrenaline, and every surface seemed to hum with the frantic energy of people pretending they weren’t terrified.
everyone else was getting ready and, for some reason, got their hands on armor of some kind: thicker coats, camouflage vests, headbands, denim layered over flannel. you had … a sweater.
your jacket was still in the upside down, lost somewhere in the hawkins lab. it had been your favourite, but there was no time to mourn it, and the idea of heading back out there without something shielding you from the cold, and maybe more, made your skin prickle. and yeah, fine, you also wanted to look cool. if this really was it, your final battle, you refused to go down looking like you’d stumbled upon it by accident.
you checked a chair, nothing. the back of a door, nothing. someone had already claimed the army vest tossed over a crate you’d spotted earlier. with a frustrated huff you wandered further back, toward the smaller room everyone called ‘the shack’, where old equipment, broken records and other forgotten things were left to die.
that was when you saw it.
the jacket hung off a nail in the wall like it had been waiting. it was faded, worn, and unmistakably steve’s. you recognised it instantly; the creased sleeves, the slightly busted zipper, and the way it sagged with familiarity. he hadn’t worn it in forever, probably having forgotten it sometime last summer.
you didn’t hesitate and shrugged into it, the smell of dust and steve’s cologne engulfing you immediately. it was too big, of course it was; all his clothes were once you were wearing them.
you rolled the sleeves once, then again, and turned toward the cracked mirror nailed crookedly to the wall. the glass was scratched and clouded, but it did its job well enough. you reached back and gathered your hair, fingers moving from muscle memory as you twisted it up, letting a few short strands fall loose on purpose. your arms ached faintly as you did so, old bruises and half-healed scrapes, but you ignored them, cinching the elastic tight and tugging until the ponytail sat messy but secure.
after a second you turned away from the mirror and pushed through the doorway back into the main room. it was louder out here. everyone was scattered across the space, moving with purpose: nancy and jonathan checking their gear, lucas working on a slingshot, dustin pacing the room anxiously. the air felt thick with fear and the unspoken that this might finally be the end.
you noticed steve before you realised you were looking for him. he stood near a few shelves in the far end corner, scanning the multiple drawers like he was trying to decide what might keep him alive. his hands moved absently, testing the weight of something, setting it back down, and reaching for something else.
he was wearing a camouflage shirt and over it sat a brown leather jacket, scuffed and broken-in. you immediately recognised it as the outfit he’d worn the last time you were facing imminent death. but that wasn’t what made your breath hitch.
it was the cap. backwards.
you had never seen him wear it like that before. hell, you’d never seen him wear a cap at all. the brim faced behind him, low against his neck, soft curls escaping freely at the front and sides like they couldn’t be contained. it changed the shape of his face just enough to make him look different, sharper, more dangerous, but still unmistakably steve.
the realisation hit you all at once, warm and dizzying. you liked it. a lot.
something fluttered low in your chest, then settled deeper, heavier. it wasn’t just attraction, though that was very much there, it was the way the sight of him like this made everything feel suddenly very real and final. like this was a version of him you were supposed to remember.
as he felt you stare, he glanced up and your eyes met. the noise of the room dulled, the edges of it all softening as his gaze locked onto yours. his eyes flicked over you instinctively, your sweater, the jacket hanging off your shoulders, and he paused.
recognition bloomed instantly and his mouth curved, warmth breaking through the tension in his face. he set whatever he’d been holding down as you moved closer towards him and by the time you stopped in front of him your pulse was loud in your ears.
he looked over you properly this time, eyes lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “you steal my jacket,” he said amused, “and then just stand there staring at me?”
“it was collecting dust in the shack.” you shrugged as a small smirk played on your lips, “you look … different.”
his brows lifted, “different?”
you stepped even closer, fingers lifting to brush the brim of the cap, nudging it back just a fraction, “i’ve never seen you wear it before.”
understanding dawned slowly. his smile softened, something fond and almost shy flickering across his face. “oh,” he said, “yeah. thought i’d try something new.”
“well,” you murmured, meeting his eyes, “don’t stop.”
he laughed under his breath and shrugged, “i don’t know, sweets, it kinda messes up my hair.”
you hummed thoughtfully, eyes flicking up to the cap again, then back to him, “that feels like a weak argument.”
“hey,” he said, defensive but amused, “i’ve got a reputation.”
you hummed as you looked him over again, slow and deliberate. it looked as if he’d thrown on this outfit without thinking, which made it even worse. “you’ll survive.”
he shook his head, smiling despite himself, “you’re being weird.”
“am i?” you asked lightly, “because from where i’m standing, you’re the one who made a drastic wardrobe change and forgot to warn me.”
“it’s a hat.”
“it’s backwards.” you corrected.
that earned you a quiet laugh and a faint flush creeping up his neck. he moved his hand up to scratch his neck, then thought better of it and let his arm drop. “i just grabbed it,” he said. “didn’t think it’d be a whole thing.”
you stepped a little closer again, not enough to crowd him, just enough to make the point. “don’t overthink it,” you let a finger brush through the strand of hair that was falling out the front, “just … maybe don’t change it back.”
he watched you for a second, clearly entertained now, something fond and slightly dazed in his expression, “you’re seriously this distracted by a piece of clothing?”
you shrugged, “i’ve been through a lot.”
that got a soft laugh out of him, breathy and disbelieving, “unbelievable.”
“yeah,” you agreed. “you are.”
he looked like he wanted to argue with that, or say something smarter. instead, you stepped away before he could. “try not to die,” you added casually, already turning. “it’d be annoying … i really want to see you wear that hat again after all this.”
he raised his brows, “that’s your send-off?”
you glanced back over your shoulder with a smirk, “you’ll live.”
then you disappeared back into the movement of the room. steve stood there for a beat too long, staring after you. “okay…” he muttered, shaking his head, “weapon. i was finding a weapon.”
he turned back to the shelves and yanked open a drawer. inside sat a gun and he picked it up, inspecting it on instinct. he was still faintly aware of the brim of his cap, worn backwards. he smiled to himself despite everything and went back to work.
but, the sound of nancy’s voice pulled him away from his thoughts, “hey! have you handled one of these before?”
summary: steve wears a cap for the first time. it’s backwards. and it looks a bit too good
established relationship
warnings: minor s5 spoilers, other than that none really! just sappy fluff, might be considered slightly suggestive
word count: 1.3k
a/n: i’m such a sucker for backwards cap steve. i can’t stop thinking about him. pls help
── ᵎᵎ ✦
while pacing the radio station you pulled your hands into the sleeves of your sweater, trying to protect yourself from the cold. you had been at the wsqk station numerous times, but it never failed to amaze you how the wind always managed to creep inside, past the closed doors and windows. the place smelled like dust, old electronics, and adrenaline, and every surface seemed to hum with the frantic energy of people pretending they weren’t terrified.
everyone else was getting ready and, for some reason, got their hands on armor of some kind: thicker coats, camouflage vests, headbands, denim layered over flannel. you had … a sweater.
your jacket was still in the upside down, lost somewhere in the hawkins lab. it had been your favourite, but there was no time to mourn it, and the idea of heading back out there without something shielding you from the cold, and maybe more, made your skin prickle. and yeah, fine, you also wanted to look cool. if this really was it, your final battle, you refused to go down looking like you’d stumbled upon it by accident.
you checked a chair, nothing. the back of a door, nothing. someone had already claimed the army vest tossed over a crate you’d spotted earlier. with a frustrated huff you wandered further back, toward the smaller room everyone called ‘the shack’, where old equipment, broken records and other forgotten things were left to die.
that was when you saw it.
the jacket hung off a nail in the wall like it had been waiting. it was faded, worn, and unmistakably steve’s. you recognised it instantly; the creased sleeves, the slightly busted zipper, and the way it sagged with familiarity. he hadn’t worn it in forever, probably having forgotten it sometime last summer.
