ali

hit it, wes

[scoopsahoydjo]

ali’s headquarters

about me:

• 27 ✨

• full time socials strategist in the music industry 🎧

• part time barista ☕️

• would die for justin bieber & joe keery ❤️‍🩹

masterlist:

steve harrington:

off the record - ongoing

steve is a college basketball captain & you’re a sports journalism major

you can’t love me - ongoing

best friends with steve but he can’t understand that you love him

[scoopsahoydjo]

you can’t love me | steve harrington

childhood friends, angst, oblivious(?) steve, one-sided love

part one • part two • part three • part four • part five

—

The quarry was freezing at night. So much so that the sharp wind curling off the dark water was able to penetrate Steve’s jacket. Hawkins stretched out far in the distance beyond the cliffs; scattered porch lights, empty roads, places that used to feel familiar before tonight carved something out of him.

Steve sat on the hood of his car with his elbows resting against his knees, staring blankly at the black water below.

He couldn’t stop hearing your voice. It wasn’t just what you said, but the way you’d said it. Your words were laced with exhaustion and honestly? You sounded destroyed. He’d never seen you affected like that in the entire 10 years of having you in his life.

I don’t know how to save myself from you anymore.

The sentence looped through his head so relentlessly it almost stopped sounding real. Steve had spent years convincing himself your love existed in some safer category. His mind categorized it as something softer than romantic love; something permanent and untouchable and impossible to lose.

A shaky breath left him as he leaned forward, pressing his hands hard against his mouth. Every memory he had of you was rearranging itself into something unbearable.

The flashbacks started coming one after another. They were cruel and vivid and impossible to shut out.

He was 17 again. Drunk and humiliated after a fight with Nancy.

The party downstairs had blurred into noise hours ago, music vibrating faintly through the bathroom walls while Steve sat slumped beside the bathtub trying very hard not to cry where anyone could see him. He remembered the cold tile against the back of his head. The taste of alcohol and shame sitting heavy in his throat.

And then you pushed open the bathroom door quietly. “There you are,” you’d said.

Steve laughed bitterly without looking at you. “You should go back downstairs.”

You ignored him completely and sat beside him on the floor anyway, knees brushing his.

For a while neither of you spoke. You just sat there while he spiraled quietly beside you, giving him space to be miserable without trying to fix it.

Eventually he looked over and found you already watching him.

“Why are you still here?” he’d muttered finally. “I’m literally ruining your night.”

You smiled sadly then. “Steve,” you said softly, “you could never ruin my night.”

At the time, he’d rolled his eyes, thinking you just felt obligated because you’d known each other forever. Now, sitting at the quarry, he realized nobody had ever looked at him the way you had that night. The way you had most nights.

Another memory hit before he could stop it.

It was the night the group had fought The Mind Flayer at Starcourt.

Steve sat shirtless on the edge of your bathroom counter while you cleaned dried blood from where he’d been kicked and punched across his stomach. The bathroom smelled like rubbing alcohol and antiseptic while your hands trembled badly enough that you kept fumbling the bandages.

“You need stitches,” you whispered again.

Steve hissed as you pressed gauze against his side. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I lived.”

Your eyes snapped up at him then.

Steve remembered the exact expression on your face now with horrifying clarity. It wasn’t sadness for your friend, or frustration that he tried acting fine.

It was pure, genuine fear.

“You almost died,” you’d whispered.

At the time, Steve thought you were emotional because the entire group was traumatized and exhausted and scared after everything. But thinking back now, at how your fingers had lingered against his skin. How your eyes watered as you plastered bandages over every cut and bruise on his body.

You treated him like he was something sacred to you. And maybe he was.

“You can’t keep scaring me like this,” you’d said shakily.

Steve smiled faintly then, brushing it off with some stupid joke about demodogs and you looked away quickly.

The longer he sat there, flipping through memories, the more he finally understood. You had never hidden your love from him. He’d just been burying it.

Steve dragged both hands through his hair hard enough to sting.

“Oh my god,” he whispered into the empty night.

The sound broke apart halfway through. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial and obliviousness and fear, Steve thought maybe he’d always known. At least enough to keep running back to you every time his life fell apart.

He’d spent years desperately searching for proof that someone could love him unconditionally while actively refusing to believe the one person who already did.

