⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ some say it’s a place where your dreams come true. My house could be your house too 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
Hello everyone & welcome to my masterlist. Writing for Steve Harrington but requests are open!
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Smut: ♡
Fluff: ✶
One shots::
Count your blessings - Steve Harrington x pregnant!reader. ✶
18 months after they kill vecna and destroy the upside down, you are your 4 best friends reminisce after a year and a half. You share with the group you and Steve are expecting.
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You belong with me - coach!steve Harrington x reader. ✶
Your fiance is is the new baseball coach for the children in Hawkins. But you can’t help but over hear how much the Hawkins mothers want him.
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Im always, forever, runnin back to you dad!coach Steve Harrington x reader. ✶
Steve Harrington, a devoted coach, a doting father, and hopelessly in love with his wife. Steve counts down the minutes until he gets home to see his two special girls.
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Invisible string SteveHarrington x Henderson!reader. ✶
from the moment Steve Harrington laid his eyes on you, he knew you were destined to be together. After years of trying to prevent the inevitable, you both got your happy ending.
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Casual SteveHarrington x reader. MDNI 18+.
You and Steve have been friends with benefits for a while now. But you just can’t do it anymore. You don’t want to be his secret anymore, he doesn’t realise how much it’s hurting you. Inspired by casual by Chappell Roan.
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Adrenaline jock!SteveHarrington x Reader.
you have been unofficially promoted the Hawkins ice hockey team’s nurse. But when Steve Harrington realises him getting injured means seeing you. He starts getting “hurt” a lot more often.
Ok so I work in a hospital in the administrative assistant office and I can’t help but imagine Steve and reader coworkers friends to lovers??????? Nurse steve……or doctor Steve, I don’t care. Or even intern Steve graduating from nurse school ORRRR he’s just…..there with someone and he sees you in the hallway and falls in love with you idc
The Hawkins Memorial Hospital.
( a one shot)
intern!steveharrington x nurse!reader
an: hope this is what you were looking for in your request love!🥹
The thing about working in hospital administration is that nobody ever really sees you.
You’re the woman behind the glass window. The one who hands over clipboards and says, “Insurance card, please,” and “Take a seat, someone will be right with you.”
You’re the voice on the phone telling people their appointment has been moved to Thursday.
You’re the person who knows where everything is and therefore gets asked where everything is approximately forty times a day by people who will forget your name by tomorrow.
It’s fine.
You don’t mind it, mostly.
You like the rhythm of it.
The filing, the scheduling, the quiet satisfaction of a desk that makes sense.
You like the hospital hum — the way it never fully sleeps, the way it smells like antiseptic, burned coffee, and something floral from the gift shop cart near the elevator.
You’ve been here two years. You know the day shift nurses by their footsteps. You know which doctors take their coffee with two sugars and which ones are bluffing when they say they’re in a rush.
You did not know Steve Harrington.
Not until a Tuesday in late October, when a cluster of nursing interns rotated through the floor for the first time, and one of them walked directly into the glass partition of your window because he was looking at his clipboard instead of where he was going.
The thud was loud.
You looked up.
He looked up.
He had a red mark forming on his forehead, a lanyard that said, “HARRINGTON, S. — NURSING INTERN,” and an expression of such complete, genuine mortification that you had to bite the inside of your cheek very hard.
“That’s—“ he started.
“New?” you offered.
“I was going to say tempered glass, but sure.” He touched his forehead. Winced. “Is it bad?”
“The glass looks fine.”
His mouth did something. Almost a smile, not quite. “I meant my head.”
“Oh.” You considered it, the red mark, the way he was blinking like he was checking whether his vision had gone funny. “You’ll live.”
“That’s reassuring, coming from— “ he glanced at your nameplate— “the administrative office.”
“We’re very reassuring here.”
He laughed at that, short and a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected to.
Then his supervisor was calling his name from somewhere down the hall, he went, still touching his forehead, and you watched him go for approximately three seconds before returning to your intake forms.
That was how it started.
His name was Steve, though you didn’t call him that for a while. He was Harrington, S., or the intern who keeps getting lost, which is what Carol from the nurse’s station called him, not unkindly.
He graduated from a nursing program in Indianapolis the previous spring, you found this out not by asking but because he told you, standing at your window on his third day, ostensibly dropping off a stack of patient consent forms but lingering in a way that had no clear administrative purpose.
“You went to school here?” he asked, looking at the framed degree on the wall behind your desk. You’d put it there as a joke, an associate’s in health administration didn’t exactly scream hang this proudly. But it was a nice frame.
“Hawkins Community,” you said, without looking up. “Graduated three years ago.”
“Hawkins.” Something shifted in his voice, a funny little catch. “I grew up in Hawkins.”
You looked up then.
He had dark eyes. You hadn’t noticed that before, and he was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. Like he’d said something that meant more than it sounded.
“Small world,” you said.
“Yeah.” He said it quietly. “It really is.”
The thing about Steve Harrington that you figured out slowly, the way you figure out most things worth knowing, is that he is not what he looks like.
He looks like someone who coasted. Like someone who peaked at seventeen and knew it and milked it.
He’s got cheekbones, a jawline, and hair that does something genuinely unfair.
When the older nurses tease him about it, he gets this flustered, red-eared thing going on that is frankly a lot.
You’ve seen two different women from medical records find reasons to walk past your hallway since he started rotating through, and you have clocked this with complete clinical detachment.
But then you watch him with patients.
There’s a woman, Mrs. Kowalski, seventy-three, here for her monthly labs, who always comes in scared and won’t say so.
She has a son who never comes with her, and she holds her purse in both hands. She’s sharp with the front desk when she’s frightened, which is always.
You’ve learned to just be very steady with her.
Very calm.
One Thursday, you watch Steve sit down next to her in the waiting room, not because anyone asked him to, just because he happened to be walking by.
He spends ten minutes talking to her about absolutely nothing.
Her begonias.
Whether the hospital cafeteria’s chicken soup was as good as it used to be.
The specific indignity of waiting rooms.
He does not talk to her like she is old or difficult or a task to be managed. He talks to her like she is a person he is genuinely interested in.
She laughs at something he says. Actually laughs.
You realize you’ve stopped typing.
You realize Steve is looking at you through the glass.
You look back down.
When he calls you by your first name, it’s an accident.
He’s at your window.
He is at your window a lot, you’ve noticed, with a frequency that does not entirely map onto administrative necessity, and he’s telling you something about a scheduling conflict. Something about a rotation swap, and he’s a little frazzled, running a hand through his hair, and he says, “So can you check that for me?” and you say, “Check what?” and he says your name.
Just your name.
Like he’s been saying it in his head.
You both notice.
“Sorry,” he says. “Is that—“
“It’s fine,” you say. “That’s my name.”
“Right.” He clears his throat. “Obviously.”
“You know mine,” you say, pulling up the rotation schedule on your computer. “I should probably know yours.”
“Harrington,” he says, watching you.
“Steve.” He adds.
“I know,” you say. giggling. You don’t look up. “I’ve been reading it off your lanyard for two months.”
He’s quiet for a second.
“And?” he says.
“And what?”
“And? I don’t know. What do you think? Of the name.”
You do look up then, because that is a strange enough question to merit it.
He’s leaning against the partition, arms folded, and he’s got that almost-smile going again, the one that isn’t quite committing to itself, and his eyes are doing the thing you’ve been carefully not looking at.
“It’s a fine name,” you say.
“High praise, wow.”
“I’m a secretary, not a poet.”
He laughs.
That surprised laugh, the one that seems to catch him off guard every time, and you feel it somewhere in your sternum which is not ideal.
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”
You fix the scheduling conflict.
He thanks you by your name.
You think about that for the rest of the afternoon, which is also not ideal.
He starts eating lunch in the break room on days he knows you’re on break.
You figure this out around week eight.
The break room on the second floor is technically for nursing staff but nobody enforces it. You’ve been eating there for two years because it has a window and the vending machine has sweet tea, which the first floor does not.
Steve starts showing up.
Not every day.
Just some days.
With his sad little Tupperware that has clearly been packed by someone trying and not quite succeeding. The sandwiches are always a little too dry, the apple always a little too bruised.
He sits at the table by the window and sometimes you talk, sometimes you don’t.
It starts to feel, in a way you don’t examine too closely, like something you look forward to.
He tells you things.
Not all at once.
The way someone does when they’re not quite sure how much to say.
He tells you that he didn’t go to college after high school.
That he spent a few years doing “other stuff”, he says, something complicated moving behind his face , that he came to nursing almost by accident.
A friend who needed someone with him in the hospital, once. And then again. And then more times than he could count, and somewhere in all of that he found that he was good at the being-there part, the sitting-with part, and someone suggested nursing and it felt, for the first time, like a thing that fit.
“You’re good at it,” you tell him, and you mean it. “The sitting-with part.”
He looks at you like you’ve said something large.
“Thanks,” he says, and it comes out quieter than he means it to, you can tell.
You eat your lunch.
Outside the window, two nurses are walking fast across the parking lot, coats not quite doing the job against the November wind.
“Can I ask you something?” Steve questions.
“You’re going to regardless,” you say, which makes him smile properly, the full version, which does something very inconvenient.
“Why administration?”
You shrug. “I like knowing where things are.”
“That’s it?”
“I like.. “ You think about it. The actual answer. “I like that when something goes wrong, I’m the person who can make it less wrong. Not the dramatic version. The paperwork version. The *I found your file and your appointment is covered and here’s who to call* version. People come in here scared or in pain and they have to navigate this whole system on top of everything, and I can make the system part easier.” You pause. “That’s the whole thing, really.”
Steve is looking at you with an expression you don’t have a name for.
“What?” you say.
“Nothing,” he says. “That’s just.. that’s a good reason.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” he says, and he says it like he means something else.
He asks for your number on a Wednesday, in the hallway, holding a stack of patient files, snow coming down outside the windows at the end of the corridor in that first thin December way.
He’s been building up to it.
You’ve watched him build up to it for approximately two weeks, the way you’d watch a cat decide whether to jump, all that visible internal debate. When he finally does it he does it quickly, like jumping, like just committing.
“I was wondering if you’d want to—“ he starts, and then stops, and then starts again. “There’s this diner. Off Route 9. Good coffee. And I thought maybe sometime, outside of here.. “
“Yes,” you say.
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“You were getting to yes, right? Eventually?”
“Yes… I was getting to yes.”
“Then yes.”
He exhales, and it’s a little bit funny, how much he was holding.
He’s been so careful with this. So slow. And you’ve been watching him be careful and slow.
You have felt, the whole time, something warm and patient opening in your chest.
You give him your number in the break room, written on a Post-it from your desk, and he folds it and puts it in his coat pocket with a kind of deliberateness that makes you smile at your sweet tea.
He texts you that evening.
it’s steve. the one who walked into the glass.
And you write back: i know which steve.
And he writes: just making sure.
And that’s it. That’s the whole thing.
The first date is the diner off Route 9, and it’s good coffee.
You tell him about your sister. Your terrible commute. The novel you’ve been not-writing for four years. The fact that you cried at a Hallmark movie last week and you’re not going to apologize for it.
He laughs. The real one, not the surprised one. The one that takes up his whole face.
He pays for the coffee. You fight him on it and he says I walked into a wall in front of you on day one, let me have this.”
You let him have it.
In the parking lot, snow coming down again, he looks at you under the yellow light and he says, “I’ve been thinking about this since October.”
“The diner?” you ask.
“You,” he says, simply, and it doesn’t sound like a line.
It sounds like something he’s just been carrying.
You think about Mrs. Kowalski laughing in the waiting room.
The way he said your name the first time like he’d been saying it in his head.
The tupperware.
The lunch break window.
“I know,” you say.
He looks at you.
“I’ve been watching you think about it,” you say.
And that surprises him, the way things catch him off guard sometimes, and then he smiles. He really smiles.
The snow comes down. Your in a parking lot outside a diner off Route 9 and it’s not a dramatic thing. It’s not the movies.
I just wanted to share the pictures I took in New York where I got to visit the Housing Works Bookstore (where all too well was filmed) and Cornelia street. I think this was probably the highlight of my whole trip 🩷🩷
Hi! You haven't posted or reblogged anything in a while and I wanted to check up on you! :) I hope you're doing well and I hope your beautiful writing will come back whenever you're ready <3
Oh wow!! This is so unbelievably kind, I started writing at the start of the year just for fun I didn’t think anyone would even notice if I stopped🥲 I started a new job so I’ve just been trying to adjust with the new work life balance
I have been writing a little here and there, this has definitely motivated me to start (actually finishing things) and posting them!! Once again, thank you for checking in. That is just so kind <3
you and your hot office crush | Steve Harrington x reader
a/n: photos are from Pinterest... wrote this really quickly lol all mistakes are from my own laziness
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who is the only person you work with that’s a similar age to you, so you naturally gravitate towards each other during staff meetings
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who brings you coffee every Wednesday because he knows you need a mid week pick me up
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who messages you on Teams throughout the day, sharing catty gossip about your older coworkers just to pass the time
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who always checks and sees what days you’re working from home, because “it would be torture to be here without you”
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who you have no idea whether he’s single or seeing someone, but sometimes you search him up on Instagram just to be met with a private page… it’s much too scary for you to request a follow
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who quietly pulls you away from the creepiest guy in the office during a Valentine’s Day party, effectively saving you from an awkward HR moment
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who invites you out for drinks with his buddies after, and you almost want to say no… but the gleam in his pretty hazel eyes is too much for you to deny, so you leave with him
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who is just too cute outside of the office, with his button up shirt untucked and slightly wrinkled, and a faint blush because of the cold, the beer, or what you secretly hope is you sitting right next to him
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington whose hands gravitate towards your waist or you hip, not in an invasive way, but too intentional to be casual
Modern!office co-worker steve harrington who is no longer just your coworker, but something more you can’t wait to explore
written bc Joe just gives that hot guy in the office who you can't tell if you actually think he's hot or if it's just a proximity thing lmao (answer: he's hot)
Summary: you have been unofficially promoted the Hawkins ice hockey team’s nurse. But when Steve Harrington realises him getting injured means seeing you. He starts getting “hurt” a lot more often.
Warnings: mentions of blood. Steve is a little cutie.
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You never planned on becoming part of the Hawkins Ice Hawks. It just happened.
First it was a bloody nose during an away game. You’d been in the stands, backpack stuffed with notebooks and granola bars, when someone yelled, “Does anyone know first aid?” You did. You always had. Since you were a little girl.
After that, word spread fast. The Hockey boys were reckless, stubborn, and terrible at admitting when they were hurt, but they trusted you. You patched up split lips, wrapped sprained wrists, disinfected cuts that looked way worse than they actually were.
You weren’t official. You didn’t get paid. But by mid season, Coach left space for you on the bench, and your backpack lived permanently under the bleachers, packed with enough bandages and alcohol wipes to last you a life time. And every single game, you waited.
Steve Harrington noticed you before you noticed him.
At first, you were just there. Quiet. Focused. Watching the ice like something might go wrong at any second. Then he realised, you were watching him.
Not in the swoony way the girls in the front rows did. Not cheering every time he touched the puck. You watched with careful eyes, tracking his movements, flinching when he took hits, already halfway out of your seat when someone slammed him into the boards.
That was when the idea formed. A terrible, but nonetheless, a brilliant idea.
The first time he skated over to you, it was actually legitimate.
A high stick caught his forearm, splitting the skin just enough to bleed. You cleaned it carefully, fingers steady, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Does it hurt?” you asked.
“Not when you’re doing that,” he said without thinking.
You looked up, unimpressed. “Don’t flirt. Hold still.” He did. Immediately.
That should’ve been the end of it. But It wasn’t.
The second time, he exaggerated. A shoulder check that barely rattled him. A dramatic wince. A slow, limping skate toward the bench straight toward you.
You eyed him suspiciously as you pressed ice against his arm. “You sure you didn’t just want attention?”
Steve smiled, all dimples and confidence. “What? Me?”
You didn’t call him out. You just finished taping him up and sent him back onto the ice.
“Get back out there” you said, with a stupud grin you didn’t even realise was plastered all over your face.
But he noticed the way you watched him go.
After that? Itbecame routine. Every single game.
You sat in the stands, always in the same spot, backpack at your feet. You pretended to watch the whole game, but your eyes followed one jersey more than the others.
Steve started playing just reckless enough to justify checking in with you.
A blocked shot here. A scraped knuckle there. Once, a dramatic fall that had the crowd gasping only for him to pop up, glance at you, and grin before skating off.
The boys would make fun of him, but he didn’t care because he knew it meant you.
“You are unbelievable,” you muttered when he showed up again.
“Hey,” he said, sitting obediently in front of you. “You’re the one who keeps fixing me.”
You cleaned a shallow cut on his cheek, dabbing alcohol gently. He barely flinched.
“That didn’t hurt?” you asked.
“Nope.”
You pressed a little harder.
“Okay, ow…maybe a little.” You laughed before you could stop yourself. Steve froze.
Then smiled like he’d just won the championship.
You noticed a shift the time you were restocking your bag when Coach clears his throat behind you.
You straighten immediately. “Oh, sorry, Coach. I’ll be out of the way in just a second.”
He waves you off. “Don’t rush. I actually wanted to talk to you.”
That makes your stomach twist a little. You turn, hands still holding a roll of tape. “Did I do something wrong?”
He laughs. “Kid, if you did something wrong, half my team would be missing limbs by now.”
You relax, just a bit.
“I wanted to thank you,” he says, more serious now. “You’ don’t have to, but you show up every practice, every game. You take care of my players like they’re your own.”
You shrug, embarrassed. “I just help where I can.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “And that matters. Especially to them.” There’s a pause. Then his mouth quirks into something amused.
“Especially to Harrington.”
You groan softly. “Coach—”
He chuckles. “You notice how often that boy ends up on your bench?”
You avoid his eyes, busying yourself with your bag. “Steve’s just like that. He flirts with everyone.”
Coach laughs outright at that. “No, sweetheart. He really doesn’t.”
You glance up, confused.
.“He charms the crowd, works the refs, soaks up attention. But you?” He shakes his head. “But you? You make him nervous.”
You scoff. “Steve Harrington doesn’t get nervous.”
Coach raises an eyebrow. “Then explain why my captain suddenly forgets how to take a hit unless you’re watching.”
Heat rushes to your face. “He’s probably just being dramatic.”