you didn’t hesitate and shrugged into it, the smell of dust and steve’s cologne engulfing you immediately. it was too big, of course it was; all his clothes were once you were wearing them.
you rolled the sleeves once, then again, and turned toward the cracked mirror nailed crookedly to the wall. the glass was scratched and clouded, but it did its job well enough. you reached back and gathered your hair, fingers moving from muscle memory as you twisted it up, letting a few short strands fall loose on purpose. your arms ached faintly as you did so, old bruises and half-healed scrapes, but you ignored them, cinching the elastic tight and tugging until the ponytail sat messy but secure.
after a second you turned away from the mirror and pushed through the doorway back into the main room. it was louder out here. everyone was scattered across the space, moving with purpose: nancy and jonathan checking their gear, lucas working on a slingshot, dustin pacing the room anxiously. the air felt thick with fear and the unspoken that this might finally be the end.
you noticed steve before you realised you were looking for him. he stood near a few shelves in the far end corner, scanning the multiple drawers like he was trying to decide what might keep him alive. his hands moved absently, testing the weight of something, setting it back down, and reaching for something else.
he was wearing a camouflage shirt and over it sat a brown leather jacket, scuffed and broken-in. you immediately recognised it as the outfit he’d worn the last time you were facing imminent death. but that wasn’t what made your breath hitch.
it was the cap. backwards.
you had never seen him wear it like that before. hell, you’d never seen him wear a cap at all. the brim faced behind him, low against his neck, soft curls escaping freely at the front and sides like they couldn’t be contained. it changed the shape of his face just enough to make him look different, sharper, more dangerous, but still unmistakably steve.
the realisation hit you all at once, warm and dizzying. you liked it. a lot.
something fluttered low in your chest, then settled deeper, heavier. it wasn’t just attraction, though that was very much there, it was the way the sight of him like this made everything feel suddenly very real and final. like this was a version of him you were supposed to remember.
as he felt you stare, he glanced up and your eyes met. the noise of the room dulled, the edges of it all softening as his gaze locked onto yours. his eyes flicked over you instinctively, your sweater, the jacket hanging off your shoulders, and he paused.
recognition bloomed instantly and his mouth curved, warmth breaking through the tension in his face. he set whatever he’d been holding down as you moved closer towards him and by the time you stopped in front of him your pulse was loud in your ears.
he looked over you properly this time, eyes lingering for half a second longer than necessary. “you steal my jacket,” he said amused, “and then just stand there staring at me?”
“it was collecting dust in the shack.” you shrugged as a small smirk played on your lips, “you look … different.”
his brows lifted, “different?”
you stepped even closer, fingers lifting to brush the brim of the cap, nudging it back just a fraction, “i’ve never seen you wear it before.”
understanding dawned slowly. his smile softened, something fond and almost shy flickering across his face. “oh,” he said, “yeah. thought i’d try something new.”
“well,” you murmured, meeting his eyes, “don’t stop.”
he laughed under his breath and shrugged, “i don’t know, sweets, it kinda messes up my hair.”
you hummed thoughtfully, eyes flicking up to the cap again, then back to him, “that feels like a weak argument.”
“hey,” he said, defensive but amused, “i’ve got a reputation.”
you hummed as you looked him over again, slow and deliberate. it looked as if he’d thrown on this outfit without thinking, which made it even worse. “you’ll survive.”
he shook his head, smiling despite himself, “you’re being weird.”
“am i?” you asked lightly, “because from where i’m standing, you’re the one who made a drastic wardrobe change and forgot to warn me.”
“it’s a hat.”
“it’s backwards.” you corrected.
that earned you a quiet laugh and a faint flush creeping up his neck. he moved his hand up to scratch his neck, then thought better of it and let his arm drop. “i just grabbed it,” he said. “didn’t think it’d be a whole thing.”
you stepped a little closer again, not enough to crowd him, just enough to make the point. “don’t overthink it,” you let a finger brush through the strand of hair that was falling out the front, “just … maybe don’t change it back.”
he watched you for a second, clearly entertained now, something fond and slightly dazed in his expression, “you’re seriously this distracted by a piece of clothing?”
you shrugged, “i’ve been through a lot.”
that got a soft laugh out of him, breathy and disbelieving, “unbelievable.”
“yeah,” you agreed. “you are.”
he looked like he wanted to argue with that, or say something smarter. instead, you stepped away before he could. “try not to die,” you added casually, already turning. “it’d be annoying … i really want to see you wear that hat again after all this.”
he raised his brows, “that’s your send-off?”
you glanced back over your shoulder with a smirk, “you’ll live.”
then you disappeared back into the movement of the room. steve stood there for a beat too long, staring after you. “okay…” he muttered, shaking his head, “weapon. i was finding a weapon.”
he turned back to the shelves and yanked open a drawer. inside sat a gun and he picked it up, inspecting it on instinct. he was still faintly aware of the brim of his cap, worn backwards. he smiled to himself despite everything and went back to work.
but, the sound of nancy’s voice pulled him away from his thoughts, “hey! have you handled one of these before?”
just to put it out there; i’ve always been a steve will survive truther and i don’t want y’all who’ve been saying “he’s so going to die” act like you never said that when he does survive the finale
summary: Four Times You’re Found Out (And One Time You’re Home) OR: A collection of scenes where people you love find out about your relationship (maybe they already knew)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!(byers)reader
word count: 8.3k
warning(s): some swears, plot inaccuracies, definitely canon divergent (please don't come for me), pretend steve and robin still work at family video....also I have no idea when steve's birthday is supposed to be, but just bear with me for the plot, highly unedited, I still apologize for the poor writing (English is unfortunately my first language)
a/n: I am back with a part two!! I just wanted to say a huge thank you for the love you've given project parenthood; it's surreal and very much humbling. I adore getting to hear from y'all and would more than love for that to continue with this one. As always, feedback and comments are highly appreciated, and my inbox is open for anything you may need <3
If you haven’t already, read part one: project parenthood?
I. The Party
This moment feels intensely like deja vu, sitting in Mike Wheeler’s basement—waiting for the start of what you’re sure will be an eventful evening —except, in the last few weeks, so much has changed. Namely, your relationship with Steve. You still catch yourself staring at him, half in disbelief, half in contentment at the thought that he’s actually your boyfriend.
Boyfriend. What a loaded word, you think, as your mind drifts deeper into the sense of familiarity with your current setting.
The Wheeler house, however, remains unchanged by the shift in your evolving dynamic. It’s warm in that familiar, musty, lived-in way it always is — like old carpet, dusty board games, and the faint, perpetual scent of pizza grease that’s soaked into the fabric of the basement couches. The mismatched Christmas lights Will hung in November still twinkle overhead, softening the space into something cozy and oddly safe. Mike declared just days ago that he never wanted to take them down, and so, they remain…another constant despite the obvious changes.
If you’re being honest, you really shouldn’t be here. Or—okay, fine—you should be here, because it’s movie night and you promised Will you’d show up. But, you probably shouldn’t be pressed against Steve Harrington on the old couch like two magnets with no intention of separating.
The movie hasn’t even started yet, but everyone’s getting settled, which actually means Dustin and Mike are arguing about seating arrangements and snack distributions (Dustin won’t stop gatekeeping the Doritos) and Max is threatening to throw Lucas off the couch if he touches her foot one more time. El simply watches the two of you with curiosity in her gaze, as if she’s stumbled upon something precious—something only she has noticed.
Steve sits beside you, thigh touching yours, shoulder brushing yours, and even though you’re trying to look casual, your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo. You thought once you’d kissed him for the first time, this feeling might go away, that you might not be as nervous around him. Clearly, that had been wrong…because now, you feel everything tenfold.