Steve climbed off the hood of the car abruptly and shoved shaking hands into his pockets before getting behind the wheel, driving aimlessly towards the town’s shittiest bar.

He knew drinking wouldn’t fix anything, but he just needed the inside of his head to quiet down for five minutes.

-

Robin found him nearly two hours later after his slurred payphone call.

The bar smelled like beer and smoke and wet pavement tracked in from outside. Steve sat hunched over the counter with red eyes and shaking hands wrapped around a half empty glass.

For a moment Robin just stood there looking at him, expression softening as she took in the state of her best friend.

“Oh, Steve.”

Something in her voice undid him completely. “I think I fucked everything up,” he said quietly.

Robin sighed before sliding her arm around him. “Yeah,” she admitted softly. “I think maybe you did.”

Steve laughed once, the sound wet and broken.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” Robin helped him out of the stool, letting him lean on her until they got to his car. She slipped his keys out of his pocket before settling him into the passenger seat and making her way to the other side of the car.

Rain streaked across the windshield while Hawkins passed in blurry lights outside the passenger window.

“She loved me,” Steve whispered suddenly.

Robin tightened her grip on the steering wheel slightly.

“Yeah.”

“No, like—” His voice cracked hard. “Really loved me.”

Robin’s chest tightened painfully, but she remained silent. Knowing he just needed to get out the thoughts pounding in his brain.

“When people love me,” Steve continued shakily, “they always leave eventually.”

His voice sounded younger suddenly.

“My parents only liked me when I was doing everything right.” He laughed bitterly. “Good grades, basketball, the right friends, the right girlfriend. Everything was always conditional.”

Steve stared blankly ahead, eyes glassy now.

“If I screwed up, they pulled away. If I needed too much, they disappeared.” His throat worked hard around the words. “And she never did.”

Tears slid quietly down his face now.

“She loved me when I was pathetic, or drunk, or terrified. She loved me after every awful thing I said about myself.” His voice broke completely. “And I think some part of me knew if I let myself really believe it… if I believed she loved me enough to stay forever—“

He couldn’t finish the sentence and Robin’s own eyes burned suddenly.

“I think I made her smaller in my head,” he whispered finally. “Because if her love was real, then losing it could be real, too.”

The honesty of it sat brutally between them.

Steve laughed shakily through tears, staring down at his hands. “And now I lost her anyway.”

Robin closed her eyes briefly. There was nothing she could say to fix this. Nothing she could say to make him feel better.

All she could do was watch as Steve Harrington came to terms with the fact that the person who loved him most had been bleeding quietly beside him for years while he kept asking everyone else to prove he was worth staying for.

And now she was gone, and he was a wreck.

—

guys this was so much better 2 hours ago but it all deleted so i had to rewrite it and now i just don’t think it hits the same. anyways! thoughts? do i just end it here? do we want more? what are the vibes idk

taglist: @itmekelpy @ophirei @pumpkinleavess @harringtonsb1tch @mrtonystark @starryymeg @apocalypse-v @turtlamour @83927xoxo @keerygirlie98 @dramallama9 @hello-nah817 @bakugouswh0r3 @solynoche @daddyavesxx @loriepov @beezusvreeland @eleanor-harrington @swirledyouintoallmypoems @benakenalove @kurtsw7rld96 @ahead-fullofdreams @lacywithdrawal @skkeletonns @aquariusmermaid2626 @hisparentsgallerryy @crescentwillow @miahslt91 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @ilovest3veh4rr1ngt0n @chiquita-a-a @marvelgirlie-4 @harringtons-bnbg @lavenderblue525 @scaramou @cycloneperson @nightfirecomit @daggersandbuttercups

[scoopsahoydjo]

you can’t love me | steve harrington

childhood friends, angst, oblivious(?) steve, one-sided love

part one • part two • part three • part four • part five

—

It had been almost two months since the last time you’d been seemingly normal around Steve. Two months since the diner; two months of you slipping away out of his hands without him understanding why.

You still spoke to him sometimes. You smiled when the group was together, asked how work was going — very bare minimum interactions. But each one felt filtered somehow. Almost like there was a barrier wrapped around you that Steve couldn’t push through anymore.

He hated it. The feeling constantly sat beneath his ribs and made everything feel significantly worse. Which is why suddenly seeing you with your guard down around someone that wasn’t him made him want to throw up.