“Sure,” Coach says easily. He claps a hand on your shoulder, gentle. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
You don’t know what to say to that.
Coach smiles like he knows something you and heads back toward the locker room.
And it was true, because when the crowd noise faded into the background and it was just the two of you, your knees brushing, his helmet off, hair damp with sweat.
He talked more then. About practice. About how Coach rode him harder because he was captain. About how hockey was the one place his head felt quiet.
And after months of getting to know the team inside out. The biggest game of the season was here.
Everyone knew what Bloomington was like. Dirty hits. Smirks after the whistle. Playing just close enough to the line that refs hesitated to call it. They were undefeated because they left teams shaken and second-guessing themselves.
From the moment Steve stepped onto the ice, they targeted him.
Cross checks to the back. A stick across the gloves. A shoulder to the jaw in the corner. Every time he got back up, skating it off like it was nothing, like he always did.
You hated that part of him. Late in the third period, tied game, everything went wrong.
Steve chased the puck behind the net, cutting sharp around the boards. You saw the opposing player lift his stick too high, the angle all wrong.
The crack echoed through the rink. Steve went down hard, skates sliding out from under him. Blood splattered against the ice.
He pushed himself up almost immediately, one hand pressed to his face, the other waving off his teammates.
“I’m good,” he insisted, even as blood poured through his fingers. “I’m good, keep playing.” You were already on your feet.
By the time he skated to the bench, his jersey was smeared red, blood dripping onto the floor. He tried to straighten, to smile, tried to make it look like just another scratch.
You grabbed his arm.
“Sit. Now.”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, words rushed. “Just caught a stick, it’s not—” You pulled his hand away from his face. Blood spilled freely down his cheek. Steve froze.
“Oh,” he muttered. “Huh… That’s more than I thought.” Your chest tightened painfully.
“Steve,” you said, voice low and shaking. “Sit down.” He hesitated, pride warring with pain, then his knees buckled slightly and he dropped onto the bench.
You were already pressing gauze to the cut, hands steady despite the panic roaring in your ears. “You need to hold still,” you said. “Stop trying to play it off.”
“I just don’t wanna leave them,” he said stubbornly, breath shallow. “It doesn’t even hurt that bad.”
“You’re bleeding through my gloves,” you snapped, eyes flicking to the red seeping between your fingers. “That’s not ‘fine.’”
He went quiet at that.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, avoiding your gaze.
You leaned closer, forehead nearly touching his. “Then stop lying to me.”
His eyes finally met yours, glassy, unfocused, but still trying to be brave.
“I’m fine” he says. “I didn’t pass out. I can finish the game.”like that was the important part.
“No,” you said firmly. “You’re done.”
You said it without hesitation, hands still pressed to his face as you checked the cut above his eyebrow. The bleeding had slowed, but his skin was pale beneath the sweat, his eyes a little too bright.
“No, Steve,” you said again. “You’re done.”He didn’t argue right away. The roar of the crowd bled back in around you, the scoreboard glaring down from above the ice.
Your heart lurched. “But you shouldn’t. You’re hurt, you’re dizzy, and if you take another hit—”
“I know,” he interrupted softly. “I know.”
Your hands slid to his shoulders, gripping tighter than you meant to. “Then don’t go back out there. Please.”
For just a second, he wavered. Then the captain in him won.
“I have to,” he said quietly. “Just one more shift.”
“Steve—”
He stood before you could finish. And then, without thinking, without pausing he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek.
It was brief. Barely there. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, already pulling away.
Your breath caught sharply, your body frozen as he slipped past you, helmet going on, skates hitting the ice.
“Steve!” you called, but he was already moving.
Adrenaline carried him forward, faster than pain, louder than fear.
You stood there stunned, fingers still curled where his jersey had been, cheek burning where his lips had touched you.
The ref dropped the puck. Everything blurred. Steve chased the puck like nothing hurt, like he hadn’t just been bleeding into your hands minutes earlier.
A Bloomington player slammed into him and your heart nearly stopped, but he stayed upright, jaw clenched, pushing through.
The puck came loose in front of the net. Steve didn’t hesitate. He shot. The horn blared. The rink exploded. They won. Bloody face, aching jaw, head still ringing, and he still scored.
The goal that broke Bloomington’s undefeated streak.
His teammates crowded around him, shouting, grinning, buzzing with adrenaline.
“Dude,” one of them said, bumping his shoulder carefully. “You’re insane.”
Steve smirked, ego bruised but very much alive. “Yeah, well. Someone had to do it.”
Hawkins won.
His teammates swarmed him, piling on, shouting his name, dragging him down in a tangle of jerseys and laughter. The crowd roared so loud it rattled the boards.
But Steve didn’t look at them. He looked at you.
Across the ice, through the chaos, his eyes found yours. He lifted a hand half wave, half apology like he was silently asking if you were okay.
You nodded, tears blurring your vision. When he finally skated back to the bench, breathless and glowing, you met him halfway.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered.
He smiled, still riding the adrenaline. “Yeah.”
You reached up, fixing the tape that had loosened near his eyebrow, fingers gentler now.
“You scared me,” you added.
“I know,” he said softly. “I couldn’t not go.”
You looked at him, cheek still warm, heart still racing.
And even though you wanted to yell at him wanted to shake him you knew that kiss had been his way of saying everything he didn’t have time to put into words.
You didn’t have him to yourself much longer. He team mates tugging him away from you.
“You see the way she was watching you?” Steve froze just a fraction.
“What?” he asked, too casual.
“The pretty one,” someone said, respectful, not teasing. “She almost jumped the boards when you got hit.”
“Bro” another added, shaking his head. “She cares about you. Like, a lot.”
Steve scoffed, but it came out weak. “She cares about everyone.”
The first guy snorted. “Nah. Nope. Not like that.”
They all glanced toward the bench.
You were crouched there, back turned to the ice, packing up your bag. Blood stained gauze went into a sealed pouch. Tape rewound neatly. Alcohol wiped off your gloves. You moved methodically, focused, completely unaware of the conversation happening just a few feet away.
“She’s been here since before warmups,” someone said. “Every game. Every practice.”
“And she never leaves until everyone’s okay,” another added. Steve watched you, something heavy settling in his chest.
He should’ve been celebrating harder. Should’ve been soaking in the win, the cheers, the way beating Bloomington felt like conquering something massive.
But all he could see was you. The way your hands had shaken when you’d touched his face. The way your voice had broken when you told him to sit.
The way you stayed even when the trainers showed up, like you weren’t leaving until you knew he was breathing steady again.
Someone clapped him on the back. “You good, man?” Steve swallowed, eyes still on you. “Yeah,” he said. “I just—”
He trailed off.
Because you stood, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and finally turned around. Your eyes met his across the chaos.
You smiled, small, relieved, tired and lifted your hand in a tiny wave, like checking on him without making a big deal of it.
Something in Steve’s chest cracked open. He didn’t return the smile right away. He just stared. Because they’d won. Because he’d scored. Because the whole team was chanting his name.
And somehow, none of it mattered as much as the fact that you were okay. That he was okay, because you were there.
“Yeah,” he finally said, softer than before. “I’m good.”
But the truth was, the game had ended. And all Steve Harrington wanted now was to get off the ice and find you.
The locker room was chaos. Music blared from someone’s speaker, jerseys half-off, sweat and laughter and victory clinging to the air. Someone cracked open a soda like it was champagne. They’d beaten Bloomington. Undefeated, dirty playing Bloomington.
Steve sat on the bench, helmet dangling from his fingers, jaw still aching, stitches tugging faintly when he smiled. His teammates were still riding the high, still circling him like he was untouchable.
“You good, captain?” someone asked.
“Yeah,” Steve said, distracted. He craned his neck toward the hallway, scanning for your familiar shape, the backpack, the way you always moved like you were already thinking three steps ahead.
“You think about her?” one of the guys asked, grinning.
Steve shot him a look. “I’m just, checking.”
“Relax,” another said, tugging his jersey the rest of the way off. “Shes still out there. She’s packing up. Think she’s waiting for you.” A pause. Then, quieter, more deliberate.
“Dude,” someone said, serious now. “Go talk to her.” Steve blinked. “What?”
“You heard him,” another chimed in. “She’s been holding this team together with tape and alcohol wipes all season.”
“And she damn near lost it when you got hit,” someone else added. “That wasn’t just ‘team concern.’”
Steve scoffed weakly. “She’s nice to everyone.”
A few of them laughed.
“And you don’t look at everyone like you look at her.”
Steve opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because they were already pushing him toward the door.
“Go,” someone said. “Before she leaves.”
“Captain’s orders,” another added, grinning.
Steve hesitated for half a second. Then he stood.
You were just outside the rink, sitting on one of the cold metal benches, backpack at your feet. Your hands were busy re-folding gauze you didn’t need to re-fold, replaying the game whether you wanted to or not. You heard footsteps and looked up. Steve stopped a few feet away.
For once, he didn’t have a joke ready. No grin. No easy confidence. Just Steve.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” you replied, immediately scanning his face. “How’s your head?” He smiled a little. “Still attached.”
“Good,” you said softly. You waved it off, embarrassed. “You played great. That goal—”
“I wasn’t thinking about the goal,” he interrupted.
You frowned. “You weren’t?”
He shook his head. His hands flexed at his sides, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“I was thinking about you,” he admitted. “About the way you looked when you told me to sit. Like you weren’t gonna let me go back out there even if I begged.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I’ve never been nervous asking someone out,” Steve continued, voice quieter now. “Ever. And that feels, like, wrong to admit.”
You smiled faintly. “And yet?”
“And yet,” he said, exhaling, “my team basically shoved me out the door and told me I’d regret it if I didn’t.” You laughed softly.
He met your eyes, really met them. “I was wondering, if you’re not busy patching idiots back together, would you maybe want I don’t know- I mean- like you don’t have to but I was just thinking that maybe if you wanted-“
“Yes,” you said. “I’d really, really like to go out with you.”
Relief washed over his face so openly it made your chest ache. “Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah.” He smiled then, not the cocky one, not the captain one, but something warm and almost shy.
“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think I could take another hit tonight.” You reached out before you could think better of it, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him.
“Come on,” you said. “Let’s get you home, Harrington.”
He glanced down at your hand, then back up at you, eyes soft.
“Best win of the season,” he said quietly. And it had nothing to do with the hocky.
Hey! Just wondering if you’d ever do a Steve request inspired by tolerate it by Taylor Swift.
Maybe he’s like pulling away cause of the crawls and he’s trying to protect her or something but she feels like it’s cause he doesn’t love her anymore and they end up having a big fight
Happy ending maybe idk makeup sex or whatever 👀
Thank you so so much for the request!!🫶 I was so happy to see a Taylor related request in my inbox. I have such a special place in my heart for tolerate it so I hope this lives up to ur expectations!!
It is explicit but I cannot write smut. I cringe at myself every time I attempt and I don’t want to put anyone through having to read it also, I need to write a bit more so for now, I’ll leave it to the professionals - so I do apologise but I hope you still enjoy <33 not proof read.
Warnings: lots and lots of angst, reader and Steve are a little annoying I can’t lie. 18+ no detailed smut but sexual themes. Mentions of death.
—౨ৎ—
Steve starts locking doors that never used to matter. Not just the front door of his house but emotional ones. You notice it in the way he stands half a step in front of you now. In the way his hand leaves yours the second danger is mentioned. In the way his voice goes tight whenever anyone even looks at you while talking about the Crawls.
He doesn’t mean to change and that’s the worst part.
It happens in small, meaningless ways. The way he starts saying “be careful” instead of “come with me.” The way his hand slips from yours before you even realize you were holding it. The way conversations trail off, unfinished, like he’s always listening for something else.
You tell yourself you’re imagining it. After all, he still shows up. Still drives you home. Still makes sure you eat. Still kisses your temple like it’s habit, like muscle memory. If anyone asked, he’d say nothing’s wrong.
So would you. When the Crawls get worse, everyone’s on edge. Plans are made quickly now, urgently. You hover on the edge of the group, waiting for someone to look at you and nod.
“No,” he says, flat and final. “You’re not coming.” You blink at him. “Steve—”
“I said no.”
The room goes quiet. Dustin stops mid-sentence. Robin glances between the two of you, tension crackling like live wire. Steve doesn’t look at you when he says it again, quieter this time, like he’s trying not to shatter something fragile inside himself.
“not happening.” You feel it then, that shift. The line he’s drawn. Not just about tonight. About everything.
Ever since the Crawls started, Steve’s been different. Exhausted in a way sleep never fixes. Every new bruise feels like a countdown, every close call is another reason for him to pull you further from the center of his life. But you’re tired of being pushed out.
“I can help,” you say, steady even though your chest aches. “I always do.” His jaw clenches. “Yeah, that’s the problem.”
You step closer. He steps back. And that hurts more than anything else. You touch his arm. He startles, then smiles like nothing happened.
He’s tired. You can see it in the shadows under his eyes, the way he rubs at his wrists like the bruises still ache. You don’t want to add to that. So you stop pushing. You stop asking. You start making yourself smaller without meaning to.
You sit beside him while he cleans his bat, hands careful, methodical. You offer opinions. He hums in response, noncommittal.
You start to wonder when you became something he reacts to instead of reaches for and nothing you do is brining back the man you fell in love with.
There are moments, quiet moments. where you think you’re wrong. When he adjusts your jacket without thinking. When he waits until you’re inside before driving away. When he looks relieved just to see you breathing.
Later, when everyone’s gone and the world feels too big and too quiet, you find him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it’s about to open up beneath him.
“You didn’t even ask me,” you say softly. Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Because I already knew your answer.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I would’ve said yes.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t ask.” You wait for him to look at you. He doesn’t.
“I’m not made of glass,” you tell him. “You don’t have to protect me from everything.”His shoulders tense. “You don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He finally looks up, eyes dark, rimmed red like he hasn’t been sleeping. Like every nightmare he has ends the same way.
“Drop it” he says. “I’m serious.” Your throat tightens.
“So your solution is to shut me out?”
“My solution is to keep you alive.” You laugh once, broken. “By treating me like I don’t matter?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No?” you ask. “Because it feels like I’m standing right in front of you, loving you, and it’s like you’re just tolerating me.”
That hits something. You see it in the way his expression falters, the way guilt flashes across his face. But he doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t reach for you. “I said, drop it.” He snaps.
He still kisses your forehead before leaving, still asks about your day, still checks the locks twice before bed. But it’s careful now. Controlled. Like he’s rationing himself. Like loving you too loudly might tempt the universe into punishing him for it.
You try everything. You offer to train. You research. You show up anyway. Every time, Steve shuts it down. Every time, it feels like another brick in the wall between you.
One night, you try again. “I feel like I’m standing on the outside,” you say carefully. “Like you’re like, I don’t know, somewhere else.”
Steve blinks at you, caught off guard. “It’s not like that.” It’s automatic. Immediate.
“You don’t talk to me anymore,” you whisper. “Not like before.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. Shrugs. “I’ve just been busy.”
Busy fighting monsters. Busy keeping everyone alive. Busy holding the world together with his bare hands.
Busy enough not to notice you slipping through the cracks. You nod, because what else can you do?
He kisses your forehead before bed, warm and familiar, and you lie awake wondering why it feels like a goodbye.
Days pass. You stop volunteering. Stop offering plans. Stop inserting yourself into conversations that end without you anyway. Steve doesn’t comment. That might hurt the most.
One night, after another argument that ends with him walking away, you sit alone on the couch and you realize something.
He doesn’t fight with you anymore. He just withdraws. And that hurts worse than any monster ever could. love shouldn’t feel like begging someone to see you. Protection shouldn’t feel like your being erased.
It starts over nothing. You come home later than usual. Dirt on your shoes. A cut on your knuckle you didn’t bother to bandage. Steve’s already there, pacing the living room, keys in his hand like he’s been gripping them too tight.
“Where were you?” His tone isn’t angry. Not yet. Just sharp around the edges.
“With Robin,” you say, setting your bag down. “We were checking—”
“You said you were just grabbing food.”
“I was,” you snap, surprised by how fast irritation rises. “Plans changed.”
Steve laughs once, short and humorless. “You know, it’s funny how that keeps happening.”
You freeze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he says, finally stopping, “I don’t like finding out after the fact that you’re putting yourself in danger.”
Your chest tightens. “I wasn’t in danger.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
Something inside you cracks. “Im not a child, Steve.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I didn’t say you were.”
“You don’t have to,” you fire back. “You treat me like one anyway.” That lands. His brows knit together. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t tell me anything. You don’t ask my opinion. You don’t even look at me when plans are being made,” your voice is rising now, months of restraint burning off all at once. “You just decide. For me.”
Steve shakes his head. “That’s not true.”
“Then name one time recently where you actually let me be involved.”
Silence. Not stubborn. Not defensive. Just empty. You feel it hollow you out. “I’m trying to keep things from getting worse, can’t you see that?” he says finally, quieter now.
“For who?” you demand. “Because it’s been getting worse for me.”
He exhales sharply. “Why are you making this about you?” That pushes you over the edge.
You laugh, but it’s broken, almost hysterical. “Oh my god. You really don’t hear it, do you?”
“Hear what?”
“You don’t see me,” you say, tears burning your eyes now. “I’m standing right in front of you and you don’t see me. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship.”
Steve’s voice rises for the first time. “That’s not fair. I’m doing everything I can.”
“No, you’re doing everything without me.”
“I’m doing what needs to be done!”
“And what I need?” you shout. “Do I just not matter anymore?”
“That’s not what this is!”
“Then what is it, Steve?” you scream. “Because it feels like you decided somewhere along the line that I’m just another thing you have to manage.”
He snaps then, fear bleeding straight into anger. “Because every time you walk out that door, I wonder if that’s the last time I’m going to see you!”
The words hang in the air, raw and shaking. You stare at him. “Then why does it feel like you’ve already left?” Steve looks like he’s been slapped.
“I’m right here,” he says, voice breaking despite himself. “No,” you whisper. “You’re not. You haven’t been for a long time.”
He steps toward you, desperate now. “I love you.” You flinch. That really hurt him.
“You don’t get to say that like it fixes this,” you choke out. “Love isn’t shutting someone out. Love isn’t deciding they’re too fragile to matter.”
“I’m scared,” he admits, almost helpless. “I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up.”