You suppose nervous might not be the right word to describe it. Steve makes you feel alive, like every nerve in your body has been set alight. And you can’t help the spark that shoots up your spine as his breath drifts along the side of your neck.
He leans in, voice dropping just for you. “I think Mike’s about to challenge Dustin to a Doritos duel.”
You stifle a laugh. “It’s always those two.”
“Yeah well,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his, dipping his hand into the popcorn bowl, “we have the better seats and the better snacks.”
“Because you got here early and claimed your spot,” you point out. And it’s true, he did. He made sure of it.
“Because,” he corrects softly, “I wanted to sit with you. And I knew if I got here any later, you’d have six teens fighting for your attention. Who am I to compete with that?”
You hate how fast that hits you. You hate even more how warm you feel and how you can’t stop smiling.
It’s been a few weeks now — a few weeks of Steve’s hand on your back in passing, a few weeks of stolen kisses in quiet corners, a few weeks of him picking you up from school or work with that soft look he gets only for you. A few weeks of dating.
And somehow, miraculously, none of the kids have figured it out. At least not officially.
Steve shifts, like he can’t help gravitating toward you. His hand drifts onto your knee, thumb brushing a slow arc just above your jeans, the popcorn bowl now discarded onto the coffee table. Your chest warms at the proximity and you inch closer. It’s subtle, small, but your entire body reacts like he whispered something dirty in your ear.
He looks at your lips and you look at his. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t—
“—Oh my god.”
The statement detonates in the basement, multiple pairs of eyes shooting toward the source of the noise.
You jolt so hard you nearly fall off the couch, Steve’s hand flying off you like you’re radioactive.
Dustin stands frozen near the bottom of the stairs, clutching his bag of chips to his chest. His eyes are huge. His jaw drops open so wide it might hit the floor. The gears in his mind aren’t just turning…they’re spinning.
Mike appears right behind him, finally done arguing. He sees you and Steve sitting suspiciously close, and immediately recoils like he’s walked in on something he never wanted to see.
“No,” Mike mutters, hands waving in mock disgust. He’s put the pieces together. “Oh no, no, no—this is worse than the mom and dad thing.”
Lucas joins them, squinting at the two of you with the precision of a detective. “Did we interrupt something?”
Max pushes past them. “What the hell is going—”
She stops. She sees Steve sitting close enough to share breath with you. She looks at your face, then at his. Then at the space between you, or rather, the lack of it.
Max throws her hands in the air triumphantly. “Called it!” She announces to the ceiling.
You choke. “Called what—?”
“Nope, no, don’t even try,” Max cuts you off, pointing accusingly, wagging her index finger with gross enthusiasm. “Something’s changed,” she narrows her eyes at you in a smug way, “You two are together.”
The way the word together falls from her lips leaves no room for interpretation. You’ve been caught…all thanks to Steve’s wandering gaze. And hey, maybe you’re a little to blame. Just maybe.
Steve turns pink so fast it’s almost impressive. “We’re— it’s not— I mean we—”
Will slides into your eyeline, blinking in confusion. “Wait. The two of you…?”
He looks between you. Very slowly. Very carefully. He can read you better than anyone on the planet—and it’s clear as day.
His eyes widen with soft, dawning realization.
“Oh,” he breathes. “You are.”
Your stomach twists with something warm and embarrassing and too precious.
Mike shakes his head, looking directly at Steve “Oh man, this is worse than when you dated my sister. (Y/n)’s like, like—” he struggles to find a description he thinks fits.
“–like a better sister?” Lucas supposes.
“Yeah.” Mike affirms, hoping no one will let that little jibe get back to Nancy.
Sure, he loves his sister, she’s great…you’re just much cooler. On any given day, you’re also much nicer to him. You put up with his shit without making him feel like a nuisance, like you actually care about him. His next words hang in the air, “And somehow I can say they’ve both dated Steve Harrington.”
At the accusation, Dustin drops the Doritos, finally picking up on everyone’s deductions. He actually drops them.
“YOU’RE DATING?” Dustin yells so loudly you think you see the Christmas lights flicker. “How long has this been happening?” The onslaught of questions begins. “Why didn’t I know about this the second it happened? Were you ever going to tell us? Or—or were you just going to continue canoodling like you thought we’d be stupid enough not to notice?”
You send Dustin an unimpressed look that says ‘a little late on the uptake kid,’ but you smile nonetheless.
“Canoodling?” Steve sputters, because of course that’s the only thing he’d take away from Dustin’s word vomit. “Who even says canoodling?”
“I DO,” Dustin snaps. “WHEN I CATCH TWO PEOPLE CANOODLING IN THE DARK.”
“We weren’t canoodling,” you protest weakly, barely caring enough to try and stave him off.
“You so were,” Mike argues with a smirk. “Your knees were touching.” You roll your eyes, how scandalous…your knees were touching.
“We’re allowed to sit next to people!” You say, defensive, flustered, and lying horribly.
Max gestures violently. “Your faces were doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Steve asks.
“The thing,” she says, pointing between your eyes. “The gross lovey-dovey face thing.”
“Lovey-dovey face thing?” You repeat it like a question you’ll never know the answer to.
“You’re doing it right now!” She exclaims. This is getting ridiculous.
Lucas confirms, nodding. “I first noticed it last week. I just didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Mike to scream.”
Mike glares at him. “Thanks?” He accepts with contempt. As if Dustin hadn’t been the one to just have a meltdown.
Steve runs a hand through his hair — nervous and sheepish. “Okay. Okay, yes. We’re dating.”
Smiles light up on each of the kids’ faces. El’s grin is the biggest as she steps forward suddenly — quiet, certain — and wraps her arms around you.
“I’m happy for you,” she says simply.
And somehow that hits harder than any of the chaos.
Will beams. “Me too.”
Lucas grins. “Steve’s good. For you.”
Max shrugs, but her smile gives her away. “Yeah, I guess he’s not the worst.”
Mike crosses his arms. “Fine. But if you start making out in here, I’m leaving. And this is my fucking house.”
And as if summoned by the universe—Dustin points at you two dramatically. “Hey! They were about to, if I hadn’t said something.”
“DUSTIN,” you blurt.
He screeches. “Don’t deny it. I have a girlfriend—I know what almost kissing looks like!”
Steve hides his face in his hands. “You’re such an ass Henderson.” He takes a second to glance from teen to teen, mentally sizing each of them up. “And just so you know, I hate all of you.” His voice comes out muffled.
“No he doesn’t,” Will says gently to the group. “He’s really happy.”
Steve peeks at you through his fingers. Softly, shyly. How can this guy be yours? Your heart flips and you take his hand — openly now, boldly now — fingers lacing with his.
“We weren’t really hiding it,” you say.
“Good,” Lucas deadpans. “Because if you were, you're both horrible liars.”
Max nods. “Terrible job, concerning honestly.”
And as the chaos swells again, as Dustin interrogates Steve about how many times you’ve kissed and Mike threatens to cover his ears, Will catches your eye.
He smiles. It’s full of warmth and pride. It’s comfortable. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, makes the corners crinkle, and somehow feels like a hug without a touch.
In that brief moment, all the noise around you fades. You can see it: the genuine happiness in him, the quiet comfort that comes from knowing you’re with someone who treats you right. He’s not just proud that you’ve found someone; he’s proud of you—for letting yourself be happy, for trusting Steve, for navigating all the messiness of the past years and finding solace, something truly good.
There’s a softness to him now, a subtle shift in posture, like he’s carrying a small, secret joy that he doesn’t need to announce. And even though the teasing continues around you, you know he’s silently cheering both of you on, hoping that this—whatever this is—sticks, hoping it brings you the same kind of peace he feels in that smile.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says softly, and dear god, how you love him.
