project home base (II) | steve harrington
summary: Four Times You’re Found Out (And One Time You’re Home) OR: A collection of scenes where people you love find out about your relationship (maybe they already knew)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!(byers)reader
word count: 8.3k
warning(s): some swears, plot inaccuracies, definitely canon divergent (please don't come for me), pretend steve and robin still work at family video....also I have no idea when steve's birthday is supposed to be, but just bear with me for the plot, highly unedited, I still apologize for the poor writing (English is unfortunately my first language)
a/n: I am back with a part two!! I just wanted to say a huge thank you for the love you've given project parenthood; it's surreal and very much humbling. I adore getting to hear from y'all and would more than love for that to continue with this one. As always, feedback and comments are highly appreciated, and my inbox is open for anything you may need <3
If you haven’t already, read part one: project parenthood?
I. The Party
This moment feels intensely like deja vu, sitting in Mike Wheeler’s basement—waiting for the start of what you’re sure will be an eventful evening —except, in the last few weeks, so much has changed. Namely, your relationship with Steve. You still catch yourself staring at him, half in disbelief, half in contentment at the thought that he’s actually your boyfriend.
Boyfriend. What a loaded word, you think, as your mind drifts deeper into the sense of familiarity with your current setting.
The Wheeler house, however, remains unchanged by the shift in your evolving dynamic. It’s warm in that familiar, musty, lived-in way it always is — like old carpet, dusty board games, and the faint, perpetual scent of pizza grease that’s soaked into the fabric of the basement couches. The mismatched Christmas lights Will hung in November still twinkle overhead, softening the space into something cozy and oddly safe. Mike declared just days ago that he never wanted to take them down, and so, they remain…another constant despite the obvious changes.
If you’re being honest, you really shouldn’t be here. Or—okay, fine—you should be here, because it’s movie night and you promised Will you’d show up. But, you probably shouldn’t be pressed against Steve Harrington on the old couch like two magnets with no intention of separating.
The movie hasn’t even started yet, but everyone’s getting settled, which actually means Dustin and Mike are arguing about seating arrangements and snack distributions (Dustin won’t stop gatekeeping the Doritos) and Max is threatening to throw Lucas off the couch if he touches her foot one more time. El simply watches the two of you with curiosity in her gaze, as if she’s stumbled upon something precious—something only she has noticed.
Steve sits beside you, thigh touching yours, shoulder brushing yours, and even though you’re trying to look casual, your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo. You thought once you’d kissed him for the first time, this feeling might go away, that you might not be as nervous around him. Clearly, that had been wrong…because now, you feel everything tenfold.
You suppose nervous might not be the right word to describe it. Steve makes you feel alive, like every nerve in your body has been set alight. And you can’t help the spark that shoots up your spine as his breath drifts along the side of your neck.
He leans in, voice dropping just for you. “I think Mike’s about to challenge Dustin to a Doritos duel.”
You stifle a laugh. “It’s always those two.”
“Yeah well,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his, dipping his hand into the popcorn bowl, “we have the better seats and the better snacks.”
“Because you got here early and claimed your spot,” you point out. And it’s true, he did. He made sure of it.
“Because,” he corrects softly, “I wanted to sit with you. And I knew if I got here any later, you’d have six teens fighting for your attention. Who am I to compete with that?”
You hate how fast that hits you. You hate even more how warm you feel and how you can’t stop smiling.
It’s been a few weeks now — a few weeks of Steve’s hand on your back in passing, a few weeks of stolen kisses in quiet corners, a few weeks of him picking you up from school or work with that soft look he gets only for you. A few weeks of dating.
And somehow, miraculously, none of the kids have figured it out. At least not officially.
Steve shifts, like he can’t help gravitating toward you. His hand drifts onto your knee, thumb brushing a slow arc just above your jeans, the popcorn bowl now discarded onto the coffee table. Your chest warms at the proximity and you inch closer. It’s subtle, small, but your entire body reacts like he whispered something dirty in your ear.
He looks at your lips and you look at his. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t—
“—Oh my god.”
The statement detonates in the basement, multiple pairs of eyes shooting toward the source of the noise.
You jolt so hard you nearly fall off the couch, Steve’s hand flying off you like you’re radioactive.
Dustin stands frozen near the bottom of the stairs, clutching his bag of chips to his chest. His eyes are huge. His jaw drops open so wide it might hit the floor. The gears in his mind aren’t just turning…they’re spinning.
Mike appears right behind him, finally done arguing. He sees you and Steve sitting suspiciously close, and immediately recoils like he’s walked in on something he never wanted to see.
“No,” Mike mutters, hands waving in mock disgust. He’s put the pieces together. “Oh no, no, no—this is worse than the mom and dad thing.”
Lucas joins them, squinting at the two of you with the precision of a detective. “Did we interrupt something?”
Max pushes past them. “What the hell is going—”
She stops. She sees Steve sitting close enough to share breath with you. She looks at your face, then at his. Then at the space between you, or rather, the lack of it.
Max throws her hands in the air triumphantly. “Called it!” She announces to the ceiling.
You choke. “Called what—?”
“Nope, no, don’t even try,” Max cuts you off, pointing accusingly, wagging her index finger with gross enthusiasm. “Something’s changed,” she narrows her eyes at you in a smug way, “You two are together.”
The way the word together falls from her lips leaves no room for interpretation. You’ve been caught…all thanks to Steve’s wandering gaze. And hey, maybe you’re a little to blame. Just maybe.