“You already are,” you say softly. “Because I’ve been screaming at you in a hundred quiet ways and you didn’t hear any of them.”
Steve’s eyes are wet now. “I didn’t know.”
“I know,” you say.
And that’s the tragedy of it. You grab your jacket, hands shaking. “Where are you going?” he asks, panicked.
“I need air,” you say. “Because being around you feels like I’m suffocating.”
He reaches for you and stops himself halfway, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to anymore. The door slams behind you.
Steve stands there alone, chest heaving, finally realizing something is wronghorribly, irreversibly wrong but too late to stop the damage.
And for the first time, as the silence settles in like dust after an explosion, he wonders. Not whether he can protect you. But whether he’s already lost you.
By the time you get home. He’s gone. No note, no nothing. The house is too quiet.
The clock on the microwave reads 2:47 a.m. The numbers feel accusatory, glowing too bright in the dark kitchen. You’ve been here for hours, perched on the edge of a chair you don’t remember sitting down in, fingers wrapped around a mug that’s long gone cold.
The radio sits on the counter. It’s silent. Dead silent. It hasn’t crackled in over an hour.
You tell yourself that doesn’t mean anything. The signal cuts out sometimes. Steve forgets to check in sometimes. You tell yourself you’re being dramatic, paranoid, ridiculous, but your knee won’t stop bouncing, and your chest feels too tight to be normal.
You press your thumb into the cut on your knuckle, grounding yourself in the sting.“Come on,” you whisper to no one. “Please.”
Every possible outcome plays in your head, each one worse than the last. You imagine the door never opening. Imagine the sound of sirens instead. Imagine being right, that fight being the last real thing you ever said to him.
Your throat burns. You don’t hear the car at first. Just the soft click of the lock. Your head snaps up so fast it makes you dizzy.
The door opens.
Steve steps inside. He looks wrecked dirt smeared along his jaw, hair damp with sweat, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, but he’s here. Breathing. Alive.
The breath leaves your body in a shaky rush you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Steve,” you whisper.
He freezes when he sees you. For a moment, neither of you move. The air between you is thick with everything unsaid, every fear, every word thrown like a weapon earlier that night.
His eyes flick to the radio. Back to you. “You stayed up,” he says quietly.
You swallow. “You didn’t check in.”
“I know.” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry.”
Something breaks then. Not loudly. Just… finally. Steve crosses the room in three long strides. You barely have time to stand before he’s in front of you, hands hovering like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you wrong.
Your eyes meet. Glossy. Red-rimmed. Full of the same realization.
None of this is worth losing each other. He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t apologize again.He just leans in and kisses you.
Hard.
It’s desperate and grounding all at once, like he’s anchoring himself to something real. You gasp softly, fingers fisting in his jacket as if to prove he’s solid, here, not some awful imagined version of gone.
The kiss is all heat and relief and restraint finally snapping.
Steve’s hands slide to your waist, firm, familiar, and he lifts you onto the counter without breaking the kiss, like it’s instinct, like he’s done it a thousand times in another life where things were simpler.
You cling to him, legs bracketing his hips, heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with fear now.
His forehead presses to yours for half a second, breath shaking.
“I thought—” you start.
“I know,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I know.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. Not frantic. Certain. Neither of you say I love you. You don’t need to.
“I scared you,” Steve says, voice wrecked. It’s not a question. His thumbs press into your hips like he needs to anchor himself. “God, I saw you sitting here and—”
You shake your head, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him back in before he can spiral. Your mouths meet again, softer this time, but it doesn’t last. The emotion’s too big. It keeps breaking through.
“You disappeared,” you whisper against his lips. “The radio was quiet and I thought—”
“I know,” he says quickly, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, like he’s apologizing with every touch. “I know. I should’ve checked in. I should’ve thought about how that would feel for you.”
You swallow. “I thought I’d lost you. And the worst part was thinking the last thing we did was fight.”. You feel his breath shake.
“I’ve been screwing this up,” he admits, words spilling out now like he can’t stop them. “I didn’t even realize how bad until tonight. Until I realised I might never see you again.”
You brush your thumb under his eye, catching the wetness there. “I felt like I was losing you.”
He kisses you again, slow, lingering, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for yet. When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy, wide with truth.
“I never stopped loving you, okay?” he says hoarsely. “Not for a second. I was just so scared. And I thought if I held everything tight enough, nothing could take you away from me.”
“That didn’t feel like love,” you whisper. “It felt like I didn’t matter.” That one hits hard.
“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, kissing you again, deeper now, like the words aren’t enough on their own. “I never meant to make you feel small. You’re—” he exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours again, “you’re everything. You’re the reason I’m scared in the first place.”
You kiss him, desperate, hands fisting in his shirt. “I don’t want to be protected from your life, Steve. I want to be in it.” He nods against you. “I know. I know now.”
Another kiss, hot, emotional, full of relief and regret tangled together. His hands slide up your back, holding you like he’s terrified to let go. “I can’t do this without you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I don’t want to.”
You nod, breathless. “I know.” That’s all either of you need.
The kiss deepens, unhurried, charged with everything you didn’t say out loud. His hands trace familiar paths, grounding, sure. Yours follow instinct, curling into his hair, tugging just enough to make him smile softly against your lips.
He laughs under his breath, just once. “God, I missed you.” He helps you down from the counter, hands lingering like he doesn’t want to let go even for a second. When he leads you down the hallway, it’s gentle.
https://www.tumblr.com/libragardenn/804666489437372416/im-always-forever-runnin-back-to-you-%E0%B1%A8%E0%A7%8E?source=share AAAAA love ur dad!coach!steve smm!! i hv an idea that his 1yo daughter have been learning to walk, n one day reader n her visit him coaching, once she saw her daddy in the field, she's so exciteddd!! she's fussingly to get down n starts running uncontrollably into steve!!! steve's shocked that his girlies here! he picked her up, n reader'd like 'noo, lets be with mommy instead, daddy is working" n she start crying... she missed her daddy yet its only mid day 😆😆😆, just fluffyyy thank uuu in advance!! 💗 -joy
I love this so so much🥺 thank you so much for the request!!🫶xx
—౨ৎ—
Alright, Cubs, take five!” Steve yells, as he claps his hands together. The boys scatter toward their belongings, some huddle around the bench with snacks. onto others racing for water. It’s a warm day in Hawkins Indiana. Probably the hottest day of the year yet.
Steve turns toward the field before hearing a soft voice that stops him in his tracks. “Dadaaa!”
He snaps his head up and for half a second, his brain doesn’t catch up to what his eyes are seeing. Then he sees her.
his Jane, toddling across the grass toward him, her tiny legs pumping as fast as they’ll go, arms stretched. Her curls, her honey brown curls bounce with every step, her tiny shoes running towards him like her life depended on it.
Behind her, you’re jogging, laughing, calling her name as you try to keep up. Steve’s breath leaves him in a rush.
“Oh my baby girl!” he laughs, disbelief written all over his face. “Heyyy sweetheart!”
She squeals louder and suddenly Steve is moving without thinking. He races through dirt and scoops her up just before she can trip, lifting her high into the air.
“There she is!” he beams, spinning her once. “There’s my girl!”
Jane’s face has delight delight written all over it, fists grabbing at his shirt, forehead knocking gently against his chin. She’s laughing so hard she snorts, face scrunched up in pure joy.
Steve presses a kiss to her temple, then another, then one more for good measure. “You came to see me? Huh? You surprised Daddy?”
You finally reach them, slightly breathless, smiling so wide it makes Steve’s chest ache.
“Hi,” you say softly.
His grin widens impossibly. “Hi,” he replies before placing a soft kiss on your forehead as he holds Jane on his hip with one arm still tight around her.
and looks at you like he’s won the lottery. “I can’t believe you’re here. My two favourite girls.” He shakes his head, laughing. “best surprise ever.”
Jane pats his cheek, chanting, “Dada, dada, dada,” like she’s afraid he might disappear if she stops. Steve melts completely.
You gently touch Jane’s back. “Okay, sweetheart,” you say. “Daddy’s gotta get back to work.”
Steve’s smile falters just a little as you add, “We’ll go sit up there.” You point toward the bleachers.
Now, she doesn’t understand much yet, but based on her face. She understands you just said something to her she does not like.
She looks at you. Then at Steve. Then back at you. doing that face you both know too well is the face she makes right before she breaks out in floods of tears. Her bottom lip wobbles.
“No, no, no,” Steve murmurs instinctively, tightening his hold as her face crumples. “Hey, hey”
Jane lets out a wail, clutching his shirt with surprising strength, burying her face against his neck.
“Daddy,” she sobs, like it’s the most serious problem in the world and Steve’s heart shatters and swells all at once.
“Oh, baby,” he coos, rocking her gently. “I know. I know you just saw me this morning, but still” He presses a kiss into her curls. “You just love me that much, huh?”
He pulls back enough so she can see his face, thumbs brushing away her tears. “Listen to Daddy, okay?”
Jane sniffles, eyes glossy but locked onto him.
“If you go sit with Mommy and watch Daddy coach,” he says softly, voice full of warmth, “then after the game… I’ll take you and mommy to get ice cream. How does that sound huh?”
She stops crying.“…ice cream?” she hiccups.
Steve nods seriously. “With sprinkles.” Jane gasps. A tiny smile breaks through, followed by an excited bounce in his arms.
“Ice cream!” she chirps.
You laugh. “She’s your daughter, alright.”
Steve chuckles, brushing his nose against Jane’s. “Daddy’s girl”
He kisses her forehead one last time before carefully setting her down and letting you scoop her up. Jane waves at him as you turn toward the bleachers.
Steve waves back, heart pounding, grin stuck permanently on his face. Steve doesn’t even try to hide it.
The smile doesn’t leave his face for the rest of practice, cheering louder, laughing easier, glancing up at the bleachers every chance he gets. Waving at you both at any given opportunity.
He keeps his promise. He takes his 2 favourite girls for ice cream.
By the time you get home, the sun is starting to dip low, the sky painted an orange and pink sunset that cling to the windows as you pull into the driveway.
Ice cream was, probably a mistake. A delicious one, but none the less, still a mistake.
Jane is running up the walls, and that’s hardly an exaggeration. She’d insisted on holding her own cone, despite Steve’s warnings, she’s sticky from fingers to elbows, cheeks smeared with chocolate. She hasn’t stopped babbling since you left the shop, legs kicking excitedly in her car seat the entire ride home.
Now she’s loose in the living room, waddling around. Throwing her bottle on the floor because she knows dad will pick it back up for her every time. She thinks it’s a game now, yet Steve picks up back up for her every single time.
Steve collapses onto the couch beside you with a groan, one arm draped behind your shoulders. “I forgot how much energy someone so small could have” he says, as you both watch Jane sprint from one end of the room to the other like she’s training for something.
“She’s got your stamina,” you reply, smiling. Jane suddenly skids to a stop near the coffee table. Her eyes land on something l
A wooden spoon. Before either of you can stop her, she grabs it, turns around, and starts whacking it against an upside-down mixing bowl that’s somehow found itself in the living room.
Steve chuckles “what is she-?”
You laugh. “Jane?” She ignores you, completely absorbed, feet planted wide like she means business.
“Janey, sweetheart,” Steve says gently, leaning forward. “What are you doing, huh?”
She pauses mid whack and looks up at both of you, curls sticking to her forehead, eyes bright. She lifts the spoon proudly and announces, very seriously. “Dada, ball.” You and Steve freeze. Puzzled.
“What?” Steve asks softly. Jane swings the spoon again, nearly losing her balance, and repeats it louder. “Ball, like dada!” She says with sass. Wonder who she got that from.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. Jane grins, thrilled she’s been understood, and points the spoon vaguely in Steve’s direction. “Dada” she hits the bowl once more before waddling away, as quickly as her little legs can take her.
Steve lets out a laugh so fond it borders on emotional. He presses his hands to his face for a second, shaking his head. “Is she trying to play baseball.”
You nudge him. “Correction. She thinks she’s you.” He watches her for a moment, chest swelling as Jane takes another dramatic swing, complete with a tiny grunt of effort.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. Jane toddles over and offers him the spoon like it’s sacred. Steve accepts it solemnly, crouching down in front of her.
“Alright,” he says, voice full of awe and affection. “If we’re playing baseball, you gotta do it right.” He gently guides her hands on the spoon, helping her lift it again. “Ready?”
Jane nods. Steve taps the bowl lightly. “Anddddd…swing! Jane swings. Hard.
The bowl goes flying, clattering across the floor. she bursts into giggles. Steve laughs so hard he has to sit down, eyes shining as he pulls her into his arms. “Okay,” he says between laughs, kissing her hair. “Maybe Daddy created a monster.”
You watch them, heart full to bursting, Steve Harrington, baseball coach, completely undone by a one-year-old with a wooden spoon. Later, when Jane finally crashes, curled between you on the couch, Steve presses a quiet kiss to her forehead and then to your temple.
“She’s getting more and more like me everyday.” He whispers.
Summary: you and Steve have been friends with benefits for a while now. But you just can’t do it anymore. You don’t want to be his secret anymore, he doesn’t realise how much it’s hurting you. Inspired by casual by Chappell Roan.
Warnings: 18+ implied smut. Angst, Steve is a little bit dumb..
Wc: 4.1k
—౨ৎ—
At parties, Steve, most of the time, keeps his distance. just enough to look unattached. He laughs easily, leans into conversations, lets girls dance with him like it’s nothing. Sometimes he spins them, sometimes he lets them rest a hand on his shoulder.
Sometimes he meets your eyes across the room while he’s smiling at someone else, like it’s all part of the same harmless night. You tell yourself it shouldn’t bother you.
Because when the music dies down and the house empties, Steve always finds you. Always asks, “You ready?” like it’s a given.
Always drives you back to his house, windows down, hand resting close. And you always go.
And even though watched him dance with someone else ten minutes earlier. You go even though no one at the party would guess you’re the one he’s taking home.
a lot of the time at parties, you’d find yourself on your knees in the bathroom while he runs his hands through your hair. Telling you how beautiful you are between moans. But In public, he barely touches you.
No arm around your shoulders. No fingers laced with yours. No casual familiarity. If you stand too close, he shifts like he’s suddenly aware of an invisible line.
But the second his bedroom door closes, he changes. He pulls you in like he’s been holding his breath all night. Kisses you slow and deep, like he’s trying to say something he doesn’t have words for. His hands are everywhere then, your waist, your back, your hair. He murmurs your name like it’s private. Like it belongs to the dark.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “Do you know that?” You always nod. You always believe him.
It’s only later when your lying beside him, his arm heavy over your stomach, his thumb tracing absent patterns, that the questions creep in.
Because the boy who won’t hold your hand in front of people sleeps with his face tucked into your neck. Because the boy who calls this casual kisses your shoulder when he thinks you’re asleep. Because the boy who dances with other girls still makes room for you in his bed without ever asking.
There’s the night he disappears at a party for almost an hour. You find him in the kitchen, laughing with a pretty read head who doesn’t know that his favorite way to fall asleep is with his fingers tangled in yours. You smile politely. You don’t interrupt.
Later, he presses a beer into your hand and asks, “You wanna head out soon?” You know what that means. There’s the way he never corrects people when they assume he’s single.
Never says your name when someone flirts with him. Never looks at you like you’re the answer. But when it’s just the two of you, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense.
There’s the way he gets jealous quietly. Not enough to say anything just enough to go still when someone else laughs too hard at your jokes. Just enough to pull you closer in private later, like reclaiming something he refuses to admit is his. And you let him.
Because in the quiet moments, he feels real. Because when he kisses you, it doesn’t feel casual. Because when he holds you, it doesn’t feel casual.
You just keep showing up, hoping that one day, the way he treats you in the dark will follow you into the light.
And today, is no different. You’re sitting in the bleachers after gym class, legs tucked up to your chest, watching Steve laugh with some girl. She’s pretty. Really pretty. Of course she is. They always are.
She touches his arm when she talks but he doesn’t pull away.
Robin drops down beside you, plastic water bottle crinkling in her hand. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you say immediately.
Robin squints. “I can tell when you’re lying.”
You don’t respond, your eyes are fixed on Steve as he tosses his head back when the girl says something, flashing that stupid, perfect smile, the one he swore didn’t mean anything.
Robin follows your gaze and sighs. “You know he’s an idiot, right?”
“That doesn’t actually help,” you mutter.
“Yeah, but it’s true.”
You’ve been doing this for months. Hanging out. Late-night drives. Sharing fries. Falling asleep on his shoulder during movies. Twisted in bed sheets. One night stands that extend into the next morning, cooking breakfast together. Kissing when no one’s around.
Always casual.
Steve jogs over a few minutes later, cheeks flushed, hair messy, grin still lingering. “Hey,” he says, like nothing’s wrong. As if your heart doesn’t shatter a little more every time.
You don’t reply, you just offer him a weak smile, distant.
He notices immediately. He always does. but instead of asking, he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
“Actually,” you say, standing, “I think me and rob are gonna do something.” She looks confused. Scanning her brain trying to remember if you both have made plans. “Right?” You say to her.
“Yes. Corse. We have that thing” she replies.
Steve frowns. “Oh”
“Thanks though.”
You grab your bag and start walking away before anyone can say anything else while Robin stays seated.
Steve watches you go, confusion settling into his features. He glances back at Robin. “What’s wrong with her?”
Robin exhales through her nose. “Oh, I don’t know, Steve. Could be the weather. Could be the economy. Could be the way you keep acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”
Steve frowns. “I didn’t do anything.”
Robin stands abruptly. “That’s kind of the problem.” She doesn’t wait for a response. She jogs after you, calling your name. You hear her, but you don’t stop.
“Hey!” she calls again. “Do not make me sprint after you. I will trip and die dramatically, and then you’ll feel bad.” That makes you stop.
Robin catches up, slightly out of breath, hands on her knees. “Okay. First of all, rude. Second of all what the hell was that?”
You shrug, staring at the pavement. “We don’t actually have plans.”
“I gathered,” Robin says. “Since I had no idea what we were supposedly doing.”
“Sorry.” She studies your face, softer now. “You okay?” You shake your head. Robin sighs. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You start walking again, slower this time, and Robin falls into step beside you. “Okay,” she says gently. “Talk to me.” You sigh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Liar,” she replies, but not unkindly. “You don’t walk away from Steve Harrington like that unless something’s wrong.” You finally look at her. “I’m just fed up, rob.”