And in that moment, surrounded by noise and teasing and absolute chaos, you realize you don’t mind them knowing at all.
Not if it means Steve’s hand in yours. Not if it means this.
• ж • ж •
II. Nancy & Jonathan
The Byers kitchen feels unusually peaceful tonight.
The overhead light hums softly, spilling warm gold across the counter where half a loaf of bread, an abandoned jar of peanut butter, and one crooked salt shaker sit like relics of someone’s late-night snacking, Will’s definitely. That kid loves peanut butter more than Steve, and that’s saying something.
The house itself is quiet — Joyce is out, Will’s in his room sketching, and the Party won’t descend for at least another hour. As for Jonathan, well, he’s Jonathan. You stopped asking questions about his whereabouts a long time ago. He’s always been too independent for his own good.
Everything just feels…safe.
You lean back against the counter, smiling despite yourself as Steve stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes he absolutely created zero of. He insisted. You let him.
There’s music playing on the little radio — soft, gentle, something like Fleetwood Mac if the signal wasn’t so staticky.
He turns slightly toward you, a dish towel in one hand. “So, remind me again how I got tricked into doing your chores?”
“Tricked?” you scoff. “You literally volunteered.”
“I volunteered,” he says, throwing the towel over his shoulder, “because you smiled at me in that please help me, my life is chaos way you like to do.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he insists, stepping closer. “It works every time.” You know he’s a sucker for you, just as you are for him. One glance from those soft brown eyes…and it’s over.
He’s standing between your knees now, hands braced lightly on the counter beside your hips. The small light over the sink paints him in soft yellows— hair glowing, eyes warm enough to melt something inside you.
You try not to grin like an idiot. You fail.
He leans in a little. “I like being here, you know.”
Your breath catches, a low hum rumbling in your tone, “I’m glad.”
He tilts his head, lips inches from yours—
The front door clicks. You hear two sets of footsteps, and then a voice.
“Mom? You home?” Jonathan’s voice calls.
Steve leaps, bumping the counter.
It’s still strange to see Steve Harrington like this, flustered and wary, like a man who’s stared down monsters without blinking is suddenly at the mercy of your younger brother. And part of you understands why. You’ve always thought of Jonathan as gentle, maybe a little (or a lot) introspective, the kind of person who folds inward rather than takes up space. But that’s only half the truth.
Jonathan is meek with you. He’s always been soft-spoken, careful, the kind of brother who listens more than he talks, who steps in front of you without making it obvious that he’s doing it. With you, his protectiveness is quiet. He shows it through a hand on your shoulder, or a look that asks are you okay? without demanding an answer.
But wiith Steve, it’s different.
With Steve, you know Jonathan remembers everything.
There’s a history of pain there. And maybe some of it has been left in the past, but some of it will never leave him.
You’re well aware how Jonathan feels. He’s told you.
He remembers the hallways at Hawkins High and the way Steve used to move through them like he owned the place. He remembers the laughter that followed him and the distance between the Harrington house and the Byers house, measured not just in streets but in silence, in absence, in the way some people were allowed to be careless because someone else was always there to catch them. Because Steve always had something to fall back on if he failed.
Kids like you and Jonathan, coming from nothing but the blood, sweat, and tears of a struggling single mom — you didn’t have that luxury. And a part of Jonathan has always resented Steve for that.
On top of it all, Jonathan never forgot the things Steve said back then. The way his friends laughed. The way Nancy cried. For a long time, you used to hate Steve too.
And even though Steve isn’t that kid anymore — even though Jonathan knows that, has watched him change, watched him show up again and again — history doesn’t disappear just because time passes. You know that.
So when Jonathan and Nancy appear in the doorway — Jonathan holding a stack of film canisters, Nancy with her coat half-off her shoulders and hair windswept from the cold, you don’t know what to think.
Jonathan opens his mouth to greet you, then notices the scene.
You’re perched on the counter. Steve’s too close, much too close for his liking. There’s a warm glow, a gentle energy rumbling in the air. Two mugs of hot chocolate rest on the counter. The towel on Steve’s shoulder looks so domestic. And Steve’s entire soul is radiating guilty boyfriend energy, sheepish lopsided grin and all.
Jonathan stops dead. Nancy stops beside him.
The moment hangs in the air like a soap bubble.
Jonathan’s left eye twitches. Something in his chest tightens. Not with anger exactly. With instinct.
He can’t help the feeling that climbs up his throat. You’re his sister. You’ve always been the one thing Jonathan never questioned protecting. Even when he was exhausted, or scared. Even when the world kept asking more of him than he had to give. And now — somehow — Steve Harrington has crossed into that sacred territory.
Jonathan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t puff out his chest. He just stops. Takes it in. He measures the space between you and Steve with the same careful attention he’s always used when something matters. It’s honestly beginning to unnerve you more than anything else. The silence.
You can almost see the conflict play out behind his eyes — the past colliding with the present. The person Steve was, with the man he’s becoming. The quiet fear that comes with letting someone else take on a role Jonathan’s always filled himself, despite being a year younger than you.
Steve shifts under his gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, of his posture, of how close he’s standing to you. For once, he doesn’t look like the confident king of Hawkins. He looks like someone who knows this moment matters.
Nancy’s eyebrows rise very, very gently, equally taking in this scene before her. She knows just what Steve looks like when he cares, when he’s in love.
Jonathan notices it too, despite wanting so badly to ignore the glaring signs. And maybe that’s what softens him — not immediately, not fully — but enough.
Because Steve isn’t smirking. He isn’t posturing. He isn’t pretending. He’s nervous.
If anything, Jonathan knows what it looks like when someone cares more than they’re comfortable admitting. He’s spent his whole life being that person.
“Harrington.” The Byers boy nods in apprehension, standing closer to Nancy than he was before.
Steve attempts a casual wave that looks more like a man being held hostage. “Hey guys! Just—uh—helping. With dishes. Love… dishes.”
Jonathan stares. “Do you?”
“For sure man,” Steve says instantly.
You drag a hand down your face. Perfect. Fantastic. This is exactly how you wanted this to go. You’ve just spent about a minute or two in utter silence, the two men before you sizing each other up, and now you’re wrapped up talking about dishes…
Nancy steps forward a bit, gaze sweeping between the two of you with that laser-sharp focus she applies to murder mysteries and English essays. She’s not shocked. She’s… confirming.
Jonathan, however—
“Are you two—?” he starts.
Your face warms painfully. “Jon—”
“—together?” he finishes, voice cracking in three different places. No fucking way…you and Steve? His sister AND Steve?
There’s a small part of Jonathan that always worried Steve still had feelings for Nancy. He can’t help the weird feeling that creeps in his chest — he’s not sure this is any better.
Steve stands up straighter, like someone preparing for execution. “Yes. I mean—if that’s okay. With you.” Steve resorts to something stupid, something like a meaningless joke when he finishes with a firm, “Sir.” He’s not serious. You know he’s not. It feels a little defensive, like a flicker of that history, that tension you know has never fully left flares in the room.
Nancy gives him a bizarrely sympathetic pat on the arm, before sending him a warning gaze. “Steve, you don’t have to call him sir.”
You cringe. “Please don’t call him sir.” You can tell how nervous he is, just how much he cares. How much he wants this to work.
Jonathan just blinks. “Wait… so this isn’t some kind of joke? You’re actually dating?”
Steve glances at you once — quick, soft, like he’s checking if he’s allowed to say it.
You nod.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We are.”
That feels good to admit.
Jonathan processes this in real time — each second visible on his face like a flipbook: first there’s shock, then confusion, then realization, then a slight look of mild horror, then acceptance, and then finally something warm and reluctant and brotherly.