Steve turns pink so fast it’s almost impressive. “We’re— it’s not— I mean we—”
Will slides into your eyeline, blinking in confusion. “Wait. The two of you…?”
He looks between you. Very slowly. Very carefully. He can read you better than anyone on the planet—and it’s clear as day.
His eyes widen with soft, dawning realization.
“Oh,” he breathes. “You are.”
Your stomach twists with something warm and embarrassing and too precious.
Mike shakes his head, looking directly at Steve “Oh man, this is worse than when you dated my sister. (Y/n)’s like, like—” he struggles to find a description he thinks fits.
“–like a better sister?” Lucas supposes.
“Yeah.” Mike affirms, hoping no one will let that little jibe get back to Nancy.
Sure, he loves his sister, she’s great…you’re just much cooler. On any given day, you’re also much nicer to him. You put up with his shit without making him feel like a nuisance, like you actually care about him. His next words hang in the air, “And somehow I can say they’ve both dated Steve Harrington.”
At the accusation, Dustin drops the Doritos, finally picking up on everyone’s deductions. He actually drops them.
“YOU’RE DATING?” Dustin yells so loudly you think you see the Christmas lights flicker. “How long has this been happening?” The onslaught of questions begins. “Why didn’t I know about this the second it happened? Were you ever going to tell us? Or—or were you just going to continue canoodling like you thought we’d be stupid enough not to notice?”
You send Dustin an unimpressed look that says ‘a little late on the uptake kid,’ but you smile nonetheless.
“Canoodling?” Steve sputters, because of course that’s the only thing he’d take away from Dustin’s word vomit. “Who even says canoodling?”
“I DO,” Dustin snaps. “WHEN I CATCH TWO PEOPLE CANOODLING IN THE DARK.”
“We weren’t canoodling,” you protest weakly, barely caring enough to try and stave him off.
“You so were,” Mike argues with a smirk. “Your knees were touching.” You roll your eyes, how scandalous…your knees were touching.
“We’re allowed to sit next to people!” You say, defensive, flustered, and lying horribly.
Max gestures violently. “Your faces were doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Steve asks.
“The thing,” she says, pointing between your eyes. “The gross lovey-dovey face thing.”
“Lovey-dovey face thing?” You repeat it like a question you’ll never know the answer to.
“You’re doing it right now!” She exclaims. This is getting ridiculous.
Lucas confirms, nodding. “I first noticed it last week. I just didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Mike to scream.”
Mike glares at him. “Thanks?” He accepts with contempt. As if Dustin hadn’t been the one to just have a meltdown.
Steve runs a hand through his hair — nervous and sheepish. “Okay. Okay, yes. We’re dating.”
Smiles light up on each of the kids’ faces. El’s grin is the biggest as she steps forward suddenly — quiet, certain — and wraps her arms around you.
“I’m happy for you,” she says simply.
And somehow that hits harder than any of the chaos.
Will beams. “Me too.”
Lucas grins. “Steve’s good. For you.”
Max shrugs, but her smile gives her away. “Yeah, I guess he’s not the worst.”
Mike crosses his arms. “Fine. But if you start making out in here, I’m leaving. And this is my fucking house.”
And as if summoned by the universe—Dustin points at you two dramatically. “Hey! They were about to, if I hadn’t said something.”
“DUSTIN,” you blurt.
He screeches. “Don’t deny it. I have a girlfriend—I know what almost kissing looks like!”
Steve hides his face in his hands. “You’re such an ass Henderson.” He takes a second to glance from teen to teen, mentally sizing each of them up. “And just so you know, I hate all of you.” His voice comes out muffled.
“No he doesn’t,” Will says gently to the group. “He’s really happy.”
Steve peeks at you through his fingers. Softly, shyly. How can this guy be yours? Your heart flips and you take his hand — openly now, boldly now — fingers lacing with his.
“We weren’t really hiding it,” you say.
“Good,” Lucas deadpans. “Because if you were, you're both horrible liars.”
Max nods. “Terrible job, concerning honestly.”
And as the chaos swells again, as Dustin interrogates Steve about how many times you’ve kissed and Mike threatens to cover his ears, Will catches your eye.
He smiles. It’s full of warmth and pride. It’s comfortable. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, makes the corners crinkle, and somehow feels like a hug without a touch.
In that brief moment, all the noise around you fades. You can see it: the genuine happiness in him, the quiet comfort that comes from knowing you’re with someone who treats you right. He’s not just proud that you’ve found someone; he’s proud of you—for letting yourself be happy, for trusting Steve, for navigating all the messiness of the past years and finding solace, something truly good.
There’s a softness to him now, a subtle shift in posture, like he’s carrying a small, secret joy that he doesn’t need to announce. And even though the teasing continues around you, you know he’s silently cheering both of you on, hoping that this—whatever this is—sticks, hoping it brings you the same kind of peace he feels in that smile.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says softly, and dear god, how you love him.
And in that moment, surrounded by noise and teasing and absolute chaos, you realize you don’t mind them knowing at all.
Not if it means Steve’s hand in yours. Not if it means this.
• ж • ж •
II. Nancy & Jonathan
The Byers kitchen feels unusually peaceful tonight.
The overhead light hums softly, spilling warm gold across the counter where half a loaf of bread, an abandoned jar of peanut butter, and one crooked salt shaker sit like relics of someone’s late-night snacking, Will’s definitely. That kid loves peanut butter more than Steve, and that’s saying something.