“I know,” Robin says. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“I can’t sit there while he flirts with anyone and everyone and then get back into his bed because-“
“-that’s where he expects to be.” She finished your sentence.
“I can’t do it anymore rob, it’s destroying me” you’re starting to tear up now.
“Tell him”
“I can’t” you snap. You don’t mean to. You’re just emotional. You’re tired of having the same conversation over and over again.
“Change of plans,” she says. “You’re not going home to overthink in silence.”
You sigh. “Robin—”
“Not optional,” she interrupts. “I’m commandeering your evening.” You hesitate, then nod. “Okay. What are we doing?”
She smiles, relieved. “We’re going to your house. We’re watching a movie. Something dumb or emotional or both. And you’re not allowed to talk about Steve Harrington unless I bring him up first.”
“That seems unfair.”
“Life’s unfair,” she says. “Get in.”
Your house is quiet in the way it always is at night, too quiet, like it’s waiting for something. Robin kicks off her shoes immediately and makes herself at home, flopping onto the couch and grabbing a blanket like it’s hers by right.
“You pick,” she says, patting the seat beside her. “But if it involves a tragic romance, I reserve the right to complain loudly.”
You settle on something familiar. Something safe. Halfway through the movie, your phone rings. You don’t have to look at the screen. Your chest tightens instantly.
Robin notices. She glances at the coffee table where your phone lights up, then back at your face. “That him?” she asks gently.
You nod. The phone keeps ringing.
Your heart screaming at you to answer. To hear his voice. To let him pull you back into something warm and confusing.
“You don’t have to answer,” she says softly. You swallow. “He’ll think something’s wrong.”
She shrugs. “Something is wrong.” The ringing stops. Silence fills the room, heavy and unfamiliar.
You curl into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. “I’ve never not answered before.”
Robin smiles sadly. “There’s a first time for everything.” Robin leans her head against yours. “You’re allowed to take a night off from being available.” You close your eyes, breathing through the ache in your chest.
The movie keeps playing. The world doesn’t end.
And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself exist without him just for one night.
—౨ৎ—
“You’re being weird,” Dustin says. Steve tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “I’m driving.”
“No,” Dustin says. “You’re sulking.”
“I am not sulking.”
Dustin turns to look at him. “You haven’t said anything in, like, ten minutes. That’s not normal for you.” Steve exhales through his nose. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Dustin hums. “Okay. Then why are you being such an ass?”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” Dustin says. “And your jaw does that thing when you’re mad.”
Steve presses his lips together. “She’s been ignoring me now, for days.” Dustin blinks. “Oh.” Steve hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
He shifts in his seat, irritation prickling under his skin. “It’s not a big deal. She’s probably busy.”
“Uh-huh,” Dustin says. “You look devastated.”
“I do not.” Dustin snorts. “You look like someone wrecked your beamer.”
Steve scoffs, but his chest feels tight. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “It’s just” he pauses “She always answers,” he mutters before he can stop himself.
Steve swallows. “Yeah.” The word feels heavier than it should. A dull ache settles in his stomach, surprising in its intensity.
“I don’t get why it’s bothering me so much,” Steve says quietly. “We’re just—”
Dustin raises an eyebrow. “Casual?”
Steve winces. “Yeah.”
Dustin tilts his head. “Then why do you look like you’re about to drive this car into a tree?”
“I wouldn’t,” Steve says quickly.
“Metaphor, Steve.”
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just, I mean, she usually stays over. Or calls. Or texts me to say goodnight.” Dustin nods slowly. “So… she didn’t.”
“No.”
“And that feels bad,” Dustin says. Steve opens his mouth to deny it then freezes.
“Yeah, I don’t know. Steve lets out a frustrated breath, shaking his head as he pulls into another red light.
“I don’t even know why I’m talking about this to you,” he mutters. “You’re like… a child.” Dustin grins immediately, victorious. “The child you’re best friends with.”
Steve rubs his face, groaning. “This is humiliating.”
“Welcome to having feelings,” Dustin says. “It’s embarrassing.” Steve exhales, staring out at the road. “I just…this isn’t supposed to be a thing. It was never supposed to be a thing.”
Dustin tilts his head. “But it is.” Steve nods slowly, like the realization is sinking in against his will. “Yeah. And that’s what’s freaking me out.”
Dustin watches him for a moment, then says quietly, “You don’t talk about people you don’t care about like this.”
Steve swallows hard.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he admits. “I just know I don’t like the idea of her not calling me.” Dustin smiles a little, softer now. “Sounds like you’re already in deep, man.” Steve grips the steering wheel tighter, jaw set.
Yeah. He is.
And for the first time, pretending otherwise doesn’t work anymore.
—౨ৎ—
Tammy Thomson’s party is loud in a way that makes it impossible to think. The house is packed, music vibrating through the floors, laughter spilling from every room. You arrive with Robin and Nancy, already smiling, already a little buzzed, enough to take the edge off the week, not enough to forget anything.
Robin hands you a drink. “Pace yourself.”
“Yes, captain,” you tease.
Nancy looks between the two of you. “You good?”
You nod. “Great.” You lie but you’re functioning. You dance. You laugh when Robin yells the words to a song she definitely doesn’t know. You don’t look for Steve.
Which is why he’s so unprepared when he sees you.
He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, mid-conversation, when his eyes catch on you across the room. You’re laughing, head tipped back, cheeks flushed. You look relaxed. Happy. Like you belong exactly where you are.
Steve frowns, unsettled. You haven’t answered his calls at all this week. And now you’re here, glowing like nothing’s missing.
Robin notices his stare immediately. “Uh-oh,” she mutters.
Steve hesitates, then makes his way over. Robin subtly shifts closer to you when he approaches. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” you reply easily. No tension in your voice. No warmth either.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he adds.
“Last-minute thing,” you say. “Right, Rob?”
Robin nods. “Impulse decisions. Big fan.”
Steve chuckles faintly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”Nancy clears her throat. “I’m gonna go find Jonathan.”
She leaves, giving Robin a look on the way out. Steve glances around, then back to you. “You having a good time?”
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s a good party.” He nods, unsure what to do with that. “You look… nice I always loved that dress on you.”
“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip of your drink. “You too.” It’s polite. Neutral. Like nothing’s ever happened.
Robin watches him closely, saying nothing. Steve shifts his weight. “I, uh…called you, a couple times.”
You shrug. “Sorry. Been busy” He frowns slightly. “Yeah. Course”
The music swells, filling the space where something else might’ve gone. Robin nudges your arm. “Wanna dance?”
“Sure,” you say immediately.
Steve blinks. “Oh. Okay.”
You don’t look at him as you follow Robin toward the living room, blending back into the crowd. Steve stays where he is, watching you disappear like he imagined you might.
Robin leans in as you move. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Just keeping it light.”
She hums. “Casual.”
You smile thinly. “Exactly.”
Across the room, Steve watches you laugh again, without him this time and feels the strange, unsettling realization that he doesn’t understand what’s happening.
Nothing’s changed. And yet, somehow, everything has.
The night blurs the way it always does.
Music bleeds into laughter, drinks into drinks, the weed softening the edges of everything just enough that you can breathe. You dance until your feet hurt. You laugh until your cheeks ache. For a while, it almost works, you almost forget.
Almost.
There’s still a pit in your stomach. Small, persistent. Like your body knows something your buzz won’t let you escape.
Robin’s deep in conversation with Vicky near the stairs, animated and smiling. Nancy disappeared ages ago. You drift, untethered, until the house starts to feel too tight around your ribs. So you slip outside.
The night air is cool and damp, sobering in a way you weren’t prepared for. You lean against the porch railing, breathing in deeply, watching smoke curl up into the dark.
Behind you, the door creaks. You don’t have to turn around.
“Hey,” Steve says.
You glance over your shoulder. “Hey.”
He steps out beside you, close but not touching. He smells like beer and cologne and something familiar that makes your chest ache despite yourself.
“Haven’t seen you much tonight” he says lightly.
You shrug. “Just needed air.”
He nods, hands in his jacket pockets. Silence stretches, not awkward, but weighted.
“You seem… good tonight,” he says. “Like you’re having fun.”
“I am,” you reply honestly.
He smiles, relieved and then hesitates, like he’s standing at the edge of something.
“So,” he says slowly, “I was thinking… maybe you wanted to come back with me later?.”
There it is.
Normally, that sentence barely registers. It’s assumed. Automatic. The end of every party, every function, every night that ends too late.
“I’m good” you say gently. “But I think I’m gonna go home with Robin. We’ve got a ride”
Steve freezes. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”
You glance at him, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just really tired.”
He nods, but it’s off, like the movement doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Totally. I mean, yeah.”
Another pause. He shifts closer without realizing it.
“You sure?” he asks. “I can drive you. We d don’t even have to do anything. We can just crash.”
You smile, small and careful. “I know.” And then, quietly: “I’m good, Steve.”
Something in his face changes Not anger. Not jealousy. Certainty.
Because this has never happened before. You’ve never said no. Not gently. Not politely. Not at all.
“Right,” he says, voice softer now. “Yeah. Of course.”
“Thanks for checking on me though.”
“Anytime,” he replies automatically.
You give him one last look, kind, distant, closed and head back toward the door.
Steve stays on the porch. The music thumps behind him. The night presses in around him. And for the first time, the truth settles heavy in his chest:
This isn’t nothing. This isn’t casual. And whatever he’s been pretending not to see, he’s seeing it now.
A week passes. Then another. And Steve Harrington does not handle it well.
At first, he tells himself he’s doing the right thing. He stopped calling because you stopped answering. He got the hint. He tells himself that giving you space is mature. Respectful. It still feels like withdrawal.
He drives past your street more than once without meaning to. He reaches for his phone at red lights, at stop signs, at night when the house is too quiet and his bed feels wrong without you in it.
He almost texts you about dumb things. About a song on the radio. About a movie he thinks you’d like. About nothing at all.
But he doesn’t.
Because you asked for space without ever saying it, he’s terrified of pushing you further away.
The worst part is that he doesn’t understand.
He runs through every moment in his head, searching for the thing he did wrong. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He didn’t mean to make you feel small or secondary or invisible.
He just didn’t know how to say what he felt. By the end of the second week, he can’t take it anymore. The silence is louder than any argument could’ve been.
So he drives.
He doesn’t think. He just ends up outside your house, engine still running, hands shaking on the steering wheel. He kills the engine and gets out before he can talk himself out of it.
He knocks like it’s an emergency. Sharp. Urgent. Desperate. Inside, you freeze.
You’ve been doing better, well, kind of. You still reach for your phone instinctively, still think about telling Steve about your day, about the stupid thing that happened at work, about how Robin said something that reminded you of him.
You don’t. You’ve been trying so hard to do what’s best for you. The knock comes again. Your heart knows before your head does.
You open the door.
Steve stands there, breathless, eyes wild, like he ran the whole way instead of driving. His hair is messy. His jacket’s half-zipped. He looks terrified.
“Hey,” you say softly.
“Hi,” he replies, voice unsteady.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Then Steve speaks, all at once, like if he stops he’ll lose his nerve.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I didn’t ask what was wrong. I’m sorry I ever said this was casual.”
Your chest tightens. “I didn’t know how to say it,” he continues, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to be honest without ruining everything. But I ruined it anyway, didn’t I?”
You swallow hard. “Steve—”
“No,” he says quickly. “Please. Just—let me say this.” He takes a shaky breath.
“It was never casual,” he says. “Not for me. Not ever. I just kept calling it that because I was scared. Because saying I loved you felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground on the other side.”
Your eyes sting. “I loved the way you laughed at my dumb jokes. The way you knew when I was lying about being okay. The way you fit against me like you belonged there.” His voice drops. “I loved you. I think I always did.” Tears slip down your cheeks.
“I thought if I kept it light, I wouldn’t lose you,” he whispers. “But losing you anyway almost destroyed me.”
He looks at you now, really looks at you, open and terrified and real.
“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to be careful. I don’t want to be casual. I want you. Publicly. Honestly. Completely. If you’ll still have me.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and fragile. You hug yourself, grounding.
“I’ve been struggling too,” you admit quietly. “I wanted to call you every day. I still do. But I couldn’t keep hurting myself waiting for you to choose me.”
Steve nods, tears in his eyes. “I’m choosing you now.” You search his face, this boy who broke your heart without meaning to and is standing here trying to put it back together with shaking hands.
“It can’t be like before,” you say.
“I know,” he says. “I don’t want it to be.”
And then like something inside him finally breaks open he doesn’t stop.
“I don’t want to hide you,” he says, words tumbling over each other. “I don’t want to pretend you’re just… someone I know. I want to show you off. I want to take you out, like actually take you out. I want people to know you’re with me.”
Your breath catches. “I want to brag about you,” he continues, voice shaking now. “About how beautiful you are, about how smart you are, about how you make everything make sense when I’m with you.”
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. “I want to call you my girlfriend,” he says, softer but firmer. “Mine. I want you to be mine and I want to be yours. I want to give you what you deserve. I want to stop being scared and start being honest.”
Tears spill freely now. “I don’t ever want to make you feel small again,” he whispers. “Or like you’re waiting in the dark for me. You deserve better than that and I want to be better. For you.”
“I love you,” he says. No hesitation this time. No fear. “I love you, and I don’t care how scary that is anymore.”
You don’t answer with words.
You step forward and kiss him. It’s not rushed. It’s not desperate. It’s slow and real and grounding, like confirmation rather than a question. His hands come up gently one at your waist, one at your jaw like he’s afraid this might still disappear.
He kisses you back like he’s been waiting weeks to do it right. When you pull back, foreheads pressed together, he exhales a shaky laugh.
Steve stays.
Not because you ask him to, and not because he expects anything just because neither of you is ready to let go yet. You sit together on the couch, knees touching, the house quiet around you in a way that feels safe instead of empty.
He keeps looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’m not going anywhere,” you tell him gently.
He nods, swallowing. “I know. I just I don’t ever want to mess this up again.”
“You don’t have to be perfect,” you say. “Just honest.”
“I can do that,” he promises.
Later, when he finally stands to leave, he hesitates at the door like it’s the hardest thing in the world. He kisses you once more soft, sure, unhidden.
pairing: steve harrington x fem.byers! reader
summary: you and steve had broken up way back when max got stuck in the upside down. you were so afraid of losing him, that you had to let him go. years passed, the evil were fought and everybody moved on… but you. you receive the invitation in golden-fancy letters: steve harrington is going to get married. he found the love of his life, except, this person is not you.
warning: (9K) a lot of angst, this is placed in the epilogue of season 5 so SPOILERS!!!! there's just a slight mention of anxiety, traumas, nothing else.
a/n: i'm suffocated by how obssessed and sad i'm by the end of stranger things. i needed to do something about it! my dear baby bambi eyed steve harrington SURVIVED and after seeing him in THAT suit i needed to write something for him.
“Okay,” Jonathan said, clearing his throat, fingers tightening around his mug. “So. Are we gonna adress the elephant in the room, or…?”
The base of your cup hit the wooden table with a soft knock, not loud, just enough to draw his attention. Jonathan looked at you the way only an older brother could, careful and sympathetic, already bracing himself for whatever might spill. He always had that look, like he was afraid of stepping wrong and breaking something fragile.
The coffee shop was curated to be calming. Low lights, exposed brick, a chalkboard menu that didn’t try too hard to be trendy. The cappuccino was good and the pecan cake was sweet without being cloying.
This was your life now.
After Vecna was defeated, after Hawkins stitched itself back together as best it could, the only thing that made sense was leaving. Running, really. Away from a town that had swallowed most of your adolescence whole, a place that took your innocence, chewed it up, and never bothered to apologize.
People died there. People you loved.
NYU had felt like oxygen, a clean inhale after years of breathing smoke. Jonathan had gotten in too, and even though you lived in the same city, your lives rarely overlapped.
That was the magic of New York. You could disappear in it, become someone new.
Still, some habits never die.
Once a month, without fail, you and Jonathan picked a different café, sat for hours, talked about classes, professors, projects, laughed until your faces hurt, and pretended, just a little, that you were normal siblings in a normal city with normal lives.
Sometimes, it was easy. Like today.
Jonathan was animated, hands moving as he talked about a short film he was working on for class, something experimental, political, definitely anti-capitalist. His eyes were bright in a way you didn’t see often.
You hadn’t seen that look much. Except when—
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice light, airy, and entirely dishonest.
You did know. Of course you did. You’d just been very careful not to.
There were rules to starting over. Unspoken ones: You didn’t talk about the ghosts.
Jonathan sighed, shoulders dropping as he toyed with a handful of sugar packets. “You do,” he muttered. “You got the invitation.”
The invitation.
It sat on your desk back home, buried under unopened mail and old receipts. Cream-colored paper. Neat lettering. It had a way of catching your eye at night, like it was waiting for you to acknowledge it.
But hearing it out loud did something else entirely.
Steve Harrington’s wedding.
You took another sip of coffee, ignoring the sudden tightness in your throat. Jonathan was reading you, scanning the micro-expressions you were trying so hard to suppress.
“It’s next month,” he added, his voice softening into a plea. He was offering you a doorway.
You set the cup down carefully. “Tell them I said congratulations. And that I wish them the best.”
Jonathan frowned. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows hovering near the table, posture folding in on itself the way it always did when he was nervous or about to say something he’d rehearsed too many times in his head.
“As your older brother,” he started.
You scoffed. “You’re older by a year.”
“That still counts,” he said, then hesitated. “I just… I don’t want you to regret the things you didn’t do. I don’t want you to wake up five years from now wondering if you should’ve done something different.”
Your stomach twisted.
“I don’t want you to do what I did,” he finished quietly.
“With Nancy?”
Jonathan pressed his lips together, nodded once. “Yeah. With Nancy.”
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, it was just heavy. It was the weight of two people who had survived the end of the world only to realize they didn't know how to live in the one that was left.
Outside, the New York traffic roared on, indifferent and fast.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” You stopped yourself, then tried again. “Have you talked to her?” You shrugged, though your shoulders felt heavier than they had a moment ago.
Jonathan shook his head.
Nancy Wheeler remained another subject neither of you touched unless absolutely necessary. The love of your brother’s life. Brave, relentless, the kind of girl who would throw herself into danger without hesitation if it meant saving someone she loved.