He wasn’t even looking for you that afternoon. He’d gotten off work early and decided to follow Robin to a coffee shop downtown that she had been raving about.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside, warm air and the smell of coffee grounds immediately hitting him. As Steve stood near the entrance, waiting for Robin to order for them, he heard a laugh that was all too familiar.

You sat near the window with sunlight spilling across your face, one leg tucked beneath you in your chair while you laughed at something the guy across from you had said.

It wasn’t the polite laugh you’d been giving him for the last few months. It was your real laugh. The one that used to be reserved for him.

The sight hit him so hard it almost felt physical. For a second, Steve caught himself just standing there, staring.

The guy sitting across from you looked around your age. He had dark hair with a sweater pushed up to his elbows. One of your notebooks sat open between the two of you while he pointed at something on the page, smiling as you shook your head laughing again.

Something ugly twisted violently in Steve’s chest as a thought hit him before he could stop it.

But that’s my person.

The thought was instinctive and possessive enough to horrify him. He didn’t mean it in an ownership way, or even romantically, but… she was his.

The person he looked for first. The one who knew him best. The one who was supposed to laugh like that with him.

Steve couldn’t breathe properly as he continued studying the situation. You looked lighter and that’s what hurt him most. You’d been so stiff and polite with him lately that seeing you like this was a blow to his ego.

Jealousy wasn’t the right word to describe what he was feeling — in a way, it was closer to panic.

“Wow.” Robin popped up next to him, two coffees in hand. “You’re staring.”

Steve flinched and forced his eyes away from you. “I’m not staring.”

“You kinda look like someone just shot your dog in front of you.”

Steve shoved his hands into his jacket pockets roughly, jerking his head towards the two of you. “Who’s that?”

Robin went quiet for a second before scoffing, “Oh, you do not get to do this.”

Steve frowned immediately. “Do what?”

“That.” She gestured vaguely towards him. “Whatever this is.”

Steve looked back before he could stop himself. The guy reached across the table then, brushing a crumb off your sleeve casually. His chest tightened so violently it made him nauseous.

Robin saw it happen in real time.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

“What?”

“You’re freaking out.”

“I am not freaking out.”

“Steve.”

“I’m just asking who he is.”

“You haven’t asked about her life in almost two months.”

“That’s not—”

“She stopped answering your calls and you barely fought for her, Steve.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Steve blinked at Robin, caught off guard by the sharpness in her voice. “I was supposed to fight for her?”

Robin had still been adamant about giving Steve any hints as to why you were suddenly so distant, but that felt like the closest he’d gotten so far.

“I didn’t know if she just wanted space or something,” he said defensively.

Robin laughed once, disbelief lacing the sound. “She practically disappeared.”

“She still hangs out with us.”

“Yes, but she stopped hanging out with you.”

The distinction landed like a punch and Steve felt his throat tighten.

Across the shop, you smiled at something the guy said again and reached for your drink.

Robin watched him quietly for a long moment before speaking again.

“You know you don’t get to freak out over this, right?”

Steve tore his gaze away from you again. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Then why do you look sick?”

And he genuinely did. He pressed a hand hard against the back of his neck, suddenly too warm beneath his jacket. “I just…” He swallowed roughly. “I don’t know.”

And that was the terrifying part. He didn’t know why this felt so horrible. Why seeing someone else sit across from you made something frantic start clawing around inside his chest. Why the idea of you slowly building a life that didn’t revolve around him anymore suddenly felt unbearable.

Robin’s expression softened once she noticed how truly affected her best friend looked. “Steve,” she said quietly, “you can’t spend years taking someone for granted and then panic because somebody else finally noticed them.”

The words hollowed him out instantly and for the first time, Steve realized this wasn’t temporary.

You weren’t having a bad week. You weren’t tired.

You were leaving him.

Standing there in the middle of that coffee shop, watching another person make you laugh while you looked lighter than you ever had around him lately, Steve felt something cold settle deep in his stomach.

Suddenly, losing you no longer felt impossible.

//////////

You’d almost convinced yourself you were getting better. Definitely not healed. But better enough that the ache wasn’t constant anymore. Better enough that entire hours sometimes passed without you thinking about Steve Harrington.

The house sat quiet around you while rain tapped softly against the windows, the rest of Hawkins asleep beneath another stormy night. Your bedroom lamp cast a dull golden glow across the floor while music played quietly from your cassette player near the bed.