He sets the film canisters on the counter. “Okay.”
Steve sags in relief.
“Okay?” you repeat, uncertain.
Jonathan exhales slowly, bracing his palms on the back of a chair. “Yeah. I mean—look. I want you to be happy. Obviously. Always. And if Steve is… if he’s good to you, then… then I’m good with it.”
You can hear the underlying words he wants to say, reading between the complicated lines. Through everything that’s happened Steve’s a good guy.
You smile, taken aback by how gentle his voice is. This is the Jonathan you’re used to, the one you love more than words can express.
Nancy beams at him like he just passed a test. Because in her mind, this felt very much like that exactly. “That’s very mature of you.” She says.
Jonathan shrugs, cheeks pink. “I’m trying.”
He pauses. Then adds, with brotherly menace “But if he ever hurts you, I own multiple blunt objects and no sense of self-preservation.”
Steve nods rapidly. “Yep. Totally fair. Very understandable. Blunt objects. Got it.”
“I mean it Harrington.” Jonathan smiles, the cadence of his voice rising at the end. “I beat your ass once—I can do it again.”
Steve grimaces lightly, then relaxes his shoulders. “Dude! I thought we agreed never to bring that up again.”
“You agreed.” Your brother clarifies with a smirk. “I reserve the right to bring that up whenever I may need it.”
Nancy snorts. Steve’s gaze turns to her in an instant, suddenly nervous to see how she’s taking this.
She raises a brow at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Relax, Steve. I found out about you two weeks ago.”
You and Steve look at her in unison. “You did?”
She lifts one shoulder, amused. “You two act different around each other. Softer.” Her eyes flick to you. “Happier.”
You warm instantly.
Then she gestures at Steve. “Plus you wear her scarf sometimes.”
Steve’s jaw drops. “It’s warm!”
“Mmhm,” Nancy says. “And definitely not because you miss her.”
You elbow him lightly. “You wear my scarf? I thought I’d lost it.”
Steve mutters, “It smells like you,” and immediately regrets saying it within Byers earshot.
Jonathan groans into his hands.
You hide your smile behind your sleeve. “That’s… sweet.”
Before Steve can combust, Nancy steps forward, her expression softening. “I’m really glad,” she says to you quietly. “He’s good. And you deserve good.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you.”
She nods once, sincere.
Jonathan watches Steve for a long moment — not threatening now, just evaluating him the way only a protective younger brother can.
Finally he says, “I trust you.”
Steve goes still. His breath catches. “Really?”
Jonathan nods. “Yeah. I do.” He means it.
It’s such a simple sentence — but it hits Steve like a punch. And you can see it. The way his shoulders soften. The way he stands a little taller. The way he looks at you like you hung the moon and then put it back in the sky by hand.
Nancy glances between all of you with a small teasing smile. “Okay…well…We’ll leave you to your… dishes.”
She sends you one last wink before she takes Jonathan’s arm, steering him toward his room.
Jonathan stops halfway, pointing two fingers at Steve’s eyes, then at his own. “You know what that means.”
“Yes sir,” Steve blurts again before wincing.
Jonathan disappears down the hall, muttering, “Stop calling me sir.”
The moment the door shuts, Steve blows out a shaky breath. “That wasn’t so bad.”
You laugh, sliding off the counter as you step closer to him. “You almost passed out.”
“I did not almost pass out,” he insists, cheeks pink. “I was just—uh—nervous.”
You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “You didn’t need to be.”
He melts immediately — hands finding your back like they were made for it. “Still kinda was.”
You tilt your chin up. “You handled it.”
He looks down at you, eyes full and warm and overflowing with something tender. “Yeah. But only because you were here.”
And before you can tease him for being sappy, he kisses you — slow, sweet, lingering — right there in the Byers kitchen, where both your families are starting to figure out the truth: You and Steve aren’t just dating.
You’re building something.
Something real.
• ж • ж •
III. Joyce & Hopper
Your living room smells like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry — Joyce’s doing, obviously — mixed with the faint scent of sawdust drifting in from the open front door. Hopper had insisted, loudly and with great paternal authority, that the loose window frame in the living room “wasn’t safe, damn it,” and he was going to fix it before the “whole house collapses and kills someone.”
Which is why your home currently sounds like someone is fighting a grizzly bear with a hammer.
You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping lazily through a magazine you don’t actually care about. Your head dips sideways, eyes drifting to the kitchen doorway where Steve stands, rummaging through the cabinet like a man who can’t believe other people don’t organize things alphabetically.
He mutters to himself, “Who puts cumin next to paprika? That’s psychotic.”
You bite back a laugh. “Steve, what are you even doing?”
“Making coffee,” he says with the indignant confidence of a husband defending his territory. “Your mom bought the fancy grounds. I’m trying to find the—Aha.”
He pulls down the coffee tin like it’s a trophy. You’re about to tease him when Joyce breezes into the kitchen, humming softly as she folds a dish towel. She doesn’t even look up at first.
“Oh, thank you, Steve,” she says warmly. “Make yourself at home.”
He freezes, absolutely freezes. Like she just pointed a spotlight at him. He straightens, nodding stiffly. “Just… being helpful.”
Joyce smiles knowingly. “I know.”
And somehow that feels suspicious. You sit up straighter.
A loud THUD rattles the house.
“JOYCE, WHERE’S THE DAMN LEVEL?” Hopper booms from the living room.
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “Check the toolbox!”
“I DID CHECK THE TOOLBOX!”
“Check again!” She shouts back.
“I SWEAR IT GREW LEGS AND WALKED AWAY—”
Steve leans into the doorway, raising his eyebrows. “Is he okay?”
“No,” you and Joyce say at the same time.
Joyce chuckles and turns back to the counter. “He gets very dramatic about tools.”
Steve snorts softly. And Joyce notices it.
In fact… she’s been noticing a lot.
Her gaze drifts between you and Steve — your soft smile, his pink cheeks, the casual way he stands closer to you than he needs to. Her eyes narrow. Not judgmental. Just… motherly.
Dangerously motherly.
Steve sets two mugs on the counter. “(Y/n), you want cream and sugar?”
Joyce’s eyebrows lift. Steve’s eyes meet hers…he’s made a mistake. He’s let on that maybe he knows a little too much.
He attempts a recovery — poorly. “I mean—not because I know what you like or anything.” He shrugs. “Everyone wants cream and sugar.”
Joyce grins slowly. “Do you?”
Your soul leaves your body.
You scramble up from the couch. “Mom—”
But it’s too late.
Joyce Byers is in full Investigation Mode now. “Cream and one sugar, right? That’s how she likes it.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, oh God, how does she know? And your mother LIVES for this kind of emotional carnage.
You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”
Joyce clasps her hands against her chest. “Oh my God.” She turns to you. “You finally told him?” I mean sure, you’d told your mom about your feelings for Steve, especially when you thought it wasn’t going to go anywhere. But now she’s smiling like she’s won the lottery as she confirms, “You two are dating.”
Steve splutters. “No—we—well—yes—but—actually yes—” He deflates in defeat. It’s not worth it to explain it any further.
“OH MY GOD!” Joyce squeals, hands flying up in excitement.
You cover your face. “Mom, please don’t—”
Joyce ignores you completely, bursting with pure maternal joy. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was something happening! The way you look at each other—oh! I should’ve trusted my instincts sooner!”
“JOYCE?” Hopper bellows from the other room. “WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?”
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “THEY’RE DATING!”
A beat of silence. Then—
“WHO?” Hopper stomps into the kitchen, covered in sawdust, eyebrows knitted together beneath his cap. “Who’s dating?” You’d heard that same sense of disgust in his tone when he'd found out about El and Mike…it’s the exact tone he’s using now.