You knew they weren’t together anymore. He hadn’t given you the details over coffee and cake, but you didn’t need them. The answer lived in the drained tension around his eyes, in the way his gaze drifted when her name came up.
He wasn’t over her. He had just learned how to live around the hole she left behind.
“Not since she went to college,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan.”
“Don’t be, okay?” He offered a small, careful smile. “Nancy and I… we were complicated in our own way. But this isn’t about me and Nancy. It’s about you and Harrington.”
You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek. Hearing his name out loud sent a chill straight down your spine, sharp and involuntary.
Sometimes, when the sky defiled into twilight and the city felt strangely hollow, the memories came back. Strong red lights. The tower tearing itself apart as the Abyss swallowed it whole. Steve’s body is thrown hard into the void, your knees buckling as a cry ripped from your throat before you even realized it was yours.
You always woke alone, heart racing, tears stinging behind your eyes, your chest aching with the weight of memories that never quite loosened their grip.
“There is no ‘me and Harrington,’” you said, folding your arms, already bracing yourself for an argument.
But once, there had been everything.
The summer of ’85. The sailor suit at Scoops Ahoy that should’ve been humiliating but somehow wasn’t. Becoming El and Max’s personal chauffeur under the excuse that it was too hot to stay home, that they needed air conditioning and the free ice cream Steve handed out like it was currency.
Somewhere along the way, you got close. Suddenly, you were spending every day with him and Robin, lingering during his shifts, laughing behind the counter, decoding Russian messages that dragged you all headfirst into blood, terror, and things no one your age should have survived.
You went through hell together, literally. Loving someone like that rewired you. It meant danger wasn’t just something to fear, it was something you met head-on, something you’d face without thinking if it meant keeping the other person safe.
Jonathan would understand that better than anyone.
Steve was getting married. Good for him. When the invitation arrived on a random Thursday after you came home from your internship, it felt unreal, like your eyes refused to process the words. Steve Harrington, married. Less than two years after everything you’d survived together. The nausea hit so hard you barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up the lunch you’d just eaten.
Not that you would ever say that out loud.
“Hey,” Jonathan said softly, his hand reaching across the table to tap the wood near yours. “Hey. Just think about it. Everyone’s going. Robin. Nancy. The kids.”
You stared at him, at the familiar concern written across his face, and found yourself without an answer.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “I don’t know, Jonathan. I don’t know if it’s exactly appropriate to show up at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding just to remind him of the time his life was a literal horror show.”
Jonathan paused, brow furrowing.
“I don’t think that’s how he sees you.”
“And how does he see me?” You leaned forward, arms resting on the table now, searching his face.
Your brother pressed his lips together, then leaned back in his chair.
“I guess,” he said softly, “you’ll have to go to find out.”
You said goodbye to your brother at your monthly meeting with a tight hug and a vague promise that you would think about it. The promise you gave Jonathan was a lie, and you both knew it.
In truth, you didn’t want to think about anything at all.
The moment you turned the key in your apartment door, you gave yourself exactly five seconds before reality came crashing down.
Your breathing fractured into sharp, jagged gasps. You dropped your keys onto the ceramic plate by the door with a jarring clatter, barely making it to the bed before your knees gave out. You collapsed, the weight of the last two years finally crushing you into the mattress. Muffled, ugly sobs filled the small loft.
Steve was getting married.
He was really, truly, finally belongs-to-someone-else getting married.
In that godforsaken town, amidst the rot and the shadows, you had known with a terrifying, bone-deep certainty that he was your epic love. The kind of love that didn't just happen, it forged you.
And there were so many proofs of it.
The evidence was written in the scars on your soul. It was the way he had clawed the Upside Down apart to find you when Vecna used you as bait. It was the way he had cried—shame-faced, gut-wrenching sobs—when the Russians beat you bloody, his voice breaking as he begged them to stop, offering his own life like it was nothing if they’d just leave you alone. It was the way the Mind Flayer had nearly snapped you in two, and Steve had been the only thing standing between you and death.
Every single time, he saved you.
Pretending you were over him was a full-time job, and you were exhausted. Even after the breakup, the one you initiated because you were so terrified of seeing him die that you thought letting him go was a preemptive strike against grief, he had still looked at you with that same, open devotion. Anyone with eyes could see it.
He still loved you. He was just waiting for you to come home.
And you never did.
The phone rang, vintage trill slicing through your breakdown.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand and forced yourself upright, legs heavy as you crossed the room. When you lifted the receiver, you cleared your throat, coughing softly to disguise the damage.
“Hello?”
“Hey, babes. It’s Robin.”
"Hi, Robs."
Despite the hollow ache in your chest, a ghost of a smile touched your lips. Robin was the one constant you’d kept. Even after leaving for Smith, she’d written letters, sent photos, treating distance like a minor inconvenience she refused to acknowledge.
“Jesus,” she said immediately. “Are you sick? Your voice sounds terrible.”
A chill ran down your spine. “No. I mean... I don’t think so.”
“Well… okay.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then barreled on with characteristic Robin-velocity. “I just got back from my last class, and I really wanted to talk to you about something.” She put an unmistakable, heavy emphasis on the word really.
“I’m listening, Robs.”
“Okay. Right.” A pause. “Steve’s getting married, right? So I was thinking it might be nice if we—you, me, Nancy and Jonathan—stayed in Hawkins for a bit. You know. For old times’ sake.”
You held your breath, then let it out slowly as your forehead pressed against the worn wallpaper.
“Oh my God,” Robin said, her voice dropping an octave. “You know about the wedding, don’t you?”
“Yes, Robs. I know he’s getting married.”
He. Never Steve. Never your Steve.
“Okay. Okay. Is this weird? Because if it is, I can just—”
“No, it’s not weird,” you interrupted, rubbing your temple. “Jonathan’s already on my case about it, and now you… I just—I don’t know if I’m going, okay?”
“Have you completely lost your beautiful mind?” Robin nearly shouted.
“My ear, Robin—Jeez!”
“Sorry! Sorry!” she rushed out, though her intensity didn't dim. “But what? Why? You have to go. It’s the end of an era! The hair-spray king is retiring!”
“I don’t think it’s the right choice. For anyone.”
“But it’s us,” she insisted, her voice softening into something more vulnerable. “The team isn’t complete without you. It’s just… it's wrong if you aren't there.”
“I get that, but—”
“Nope. Not hearing it,” Robin cut in, regaining her momentum. “I refuse to take no for an answer. I will literally drive to Manhattan and drag you across state lines in a trunk if I have to. And besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, “maybe this is exactly what you need.”
You shook your head, even though she couldn’t see it. “Robin, I—”
“I have to go, my roommate is glaring at me! We’ll talk soon! Love you, bye!”
The line went dead.
You stood there with the receiver still pressed to your ear, listening to the hollow silence where her voice had been, knowing, deep down, that Hawkins was already pulling you back.
Hawkins wasn't just a town. It was a gravity well. And it was already pulling you back into its orbit.
Steve was alone in the kitchen when the phone rang.
Late afternoon light slanted through the window, catching on the edges of stacked envelopes and carefully labeled folders spread across the counter. Place cards, seating charts, RSVP lists. His fiancée had an eye for details, Steve had learned to appreciate that. Order made things easier.
He wiped his hands on a dish towel, a domestic gesture that still felt slightly alien, and picked up the receiver.
“Hey, Buckley.”
“Wow. Straight to the last name. Formal groom energy already?” Robin said, breathless in that way that meant she’d been walking fast or thinking faster.
Steve huffed a soft laugh. “If you start making jokes about tuxedos, I’m hanging up, Robs. I mean it”
“Relax. I’m calling from a very non-tuxedo environment.” A pause. “You busy?”
He glanced at the counter, at the future he was meticulously planning. “Define busy.”
“Mentally busy.”
That made him hesitate. He shifted his weight, leaning his hip back against the counter, the cool stone pressing through his jeans. “Okay. Hit me.”
Robin exhaled. He could almost picture her pacing, pushing her hair back, winding the phone cord around her finger.
“So. I talked to her.”
The words landed quietly. No thunder, no crash.
Still, something in his chest went tight.
He closed his eyes for half a second before opening them again. “And?”
“She knows about the wedding.”
“Yeah, no way. I invited her, Robs.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“She might come, Steve.”
For a moment, the room felt too small.
It wasn’t panic that hit him, or even fear. It was memory, keen and unwelcome. Your laugh in the middle of chaos. The weight of your hand in his when everything else was falling apart. The way loving you had felt like standing in a burning building and deciding to stay anyway.
He forced himself to breathe.
“That’s—okay,” he said, the words careful, measured. “That makes sense.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said immediately. Too immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Robin didn’t buy it. She never did. “You don’t have to do the whole cool guy thing with me.”
“I’m not.” He grabbed a stack of place cards and squared them against the counter, grounding himself in the motion. “I’m getting married, Rob. It’s fine.”
But not wholly.
Because he had spent two years learning how not to picture you in rooms he was trying to move on in. Because he had trained himself to think of you in past tense, like a chapter he survived instead of a story that kept going without his permission.
He loved his fiancée. Maybe not in the catastrophic, end-of-the-world way he had loved you but in a steadier way. A kinder way. One that didn’t involve blood or loss or learning how to say goodbye in the middle of a war.
The idea of seeing you again, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him like you knew him, really knew him, made his chest ache in a way he thought he’d outgrown.
Robin’s voice softened. “I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks,” he said. The word came out heavier than he expected.
A beat passed.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “She doesn’t… hate me, does she?”
Robin softened. “Steve. You know she couldn't.”
That was enough to answer. He nodded, even though she couldn’t see it.
“I hope she comes,” he said finally.
Robin blinked on the other end. “You do?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers catching on the hair there. “I want her to see that I’m okay. That I made it.”
And maybe, though he didn’t say it, that choosing someone else hadn’t meant erasing what they were.
Because it hadn’t.
After they hung up, Steve stood there for a long moment, the house quiet around him. He picked up a place card at random, read a name that belonged to a future he was building carefully, purposely.
Then he set it back down and stared at the empty space beside it, where another name might have been, in another life.
Breathing the air of Hawkins again felt like filling your lungs with fire and ash. After Robin’s call, the idea of attending the wedding refused to leave you alone, lingering at the edges of your thoughts no matter how hard you tried to push it away.
There was something deeply nostalgic about returning to the place where you were born, where you grew up, where so much of your life had taken shape. The feeling was unsettling, sharp and aching, but threaded with a strange sweetness that left your eyes burning with unshed tears.
A few days later, after a long call with Jonathan, you decided it was time. Time to come back. Time to face it. Time to put an end to whatever unfinished thing Hawkins still had its hands wrapped around.
The town looked exactly the same. Bright sunlight. People laughing on the sidewalks. Tourists stopping at the memorial, snapping photos as if the horrors of the past had been carefully packaged into something consumable, something distant enough to be harmless.
You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek and watched the streets pass by. Everything felt familiar and foreign all at once.
Maybe Hawkins hadn’t changed at all. Maybe you had. The town seemed frozen in time, its darker history sealed away, known only by the small group of people who had survived it and sworn to carry the truth quietly for the rest of their lives. The unfairness of it settled heavy in your chest.
You held the tears back until Jonathan pulled the rental car to a stop in front of your old house. The sight of it hit you harder than you expected, a dull, excruciating ache spreading through your ribs.
“Hey,” Jonathan called from outside. “You coming?”
“Yeah,” you replied, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’m coming.”
You followed him inside. The house was empty, but it didn’t feel abandoned. Everything looked the same, as if your mother might walk in at any moment. Joyce was living with Hopper now, finally allowing herself a life that didn’t revolve around fear and loss. Will was away at college, which meant the house existed in this strange in-between state, reserved for moments like this, when nostalgia took over.
You set your bag down and leaned against the doorframe while Jonathan carried the suitcases into the bedroom.
“We should meet the others at the bar around six,” he said.
You tilted your head. “You nervous?”
He didn’t look at you, just kept unpacking. “I don’t have any reason to be.”
“Oh, really?” You crossed your arms, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. Jonathan had never been a good liar, and growing up with him made it impossible for him to fool you. “So if Nancy doesn’t show up, you’re totally fine with that?”
“She’ll be there,” he said easily.
“And how do you know?”
He straightened, snapping his suitcase shut. “Because it’s Nancy,” he replied, like that explained everything. “Is that okay with you?”
You pressed your lips together and nodded, biting back a comment, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds.
“Okay,” you said finally. “Just so you know, the shower's mine.”
Jonathan barely had time to register what you’d said before you grabbed a towel and sprinted down the hall, locking the bathroom door behind you. He followed instinctively, too slow, stopping short as laughter echoed off the walls. A soft knock tapped against the door, and you could hear him smiling on the other side.
It felt just like old times.
The bar hadn’t changed much.
Same low ceiling, same sticky floors, same neon signs buzzing like they were one bad night away from giving up entirely. Someone had painted over the old water damage, but you could still see the outline if you knew where to look. Hawkins loved pretending things were fixed.
You had been here before, years ago, back when sneaking into places like this felt thrilling. Once because it felt grown-up, rebellious, like borrowing a future that wasn’t meant to be yours yet. Once because Steve Harrington had chosen this place for a date, sliding into a booth with boyish confidence, making the cracked vinyl and warm beer feel romantic simply by sitting across from you. Back then, the bar had seemed softer.
Jonathan ordered first. You followed, mostly out of habit, and then stood off to the side while he waited for the drinks. The place was busy for a weekday evening, locals unwinding, a few college kids passing through, laughter spilling over the music.
You scanned the room without really meaning to.
“Don’t,” Jonathan said quietly.
You blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Look for him.” He handed you a glass. “He’ll show up when he shows up.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you took a sip. “You’re so annoying. I’m not doing that.”
Jonathan smiled despite himself, the corner of his mouth giving him away. “Yeah,” he said gently. “You are.”
Robin arrived like a sudden change in weather, all motion and warmth, dropping into the seat beside you as if the years apart were nothing more than a long weekend. She looked incredible, hair loose around her shoulders, a soft white lace blouse peeking out from beneath her denim overalls, familiar and new all at once.
“Okay, wow,” she said, looking between you and Jonathan. “Seeing you two here feels illegal. Like we’re about to summon something.”
You laughed despite yourself, tension easing just a fraction. Robin wrapped you in a hug without warning, squeezing tight.
“You’re real,” she said into your shoulder. “I was worried you were just a stress hallucination.”
“I missed you too, Robs,” you murmured, meaning it more than you were ready to admit.
She pulled back just enough to study your face, her eyes sharp and uncomfortably perceptive. “You okay?”
“Sure,” you said.
“Great,” she replied, unconvinced but kind enough not to push. “Did you order yet?”
Nancy arrived a few minutes later.
You noticed Jonathan before you noticed her, the way he straightened, the way his shoulders went tense and still, like his body had recognized her before his brain caught up. When you turned, she was already there, standing just inside the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dim light.
She looked older. Just sharper, more sure of herself. Like someone who had learned how to walk into rooms and expect to be heard.
Jonathan stood first. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Nancy said softly.
They hugged, brief and careful, the kind of embrace that acknowledged history without reopening it. You watched closely, surprised by the calm of it. The acceptance.
Nancy smiled when she saw you. “It’s really good to see you. You look great.”
“You too,” you said, and meant it.
The five of you settled into a booth near the back. Conversation came easily at first, college stories, mutual acquaintances, Robin’s latest rant about academia, Jonathan’s short film. You laughed while you drank. You almost forgot why your chest felt so tight.
Almost. Then the door opened.
You didn’t look right away. Neither did Jonathan. Robin noticed first, she always did, and went still mid-sentence, her eyes flicking toward the entrance before darting back to you.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay. So. He’s here.”
Your heart stuttered.
Steve Harrington walked in like the place had been waiting for him.
He looked good in that unfair, effortless way, hair a little shorter, shoulders broader, posture calmer. He wore a jacket you didn’t recognize, one hand shoved into his pocket as he scanned the room. There was a steadiness to him now, something grounded and adult, but his eyes still searched the way they always had.
Like he was counting exits. Or people.
His gaze landed on Jonathan first. Recognition flickered. Relief, maybe. Then Robin, who lifted a hand in an overly enthusiastic, unmistakably Robin wave.
And then he saw you.
For a second, he didn’t move. Neither did you.
The noise of the bar faded into something distant, muffled, like you were underwater. His face changed in the smallest way, something tightening around his eyes, something careful settling over his mouth.
Then he smiled. It was controlled-polite. Not the smile you remembered.
Steve walked over, stopping just short of the table. “Hey.”
“Hey, man,” Jonathan said.
Robin stood immediately, as if she might combust if she didn’t. “Steve! Hi. You made it. Wow. Look at you. Very… groom-y.”
Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Is that a thing?”
Nancy stood next, offering him a warm, familiar smile. “It’s good to see you, Steve.”
“You too,” he said easily.
Then his eyes came back to you.
“Hi,” he said.
Your throat tightened. “Hi.”
It was just a word. One syllable. And somehow it carried every version of you that had ever existed together.
He pulled out the empty seat at the edge of the booth, hesitated for half a second, then sat. Close enough to feel his presence. Far enough to breathe.
Conversation resumed, but it was different now, careful, aware. Steve listened more than he spoke, his arm resting along the back of the booth, his knee angled just slightly toward yours without touching.
You didn’t look at him again. You didn’t trust yourself to.
But you could feel him there, solid and real and painfully familiar, like a scar you’d learned to live with suddenly aching again.
Hawkins hadn’t changed.
Neither, it seemed, had the things that mattered most.
More drinks arrived, heavy mugs sweating onto the table, the sharp smell of beer cutting through the warmth that had settled between you all. Someone, probably Robin, pushed them into a loose circle, like it mattered that no one was left out.
“We should make a toast,” Robin said, already lifting her mug, eyes bright with something between nostalgia and defiance.
“I agree,” Steve added easily, raising his own. His voice was steady.
You exchanged looks around the table. Five people bound together by things no one else in the room would ever fully understand. There were soft smiles, the kind born from survival rather than happiness, from having seen each other at their worst and still choosing to sit down together anyway.
“To the future,” Nancy said, lifting her mug with quiet certainty.
“To the good ol’ days,” Jonathan followed, raising his free hand.
His eyes flicked briefly to Nancy before he looked away again, a faint smile tugging at his mouth like an old habit he hadn’t quite unlearned.