You sat cross-legged beneath a blanket with an open book in your lap, though you hadn’t actually turned the page in almost twenty minutes.

Everything around you was still, quiet. Then came the knock at your window. It was soft and way too familiar and for one terrible second, your heart reacted before your brain did.

Steve.

Because no matter how many weeks passed without him calling, no matter how carefully you’d started untangling yourself from him, some part of you would probably always recognize the sound of Steve at your window.

You stared at the glass while your pulse thudded painfully against your ribs.

Don’t do this.

You already knew you shouldn’t but you made the mistake of looking up fully and that’s when you saw him.

Everything inside you cracked open immediately.

Steve stood outside your window soaked through from the rain, shoulders hunched against the cold. His hair clung damply to his forehead and even through the dark you could see how red his eyes were.

He looked devastated. He wasn’t drunk or just sad. He was absolutely wrecked.

Your breath caught painfully as the years of knowing him reminded you that Steve almost never cried. At least not where people could see him.

And suddenly every boundary you’d spent nearly two months building collapsed all at once beneath one horrible, hopeful thought: he came here for me.

The realization hit so hard it made your hands shake as you crossed the room.

Maybe Robin talked to him. Maybe he finally understood.

You shoved the window open before your brain could stop you and the cold air rushed inside immediately.

“Steve—”

His name barely left your mouth before he climbed halfway through the window, voice cracking softly.

“Can I come in?”

The sound of it destroyed you.

And despite the distance and the heartbreak and the humiliation of loving him for so long, your chest still tightened instinctively at the sight of him hurting.

You stepped back immediately to let him inside.

Steve climbed through the window clumsily before standing awkwardly in the middle of your room dripping rainwater onto the carpet.

For a moment neither of you spoke. Your heart pounded so hard it almost made you nauseous.

He came to you. After all these weeks.

And the way he looked at you now? You couldn’t breathe around the hope building inside your chest.

Steve scrubbed a hand over his face roughly before letting out a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your stomach flipped painfully. That sounded like the beginning of something. A confession, maybe? An explanation or maybe an apology.

You waited patiently for him to continue as Steve sat on the edge of your bed, elbows braced against his knees while he stared down at the floor.

Rainwater dripped from the sleeves of his jacket.

“You ever have one of those nights,” he said quietly, “where it feels like everything’s just… wrong?”

The hope inside you flickered slightly, but still, you sat beside him carefully. “What happened?”

Steve laughed once under his breath.

It sounded exhausted.

“My dad,” he muttered. “And this girl I’ve been talking to, I guess.”

Something cold slid slowly into your chest.

Steve kept talking before you could respond.

“She stopped answering my calls this week, which—whatever, fine, I get it.” He rubbed both hands over his face roughly. “But then tonight I ran into her at Tina’s with some other guy and she acted like I was insane for even being upset about it.”

Your pulse slowed and the room suddenly felt very far away.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Steve nodded without looking at you.

“And then I got home and my dad started in on me again about wasting my life working at Family Video and not having a plan and I just…” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know. I think I just hit a point tonight where I couldn’t be alone.”

Every word felt like a knife sliding deeper between your ribs. He came here devastated and instinctively reached for you the same way he always had. Using your love as a resource he could survive on without ever acknowledging what it cost you to give it.

Beside you, Steve let out another tired laugh.

“I know things have been weird lately,” he said softly. “But you always know what to say.”

Something inside you began caving in slowly. You were mad at yourself, mad at Steve. Because for one humiliating moment when you opened that window and saw tears in his eyes, you genuinely thought he finally saw you.

Your throat tightened violently and Steve finally looked over then, brows furrowing slightly at your silence.

“You okay?”

The question almost made you laugh and you took the time to stare at him for a moment. You saw the exhaustion on his face, the complete trust in his eyes. You noticed the way he sat in your room like this was the safest place in the world for him to fall apart.

And suddenly all you could think was, I am going to love this boy until it kills me.

Steve’s expression shifted slowly as he finally noticed yours. “Wait,” he said softly. “Why are you crying?”

The words shattered something in you completely. He still didn’t understand.

You looked away quickly, wiping at your face before he could fully see how hard your hands were shaking.

“I can’t do this anymore, Steve.”

When you looked back at him, genuine confusion had already spread across his face.

“What?”