Joyce gestures proudly between you and Steve. “(Y/n) and Steve!”
Hopper stares. It’s long and painfully silent.
Then he lifts one thick eyebrow. “Since when?”
“A few weeks,” Steve answers automatically. He immediately regrets being honest.
Hopper crosses his arms. “And you were gonna tell me… when?”
Steve swallows. “Right now?”
A deep, low rumble vibrates Hopper’s chest, halfway between a growl and a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky I actually like you, Harrington.”
You snort. “That’s debatable.”
Hopper shoots you a look, then fixes Steve with a suspicious glare. “You being good to her?”
“Yes sir.”
You whip your head around. “Why do you keep calling everyone ‘sir’?”
“It’s a respect thing,” Steve protests weakly.
“It’s a fear thing,” you correct.
Hopper raises a hand. “Let the boy speak.” He enjoys being called sir, it makes him feel like he matters in your life. Like even though he’s not blood, he’s more of a father than you’ve ever had. And he wants to hear what the Harrington kid has to say.
Steve takes a breath — steady, serious. “I care about her. A lot. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your mom melts at that, her eyes full of love for you, and a newfound love for Steve.
Hopper studies him, jaw tight.
Joyce grins. “Jim, stop scaring him. They’re so cute!”
Hopper grumbles into his beard. “Yeah, yeah.”
She can still see the nerves radiating from Steve. The way his index fingers are tapping on the edges of the mug he’d been meaning to give to you, and the way his weight shifts from foot to foot in apprehension.
“Honey,” she says gently to him, “you don’t need to be nervous.”
Steve nods, but it’s obvious he still is. He’s been good at being a guest his whole life — polite, helpful, careful not to take up too much space. It’s a skill you don’t learn unless you’ve spent a lot of time in houses that never really felt like yours.
Joyce moves forward and cups your face in both hands, beaming. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy for you.” She looks between the two of you, eyes flicking from you to him. “You deserve someone kind—both of you.”
You soften, leaning into her palms. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And Steve?” Joyce walks over and pulls him into a hug so sudden and full-force he nearly drops the mug of coffee he’d been holding. “Welcome to the family, honey.”
Steve’s eyes go huge. “Oh. Uh. Wow. Okay. Yep. Hugging. This is happening.”
The mug rattles slightly against his chest as he scrambles to keep it upright, frozen in place like he’s afraid that if he moves, the moment will shatter.
Joyce hugs him like she means it. Like she’s done this a thousand times before. Like she’s not worried about boundaries or awkwardness or whether he deserves it.
Just — arms around him. Solid, and absolutely certain.
And something inside Steve breaks open. He’s not used to this. Not used to being claimed so easily. Not used to adults who don’t keep one eye on the door, who don’t treat affection like something transactional or conditional. At home, birthdays pass quietly. Dinner tables are long and empty. Love arrives in the form of credit cards and apologetic notes, if it arrives at all.
No one has ever welcomed him anywhere. Definitely not like this.
His hands hover awkwardly for a second, unsure — before they settle against Joyce’s back, tentative at first, then firmer. Like he’s testing whether this is real. Whether it’s allowed.
His throat tightens.
You see it — the way his shoulders sag, just a little. The way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years without realizing it. Joyce pulls back, still smiling, hands firm on his arms. “We’re really glad you’re here.” She says.
Steve nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice. His eyes shine, but he blinks quickly, embarrassed by the intensity of it all.
“Thank you,” he manages. “I—yeah. Thank you.” Being loved like this feels strange to him, foreign. It’s heavy on his shoulders, heavy in his hands, like something he’s terrified to drop. And maybe for the first time, this isn’t something Steve has to earn. It’s the kind of love he gets to keep.
Hopper pats him on the back once — hard enough to nearly knock him forward. He snaps the moment in a way only a paternal figure like Jim could, “You break her heart,” he threatens, “and I'll break your legs.”
“Hopper!” Joyce swats him, hissing.
Steve salutes, breaking out of his daze. “Legs remain unbroken, sir.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, laughing despite yourself. This is so unserious, and yet, so so nice.
Joyce pulls you beside Steve, squeezing your hands. “I’m proud of you. Both of you.”
And the warmth that fills your chest is heavy, immediate, and overwhelming. Steve’s hand finds yours instinctively, fingers linking — not hidden, not hesitant.
Just there. Solid.
Hopper grunts. “Alright. Enough mushy crap. Who wants pancakes? I’m making pancakes.”
Joyce groans. “Jim, you cannot cook pancakes.”
“I can TOO cook pancakes.”
“I swear you burned water once.” You tease him jokingly.
He plays along, “Hey, that pot was broken!”
Steve grins at you as your mom and Hopper make their way back into the living room. He squeezes your hand.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, leaning into him. “Better than okay.”
His expression warms. “Me too.”
And as the two of you stand together in the soft kitchen light — hands linked, hearts racing, Joyce humming happily in the background — Steve realizes he’s never felt more like part of a family.
• ж • ж •
IV. Robin
Family Video on a Sunday evening is pretty much dead. There’s no customers, no returns, and thankfully, no Keith. All there is to do is stare at the walls, as dust motes drift lazily through the air like they’re bored too.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with all the charm of a dying bee, and Steve is leaning on the counter flipping through a magazine that he definitely isn’t reading. He keeps glancing at the door like he’s waiting for you to appear at any second.
Robin watches him. She watches him flip the pages without looking at them. She watches him fix his hair every eight minutes on the dot. She also watches him check the door again.
After the third hair adjustment, she groans loudly.
“Oh my god, just go outside and wait for her like a normal lovesick golden retriever.”
Steve nearly drops the magazine. “I— I’m not lovesick.”
Robin scoffs so dramatically it echoes. “Steve. You’ve checked your reflection in that horror-movie mirror so many times the ghosts are going to file a restraining order.”
He scowls. “I just don’t want to look like a mess.”
“You always look like a mess,” she says sweetly. “It’s your brand.”
He hurls a crumpled popcorn receipt at her. She dodges easily.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
You step inside, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair tucked into Steve’s old Hawkins sweatshirt that you “borrowed” and never returned.
Steve lights up like he’s been plugged into a wall outlet. Robin doesn’t miss it.
“Hey,” you say, smiling at him first, always at him first — before waving at Robin. “Slow day?”
“Painfully,” Robin says. “I’ve reorganized the horror section three times. It still sucks.”
You hop up to sit on the counter, legs swinging lightly. Steve gravitates toward you immediately, leaning his hip against the counter next to your knee, thumb brushing it before he can stop himself.
Robin raises one eyebrow. You call it the eyebrow of doom.
You pretend not to notice. Steve pretends he didn’t do it.
“Oh,” Robin says lightly, “so we’re doing this now.”
Steve freezes. “Doing what?”
“This,” she repeats, gesturing vaguely at the space between you — the space with no actual space. “The whole... heart-eyes, I-want-to-hold-your-hand-but-I’m-too-chicken situation.”
Your face heats. “We’re just hanging out.”
“Uh-huh,” Robin says, stepping closer, eyes narrowing in the affectionate-interrogation way only she can pull off. “Tell me again how you’ve accidentally shown up wearing Steve’s clothes.”
You gasp in mock realization, hand dramatically flying to cover your mouth. Maybe you’re just tired of trying to hide this from her “How did you know—”
Robin points at your chest. “Because last time I checked, you didn’t play on the boys basketball team.”
You look down, smirking. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”
Steve scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling into his palms. “I hate you both.”
“No you don’t,” Robin chirps. “You love me. And you love her.”
Your breath catches. Steve stops breathing.