“To us,” you said then, your voice calm even as your chest tightened, lifting your mug to meet the others.
For a second, Steve watched you when you weren’t looking, his brow drawn together like the sight of you hurt in a way he hadn’t prepared for. You looked like a memory that had learned how to breathe. Like he was eighteen again, standing in a hallway, staring at a future he hadn’t known he’d lose.
Then you looked up.
Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you, recognition, regret, a shared understanding that didn’t need words. You offered him a small smile, soft and sympathetic, not asking for anything, not accusing him of anything either.
“To love,” Robin said suddenly, her voice rough but bright, stubbornly hopeful.
Steve swallowed and nodded.
“To love,” you echoed.
“To love,” the others repeated, and the mugs met in a quiet clink before you all drank at once.
You had forgotten how effortless it was to be with them. How laughter didn’t need to be coaxed out of you or softened first, how it simply rose, unguarded, from somewhere deep in your chest, surprising you with its ease. For the first time since arriving in Hawkins, your shoulders weren’t tight. Your breath came normally. You almost felt like yourself again.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. Empty glasses multiplied on the table, and the sharp edges of the evening dulled into something warm and familiar. Steve relaxed into the space between you all, his posture loosening, his voice growing more animated. You did too, catching yourself leaning closer when he spoke, answering him without thinking, forgetting, just for moments at a time, everything you were supposed to remember.
At some point, Steve looked around the table with that expression you knew far too well. Eyebrows lifting slightly, eyes brightening with the thrill of an idea that had just taken hold.
“I have a perfect place for us to go.”
“Where?” Nancy asked, smiling in that careful, contained way of hers, curiosity softening her features.
“You’ll see.”
He didn’t elaborate. He just stood and waited, confident you’d follow. A short walk later, you were climbing the stairs of the Squawk building. At the top, Steve lingered behind the others and offered you his hand, casual, almost shy.
“Thanks,” you said softly, taking it.
By the time you reached the top, night had fully settled over Hawkins. It was past nine, the air cold enough to sting your lungs, breath blooming white when you laughed. Robin’s voice carried loudest, her laughter slicing through the quiet as Steve finished telling a story about one of his students, something ridiculous and endearing.
“Sex ed,” Robin wheezed. “I still can’t believe that’s your life, dude.”
“Hey,” Steve protested, grinning. “I’m shaping young minds.”
You watched him as he spoke, the way he gestured with his hands, the way his face lit up when he talked about coaching, about teaching. You remembered the nights he’d confessed his fear of being trapped in his father’s shadow, of never being more than a version of someone else’s expectations.
Seeing him now, steady, fulfilled, made your chest ache in a quiet, complicated way.
You were proud of him.
“Okay, but be honest,” Steve said suddenly, standing and moving closer to the edge. The cold wrapped around him, his breath visible as he spoke. “Don’t you guys miss this? The view? The movies, the late nights, the stupid stuff? I don’t know—everything?”
You looked out over Hawkins. The rooftops. The dim streetlights. A town frozen in time whether it wanted to be or not.
You glanced at Nancy. At Jonathan. At Robin.
Then back at Steve.
“No,” you all said at once.
The laughter that followed was loud, honest, almost cathartic, echoing into the night, carrying with it the relief of knowing that some places are meant to be remembered, not returned to.
Steve tipped his beer back and shook his head, half-smiling at nothing in particular.
“I don’t know. There’s something about this town, man.” He took another sip. “But honestly? I like teaching these kids.”
You hummed. “Why do I get the feeling you go easy on all of them?”
“I have a strict A policy,” he said casually. “B, if you’re a real knucklehead. That’s about the low as I go.”
Jonathan laughed. “Hey, can you come teach at NYU?”
That did it, you laughed too, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.
“What, you want me to grade your weird film about capitalism or cannibalism or whatever?” Steve teased.
Jonathan groaned and launched into an explanation—again—gesturing wildly as he clarified the plot for what had to be the third time. You listened with half an ear, smiling.
When he finally finished, Nancy turned to you. “So,” she asked gently, “how’s New York treating you?”
You inhaled and shared a quick look with Jonathan, something wordless passing between you.
“It’s… different,” you said, tracing the rim of your red plastic cup with your finger. “The city never sleeps. I work, I study, I’m always running somewhere. But it’s good. I like it.”
Robin chimed in about Smith, animated as always, talking about classes and plans and how badly she wanted to transfer. Then Nancy surprised everyone by admitting she’d dropped out and taken a trainee position at the Herald.
“Hey, Robin,” Nancy said suddenly. “Total coincidence, but do you still have the key to the Squawk?”
Robin’s smile turned slow and mischievous as she reached into her pocket. “Nancy Wheeler, today is your lucky day.”
“Thank God,” Nancy said, already standing. “I really need a bathroom.”
Jonathan stood too, finishing his drink in one go. “Yeah. Same. Too much beer.”
Robin glanced at you and Steve. “Anyone else?”
You shook your head, and a moment later the three of them disappeared down the stairs, their voices fading.
You became acutely aware of the silence.
The cool Hawkins breeze brushed against your skin. Even with your eyes closed, you could feel it—Steve’s presence beside you, steady and close. And you didn’t have to look to know he was watching you.
Steve shifted beside you, resting his forearms on the low ledge. He stared out at the view, jaw tight, like he was bracing himself for something.
“So,” he said eventually, voice easy but not careless. “New York, huh?.”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
“Figures.” He nodded once, as if that confirmed a theory he’d carried for years. “Good for you, Byers.”
You didn’t argue. There was no point. Instead, you leaned forward too, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.
“It’s weird being back,” you admitted. “Everything looks the same, but… smaller. Does that make sense?”
Steve huffed out a quiet laugh. “That’s Hawkins. Tries to trap you in time.” He glanced at you, just for a second. “Guess it didn’t work on you.”
Something in his tone softened the words, took the edge off them. You looked at him then, really looked, at the familiar slope of his nose, the faint line between his brows, the way his hair refused to behave no matter how old he got.
“Well, you stayed,” you said gently.
“Someone had to,” he replied, half-joking. “Plus, I’m kind of bad at leaving things behind.”
The words lingered between you, heavier than he probably meant them to be. Steve cleared his throat and straightened, hands slipping into his jacket pockets.
“I’m glad you came,” he added, quieter now. “Didn’t think you would.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t either.”
Below you, Hawkins breathed on, unaware of how much history stood on that rooftop. Steve glanced at you again, this time holding your gaze a second longer.
“Still,” he said, offering a small, crooked smile, “it’s good to see you.”
You returned it, soft and aching.
“Yeah,” you said. “It really is.”
Steve shifted his weight, the tip of his shoe scraping against the concrete with a rhythmic, nervous grit. He didn't look at you right away. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something that wasn't there.
“You look... good,” he said finally.
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since the Indiana state line. “You too.”
He nodded, accepting the compliment like a heavy gift, then a small, bitter frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I didn't always think it would be like this. For either of us.”
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the cold railing, feeling the chill seep through the fabric of your jacket. Below, the town looked so normal, so infuriatingly mundane.
“I still wake up sometimes,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. “Thinking something bad is going to happen. Like the world’s about to split open again.”
Steve went very still.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “For a long time... I kept the bat next to my bed. I'm not kidding. Right there on the nightstand.” He let out a short, self-deprecating huff. "It's stupid. I know."
“No,” you said immediately, turning your head to look at him. “It’s really not.”
That earned you a brief, unguarded look. It was the expression he used to give you in the backseat of his car after a fight—when the adrenaline had evaporated and the reality of being alive finally settled in. It was raw and terrifyingly intimate.
“I thought moving on would be louder,” he continued, voice low. “Like there’d be some big moment where everything finally felt… over.” He shrugged. “Turns out it’s just quiet. And you’re left with it.”
“With everything,” you added.
“Yeah.”
The wind picked up, tugging at your hair. Steve reached out without thinking, steadying it, then stopped himself halfway, hand hovering awkwardly in the air before dropping back to his side. The almost-touch lingered longer than the wind.
“So,” you said, forcing a wide, brittle smile that felt like it might crack your face. “Marriage, huh?”
“Oh. God.” A nervous, breathless laugh escaped him. “Yeah."
“I’m happy for you, Steve.” It was the truth, but it was a truth that tasted like ash. You wanted him to be safe. You wanted him to be loved. You just hadn't realized how much it would hurt to watch someone else do it.
“I know,” he said. “I mean—yeah,” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Kristen s’great.”
“That sounds great, Steve,” you said, your voice thick with the effort of holding back a sob that felt like a physical weight in your throat.
“Yeah” He looked out at the town. At the place that had once belonged to the two of you, and only you. “It is. It really is.”
He said it one more time, as if he were trying to convince the silence.
Two days later, the morning was quiet in a way that felt borrowed.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of the kitchen, catching dust in the air and warming the chipped counter where you and Jonathan sat. The house smelled like toast and weak coffee. Jonathan was halfway through his second slice, reading something folded and creased.
You were spreading jam when the phone rang.
Jonathan glanced at it, then at you. That was odd.
You shook your head and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Okay, don’t freak out,” Robin said immediately, words tumbling over each other. “But also—maybe freak out a little.”
Your stomach tightened. “Robin. What’s going on?”
You could hear her breathing, uneven, like she’d been pacing.
“Do you… have any idea where Steve is?”
You frowned, instinctively looking at Jonathan. “What? No. Why would I—”
“Because,” she cut in, then stopped herself. “Because he didn’t show up.”
The room seemed to tilt, just slightly.
“Didn’t show up where?” you asked, already knowing you wouldn’t like the answer.
Robin swallowed on the other end. “Today. The wedding day. He’s not at the house. He’s not anywhere.”
“Robin,” you said carefully, “what are you saying?”
“I’m saying his wife called me,” she replied, voice thinner now. “Crying. She woke up this morning and Steve was gone. No note. No explanation. Just—gone.”
Your fingers tightened around the receiver.
“That’s not like him,” you said, more to himself than to either of you.
“I know,” Robin said. “That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t know why, I just—” She exhaled sharply. “Did he say anything? Anything at all?”
You stared at the table, at the faint ring a mug had left behind, at the normalcy of it all. The memory of the rooftop pressed in on your chest.
“No,” you said. “He didn’t.”
“Okay,” Robin said finally, trying to steady herself. “Okay. I just—I don't know, had to ask.”
You closed your eyes.
“Keep me posted,” you said. “Please.”
“I will.” Her voice softened. “Thank you, babes. See you later.”
The line went dead. You lowered the phone slowly. Jonathan watched you, concern etched into every line of his face.
“He disappeared,” you said. “On his wedding day.”
The silence that followed felt too big for the kitchen, too heavy for the morning light.
Steve Harrington didn’t vanish. He always stayed. He showed up bloody, terrified, exhausted, still there. He was the one who stood between danger and everyone else without asking if anyone would do the same for him. The one who carried guilt like a second spine and kindness like muscle memory.
This wasn’t like him.
"Gimme the car keys."
Jonathan nearly choked on his lukewarm coffee. He stared at you over the rim of his mug, eyes wide. "What?"
You didn't wait for an explanation. You grabbed your coat, shoving your arms into the sleeves. "Jonathan, the keys! Now!"
He scrambled, digging into his pocket and tossing the ring toward you. You caught it mid-air, the metal cold against your palm.
"What—Where are you going?" he called out, his voice laced with that familiar, protective dread.
"I'm going to look for Steve. What else am I supposed to do?" You didn't wait for his answer. You slammed the door, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the hallway.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington," you hissed under your breath as you hit the pavement. "You don't even give me a break on your own wedding day."
Hawkins was slowly waking up, the town bathed in a soft, buttery dawn that felt far too peaceful for the storm in your chest. Heaven played softly on the radio, but all you could see was the way he used to look at you on this very roof. Those big, tender, bambi eyes that always seemed to be asking for a permission you weren't sure you could give.
You wanted to slam your head against the steering wheel, to turn the car around and drive until the Indiana state line was a blur in the rearview mirror.
After two laps around downtown, the school, and every old haunt you could remember, hope was beginning to fray. Steve was gone, and the thought of Kristen—probably a vibrating nerve ending of a person right now—made the guilt churn in your stomach.
Then, something clicked. A memory of a high vantage point and a quiet place to hide.
The trees around the Squawk building danced slowly in the cool morning breeze. You spotted his car before you even put the car in park.
"I swear I’m going to kill that idiot," you muttered, throwing the door open. It was only as you started running toward the building, your hair whipping into your mouth, that you realized you were standing in public in an oversized, faded Bowie t-shirt and pajama pants.
Screw it, you thought. The world already ended once. Who cares about pants?
You climbed the steps, one by one, your hands aching from the bite of the cold metal railing.
Steve was there. He was standing near the edge, a silhouette of silver and gray. He was already wearing his wedding suit, the tailoring sharp, his hair perfectly combed into place. He looked like the picture-perfect groom from a magazine, but he was standing on the edge of a roof instead of an altar. He had his back to you, looking out at the horizon.
You stopped halfway across the roof, your chest heaving, a hot, prickly anger rising to meet your exhaustion.
"Did you know it’s not very polite to run away without leaving a note?" you shouted, your voice cracking the morning quiet. "Especially on your wedding day?"
You saw his shoulders hitch, a small, tired shrug, but he didn't turn around.
"What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you," you said, closing the distance.
He lowered his head, then looked back at the skyline. A spark of sharp nostalgia and deep-seated melancholy ran across his face. "I needed some air."
"Bullshit."
"Christ—," he snapped, finally turning his head just enough to give you a profile of his jaw. "Will you just stop for a second and let me think?"
You recoiled, genuinely stung by the bite in his tone. "Oh. I’m sorry. Sorry for being so inconvenient. Sorry for actually giving a damn about a friend."
Steve let out a short, humorless laugh that sounded more like a bark. "Right. Friend."
The word felt like a slur. He turned fully now, his pupils dilated, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look less like a groom and more like a soldier.
"Don't do this," you warned, your voice trembling. "Don't make this about me. This is about you. About your marriage, about your li—"
"Sure. Right, right." Steve poked his cheek with his tongue, a defiant, old-Harrington gesture. He put his hands on his hips, his suit jacket flaring out. "How about you just—I don't know, run away again? Isn’t that your specialty?"
You felt the words like a physical punch to the gut. You flinched, your irises trembling. Steve’s eyes were rimmed with red, he’d been crying, or trying not to, and the sight of it made the anger drain out of you.
"What the hell do you want from me, Steve? Huh?" Your voice rose, desperate and raw. "You said it was okay for me to be here! You invited me!"
"Well, yeah," he stepped closer, his shadow falling over you. "That was a lie."
Your eyes widened.
"And what am I supposed to do with that?" you cried. "You disappear on your wedding day and start dumping all this bullshit on me! This is not fair!"
Steve pressed his lips together and looked up at the sky, blinking like he was trying to outrun something. It didn’t work. Tears gathered anyway.
Seeing him like this—actually breaking—hit you harder than you expected.
“My God,” he muttered, voice rough. He shut his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “What am I doing?” He laughed once, hollow. “Is this a mistake?”
The wind swallowed the rest of his words, but you heard them anyway.
“Tell me it wasn’t wrong,” he said quietly. “Tell me letting you go was the right thing.”
Your heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. You looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes.
"I can't give you permission to leave me behind, Steve," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm still trying to find a way out myself—"
Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at you. There was a wealth of exposure there, you were finally seeing him naked. He closed the space between you and took your hand, his fingers sliding across your skin, caressing every inch as if there was a hunger inside him that knew you inside and out.
He traced your wrist, then gently held it. “I would leave it all behind.”
“St—Steve, you’re getting married in five hours,” you stammered, the reality of the clock ticking in the back of your mind.
“There’s no wedding.” He let out a short, wet chuckle, sniffing as he looked at you.
“Steve, you moved on, you—What?” Your eyes widened, your brain struggling to process the words.
“I canceled everything. Yesterday. I—I can’t do this. I told her I couldn't.”
A cold wave of despair and shock washed over you, your throat suddenly as dry as a desert. “You—what? Steve, what did you do?”
“You think I moved on? That’s bullshit. That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Every time I close my eyes, I’m losing you. Again. And again. Every single night is a different version of you leaving me behind.”
“Please don’t do this—" You let out a shaky sigh, reaching for him, but your hand faltered halfway.
He didn't let it fall. He caught your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, his grip firm and bruisingly honest.
“No, shit—listen to me," His voice dropped to that desperate, urgent tone that always made you follow him into the dark. “I wake up reaching for you. I turn over in bed to tell you something, and I realize I’m in a house you’ve never been to, next to a woman who doesn’t know me. Not really.”
He let out a trembling sigh, his gaze searching yours with a terrifying, soul-baring intensity.
“I love Kristen. She is… she is safe. She is peace. But she isn’t everything. She isn’t the person I want to fight for. She isn’t the person I would die for.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of your faded Bowie shirt, his knuckles grazing your skin. "I thought if I did the 'normal' thing, the 'adult' thing, this feeling would eventually pass. But it only got stronger. It’s like a rot, but it’s the only part of me that really feels alive."
Tears blurred your vision until the world was just a smear of gray and gold.
"Steve, you have guests arriving. A lifetime awaits you at the altar," you said, even though your heart begged you to stop.
"I don't care," he said. A glimpse of the old, reckless Steve Harrington flashed in his eyes. He moved even closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm serious. If you tell me that there's still a part of you inside that—if you give me even a glimpse of a reason to believe there's still an 'us,' I'll give up everything.”
Your breath caught. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," he swallowed hard, his voice trembling, "that if you say one word—just one word—I'll end the charade for good. I'll call the priest again, I'll tell the truth to whoever is left, and we can get in that car and leave. Together. Like old times.”
He looked at you then, pleading for you to save him from the life he’d built as a consolation prize.
"Just say it," he whispered, his hand closing around your wrist, pulling you so close you could feel the frantic heat of his body. "Please—babe—please. Say you want me to stay. Say you still love me. Gimme the word, and I'm yours. I've always been yours."
You looked into his teary eyes, your lips trembling, and finally, the dam broke. A sob escaped you—loud, ugly, and honest.
"I've always loved you." Thick, hot tears rolled down your cheeks. “I loved you for every second, every moment I thought I could just leave it behind. It never happened, Steve.”
He shook his head, a single tear rolling down his cheek and resting on his upper lip. He looked like he was finally able to breathe.