The house itself is quiet — Joyce is out, Will’s in his room sketching, and the Party won’t descend for at least another hour. As for Jonathan, well, he’s Jonathan. You stopped asking questions about his whereabouts a long time ago. He’s always been too independent for his own good.
Everything just feels…safe.
You lean back against the counter, smiling despite yourself as Steve stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes he absolutely created zero of. He insisted. You let him.
There’s music playing on the little radio — soft, gentle, something like Fleetwood Mac if the signal wasn’t so staticky.
He turns slightly toward you, a dish towel in one hand. “So, remind me again how I got tricked into doing your chores?”
“Tricked?” you scoff. “You literally volunteered.”
“I volunteered,” he says, throwing the towel over his shoulder, “because you smiled at me in that please help me, my life is chaos way you like to do.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he insists, stepping closer. “It works every time.” You know he’s a sucker for you, just as you are for him. One glance from those soft brown eyes…and it’s over.
He’s standing between your knees now, hands braced lightly on the counter beside your hips. The small light over the sink paints him in soft yellows— hair glowing, eyes warm enough to melt something inside you.
You try not to grin like an idiot. You fail.
He leans in a little. “I like being here, you know.”
Your breath catches, a low hum rumbling in your tone, “I’m glad.”
He tilts his head, lips inches from yours—
The front door clicks. You hear two sets of footsteps, and then a voice.
“Mom? You home?” Jonathan’s voice calls.
Steve leaps, bumping the counter.
It’s still strange to see Steve Harrington like this, flustered and wary, like a man who’s stared down monsters without blinking is suddenly at the mercy of your younger brother. And part of you understands why. You’ve always thought of Jonathan as gentle, maybe a little (or a lot) introspective, the kind of person who folds inward rather than takes up space. But that’s only half the truth.
Jonathan is meek with you. He’s always been soft-spoken, careful, the kind of brother who listens more than he talks, who steps in front of you without making it obvious that he’s doing it. With you, his protectiveness is quiet. He shows it through a hand on your shoulder, or a look that asks are you okay? without demanding an answer.
But wiith Steve, it’s different.
With Steve, you know Jonathan remembers everything.
There’s a history of pain there. And maybe some of it has been left in the past, but some of it will never leave him.
You’re well aware how Jonathan feels. He’s told you.
He remembers the hallways at Hawkins High and the way Steve used to move through them like he owned the place. He remembers the laughter that followed him and the distance between the Harrington house and the Byers house, measured not just in streets but in silence, in absence, in the way some people were allowed to be careless because someone else was always there to catch them. Because Steve always had something to fall back on if he failed.
Kids like you and Jonathan, coming from nothing but the blood, sweat, and tears of a struggling single mom — you didn’t have that luxury. And a part of Jonathan has always resented Steve for that.
On top of it all, Jonathan never forgot the things Steve said back then. The way his friends laughed. The way Nancy cried. For a long time, you used to hate Steve too.
And even though Steve isn’t that kid anymore — even though Jonathan knows that, has watched him change, watched him show up again and again — history doesn’t disappear just because time passes. You know that.
So when Jonathan and Nancy appear in the doorway — Jonathan holding a stack of film canisters, Nancy with her coat half-off her shoulders and hair windswept from the cold, you don’t know what to think.
Jonathan opens his mouth to greet you, then notices the scene.
You’re perched on the counter. Steve’s too close, much too close for his liking. There’s a warm glow, a gentle energy rumbling in the air. Two mugs of hot chocolate rest on the counter. The towel on Steve’s shoulder looks so domestic. And Steve’s entire soul is radiating guilty boyfriend energy, sheepish lopsided grin and all.
Jonathan stops dead. Nancy stops beside him.
The moment hangs in the air like a soap bubble.
Jonathan’s left eye twitches. Something in his chest tightens. Not with anger exactly. With instinct.
He can’t help the feeling that climbs up his throat. You’re his sister. You’ve always been the one thing Jonathan never questioned protecting. Even when he was exhausted, or scared. Even when the world kept asking more of him than he had to give. And now — somehow — Steve Harrington has crossed into that sacred territory.
Jonathan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t puff out his chest. He just stops. Takes it in. He measures the space between you and Steve with the same careful attention he’s always used when something matters. It’s honestly beginning to unnerve you more than anything else. The silence.
You can almost see the conflict play out behind his eyes — the past colliding with the present. The person Steve was, with the man he’s becoming. The quiet fear that comes with letting someone else take on a role Jonathan’s always filled himself, despite being a year younger than you.
Steve shifts under his gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, of his posture, of how close he’s standing to you. For once, he doesn’t look like the confident king of Hawkins. He looks like someone who knows this moment matters.
Nancy’s eyebrows rise very, very gently, equally taking in this scene before her. She knows just what Steve looks like when he cares, when he’s in love.
Jonathan notices it too, despite wanting so badly to ignore the glaring signs. And maybe that’s what softens him — not immediately, not fully — but enough.
Because Steve isn’t smirking. He isn’t posturing. He isn’t pretending. He’s nervous.
If anything, Jonathan knows what it looks like when someone cares more than they’re comfortable admitting. He’s spent his whole life being that person.
“Harrington.” The Byers boy nods in apprehension, standing closer to Nancy than he was before.
Steve attempts a casual wave that looks more like a man being held hostage. “Hey guys! Just—uh—helping. With dishes. Love… dishes.”
Jonathan stares. “Do you?”
“For sure man,” Steve says instantly.