Robin pauses. Then squints. “Okay, maybe you’re not ready to say it out loud yet, but like... come on.” She drones on. “I’ve known since the day we spent hours together in that Russian elevator. Or when we were hopped up on truth serum, and you said a lot of things you may pretend not to remember but that sounded a hell of a lot like a love confession."
She smiles again, manically, “You spend three minutes just staring into each other’s eyes after that.”
You blink. “Three minutes?”
“Three minutes.” She taps the counter. “I timed it mentally.”
Steve groans. “That’s not a thing people do.”
“It is when they work with their emotional support dumbass every day for two years,” Robin says, pointing directly at Steve’s chest. “I know your patterns. I know your eyebrows. I know your hair. I know when you showered, I know when you didn’t—”
Steve sputters. “ROBIN.”
Robin throws her hands in the air. “Point is: the second she walked into scoops the first time and you got that my sun, my moon, and all my stars look on your face, I knew.”
You choke on air. “I— he— what look—?”
“That look,” Robin says, nodding firmly. “The one he’s doing right now.”
Steve snaps upright. “I’m NOT doing a look.”
Robin folds her arms. “Then stop staring at her like she invented breathing.”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.” This is embarrassing, but also kind of amusing. You’re not sure you should feel so conflicted.
Robin plops down on the counter beside you. “You guys are cute. Annoying. But cute.”
Steve recovers enough to glare. “Have you told anyone—”
“Steve.” She pats his cheek. “Everybody already knows.”
You and Steve exchange a horrified glance. Except, it’s true. Over the past week or so, you kind of have let it slip to almost everyone in your life: the kids, your brothers, your friends, your mom…and Hopper.
Robin continues breezily. “Anyway! While we’re all in this circle of truth, I’m very happy for you both. But if either of you make out in the back room while I’m on shift, I will unplug the VHS rewinder and hide the cable.”
You laugh. “That’s cruel.”
“Yes. And effective.”
Then, gentler, Robin bumps your shoulder. “Seriously… I’m happy for you. He’s stupid, but he’s good-stupid. And you’re… very very good for him. Maybe too good for him.” She eyes her best friend warningly.
Your chest tightens, and you’re unexpectedly emotional.
Steve smiles at her, soft and grateful. “Thanks, Rob.”
She squints at him. “But if you ever make her cry, I will egg your house.”
Steve pales, although he’s not entirely convinced. “You don’t even know how to aim an egg.”
“I’ll learn,” she vows.
You slip off the counter, stepping between them before Steve has a heart attack. “Okay, okay — I think he gets it.”
Robin smirks and throws an arm around your shoulders. “Welcome to the club.”
“What club?” you ask, laughing.
“The Steve-Harrington-Emotional-Support committee.”
Steve squints at her. “That is not a real club.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Robin says. “It meets weekly. There’s always snacks, and we get to watch you spiral. Dustin’s club president.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Robin nods solemnly. “It really does.”
Steve points accusingly, with a waggle from his index finger, and it all feels so maternal. “You are both being incredibly rude.”
Robin grins wider. “Correct.” At the same time you say, “Sure thing mom.”
Steve looks between the two of you, betrayed. “Is nothing sacred?”
“No,” Robin and you answer in perfect unison.
And Robin grins, victorious.
• ж • ж •
+1. Candles, Cake, and the Picture That Lasts
Steve Harrington does not like birthdays.
He never says it outright — never announces it, never makes a big deal of it — but you know. You’ve always known, in the way he shrugs when someone asks what he wants, in the way he insists it’s “not a big deal,” in the way he looks faintly uncomfortable when the date comes up at all.
Birthdays, for Steve, have always been quiet things.
Too quiet.
They’re empty houses and echoing rooms. Parents who call late, if they call at all. Cards left on the counter by a housekeeper, signatures neat and impersonal. A cake ordered from a bakery he doesn’t like, eaten alone at the kitchen island while the radio hums in the background for company, or maybe it’s the tv.
He learned a long time ago not to expect much.
So when Dustin, Max, and Lucas insist on dragging him out of the house that afternoon, claiming it’s “very important,” “top secret,” and “Steve you’re not allowed to ask questions” — he goes along with it, suspicious but indulgent in the way he always is with them.
You stay behind.
Steve doesn’t see you slip out of the car with an excuse about forgetting something. He doesn’t see you unlock the door to his house with the spare key he gave you weeks ago, casual, like it didn’t mean anything — even though it did.
The house is quiet when you step inside.
Steve’s house is big in that way that always feels a little too empty, even now. Polished wood floors. Wide rooms. Too much space meant for people who aren’t there. But tonight, it won’t stay that way.
You work quickly and quietly. Streamers line the walls, taped just a little crooked, and a handmade banner is strung across the living room that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE in uneven lettering. The kids helped with it earlier, arguing over colours and spacing, Dustin insisting his letters were the best ones.
You set the cake on the counter. It’s chocolate, because it’s his favorite even though he pretends he doesn’t care. Candles are tucked into the frosting, just waiting.
In the time it takes you to set everything up, your guests have arrived. All except Steve and a few of the kids who had dragged him out at your ordering.
But the time you hear the front door, sensing his official arrival, your heart is already racing.
Steve’s melodic laugh carries through the house first — surprised, unguarded — and then the door opens fully.
He walks towards the main room as the kids race past him, taking position. He freezes at the scene before him.
The lights are on. Music hums softly from the living room radio. Everyone is there — the Party, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin leaning against the wall like she’s been waiting for this exact moment her entire life.
Steve stands in the doorway, stunned, keys still in his hand.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You step forward before he can say anything else.
“Happy birthday,” you say softly.
His eyes find yours immediately. They always do. He almost feels them well up.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. He just looks — at the banner, at the cake, at all of them — and something flickers across his face. Surprise, yes. But also something deeper,something fragile.
No one’s ever done this for him before.
“Okay,” Dustin announces loudly. “No crying. Or I will cry and then it’ll be a whole thing.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You guys are such idiots.” But his voice is thick.
He steps inside, and you’re right there, close enough that his arm slides around your back without thinking, palm warm and grounding like he’s anchoring himself to you.
The living room glows under soft light. Streamers flutter faintly when someone moves past them. The house feels… full. Lived in. Warm in a way it never quite does, that it never quite has.
“Okay, everyone shut up!” Dustin yells, climbing onto Steve’s coffee table like it’s a stage. “We need to sing.”
Steve groans immediately. “No we don’t.”
“Yes we do,” Max says, unapologetic. “It’s tradition.”
Mike already looks embarrassed on Steve’s behalf. “This is going to be awful.”
“You’re awful,” Dustin snaps back.
You tilt your head up toward Steve, smiling. “You ready?”
He looks down at you, eyes soft, a little overwhelmed — open in a way he rarely lets himself be. “Not even a little.”
The cake is brought out, candles already lit, flames flickering gently. Lucas holds it like it’s sacred. Hopper stands nearby like he’s supervising a controlled burn.
And then the singing starts. It’s terrible, outrageously loud, and completely off-key.
Steve grimaces through the first line, shoulders tense — and then something breaks. Somewhere between Dustin screaming the lyrics and Will singing quietly but earnestly, Steve laughs.
It’s real laughter. The kind that shakes him, that escapes before he can stop it. The kind that sounds like relief.
You watch it happen like it’s something holy.
When the song ends, the room erupts into cheers. Steve leans down toward you, voice low and fond. “I blame you for this.”
You grin. “You love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
He makes a wish, quiet and private, and blows out the candles in one breath. The applause that follows feels louder than it should. Fuller.
The night settles into something easy after that.
The cake is eaten. Frosting ends up on Dustin’s nose and Lucas steals the biggest slice. Max threatens him with bodily harm if he doesn’t share (he does). El winds up curling up beside you on the couch, content, leaning against your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will leans into your other side.