“You are the love of my life. Always have been. Always will be.” You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall freely. “There isn’t a life where I’m not completely in love with you.”
“Jeez—you’re killing me here.” Steve looked up at the sky and laughed through the tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand. It was a broken, beautiful sound.
You laughed too, sniffling, both of you a total mess of salt and windblown hair on a roof that had seen too much history.
“I want you to be happy, Steve. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“There’s only one way for that to happen, I guarantee you.” He pulled you back into his chest, his arms locking around you like armor.
The wind hummed around the building, carrying the morning song of birds and the soft sweep of leaves against the pavement below. The world was still there, and it was still complicated, but for the first time in two years, the air didn't feel like smoke.
“What do we do now?” you asked quietly. “They’re still looking for you.”
Steve took a deep breath, his chest expanding against yours. He shook his head slowly, a strange, calm clarity finally settling over his features.
“I don’t know. But I know one thing I need to do first.”
Your eyes glistened, fresh tears blurring the sight of him as you looked up. “What?”
“This.”
His gaze dropped to your lips, and the invitation was written in the way he breathed your name. Automatically, your body responded, your heels lifting as you stood on tiptoe. Steve’s hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gripped the lapels of his wedding jacket. Your other hand found its way into his hair and your fingers tangled in the strands, undoing the carefully groomed layers until he looked like the boy you had loved in the woods.
The kiss was everything the last two years hadn't been.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't polite. It was a catastrophic-violent battle of lips and breath, a desperate, starving hunger that had been growing day by day since you’d left. He held you with a crushing strength, as if he were physically terrified that if he loosened his grip, you’d vanish back into the New York fog.
You squeezed him back, your palms memorizing the solid weight of his shoulders, your hands realizing they knew no other body but this one. You loved each other in a language that required no words, a dialect of shared scars and whispered promises in the dark.
As you closed your eyes, the memories didn't feel like ghosts anymore, they felt like a roadmap.
You saw him leaning against the lockers at Hawkins High School. You saw him standing on your porch in the sweltering summer of '85, looking ridiculous and beautiful with a bouquet of lilies in his hands. You felt his hand find yours in the dark of the movie theater, the palms sweaty and nervous. You tasted the salt of that first kiss in the backseat of his BMW. You felt the suffocating terror of the Upside Down, when he had held you so tightly you thought your ribs might crack because he truly believed the world was ending and you were dying.
And you felt that last, agonizing goodbye—the way he had kissed the single tear on your lip before pressing his mouth to your forehead and letting you walk away.
That was your Steve.
The boy with the golden heart hidden under layers of bravado. The man who had stayed behind to be the protector, the one who became a "weirdo" to save the world, deciphering codes and fighting demons while the rest of the town slept. He was sensitive to the bone, a unique soul that only a few were lucky enough to truly see.
He rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like he needed proof you were real.
With the old, unglamorous town of Hawkins looming around you, with the bruised sky, the swaying trees, and the rising sun as your only audience, the old Squawk building stood as a silent witness to a truth that could no longer be denied.
Summary: from the moment Steve Harrington laid his eyes on you, he knew you were destined to be together. After years of trying to prevent the inevitable, you both got your happy ending.
Warnings: mentions of death, slow burn, angst.
WC: 3.6k
—౨ৎ—
The first time he saw you
Steve Harrington will never forget the day he first met you, and neither would you. the knock at the door is firm but awkward, like whoever's on the other side isn't totally sure how hard they're supposed to knock.
You pause your step mid-hallway, glance toward Dustin's room, then sigh. "Dustin," you call. "Someone's here."
No answer.
Of course.
You open the door instead.
And immediately wish you'd brushed your hair.
A boy stands on the porch, tall, confident in that effortless way, brown hair swept back like it knows it looks good. You know Steve Harrington, hell, every girl in Hawkins knows Steve Harrington. His eyes flick up the second the door opens, and for just a moment, he freezes.
You're in pajamas. Nothing fancy just a pair of shorts and a little oversized band tee. Your hair's pulled into a messy ponytail that slipped halfway loose. you're barefoot, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe.
Steve Harrington swallows.
Then, like a switch flips, he smiles. easy, charming, like he hasn't just short-circuited.
"Hey," he says. "Uh... is Dustin home?"
You smile back, polite and warm. "He is. I can get him."
Before you can turn, hurried footsteps thunder down the hallway.
"No—no, no—you don't have to—"
Dustin appears beside you, eyes widening the second he sees who's standing there.
"Oh my god," he groans. "Why didn't you yell louder?"
You glance at him. "I did. You ignored me."
Steve chuckles quietly, watching the exchange. "You must be the sister."
You nod. "Guilty."
Dustin immediately scowls. "Don't talk to her."
Steve raises an eyebrow. "I said 'hi.'"
"That's how it starts."
You hide a smile, nudging Dustin lightly with your elbow.
Steve laughs. "I'm Steve."
"I know who you are" you reply.
Dustin sighs like this is the worst day of his life. "Can we just go? Please?"
Steve nods, stepping back from the door. "Yeah. Sorry to interrupt."
You smile again, genuinely this time. "Nice meeting you, Steve."
"Nice meeting you too," he says, holding your gaze just a second longer before turning away.
Dustin ushers him down the porch steps like he's escorting a threat.
The door closes behind them.
They're halfway down the driveway when Dustin finally exhales.
"Do not," he warns, pointing a finger at Steve, "say it."
Steve hums, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes forward.
"I just didn't realize you had—"
"STEVE," Dustin snaps.
"—such a hot sister."
Dustin stops dead.
"You are dead," he says flatly. Steve only grins, walking on ahead.
Worth it.
Now, Steve was very aware he had much bigger fish to fry, but for some reason, he couldn't seem to stop thinking about you. The train tracks stretch out in front of them, rusty rails cutting through the trees like they always have. Steve's boots crunch against loose gravel as he walks, yellow gloves pulled tight over his hands, one bucket swinging lazily at his side. Dustin's doing most of the talking, rambling about traps and theories and how this time they're definitely prepared.
Steve's only half-listening.
He glances sideways at Dustin, smirks to himself, and then, the intrusive thought wins.
"Sooo...," Steve starts casually, eyes forward. "Your sister."
Dustin stops walking so abruptly the bucket slams into his knee.
"Nope" he screeches. "Absolutely not"
Steve keeps walking for a second before realizing Dustin isn't beside him anymore. He turns, grinning. "What? I'm just saying."
"That's my sister, dude!"
Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. "Yeah. And?"
Dustin hurries to catch up, face twisted in pure disgust. "You can't just say that! About her!"
Steve hums thoughtfully, like he's considering Dustin's argument. "Pretty sure I just did."
Steve laughs, a sharp, bright sound that echoes down the tracks. "Relax, Henderson. It's a compliment."
"To who?" Dustin demands. "Her? Or me? Because I don't feel complimented."
Steve bumps Dustin lightly with his shoulder. "Hey, man, you should be proud. Good genes."
"That is not how genetics work!"
Steve grins wider, clearly enjoying this way too much. "I mean, come on. She's smart, nice to everyone, helps at the school events, doesn't treat people like garbage—"
"Stop listing things!" Dustin snaps. "Why do you know so much about her?!"
Steve pauses. "Hawkins is... small?"
Dustin squints at him. "You're being weird."
"Uh, i'm being honest," Steve says. "There's a difference."
Dustin groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face. "I trusted you."
Steve chuckles. "Yeah, well. That was your first mistake."
They keep walking, the tracks humming softly under their feet. After a beat, Steve adds, way too casually:
"Im just saying man if she ever asked me out, I'd say yes."
Dustin screams.
"ABSOLUTELY NOT."
Steve laughs so hard he nearly drops his bucket. "Chill man, I'm messing with you." He's not.
"You're dead," Dustin says flatly. "If you even look at her, you're dead."
Steve lifts his gloved hands in mock surrender, still smiling. "Okay, okay. Relax. I'll just admire from a respectful distance."
Dustin mutters, "I hate you."
Steve smirks. "Yeah yeah. Everybody does."
He was getting you. That was a fact.
The snowball
The first time something shift between you and Steve was the night the car smells faintly like hairspray and winter air.
Steve grips the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview mirror where Dustin sits, stiff and overdressed, tux jacket swallowing his shoulders.
And then there's you.
You're in the back seat behind Dustin, knees tucked slightly to the side, curls spilling over your shoulders in big, effortless waves. You didn't overdo it, you never do, but somehow it's perfect anyway. Steve tries not to stare...and fails.
"Okay," you say gently, breaking the silence. "First of all—"
Dustin groans. "another pep talk??"
"you look handsome" you finish, smiling at him. "Like, genuinely. Very distinguished."
Steve nods along immediately. "Yeah, man. Total heartbreaker."
Dustin scoffs. "You're both lying."
"I am not," you insist. "You clean up nice. Whoever the lucky lady is, she's real lucky."
Dustin shifts in his seat, fingers fidgeting with his cuffs. "She's not gonna dance with me."
Steve finally looks back at him properly. "Hey," he says, voice steady. "You showed up. That already takes guts."
You lean forward slightly. "And if she doesn't? Then it's her loss. But I think she will."
Dustin looks between the two of you, clearly trying not to smile. "You really think so?"
Steve nods. "Yeah. I do."
The school comes into view, lights glowing warm against the dark. Music hums faintly through the walls, laughter spilling out every time the doors open.
Steve pulls to the curb and puts the car in park.
Dustin hesitates, hand hovering over the door handle.
You reach out, squeezing his arm. "Hey. Go get em tiger."
Steve adds, softer now, "You got this, Henderson."
Dustin exhales, then nods. "Okay. Okay. Yeah."
He hops out, shuts the door, and jogs toward the entrance without looking back.
The car goes quiet.
Steve watches him disappear inside before glancing at the empty back seat in the mirror & then at you.
"You don't have to sit back there," he says, casual but hopeful.
You don't tease him. You don't make a joke.
You just smile and reach for the door.
The front seat feels warmer when you slide into it, closer than you've ever been. Your knee brushes his, just barely. Steve swallows.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
"You look..." he starts, then stops, rubbing the back of his neck. "You look really nice."
You meet his eyes. "So do you."
He laughs quietly. "That's new."
"No," you say gently. "You always looked nice. Just figure you hear it enough"
He doesn't say anything. Nobody else matters. Only you. The car went silent. Steve's eyes drift back to the school.
The gym windows glow warm against the dark. His gaze lingers longer than it should.
You follow it.
You see her.
Nancy Wheeler, laughing with the others near the edge of the floor and something in your chest tightens.
You look back down at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together once before you still them.
"You should tell her," you say quietly.
Steve blinks, turning toward you. "Tell who?"
You nod toward the gym. "Nancy."
He exhales, understanding dawning. "It's not like that anymore."
You don't look at him. "It used to be."
"Yeah," he admits. "It did."
He leans back against the seat, eyes forward now. "She's my friend. I care about her." He hesitates, then adds, softer, "But I think I know what love feels like now."
That makes you glance up.
Steve doesn't meet your eyes.
"And it was never like that with her."
The words settle between you, heavy and fragile.
You nod once, swallowing, unsure what to say. So you don't say anything at all.
Neither does he.
The car stays quiet, the music from the gym muffled through glass and distance, snow falling slow around you.
But Steve's hand shifts—just slightly—until it rests near yours.
And this time, he doesn't look back at the window.
Steve looks down at his hands, then back up at you. "I'm glad you came tonight."
"Me too," you reply. "I wouldn't miss this."
There's something unspoken between you, everything that didn't happen sooner, everything that almost did, the world narrowed down to this car, this moment.
Steve finally exhales. "Look. I don't know what this is," he admits. "But I know I don't wanna mess it up so-."
You smile, warm and sincere. "-Then don't."
He nods, like that's enough.
Like you're enough.
Inside, the music swells louder. Somewhere in that gym, Dustin is finding his courage. Out here, Steve finds his.
And for the first time, neither of you rushes away from it.
Scoops ahoy
The summer Steve and Robin got a job together, you started seeing a lot more of Steve. Robin is the first person to notice you as you walk into the shop.
Her face lights up instantly. "You made it, and during rush too."
You grin. "Barely. Your uniforms still ridiculous?"
"The hat is a crime," she says, deadpan, sliding closer to the counter. "But at least it comes with free ice cream."
Steve straightens beside her, already watching you like the rest of the world decided to quiet down. Sailor uniform, sleeves rolled up, stupidly charming smile he doesn't even try to hide.
"Hey," he says, softer than he uses with anyone else.
Your friend clocks it immediately.
Like, immediately.
Dustin pops up from behind the counter, scowl already locked in place. "No. Nope. Absolutely not."
You laugh. "Hi to you too, Dustin."
Steve leans forward. "What can I get you?"
Robin raises an eyebrow. "You know, for a guy who once ruled Hawkins High, you're awfully polite when she's around." She says it quiet. But not quiet enough that you can't hear her
Steve doesn't even look at her. "Mint chocolate chip."
You blink. "You remembered."
He shrugs, a little bashful. "Yeah."
Your friends shifts beside you, arms crossing. They're smiling, but tight, the kind that comes from watching King Steve focus on someone who aren't them.
Robin notices.
"Oh," she says slowly, glancing between you and Steve. "Ohhh."
Dustin slams a scoop down. "No. Off limits. She's my sister."
Robin smirks. "Relax, Henderson. She's the one with the power here."
Steve hands you your cone, fingers brushing yours for half a second. It's light, accidental but his hand lingers just long enough to say something neither of you ever did out loud the night of the Snow Ball.
Your friend watches, eyes narrowing.
"So," one of them says sweetly, "you two close?"
You shake your head, quick. "We're friends."
Robin snorts. "That's generous."
Steve clears his throat. "We are."
Dustin points at him. "Hey! Don't encourage this."
You turn to Robin, smiling. "You surviving the summer?"
She brightens instantly. "Barely. But seeing you makes it a tad more bearable"
Steve glances at Robin. "You like her."
Robin grins. "Everyone likes her. You just... like-like her."
Steve groans. "Robin."
Your friend lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "Wow."
"What?" you ask.
She shakes her head. "Nothing. Just—any girl in Hawkins would kill for that kind of attention."
Steve looks embarrassed now, ears pink. "I'm not—"
"Steve," Robin interrupts, gently. "You are."
Dustin folds his arms. "Off. Limits."
You smile softly at all of them, pretending your heart isn't doing something ridiculous.
When you leave, Robin calls after you, "Come back soon, okay?"
You wave. "Always."
Steve watches you go, eyes lingering like he's memorizing the way you move.
Your friend nudges you once you're out of sight. "You're telling me there's nothing there?"
You hesitate. Just a second too long.
"I don't know," you admit quietly.
Behind the counter, Robin smirks.
Steve doesn't deny it.
Everyone knows. Because when King Steve looks at you like that, it's impossible not to.
The end of the Hawkins
That’s what it felt like anyway. The eery end. The field is quiet in the wrong way. Not peaceful, tense. Like the world itself knows what's coming and is bracing for impact.
The campervan's parked on the grass, doors flung open, everyone moving with purpose. Nancy and max check the shotgun again. Lucas tightens the straps on his gear while him and Erica argue about something sharp and dangerous. Eddie and dustin are running about, having a better time than the rest of you. Steve looks oddly jealous about that.
You're sitting on the ground beside Steve.
Between your knees is a glass bottle. Between his hands is a funnel. Gasoline sloshes softly as you pour, the smell sharp and grounding. You focus on keeping your hands steady.
Steve's shoulder brushes yours. Neither of you moves away.
You've been like this all night close but careful, circling something neither of you dared name while the stakes kept climbing higher. Every glance lasts too long. Every touch lingers like it might be the last.
Robin, Nancy, and Eddie are now drifting ahead, their voices overlapping as they talk strategy. Laughter breaks out, nervousness.
You and Steve fall a few paces behind.
The bottle fills. You stop pouring.
Steve caps it, sets it carefully aside but doesn't reach for another. Instead, he stares at the ground for a second too long.
"Hey," you say quietly. "Are you good?"
He exhales through his nose, like he's been holding his breath for a hot minute.
"Can you promise me something?" The words come out of nowhere. No joke. No grin. Just Steve being bare and honest. Your scared.
You turn to him fully now. "What?"
He swallows. You see it this time. "If we make it out of this," he says slowly, "you gotta let me take you out."
Your heart stutters. Steve finally looks at you. Not the confident babysitter. Not King Steve. Just a guy who's been through too much and might not get another chance.
"And not as a maybe," he adds. "Not as a 'we'll see.' A real date. Dinner. Something normal. I just-" he stops. He sounds choked up. "I just need to know I didn't imagine all of this."
You search his face. The way his eyes flick over yours like he's memorizing you. Like he's afraid this moment might be the last quiet one you get.
"Steve," you whisper.
He rushes on, words tumbling now. "I know it's a terrible time to say this. Believe me, I know. But I've almost died, like, a lot, and every time I think—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "Every time I think about what I'd regret not saying, it's you."
The noise of the others fades. The field narrows to just this space between you. You reach for his hand before you even realize you're doing it. His fingers tighten instantly around yours.
"You didn't imagine it," you say softly. "None of it."
He lets out a shaky laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You squeeze his hand. "And if we make it out of here... I'd like that. I'd like it a lot."
Steve's shoulders sag with relief, like something heavy finally loosened its grip.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. Good...cool...cool" he try's to play it off. You're not buying it.
He hesitates, then adds, just as honest, "I'm scared."
"I know," you reply. "Me too."
He turns his hand so your fingers lace properly this time. Solid. Real.
"But we're still here," he says.
"And we're not done yet," you answer.
Ahead of you, Dustin calls Steve's name. Robin glances back, eyes sharp, catching the way your hands are joined. She smiles, small but knowing. She turns away without saying a word.
Steve gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go.
"Promise," he says.
You nod. "Promise."
The promise
You both kept your promises. They're still here. But not all of them.
That truth sits heavy in the spaces between conversations, in the empty chair no one touches, in the way Eddie's name is spoken softer than the others.
But you and Steve survived.
And Steve keeps his word. He knocks at exactly seven. Not 7:03, Not seven-ish. Seven sharp.
You hear it from your room and your heart stutters anyway.
When you open the door, Steve is standing there like he stepped out of a dream he barely let himself believe in. He's dressed neatly, nothing flashy, just clean lines, careful choices. His hair is perfect in that unfair way of his, and in his hands?Flowers.