You drag a hand down your face. Perfect. Fantastic. This is exactly how you wanted this to go. You’ve just spent about a minute or two in utter silence, the two men before you sizing each other up, and now you’re wrapped up talking about dishes…
Nancy steps forward a bit, gaze sweeping between the two of you with that laser-sharp focus she applies to murder mysteries and English essays. She’s not shocked. She’s… confirming.
Jonathan, however—
“Are you two—?” he starts.
Your face warms painfully. “Jon—”
“—together?” he finishes, voice cracking in three different places. No fucking way…you and Steve? His sister AND Steve?
There’s a small part of Jonathan that always worried Steve still had feelings for Nancy. He can’t help the weird feeling that creeps in his chest — he’s not sure this is any better.
Steve stands up straighter, like someone preparing for execution. “Yes. I mean—if that’s okay. With you.” Steve resorts to something stupid, something like a meaningless joke when he finishes with a firm, “Sir.” He’s not serious. You know he’s not. It feels a little defensive, like a flicker of that history, that tension you know has never fully left flares in the room.
Nancy gives him a bizarrely sympathetic pat on the arm, before sending him a warning gaze. “Steve, you don’t have to call him sir.”
You cringe. “Please don’t call him sir.” You can tell how nervous he is, just how much he cares. How much he wants this to work.
Jonathan just blinks. “Wait… so this isn’t some kind of joke? You’re actually dating?”
Steve glances at you once — quick, soft, like he’s checking if he’s allowed to say it.
You nod.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We are.”
That feels good to admit.
Jonathan processes this in real time — each second visible on his face like a flipbook: first there’s shock, then confusion, then realization, then a slight look of mild horror, then acceptance, and then finally something warm and reluctant and brotherly.
He sets the film canisters on the counter. “Okay.”
Steve sags in relief.
“Okay?” you repeat, uncertain.
Jonathan exhales slowly, bracing his palms on the back of a chair. “Yeah. I mean—look. I want you to be happy. Obviously. Always. And if Steve is… if he’s good to you, then… then I’m good with it.”
You can hear the underlying words he wants to say, reading between the complicated lines. Through everything that’s happened Steve’s a good guy.
You smile, taken aback by how gentle his voice is. This is the Jonathan you’re used to, the one you love more than words can express.
Nancy beams at him like he just passed a test. Because in her mind, this felt very much like that exactly. “That’s very mature of you.” She says.
Jonathan shrugs, cheeks pink. “I’m trying.”
He pauses. Then adds, with brotherly menace “But if he ever hurts you, I own multiple blunt objects and no sense of self-preservation.”
Steve nods rapidly. “Yep. Totally fair. Very understandable. Blunt objects. Got it.”
“I mean it Harrington.” Jonathan smiles, the cadence of his voice rising at the end. “I beat your ass once—I can do it again.”
Steve grimaces lightly, then relaxes his shoulders. “Dude! I thought we agreed never to bring that up again.”
“You agreed.” Your brother clarifies with a smirk. “I reserve the right to bring that up whenever I may need it.”
Nancy snorts. Steve’s gaze turns to her in an instant, suddenly nervous to see how she’s taking this.
She raises a brow at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Relax, Steve. I found out about you two weeks ago.”
You and Steve look at her in unison. “You did?”
She lifts one shoulder, amused. “You two act different around each other. Softer.” Her eyes flick to you. “Happier.”
You warm instantly.
Then she gestures at Steve. “Plus you wear her scarf sometimes.”
Steve’s jaw drops. “It’s warm!”
“Mmhm,” Nancy says. “And definitely not because you miss her.”
You elbow him lightly. “You wear my scarf? I thought I’d lost it.”
Steve mutters, “It smells like you,” and immediately regrets saying it within Byers earshot.
Jonathan groans into his hands.
You hide your smile behind your sleeve. “That’s… sweet.”
Before Steve can combust, Nancy steps forward, her expression softening. “I’m really glad,” she says to you quietly. “He’s good. And you deserve good.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you.”
She nods once, sincere.
Jonathan watches Steve for a long moment — not threatening now, just evaluating him the way only a protective younger brother can.
Finally he says, “I trust you.”
Steve goes still. His breath catches. “Really?”
Jonathan nods. “Yeah. I do.” He means it.
It’s such a simple sentence — but it hits Steve like a punch. And you can see it. The way his shoulders soften. The way he stands a little taller. The way he looks at you like you hung the moon and then put it back in the sky by hand.
Nancy glances between all of you with a small teasing smile. “Okay…well…We’ll leave you to your… dishes.”
She sends you one last wink before she takes Jonathan’s arm, steering him toward his room.
Jonathan stops halfway, pointing two fingers at Steve’s eyes, then at his own. “You know what that means.”
“Yes sir,” Steve blurts again before wincing.
Jonathan disappears down the hall, muttering, “Stop calling me sir.”
The moment the door shuts, Steve blows out a shaky breath. “That wasn’t so bad.”
You laugh, sliding off the counter as you step closer to him. “You almost passed out.”
“I did not almost pass out,” he insists, cheeks pink. “I was just—uh—nervous.”
You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “You didn’t need to be.”
He melts immediately — hands finding your back like they were made for it. “Still kinda was.”
You tilt your chin up. “You handled it.”
He looks down at you, eyes full and warm and overflowing with something tender. “Yeah. But only because you were here.”
And before you can tease him for being sappy, he kisses you — slow, sweet, lingering — right there in the Byers kitchen, where both your families are starting to figure out the truth: You and Steve aren’t just dating.