Steve drifts — talking to Mike, laughing with Robin, letting Hopper clap him on the shoulder a little too hard, and finds himself in a serious but extremely loving conversation with your mom — but he always comes back.
To you.
Like gravity.
At some point, Jonathan lifts his camera.
“Hey,” he says, already adjusting the lens. “Before everyone leaves — we should get a picture.”
There’s groaning, half-hearted protests, but no one actually says no.
People shuffle into place, bumping shoulders, arguing about where to stand. Dustin insists on being in front. Max refuses to smile. Mike complains he looks stupid, he’s having a bad hair day.
You don’t think about where to go. You just end up there, with him.
Steve’s arm slides around your waist, easy and instinctive, like it’s always belonged there. His hand rests warm and steady at your side. You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder tucked perfectly beneath his arm, your head tipping just slightly toward his.
No one comments. No one pauses. It’s simply understood.
Will notices, though. He always does.
He watches the way Steve glances down at you before looking at the camera, the way your fingers hook lightly into the belt loop at his hip. There’s no surprise on Will’s face — just quiet satisfaction. This is right. This is how it’s meant to be.
Jonathan steps back, framing the shot. He hesitates for a moment, taking in the room, the laughter, the closeness, the way Steve stands like he finally belongs somewhere.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Ready?”
Steve squeezes you just a little tighter.
The camera clicks.
The moment is caught — imperfect, a little blurry, but real.
People scatter almost immediately afterward, someone complaining they blinked, someone else demanding a redo. But Jonathan knows it’s perfect just the way it is. He can’t wait to get it developed.
And days later, on a night when you have nothing to do, a night where you can just relax with Steve…when your house is quiet and calm, you sit beside your boyfriend on the couch, legs tangled, his shoulder warm beneath your cheek.
Will approaches quietly, holding the photo. A late birthday present for Steve.
He hands it to you.
You look down — at the way everyone’s pressed together, at Steve’s arm unmistakably around you, at the way you’re both smiling without trying.
“You look really happy,” Will says softly.
You don’t hesitate. “I am.”
Steve hears it. His breath catches just a little as he looks at you, something bright and disbelieving in his eyes, like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
He smiles. And for the first time, you think birthdays might finally mean something different to him. Not empty. Not lonely.
NOTES: Reader is Dustin’s sibling, found family vibes, lovely festive chaos.
REQUESTED BY: @lovesflourmorethananything
NAV | FLUFFMAS | KO-FI
The thing about being Dustin Henderson’s sibling is that you never really get a say in anything. Not the music, not the snacks, not the guest list, and definitely not the decorations. You arrive at the Byers’ place on Christmas Eve to find tinsel taped to the walls at questionable angles and a paper chain drooping dangerously close to a candle. Someone has attempted to make a wreath out of green crepe paper and hope.
It’s perfect.
The kids have decided this year that Christmas Eve should be theirs. No parents hovering, no bedtimes enforced until at least midnight, and a party that is, in Dustin’s words, classy. This translates to mismatched jumpers, fizzy drinks poured into plastic cups, and a record player that keeps skipping when someone walks too heavily across the floor.
Steve Harrington is already there when you arrive, sleeves rolled up, hair doing that stupidly perfect thing it always does even when he’s been roped into helping hang decorations. He’s got a strand of fairy lights draped around his neck like some sort of festive superhero. Dustin spots you from across the room and barrels over, nearly taking out a chair on the way.
“You’re late,” he says, accusing but grinning.
“You said six-ish,” you reply, shrugging off your coat. “This is six-ish.”
Steve looks over then, smile softening when he sees you. It does something annoying to your chest, the familiar warm flutter you’ve been pretending not to notice for months. Friends. You’re friends. You remind yourself of that as he steps closer.
“Hey,” he says. It’s quieter than the room, like he’s carved out a pocket of calm just for the two of you. “Glad you made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, which is true. You wouldn’t miss any excuse to be in a room with him, even if it’s full of children hyped up on sugar and Christmas cheer.
The party grows around you. Lucas is arguing with Mike about the correct way to hang a stocking. Max has taken control of the music and is currently playing something aggressively cheerful. Will hands you a cup of something red and sweet that tastes like artificial cherries and childhood.
Steve sticks close. He always does at these things, orbiting you in a way that feels easy and safe. He asks about your jumper, makes a joke about the reindeer on it looking mildly unhinged. You laugh, properly laugh, and catch Dustin watching from the sofa with a look that’s far too knowing.
You try to ignore it.
The meddling begins subtly. Mike insists Steve needs help carrying more chairs from the other room, then somehow leaves him alone with you halfway there. Lucas loudly suggests mistletoe should go somewhere central, somewhere people pass through a lot. Dustin volunteers to hang it and chooses the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.
You don’t notice at first. You’re too busy helping Steve tape a paper snowflake back onto the wall. Your fingers brush, linger for a second too long. The air feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with Christmas lights.
“You okay?” Steve asks, voice gentle.
“Yeah,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re agreeing to.
Later, you find yourself in the kitchen, hunting for more cups. Steve follows, leaning against the counter, watching you like he’s memorising the way you move. It makes your cheeks warm.
“You’re being weird,” you say, attempting lightness.
“Am I?” He smiles, crooked and fond. “Maybe I’m just enjoying the party.”
From the doorway, Dustin coughs loudly. Mike appears beside him, far too innocent. They exchange a look that makes your stomach flip.
“Steve,” Dustin says, “can you help me with something?”
“Sure, man.” Steve pushes off the counter. “What’s up?”
You step forward at the same time, only to be gently herded in the same direction. It’s subtle, almost impressive. Mike moves behind you, steering with a hand at your elbow. Dustin does the same to Steve. Before you can protest, you’re both standing under the doorway.
The mistletoe hangs above you, slightly crooked, held up by tape and determination.
There’s a beat of silence. The room seems to hold its breath. Somewhere, Max snorts. Lucas lets out a triumphant yes under his breath. Dustin beams like he’s just solved world peace.
Steve looks up, then back at you. His smile falters into something softer, something nervous.
“Well,” he says. “Looks like we’ve been set up.”
“Seems that way,” you reply, heart hammering. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. The faint smell of his aftershave. The warmth radiating off him.
The kids chant half-heartedly, more amused than demanding. It’s teasing, affectionate. There’s no pressure, not really. Still, your pulse roars in your ears.
Steve’s eyes search your face, checking. Always checking. It’s one of the things you like most about him.
“We don’t have to,” he says quietly, just for you. “They’ll get bored eventually.”
You think about that. About all the almost moments. About the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. About how safe he makes you feel.
“I don’t want them to get bored,” you say.
His breath catches. It’s subtle, but you notice. You always notice.
Steve steps closer, slow and careful, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your hands rest lightly against his chest, feeling his heart race under your palms. He smells like pine and something warm.
The kiss is gentle. Soft. It tastes like sugar and possibility. The room erupts around you, kids cheering and whooping, but it fades into background noise. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, under badly hung mistletoe, on Christmas Eve.
When you pull back, Steve’s forehead rests against yours. He’s smiling in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Hi,” he says, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“Hi,” you reply.
Dustin clears his throat loudly. “You’re welcome.”
You laugh, warmth bubbling over. Steve squeezes your hands, grounding, real.
The party continues. Someone turns the music up. Someone else knocks over a bowl of crisps. Christmas lights flicker. Steve stays by your side, fingers laced with yours, like that’s where they’ve always belonged.
It feels easy. It feels right. It feels like the start of something that’s been waiting patiently for its moment.
And honestly, you can’t think of a better night for it.
STRANGER THINGS TAGS: @r6ven @gengen64 @elodiebeau @bookoffracturedescapes @sweettbepbo
areudirty
gummygunk
jbbartram-illu
prguitarman