Your chest hurt so badly it felt difficult to breathe.

“You keep coming here,” you whispered. “You keep coming to me every time somebody else makes you feel unwanted and asking me to put you back together again like it doesn’t destroy me every single time.”

Steve stared at you blankly. “I don’t understand.”

Tears blurred your vision now no matter how hard you fought them.

“For years,” you said shakily, “I have sat here and listened to you talk about girls and dates and heartbreak and feeling unlovable while acting like my feelings were some joke you didn’t have to take seriously.”

Steve’s face drained slowly of color. “I never—”

“I know,” you interrupted immediately. Your voice cracked hard enough to make him flinch. “I know you never meant to hurt me, Steve. That’s the problem.” Rain battered softly against the windows around you as you forced yourself to finally say what you’d been holding back for years.

“You come here because you know I love you,” you whispered. “You come here because somewhere deep down you know I’ll always make you feel wanted.”

Steve looked physically ill now.

“But every single time you do it while pretending my love doesn’t really count…” Your voice broke completely. “It feels like you’re ripping pieces out of me.”

The silence afterward felt unbearable.

Steve stared at you like he was seeing you clearly for the first time in his life. The cruelest part was that you could see the exact moment he realized this pain had been real all along.

“I didn’t know,” Steve said suddenly. The words came out sharper than before, almost defensive. “You can’t sit here and act like I knew all of this.”

You stared at him in disbelief through blurred vision. “Steve—”

“No, because seriously, what was I supposed to do?” he demanded, standing abruptly from the bed. “You never actually told me!”

Something in you snapped. A broken, exhausted sound tore out of your throat before you could stop it. “Are you kidding me?”

Steve looked wrecked too now, hands shaking as he dragged them through his hair. “I thought you were joking half the time!”

“Oh my god.” You stood so fast the room tilted. “I told you I loved you.”

“I thought you meant as friends!”

“How?” you cried. “How could you possibly think that?”

“Because you always stayed!” Steve shot back immediately, voice cracking. “No matter what happened, no matter how many times I screwed up or called or showed up here, you were always here!”

The words hit like a slap. Because there it was. The truth neither of you wanted to say out loud.

Steve had treated your love like something permanent and immovable.

“You don’t get to use that against me,” you whispered shakily.

“I’m not trying to—”

“Yes, you are!” Tears spilled harder down your face now. “You’re acting like this is my fault because I loved you enough to stay? How is that fair?”

Steve’s expression crumpled instantly.

“I tried to tell you. God, Steve, I tried so many times and you literally told me I didn’t count,” you said brokenly.

Steve froze as the words landed visibly.

“You looked me in the face and told me I didn’t count because you thought there was no way I could actually love you like that.” Your voice shattered completely. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered.

“But you did.” You wiped angrily at your face, breathing unevenly now. “Maybe not on purpose, but you did. Every time you brushed me off or laughed or came crying to me about another girl, you were telling me over and over that my love wasn’t real enough for you to believe in.”

“Stop,” Steve said suddenly. “Please, just stop.”

“You know what the worst part is?” you whispered. “I let you.”

Steve’s eyes squeezed shut as you ignored his plea.

“Because I loved you so much that I kept letting you come here and take pieces of me every time somebody else hurt you.”

The room fell silent except for both of your uneven breathing.

After a long horrible moment, you looked at him with tears still sliding helplessly down your face and said the one thing that finally broke whatever was left between you.

“I don’t know how to save myself from you anymore.”

You watched as Steve shook his head in disbelief, looking at you like he couldn’t believe the last 15 minutes were real. Finally, he forced himself over to your window, preparing to climb back out, before looking at you one last time.

“I never meant to ruin you.”

—

so how are we feeling? (:

taglist: @itmekelpy @ophirei @pumpkinleavess @harringtonsb1tch @mrtonystark @starryymeg @apocalypse-v @turtlamour @83927xoxo @keerygirlie98 @dramallama9 @hello-nah817 @bakugouswh0r3 @solynoche @daddyavesxx @loriepov @beezusvreeland @eleanor-harrington @swirledyouintoallmypoems @benakenalove @kurtsw7rld96 @ahead-fullofdreams @lacywithdrawal @skkeletonns @aquariusmermaid2626 @hisparentsgallerryy @crescentwillow @miahslt91 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @ilovest3veh4rr1ngt0n @chiquita-a-a @marvelgirlie-4 @harringtons-bnbg @lavenderblue525 @scaramou @cycloneperson

[scoopsahoydjo]

you can’t love me | steve harrington

childhood friends, angst, oblivious(?) steve, one-sided love

part one • part two • part three • part four • part five

—

Letting go of Steve Harrington was easier said than done. The pact you had made with yourself at movie night would lose its grip on you the second he smiled in your general direction.