A full bouquet. Thoughtful. Beautiful. Chosen with care, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you always look beautiful to him. Always have, but tonight? Tonight you're something else entirely. Soft and radiant and real, like the world finally gave him something good and didn't snatch it away. His chest tightens.
"Hi," he says, voice quiet but steady.
"Hi," you reply, smiling like you've been waiting for this moment your whole life.
Behind you, Dustin clears his throat loudly.
Steve straightens instantly.
Dustin steps forward, hands on his hips. "Okay. Rules."
Steve nods seriously. "Absolutely."
"You treat her like a lady."
"Always."
"You hurt her, that means emotionally or otherwise, I will end you."
Steve doesn't even blink. "Fair."
"And she's home by eleven."
You groan. "Dustin—"
"I said eleven," Dustin insists.
Steve glances at you, then back at Dustin. "Eleven. I promise."
Dustin studies him for a long second, then sighs. "Okay." He steps aside. "Have fun."
Steve offers you his arm. You take it without hesitation.
The restaurant is small and warm, candles flickering softly on every table. Live music hums gently in the background, something slow and tender, like the night itself is rooting for you.
Steve pulls out your chair. Your fingers brush when he hands you the menu. Neither of you rush to pull away.
"I can't believe we're actually here," he admits quietly.
You smile. "Me neither."
Dinner is easy. Laughter comes naturally. You talk about nothing and everything, memories, plans, the quiet future neither of you dared imagine until now. The grief is still there, sitting with you, but it doesn't own the night.
At one point, Steve reaches across the table, thumb brushing your knuckles.
"I thought I lost my chance," he says softly. "So many times."
You squeeze his hand. "You didn't."
He looks at you like he's memorizing the moment. "I love you," he says. No fear. No hesitation.
Your eyes shine. "I love you too."
And it feels... normal. Just two teenagers, in love.
After monsters and fear and loss, it feels extraordinary just to be two people in love, sharing a meal, holding hands under candlelight.
And at 10:58pm, Steve walks you back to your door.
He laughs softly. "I promised."
You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, slow, sure, real. "Thank you for keeping your word."
He rests his forehead against yours. "I always will." As he walks away, Steve knows something deep in his bones.
Home sweet home
And that brings you to today. The house is small. The paint's still a little uneven where Steve insisted he could "totally do it himself," and the porch light flickers sometimes but it's yours.
You're still in Hawkins but this time on your own terms.
Steve drops his keys in the bowl by the door, toeing off his shoes with a satisfied sigh. The sun's setting slow outside the kitchen window, turning everything gold.
"Practice went good today," he says, shrugging off his jacket. "No broken bones. So I guess that's a win."
You smile from where you're rinsing dishes. "You're a natural, Coach Harrington."
He laughs, a little bashful. He places a soft kiss on your forehead.
Life is... sweet.
Too sweet sometimes, in that way that makes you pause just to feel it.
Steve leans against the counter, watching you. The quiet hum of the fridge fills the space between you. You catch him staring.
"What?" you ask softly.
"Nothing," he says. Then, more honest, "Everything."
Your heart does that thing it's been doing ever since the world stopped ending.
Steve shifts his weight. In his back pocket, there's a small brown box. He's checked it three times today. Still there. Still real.
He's too scared to leave it in the house in case you find it. So the ring has come everywhere with him, to work, to the grocery store, to every single function he's attended the past month.
He's been waiting, and not waiting for perfection, not for fireworks. Just a moment that feels like yours. A moment that feels safe.
You dry your hands and turn to him. "You're awfully quiet."
He smiles, that familiar gentle curve of his mouth that only you ever seem to get anymore. "Just thinking."
You step closer, resting your forehead against his chest. His arms come around you automatically, like muscle memory.
You don't see the way his hand tightens slightly behind your back.
You don't see the way his heart pounds.
Dustin's voice echoes in his head from weeks ago, half serious, half grinning:
If you don't marry her, I will never forgive you. Oh and yeah. You've got my blessing. Steve had laughed. Then swallowed hard.
Now, holding you in the quiet of your shared kitchen, he knows.
Summary: Steve Harrington, a devoted coach, a doting father, and hopelessly in love with his wife. Steve counts down the minutes until he gets home to see his two special girls.
Warnings: breeding kink if you squint. Pure fluff, Steve loves his girls. Slight spoilers for season 5 episode 5.
WC: 1.6k
—౨ৎ—
Steve Harrington used to think the best sound in the world was the loud rev of his Beamer.
He’d been so wrong.
Now, the best sound in the world was the soft creak of the front door when he pushed it open at the end of the day, the quiet hum of the house he’d built, and the knowledge that his whole heart was waiting for him on the other side.
Steve dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, rolling his shoulders back, exhaustion settling in the good way. Coaching middle schoolers was a lot. He loved it though, he loved watching awkward kids gain confidence, loved being the adult he wished he’d had, but it also drained him. Still, every single day, he drove home with a stupid smile on his face, counting down the minutes.
Because home meant his two favourite girls.
“Baby?” he called softly, already toeing off his sneakers. His voice automatically lowered, gentle, like the house itself might be sleeping.
You appeared in the hallway, hair a mess, one of his old sweatshirts hanging off your shoulder, and Steve’s chest actually ached. God, he loved you. It hit him every time. He still couldn’t believe he got to come home to this, to you.
“There he is,” you whispered, smiling.
Steve walked up to you. Cupping your face in his hands and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your lips.
“Hi, baby,” he murmured. “I missed you all day.”
You laughed quietly. “You were gone six hours, Steve.”
“Worst six hours of my life,” he said seriously, then grinned when you rolled your eyes. “Where’s my girl?”
A tiny sound came from the living room. Steve’s entire expression softened.
Jayne.
The name was a no brainer when they found out they were having a baby girl. El saved you and Steve’s lives many times. Jayne wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her.
Steve stepped past you and carefully lifted his daughter from her bassinet, holding her like she was made of glass.. She was so small. Barely a month old, his throat tightened, like it always did.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, forehead resting against her tiny head. “Daddy’s home.”
Jayne stirred, one hand curling around his finger, and Steve just melted.
You watched from the couch, heart full, as Steve Harrington. The Steve Harrington, now Dad, an absolute softie, rocked your baby back and forth with a silly smile on his face.
“I just can’t believe we made her” he said quietly, glancing at you. “Me and you. She’s perfect.”
You joined him, leaning into his side. Steve kissed your temple, lingering.
“I love this life,” he admitted. “I love my job, yeah. but this?” He looked down at you, then back at Jayne. “You. her. You’re my world.”
You felt his hand find yours, squeezing gently, grounding. He never stopped touching you, like he needed to make sure you were real.
“It was hard leaving this morning,” he went on. “Every day it’s hard. I hate walking out that door knowing you’re here alone, still recovering, taking care of her. I wish I could just stay.”
You smiled softly. “She misses you too. She’s a daddy’s girl.”
His smile softened. You knew he was close to tears. This was a ritual at this point. Getting soppy teary eyed.
Steve kissed you then before resting his chin on your head. Jayne slept peacefully between you, safe and loved, wrapped up in the quiet certainty of a man who adored his wife, worshipped her, and loved his daughter with his whole soul.
Steve settled deeper into the couch, tugging you gently into his side until your legs were tangled together and your shoulder fit perfectly beneath his chin. Jayne was cradled against his chest, tiny and warm, her cheek squished into his T-shirt.
He looked down at her, her eyes were now fully open. “Well, hello there,” he murmured, voice dropping into that soft, stupid, sweet tone he only ever used with the two of you. “Did you miss daddy today? He missed you.”
Jayne made a small noise, her lips puckering, and Steve’s smile went slow and reverent.
“Yeah,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over her little fist. “I love you too, sweetheart. So much. You don’t even know yet, but you will. I’m gonna tell you every day.”
You watched him, heart swelling in the most beautiful way.
“She’s gonna be trouble,” he went. “Just like her mom. Already got me wrapped around her finger, and she’s not even a month old. That’s some real power, Jayne.”
You laughed quietly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
Steve glanced up at you, eyes warm. “So,” he asked softly, “how were my girls today?”
You shifted a little closer, careful not to disturb Jayne. “Good. Tired. She ate like a champ this morning, then slept forever. I wonder where she got that from” you say sarcastically.
Steve nodded proudly, like that was his accomplishment. “That’s my girl.”
“And,” you added, smiling, “Uncle Dustin came over.”
Steve snorted. “Of course he did.”
“He brought her a tiny dinosaur onesie,” you said. “Says it’s ‘important she understands her roots.’”
Steve laughed under his breath, careful not to wake Jayne. “I swear to God, that kid.”
Jayne stirred at the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering open just a little. Steve instantly softened again, lowering his head.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, Jaynie. Uncle Dustin came to see you today. Bet he talked your ear off, huh?.”
You rolled your eyes. “But you love him.”
“I do,” Steve admitted. “But I love you more.” His gaze lifted to yours, serious now. “And her. Always.”
He leaned in and kissed your lips, then pressed another kiss to Jayne’s head, lingering like he was memorizing the feel of her.
The house was quiet. The world felt small and perfect. Steve’s arms were warm around both of you, holding everything he loved most right where it belonged.
You shifted like you were about to get up, careful hands already bracing against the couch. “I should start on dinner before it gets too late—”
Steve tightened his hold immediately.
“Nope. I don’t think so” he said, firm but soft, chin dropping to your shoulder. “Absolutely not.”
You laughed. “Steve”
“Baby,” he murmured, voice lower now, more honest. “I’ve been away from you all day. I don’t want you out of my sight for even a second.” He pressed a kiss just behind your ear. “We’ll order a pizza. You stay right here. With me.”
Your heart did that stupid, fluttery thing it always did when he talked like that.
“You sure?” you asked, quieter now.
Steve leaned back just enough to look at you, eyes full and certain. “Positive.”
Jayne squirmed a little between you, and Steve smiled down at her like she was in on the conversation. “Hear that, sweetheart? Mommy’s not allowed to move. Doctor’s orders.”
You snorted. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I teach sex ed,” he corrected. “It’s basically the same thing.”
He ordered the pizza, one handed, never once shifting Jayne from his chest, and soon the three of you were tucked into the couch, a quiet movie playing that neither of you really watched. Steve’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb moving back and forth absentmindedly, grounding. Every so often he’d glance down at Jayne, whispering little things to her like she could understand every word.
“You’re so loved,” he told her softly.
“Daddy’s always gonna be right here.”
“You picked the best mom, you know that?”
Each word landed straight in your chest.
By the time the movie credits rolled, Jayne was fast asleep. Steve carried her to the nursery like it was sacred work, movements slow and careful, whispering to her the whole way.
Even after the door clicked shut, Steve didn’t stop.
Steve paused in the nursery doorwayy, hand braced on the frame like he needed the extra second. He glanced back at you, eyes warm, a devilish grin plastered all over his lips.
“One down,” he said thoughtfully.
You crossed your arms. “Steve.”
He chuckled and walked over, hands settling easily on your hips, thumbs brushing slow and affectionate. “What? I’m just stating facts. Five more to go.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’m serious,” he said softly, gaze dipping over you like he was starved of your touch. “You know you looked so good pregnant, right?”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh my god.”
“No, I mean it,” Steve insisted, leaning in close. “I don’t think I ever shut up about it. Your big belly, how swollen your tits were.” He kissed your cheek, then murmured, “Still do, but I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about getting you pregnant ten times a day.”
You nudged his chest. “We are not making another baby tonight.”
He raised his hands in surrender, smiling. “Okay, okay. Baby-making is off the table.” Then, quieter, playful and warm, “But a little fun? Spoil my favourite girl.”
His forehead rested against yours. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me.”
You sighed, smiling despite yourself, fingers curling into his shirt. Another baby could wait. But he couldn’t wait to rip your clothes off.
I am actually so overwhelmed by the love everyone’s leaving on the fics I posted today🥲 I’ve wrote for myself for years now and knowing people are actually reading it is insane to me but in the best way🫶 THANK YOU!!
a.k.a the one where coach!Steve makes you grade papers while he fucks you from behind.
PAIRING - coach!Steve Harrington x teacher!Reader
WARNINGS - 18+; mdni. Smut with a whisper of a plot: unprotected p in v, semi-public sex, fem!reader orgasm. Reader is wearing a dress. No use of y/n.
WORD COUNT - 1.3K
A/N - I’m running on three hours of sleep, all because I couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. Send help.
The classroom was unusually peaceful for a weekday. No scraping chairs or half-whispered gossip. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft scratch of red pen against paper as you scribbled notes in the margins and circled misspelled words.
Midday sunlight slanted across the empty desks, dust particles floating lazily through the air.
It was the kind of quiet that made you forget you were still at school—right up until the soft creak of the door caught your attention.
With your ballpoint pen nipped between your teeth you raised your gaze, an amused smile replacing your curiosity as you saw him slipping into the classroom.
It looked good on him. The light blue jacket and a blue cap. The khakis, and the way his eyes darkened slightly as his gaze met yours.
"Have I ever told you how good you look like this?" His voice was a breathless chuckle as he leaned against the door, casual as ever.
You raised an amused brow. "Grading papers?"
"Alone in your classroom," he grinned.
"Steve," you shook your head with your laughter, yet as you spoke, you knew your voice was everything but convincing. "I can't."
"Because you're busy grading papers." His voice was warm with his laughter.
"I have to finish before the next glass."
"What do you think I'm here for?"
You scoffed out a laugh, and yet you knew he knew. The way you were already squeezing your thighs together under your desk. It was obvious, wasn't it? From the way that you nipped your bottom lip between your teeth just to stop the breathless call for his name from escaping your lips.
You needed him.
Fuck, you needed him.
And yet—the gesture taking everything you had in you—you shook your head with a soft chuckle. "I have to finish these, Harrington."
It was then that he pushed off the wall to walk to you, his steps slow. Then, that he spoke, his voice growing deeper. "So don't stop grading."
"Don't stop—?"
"You're gonna keep grading your papers," he wet his lips. "While you take my cock, bent over your desk like I know you're craving to be."
Fuck.
"Steve," your laughter was breathless, and yet in his eyes you saw it.
He was dead serious as he towered over you, his thumb finding your bottom lip to slide along it.
Teasing.
Borderline bullying, and you both knew it was all it would take for you to give in: all it did take for you to give in.
His lips, warm and soft, were nothing short of possessive as they found yours as soon as you stood up from your seat; his hands greedy as he spun you around and guided you to bend over the desk.
The wood against your hips felt bruising, yet as you felt Steve's hands running on the backs of your thighs, already managing to coax a moan from your lips, you knew you'd love to see the marks your quickie would leave behind.
"Fuck, sweetheart." His voice was low as his hands pulled the hem of your dress over your behind, his movements slow, the man savouring the reveal. "Could never get tired of seeing you like this."
"Steve—"
Under his burning gaze you felt exposed, and from it, your walls clenched around nothing.
Desperate.
So goddamn needy for the man who'd made you glow so many times during the past three months that you had spent doing this.
Sneaking around the school, fucking against this surface and that in your ravenous desire for each other.
Fuck, it was wrong. It was so wrong, but as Steve's fingers hooked around the fabric of your panties to yank them aside…
Nothing had ever felt as right.
"Jesus Christ, honey," his chuckle was breathless. "So fucking ready for me."
"I need you," was all you managed.
"So then pick up your pen—," he hummed, his grin audible in his voice. "And keep grading."
Fuck.
Your hands shaking from pure adrenaline and desire, you wrapped your fingers around the ballpoint pen. Your eyes scanning the paper you tried to remember where you'd left off, yet as Steve's cock, goddamn throbbing, brushed against your entrance the scribbles on the page might as well have been Chinese.
The feeling was heaven, and from the way he eased into you, you found the death of a single thought that had ever existed in your mind.
"Fuck, darling. There you go—" His hands were gentle on your hips, his thumbs drawing circles through the fabric of your dress as he pulled out, only to slide back into your slick folds. "So fucking good. Taking it all so well—"
You were, your body opening up around him in nothing but excitement to welcome him back.
And yet, you knew.
With a desperate shake of your head you tried your best to clear up your mind enough to focus on the paper in front of you.
The words were English once more, and with a relieved breath passing your lips you managed to make sense of the sentences.
And that is when Steve picked up his pace.
"Fucking—," you clamped your hand across your mouth, knowing that the walls of the classroom were surely not thick enough to conseal the amount of pleasure Steve's cock in you was suddenly drowning you in.
"C'mon, honey, I know you can focus for me," Steve's chuckle was deep, thick with amusement. "You've got ten minutes."
Your laughter was a breathless sound as you shook your head, a knit between your brows. "Fuck you, Harrington—"
"You are, baby, but that's not what you can focus on right now."
Asshole.
Drawing in a deep breath, you focused your gaze back on the assignment, but the pleasure of him brushing his cock against the spot that he knew made you come undone in the matter of minutes—
No.
No, no, no.
You could do this.
Your heart racing in your chest and your thighs quivering, you nodded your head. You drew a circle around a misspelled word, and though the lines were a little shaky, it was good enough.
"There you go, baby. That wasn't so hard, now was it?"
"Steve, if you don't shut up right now—," you managed, yet the touch of amusement in your voice was audible.
Just as your surprise was, as his finger slid under you and found your clit.
"Fuck, Steve—"
"Look at you, you're so close," he chuckled.
You were, in both meanings of the words. Only a few more sentences left on the paper. Only a few more strokes of Steve's cock in you: a few more lazy circles drawn around your clit and you knew, you knew you would be coming undone.
"C'mon, baby. Finish for me—"
Fuck.
Your hands shaking, you scribbled down a letter and a few words at the top right corner of the paper.
Your lips parting in a desperate call for his name, you came around Steve's cock. Moaning, gasping, and nothing short of glowing as he made your orgasm last and last, bumping into you, his thrusts slow and gentle.
"See," he then chuckled as he slipped out of you, reaching over for something on your desk. "Told you you'd finish in time."
Your star stickers.
"Steve, those are—"
"For your star students," he uttered, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he smacked a golden star on his forehead. "And you're the one who just graded me A+."
Confusion written on your features you followed his gaze down to the paper on your desk, to its corner that now read: A+. Good job, Steve!
"You know, I hope you’ve got some correction fluid," he then grinned, "or poor Derek? He's gonna be real confused."
⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ stevie 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ @libragardenn - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