You’re building something.
Something real.
• ж • ж •
III. Joyce & Hopper
Your living room smells like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry — Joyce’s doing, obviously — mixed with the faint scent of sawdust drifting in from the open front door. Hopper had insisted, loudly and with great paternal authority, that the loose window frame in the living room “wasn’t safe, damn it,” and he was going to fix it before the “whole house collapses and kills someone.”
Which is why your home currently sounds like someone is fighting a grizzly bear with a hammer.
You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping lazily through a magazine you don’t actually care about. Your head dips sideways, eyes drifting to the kitchen doorway where Steve stands, rummaging through the cabinet like a man who can’t believe other people don’t organize things alphabetically.
He mutters to himself, “Who puts cumin next to paprika? That’s psychotic.”
You bite back a laugh. “Steve, what are you even doing?”
“Making coffee,” he says with the indignant confidence of a husband defending his territory. “Your mom bought the fancy grounds. I’m trying to find the—Aha.”
He pulls down the coffee tin like it’s a trophy. You’re about to tease him when Joyce breezes into the kitchen, humming softly as she folds a dish towel. She doesn’t even look up at first.
“Oh, thank you, Steve,” she says warmly. “Make yourself at home.”
He freezes, absolutely freezes. Like she just pointed a spotlight at him. He straightens, nodding stiffly. “Just… being helpful.”
Joyce smiles knowingly. “I know.”
And somehow that feels suspicious. You sit up straighter.
A loud THUD rattles the house.
“JOYCE, WHERE’S THE DAMN LEVEL?” Hopper booms from the living room.
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “Check the toolbox!”
“I DID CHECK THE TOOLBOX!”
“Check again!” She shouts back.
“I SWEAR IT GREW LEGS AND WALKED AWAY—”
Steve leans into the doorway, raising his eyebrows. “Is he okay?”
“No,” you and Joyce say at the same time.
Joyce chuckles and turns back to the counter. “He gets very dramatic about tools.”
Steve snorts softly. And Joyce notices it.
In fact… she’s been noticing a lot.
Her gaze drifts between you and Steve — your soft smile, his pink cheeks, the casual way he stands closer to you than he needs to. Her eyes narrow. Not judgmental. Just… motherly.
Dangerously motherly.
Steve sets two mugs on the counter. “(Y/n), you want cream and sugar?”
Joyce’s eyebrows lift. Steve’s eyes meet hers…he’s made a mistake. He’s let on that maybe he knows a little too much.
He attempts a recovery — poorly. “I mean—not because I know what you like or anything.” He shrugs. “Everyone wants cream and sugar.”
Joyce grins slowly. “Do you?”
Your soul leaves your body.
You scramble up from the couch. “Mom—”
But it’s too late.
Joyce Byers is in full Investigation Mode now. “Cream and one sugar, right? That’s how she likes it.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, oh God, how does she know? And your mother LIVES for this kind of emotional carnage.
You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”
Joyce clasps her hands against her chest. “Oh my God.” She turns to you. “You finally told him?” I mean sure, you’d told your mom about your feelings for Steve, especially when you thought it wasn’t going to go anywhere. But now she’s smiling like she’s won the lottery as she confirms, “You two are dating.”
Steve splutters. “No—we—well—yes—but—actually yes—” He deflates in defeat. It’s not worth it to explain it any further.
“OH MY GOD!” Joyce squeals, hands flying up in excitement.
You cover your face. “Mom, please don’t—”
Joyce ignores you completely, bursting with pure maternal joy. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was something happening! The way you look at each other—oh! I should’ve trusted my instincts sooner!”
“JOYCE?” Hopper bellows from the other room. “WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?”
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “THEY’RE DATING!”
A beat of silence. Then—
“WHO?” Hopper stomps into the kitchen, covered in sawdust, eyebrows knitted together beneath his cap. “Who’s dating?” You’d heard that same sense of disgust in his tone when he'd found out about El and Mike…it’s the exact tone he’s using now.
Joyce gestures proudly between you and Steve. “(Y/n) and Steve!”
Hopper stares. It’s long and painfully silent.
Then he lifts one thick eyebrow. “Since when?”
“A few weeks,” Steve answers automatically. He immediately regrets being honest.
Hopper crosses his arms. “And you were gonna tell me… when?”
Steve swallows. “Right now?”
A deep, low rumble vibrates Hopper’s chest, halfway between a growl and a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky I actually like you, Harrington.”
You snort. “That’s debatable.”
Hopper shoots you a look, then fixes Steve with a suspicious glare. “You being good to her?”
“Yes sir.”
You whip your head around. “Why do you keep calling everyone ‘sir’?”
“It’s a respect thing,” Steve protests weakly.
“It’s a fear thing,” you correct.
Hopper raises a hand. “Let the boy speak.” He enjoys being called sir, it makes him feel like he matters in your life. Like even though he’s not blood, he’s more of a father than you’ve ever had. And he wants to hear what the Harrington kid has to say.
Steve takes a breath — steady, serious. “I care about her. A lot. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your mom melts at that, her eyes full of love for you, and a newfound love for Steve.
Hopper studies him, jaw tight.
Joyce grins. “Jim, stop scaring him. They’re so cute!”
Hopper grumbles into his beard. “Yeah, yeah.”
She can still see the nerves radiating from Steve. The way his index fingers are tapping on the edges of the mug he’d been meaning to give to you, and the way his weight shifts from foot to foot in apprehension.