But, still, it had to be done. You just needed a little push off that cliff. And thankfully, Steve’s oblivion had no problem shoving you right off.

The rain on the windows of the diner blurred the neon streaks of the open sign across the glass. Your group had basically taken over the entire back corner of the restaurant, shoving tables and booths together so you could all fit.

Robin was doodling on a napkin while Dustin and Mike argued over something ridiculous. Lucas and Max were in their own little world, and Nancy and Jonathan were showing El how to work the mini jukebox on the table, Will helping her decide on a song.

Steve sat beside you, the way he always did. His thigh bumped yours beneath the table anytime he shifted. His arm rested across the back of the shared booth seat, not quite around you but close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him.

While everyone had their own side conversations, the two of you had been going back and forth, stealing fries from each other’s plates. It was a 10 year tradition in your friendship now. One of you would reach over to grab one and the other would slap their hand away, ultimately letting them have it anyway.

You were happy in this little booth with the people you loved. The person you loved.

The bell above the diner door jingled suddenly, announcing the arrival of a group of girls around your age. They shuffled into the building in a rush of perfume and laughter, shaking rainwater from their jackets while the hostess grabbed some menus.

One of them glanced towards your booth and eventually made eye contact with Steve. She smiled instantly and whispered something to the brunette next to her, followed by both of them giggling.

Beside you, Steve straightened immediately and the whole table groaned in unison.

“Don’t,” Robin said, pointing a fry at him accusingly.

Steve looked personally offended. “I’m just sitting here!”

“Yeah, but you have that face.”

“What face?”

“The ‘a pretty girl looked at me and now I’m about to become unbearable’ face,” Dustin said, rolling his eyes.

Steve laughed loudly, shoving Dustin’s shoulder from across the table. “You guys are assholes.”

Still, his attention drifted back toward the girls again almost instantly and you felt something in your chest sink. This wasn’t unusual in the slightest. Steve would flirt. Girls would flirt back. You’d be watching it all go down, pretending it didn’t hollow you out from the inside.

The cycle repeated endlessly.

Across the table, Robin’s expression flicked toward yours briefly and you could see the way it softened immediately upon spotting yours.

You looked away first, becoming suddenly very interested in the ketchup on your plate.

One of the girls glanced over again and whispered something to her friend that made all of them laugh.

Steve leaned closer toward you automatically. “Okay, but objectively speaking—”

“No,” Robin interrupted immediately.

“She’s cute.”

“You say that about every blonde with a pulse.”

“That is wildly inaccurate.”

“You once flirted with a cashier because she handed you a receipt and smiled.”

“She was into me!”

“She worked in customer service.”

The table burst into laughter while Steve groaned dramatically. You smiled faintly because you knew you were supposed to, but the noise around you felt distant. The space in the booth seemed way too small and the diner suddenly felt overwhelmingly warm.

Steve was still talking beside you, oblivious and warm and alive in the way only Steve could be, while all you could think was: I don’t know how much longer I can survive this.

As that thought bounced around your mind, Steve stood up.

Robin closed her eyes like she physically couldn’t watch.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

“What?” Steve defended, already smoothing a hand through his hair reflexively. “I’m just saying hi.”

“You’re impossible.”

Steve pointed finger guns at nobody in particular. “Wish me luck!”

Before anyone could answer, Steve headed across the diner toward the girls’ booth with that effortless confidence he wore like armor.

The entire table got quieter after he left. You stared down at your drink while heat crawled painfully up your throat.

Across from you, Robin nudged a napkin towards you to grab your attention. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you answered too quickly.

Nobody called you out on the lie but it wasn’t a secret. You were hurting.

Through the reflection in the diner window, you could see Steve laughing at something one of the girls said now. Leaning casually against the edge of their booth. Bright-eyed and charming and easy. The version of himself he gave everyone else first.