“Honey,” she says gently to him, “you don’t need to be nervous.”
Steve nods, but it’s obvious he still is. He’s been good at being a guest his whole life — polite, helpful, careful not to take up too much space. It’s a skill you don’t learn unless you’ve spent a lot of time in houses that never really felt like yours.
Joyce moves forward and cups your face in both hands, beaming. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy for you.” She looks between the two of you, eyes flicking from you to him. “You deserve someone kind—both of you.”
You soften, leaning into her palms. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And Steve?” Joyce walks over and pulls him into a hug so sudden and full-force he nearly drops the mug of coffee he’d been holding. “Welcome to the family, honey.”
Steve’s eyes go huge. “Oh. Uh. Wow. Okay. Yep. Hugging. This is happening.”
The mug rattles slightly against his chest as he scrambles to keep it upright, frozen in place like he’s afraid that if he moves, the moment will shatter.
Joyce hugs him like she means it. Like she’s done this a thousand times before. Like she’s not worried about boundaries or awkwardness or whether he deserves it.
Just — arms around him. Solid, and absolutely certain.
And something inside Steve breaks open. He’s not used to this. Not used to being claimed so easily. Not used to adults who don’t keep one eye on the door, who don’t treat affection like something transactional or conditional. At home, birthdays pass quietly. Dinner tables are long and empty. Love arrives in the form of credit cards and apologetic notes, if it arrives at all.
No one has ever welcomed him anywhere. Definitely not like this.
His hands hover awkwardly for a second, unsure — before they settle against Joyce’s back, tentative at first, then firmer. Like he’s testing whether this is real. Whether it’s allowed.
His throat tightens.
You see it — the way his shoulders sag, just a little. The way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years without realizing it. Joyce pulls back, still smiling, hands firm on his arms. “We’re really glad you’re here.” She says.
Steve nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice. His eyes shine, but he blinks quickly, embarrassed by the intensity of it all.
“Thank you,” he manages. “I—yeah. Thank you.” Being loved like this feels strange to him, foreign. It’s heavy on his shoulders, heavy in his hands, like something he’s terrified to drop. And maybe for the first time, this isn’t something Steve has to earn. It’s the kind of love he gets to keep.
Hopper pats him on the back once — hard enough to nearly knock him forward. He snaps the moment in a way only a paternal figure like Jim could, “You break her heart,” he threatens, “and I'll break your legs.”
“Hopper!” Joyce swats him, hissing.
Steve salutes, breaking out of his daze. “Legs remain unbroken, sir.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, laughing despite yourself. This is so unserious, and yet, so so nice.
Joyce pulls you beside Steve, squeezing your hands. “I’m proud of you. Both of you.”
And the warmth that fills your chest is heavy, immediate, and overwhelming. Steve’s hand finds yours instinctively, fingers linking — not hidden, not hesitant.
Just there. Solid.
Hopper grunts. “Alright. Enough mushy crap. Who wants pancakes? I’m making pancakes.”
Joyce groans. “Jim, you cannot cook pancakes.”
“I can TOO cook pancakes.”
“I swear you burned water once.” You tease him jokingly.
He plays along, “Hey, that pot was broken!”
Steve grins at you as your mom and Hopper make their way back into the living room. He squeezes your hand.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, leaning into him. “Better than okay.”
His expression warms. “Me too.”
And as the two of you stand together in the soft kitchen light — hands linked, hearts racing, Joyce humming happily in the background — Steve realizes he’s never felt more like part of a family.
• ж • ж •
IV. Robin
Family Video on a Sunday evening is pretty much dead. There’s no customers, no returns, and thankfully, no Keith. All there is to do is stare at the walls, as dust motes drift lazily through the air like they’re bored too.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with all the charm of a dying bee, and Steve is leaning on the counter flipping through a magazine that he definitely isn’t reading. He keeps glancing at the door like he’s waiting for you to appear at any second.
Robin watches him. She watches him flip the pages without looking at them. She watches him fix his hair every eight minutes on the dot. She also watches him check the door again.
After the third hair adjustment, she groans loudly.
“Oh my god, just go outside and wait for her like a normal lovesick golden retriever.”
Steve nearly drops the magazine. “I— I’m not lovesick.”
Robin scoffs so dramatically it echoes. “Steve. You’ve checked your reflection in that horror-movie mirror so many times the ghosts are going to file a restraining order.”
He scowls. “I just don’t want to look like a mess.”
“You always look like a mess,” she says sweetly. “It’s your brand.”
He hurls a crumpled popcorn receipt at her. She dodges easily.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
You step inside, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair tucked into Steve’s old Hawkins sweatshirt that you “borrowed” and never returned.
Steve lights up like he’s been plugged into a wall outlet. Robin doesn’t miss it.
“Hey,” you say, smiling at him first, always at him first — before waving at Robin. “Slow day?”
“Painfully,” Robin says. “I’ve reorganized the horror section three times. It still sucks.”
You hop up to sit on the counter, legs swinging lightly. Steve gravitates toward you immediately, leaning his hip against the counter next to your knee, thumb brushing it before he can stop himself.
Robin raises one eyebrow. You call it the eyebrow of doom.
You pretend not to notice. Steve pretends he didn’t do it.
“Oh,” Robin says lightly, “so we’re doing this now.”
Steve freezes. “Doing what?”
“This,” she repeats, gesturing vaguely at the space between you — the space with no actual space. “The whole... heart-eyes, I-want-to-hold-your-hand-but-I’m-too-chicken situation.”
Your face heats. “We’re just hanging out.”
“Uh-huh,” Robin says, stepping closer, eyes narrowing in the affectionate-interrogation way only she can pull off. “Tell me again how you’ve accidentally shown up wearing Steve’s clothes.”
You gasp in mock realization, hand dramatically flying to cover your mouth. Maybe you’re just tired of trying to hide this from her “How did you know—”
Robin points at your chest. “Because last time I checked, you didn’t play on the boys basketball team.”
You look down, smirking. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”
Steve scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling into his palms. “I hate you both.”
“No you don’t,” Robin chirps. “You love me. And you love her.”
Your breath catches. Steve stops breathing.
Robin pauses. Then squints. “Okay, maybe you’re not ready to say it out loud yet, but like... come on.” She drones on. “I’ve known since the day we spent hours together in that Russian elevator. Or when we were hopped up on truth serum, and you said a lot of things you may pretend not to remember but that sounded a hell of a lot like a love confession."
She smiles again, manically, “You spend three minutes just staring into each other’s eyes after that.”
You blink. “Three minutes?”
“Three minutes.” She taps the counter. “I timed it mentally.”
Steve groans. “That’s not a thing people do.”
“It is when they work with their emotional support dumbass every day for two years,” Robin says, pointing directly at Steve’s chest. “I know your patterns. I know your eyebrows. I know your hair. I know when you showered, I know when you didn’t—”
Steve sputters. “ROBIN.”
Robin throws her hands in the air. “Point is: the second she walked into scoops the first time and you got that my sun, my moon, and all my stars look on your face, I knew.”
You choke on air. “I— he— what look—?”
“That look,” Robin says, nodding firmly. “The one he’s doing right now.”
Steve snaps upright. “I’m NOT doing a look.”
Robin folds her arms. “Then stop staring at her like she invented breathing.”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.” This is embarrassing, but also kind of amusing. You’re not sure you should feel so conflicted.
Robin plops down on the counter beside you. “You guys are cute. Annoying. But cute.”
Steve recovers enough to glare. “Have you told anyone—”
“Steve.” She pats his cheek. “Everybody already knows.”
You and Steve exchange a horrified glance. Except, it’s true. Over the past week or so, you kind of have let it slip to almost everyone in your life: the kids, your brothers, your friends, your mom…and Hopper.
Robin continues breezily. “Anyway! While we’re all in this circle of truth, I’m very happy for you both. But if either of you make out in the back room while I’m on shift, I will unplug the VHS rewinder and hide the cable.”
You laugh. “That’s cruel.”
“Yes. And effective.”
Then, gentler, Robin bumps your shoulder. “Seriously… I’m happy for you. He’s stupid, but he’s good-stupid. And you’re… very very good for him. Maybe too good for him.” She eyes her best friend warningly.
Your chest tightens, and you’re unexpectedly emotional.
Steve smiles at her, soft and grateful. “Thanks, Rob.”
She squints at him. “But if you ever make her cry, I will egg your house.”
Steve pales, although he’s not entirely convinced. “You don’t even know how to aim an egg.”
“I’ll learn,” she vows.
You slip off the counter, stepping between them before Steve has a heart attack. “Okay, okay — I think he gets it.”
Robin smirks and throws an arm around your shoulders. “Welcome to the club.”
“What club?” you ask, laughing.
“The Steve-Harrington-Emotional-Support committee.”
Steve squints at her. “That is not a real club.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Robin says. “It meets weekly. There’s always snacks, and we get to watch you spiral. Dustin’s club president.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Robin nods solemnly. “It really does.”
Steve points accusingly, with a waggle from his index finger, and it all feels so maternal. “You are both being incredibly rude.”
Robin grins wider. “Correct.” At the same time you say, “Sure thing mom.”
Steve looks between the two of you, betrayed. “Is nothing sacred?”
“No,” Robin and you answer in perfect unison.
And Robin grins, victorious.
• ж • ж •
+1. Candles, Cake, and the Picture That Lasts
Steve Harrington does not like birthdays.
He never says it outright — never announces it, never makes a big deal of it — but you know. You’ve always known, in the way he shrugs when someone asks what he wants, in the way he insists it’s “not a big deal,” in the way he looks faintly uncomfortable when the date comes up at all.
Birthdays, for Steve, have always been quiet things.
Too quiet.
They’re empty houses and echoing rooms. Parents who call late, if they call at all. Cards left on the counter by a housekeeper, signatures neat and impersonal. A cake ordered from a bakery he doesn’t like, eaten alone at the kitchen island while the radio hums in the background for company, or maybe it’s the tv.
He learned a long time ago not to expect much.
So when Dustin, Max, and Lucas insist on dragging him out of the house that afternoon, claiming it’s “very important,” “top secret,” and “Steve you’re not allowed to ask questions” — he goes along with it, suspicious but indulgent in the way he always is with them.
You stay behind.
Steve doesn’t see you slip out of the car with an excuse about forgetting something. He doesn’t see you unlock the door to his house with the spare key he gave you weeks ago, casual, like it didn’t mean anything — even though it did.
The house is quiet when you step inside.
Steve’s house is big in that way that always feels a little too empty, even now. Polished wood floors. Wide rooms. Too much space meant for people who aren’t there. But tonight, it won’t stay that way.