You hated that you knew exactly how this would go. He’d flirt, get her number, take her out a few times and eventually end up in your room at 2am asking what was wrong with him when it fell apart again.

And then you’d comfort him. Because that’s what you always did. That’s what he expected.

Beside you, Robin kept talking softly about something Dustin had done earlier, very obviously trying to distract you while Max shot Lucas a look that said don’t say anything stupid right now.

Then, through the window reflection, you watched him pull a pen from his jacket pocket. The blonde laughed again while Steve scribbled something quickly onto a napkin before sliding it across the table toward her.

Something inside you cracked — the push you had been needing finally sending you over the edge.

A few minutes later, Steve returned to the booth grinning to himself as he slid back into the seat beside you.

For the first time, maybe since you’d known him, you leaned away slightly before you could stop yourself.

Steve noticed immediately, his grin faltering for half a second. “What?” He asked with a laugh. “You disowning me now?”

You looked at him and finally realized Steve Harrington would just keep taking pieces of you forever if you let him.

“Just tired,” you finally replied.

He accepted your answer without any hesitation and reached over to grab a fry from your plate. You let him take one before moving it further to your other side — out of his reach.

/////////////

At first, Steve told himself you were just busy. To him, that was the easiest explanation.

People got tired, had bad weeks, didn’t answer the phone immediately. It was completely normal that he hadn’t heard from you in days. Totally and completely normal.

“You’ve looked out that window 6 times in the last 10 minutes,” Robin’s voice came from the back room of Family Video.

Steve glanced away from the storefront way too quickly before muttering a response. “I’m literally working.”

Outside, the parking lot sat mostly empty beneath the late afternoon heat. Usually around this time you’d stop by with a soda or some random snack you’d grabbed while running errands. You always came and leaned against the counter talking for a while before inevitably distracting him from work.

It had become a bit of a routine. One of those things Steve never consciously thought about because it always happened. Until suddenly it didn’t.

“She mentioned something about helping her mom this week,” Robin said casually, still sorting tapes.

Steve frowned slightly. “Yeah, but not for like… 3 straight days.”

Robin snorted softly. “I don’t know anything.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at her, not believing her in the slightest, before the store phone rang, interrupting whatever argument he’d been about to start.

By the time his shift ended, he’d almost convinced himself he was being dramatic. He got home and instinctively reached for the phone to call you before remembering halfway through dialing that you still hadn’t called him back from yesterday or the day before that.

A strange tightness settled low in his chest. It wasn’t hurt exactly. Something just felt off.

You always called him back. Even when you were busy, when you were annoyed with him, when you’d had a stupid argument.

But you hadn’t called back yet.

Steve frowned at the phone for a long second before finally hanging it up.

A week later, Steve realized he’d started noticing your absence everywhere. It wasn’t just in the obvious places, but in minuscule moments. He’d hear something funny and automatically think about wanting to tell you or he’d hear a song play at Family Video and remember you badly singing it to him in his car once.

Even movie nights were different now. You still came sometimes, but you left earlier and sat on the opposite side of the room. He noticed you talking to everyone else first instead of gravitating towards him like you always did.

The first few times, Steve tried brushing it off. But one night he walked into the living room carrying boxes of pizza and found you sitting on the floor, your usual spot occupied by Max.

“Rude, you abandoned me,” he said as he plopped down onto the couch, looking directly at you.

Normally you would’ve had some sarcastic retort or rolled your eyes, but you just shrugged and dove back into your conversation with Robin.

The rest of the night, he found himself glancing at you constantly. You were always preoccupied talking to someone else. He’d even thrown popcorn at you to get your attention.

You looked at him in surprise before smiling faintly and putting your focus back on the movie. That bugged him. You were being careful. Like there was suddenly a space between you where none had existed before.

Two weeks after the diner, Steve finally cornered Robin during a slow shift. She was kneeling beside the new releases section reorganizing tapes while Steve hovered nearby pretending to restock candy.

“You guys are being weird.”

Robin didn’t look up. “Who’s ‘you guys?’”

“You. Her. Everybody.”

“Maybe we formed a secret club.”

Steve sighed heavily. “Robin.”

“What?”

He shoved a box of Milk Duds onto the shelf harder than necessary. “Okay, seriously, did I do something?”

That finally got her attention.

Robin looked up slowly, her expression unreadable and Steve felt a flicker of panic immediately because clearly there was an explanation here that everyone knew except him.