You work quickly and quietly. Streamers line the walls, taped just a little crooked, and a handmade banner is strung across the living room that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE in uneven lettering. The kids helped with it earlier, arguing over colours and spacing, Dustin insisting his letters were the best ones.
You set the cake on the counter. It’s chocolate, because it’s his favorite even though he pretends he doesn’t care. Candles are tucked into the frosting, just waiting.
In the time it takes you to set everything up, your guests have arrived. All except Steve and a few of the kids who had dragged him out at your ordering.
But the time you hear the front door, sensing his official arrival, your heart is already racing.
Steve’s melodic laugh carries through the house first — surprised, unguarded — and then the door opens fully.
He walks towards the main room as the kids race past him, taking position. He freezes at the scene before him.
The lights are on. Music hums softly from the living room radio. Everyone is there — the Party, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin leaning against the wall like she’s been waiting for this exact moment her entire life.
Steve stands in the doorway, stunned, keys still in his hand.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You step forward before he can say anything else.
“Happy birthday,” you say softly.
His eyes find yours immediately. They always do. He almost feels them well up.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. He just looks — at the banner, at the cake, at all of them — and something flickers across his face. Surprise, yes. But also something deeper,something fragile.
No one’s ever done this for him before.
“Okay,” Dustin announces loudly. “No crying. Or I will cry and then it’ll be a whole thing.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You guys are such idiots.” But his voice is thick.
He steps inside, and you’re right there, close enough that his arm slides around your back without thinking, palm warm and grounding like he’s anchoring himself to you.
The living room glows under soft light. Streamers flutter faintly when someone moves past them. The house feels… full. Lived in. Warm in a way it never quite does, that it never quite has.
“Okay, everyone shut up!” Dustin yells, climbing onto Steve’s coffee table like it’s a stage. “We need to sing.”
Steve groans immediately. “No we don’t.”
“Yes we do,” Max says, unapologetic. “It’s tradition.”
Mike already looks embarrassed on Steve’s behalf. “This is going to be awful.”
“You’re awful,” Dustin snaps back.
You tilt your head up toward Steve, smiling. “You ready?”
He looks down at you, eyes soft, a little overwhelmed — open in a way he rarely lets himself be. “Not even a little.”
The cake is brought out, candles already lit, flames flickering gently. Lucas holds it like it’s sacred. Hopper stands nearby like he’s supervising a controlled burn.
And then the singing starts. It’s terrible, outrageously loud, and completely off-key.
Steve grimaces through the first line, shoulders tense — and then something breaks. Somewhere between Dustin screaming the lyrics and Will singing quietly but earnestly, Steve laughs.
It’s real laughter. The kind that shakes him, that escapes before he can stop it. The kind that sounds like relief.
You watch it happen like it’s something holy.
When the song ends, the room erupts into cheers. Steve leans down toward you, voice low and fond. “I blame you for this.”
You grin. “You love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
He makes a wish, quiet and private, and blows out the candles in one breath. The applause that follows feels louder than it should. Fuller.
The night settles into something easy after that.
The cake is eaten. Frosting ends up on Dustin’s nose and Lucas steals the biggest slice. Max threatens him with bodily harm if he doesn’t share (he does). El winds up curling up beside you on the couch, content, leaning against your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will leans into your other side.
Steve drifts — talking to Mike, laughing with Robin, letting Hopper clap him on the shoulder a little too hard, and finds himself in a serious but extremely loving conversation with your mom — but he always comes back.
To you.
Like gravity.
At some point, Jonathan lifts his camera.
“Hey,” he says, already adjusting the lens. “Before everyone leaves — we should get a picture.”
There’s groaning, half-hearted protests, but no one actually says no.
People shuffle into place, bumping shoulders, arguing about where to stand. Dustin insists on being in front. Max refuses to smile. Mike complains he looks stupid, he’s having a bad hair day.
You don’t think about where to go. You just end up there, with him.
Steve’s arm slides around your waist, easy and instinctive, like it’s always belonged there. His hand rests warm and steady at your side. You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder tucked perfectly beneath his arm, your head tipping just slightly toward his.
No one comments. No one pauses. It’s simply understood.
Will notices, though. He always does.
He watches the way Steve glances down at you before looking at the camera, the way your fingers hook lightly into the belt loop at his hip. There’s no surprise on Will’s face — just quiet satisfaction. This is right. This is how it’s meant to be.
Jonathan steps back, framing the shot. He hesitates for a moment, taking in the room, the laughter, the closeness, the way Steve stands like he finally belongs somewhere.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Ready?”
Steve squeezes you just a little tighter.
The camera clicks.
The moment is caught — imperfect, a little blurry, but real.
People scatter almost immediately afterward, someone complaining they blinked, someone else demanding a redo. But Jonathan knows it’s perfect just the way it is. He can’t wait to get it developed.
And days later, on a night when you have nothing to do, a night where you can just relax with Steve…when your house is quiet and calm, you sit beside your boyfriend on the couch, legs tangled, his shoulder warm beneath your cheek.
Will approaches quietly, holding the photo. A late birthday present for Steve.
He hands it to you.
You look down — at the way everyone’s pressed together, at Steve’s arm unmistakably around you, at the way you’re both smiling without trying.
“You look really happy,” Will says softly.
You don’t hesitate. “I am.”
Steve hears it. His breath catches just a little as he looks at you, something bright and disbelieving in his eyes, like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
He smiles. And for the first time, you think birthdays might finally mean something different to him. Not empty. Not lonely.
Just… full.
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