Robin sighed softly before standing up. “Steve…”

“What?”

For a second she looked like she might actually answer him but then her face closed off again.

“I really think you should figure this one out yourself.”

Steve stared at her blankly.

“That’s not cryptic at all.”

Robin grabbed the stack of tapes beside him and shoved them into his arms. “Good talk.”

“Robin.”

But she was already walking away toward the back room. Steve stood there for a long moment holding a stack of VHS tapes against his chest while frustration curled hotter and hotter beneath his confusion.

He genuinely did not understand what was happening.

Just weeks ago, everything was fine, and now every interaction felt slightly off-balance. Almost like he kept reaching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

—

yeah this wasn’t angsty enough, i should probably make the next part brutal and depressing, huh?

taglist: @itmekelpy @ophirei @pumpkinleavess @harringtonsb1tch @mrtonystark @starryymeg @apocalypse-v @turtlamour @83927xoxo @keerygirlie98 @dramallama9 @hello-nah817 @bakugouswh0r3 @solynoche @daddyavesxx @loriepov @beezusvreeland @eleanor-harrington @swirledyouintoallmypoems @benakenalove @kurtsw7rld96 @ahead-fullofdreams @lacywithdrawal @skkeletonns @aquariusmermaid2626 @hisparentsgallerryy

[scoopsahoydjo]

yes i’m reacting totally and completely normally to these pics i swear !!

[scoopsahoydjo]

you can’t love me | steve harrington

childhood friends, angst, oblivious(?) steve, one-sided love

part one • part two • part three • part four • part five

—

Movie nights with your group of friends had become sacred. There was something about the normalcy of it that you all latched on to; having to save the world multiple times didn’t typically leave a lot of room for normal.

When Friday nights would roll around, you’d always find yourself right here. On a couch you shared with Steve, in his living room, surrounded by all of the people you loved.

Steve’s house now held a warmth that you wouldn’t have been able to find years ago, and you noticed better than anyone. You’d spent a lot of your life in it.

When his parents would go out of town for weeks on end and 10 year old Steve would call your house, making up some excuse for you to come over. It didn’t take you long to realize he just didn’t want to be alone. But you never brought it up and you’d always be at his front door within 10 minutes.

That went on for the next decade, and it’s how it has always been with the two of you: if he called, you showed up. If he needed you, you were there.

For you, that kind of loyalty stemmed from the love you’d held for him.

For Steve, you were just a constant. Someone he knew he could depend on. A friend.

You sat curled up in the corner of the couch while Steve occupied most of the cushion next to you, his knee brushing yours without thought. Despite the movie, he’d been talking non-stop since everyone arrived, his words coming out fast and restless.

“You know what I don’t get?” He threw his hands up dramatically from where they were originally resting on his thighs. “Why even agree to go on a date if you’re just gonna stare at me in silence the whole time?”

Robin snorted. “Maybe because you spent the entire date interrogating her about her 5 year plan?”

Steve looked offended immediately, pointing an accusatory finger at Robin. “I was making conversation.”

“You asked her what kind of mother she’d be!” Dustin exclaimed, wanting to join in the imminent teasing.

“That was one question!”

“It was the second question, Dingus.” Robin said flatly.

Max barked out a laugh from the floor while Mike and Lucas nearly choked on their popcorn.

Steve tried to defend himself amongst the group, but the situation had clearly gotten away from him. “Okay, first of all, she is the one who brought up kids.”

“You asked how many she wanted and by when, Steve!”

“I was curious!”

“You are 20 years old and took a girl to get coffee and ask about her parenting styles. That’s not flirting; it’s a census interview.”

The room dissolved into quiet laughter as Steve groaned, dragging both of his hands down his face. “I’m serious, though. I thought it was going well.”

You had been listening quietly to the banter, chuckling in the right spots. But you couldn’t ignore the deep ache in your chest you always got when he was talking about another girl.

Another night spent listening to him wonder aloud why nobody ever stayed while your feelings for him wedged itself between the two of you — invisible and humiliating.

Deciding it was time to interject so your thoughts wouldn’t go to deep, you finally spoke. “Maybe you scared her a little.”

Steve dropped his hands immediately at the sound of your voice. “How is asking about someone’s future scary?”

“Because normal people ask about favorite colors first.” Lucas said.

The group laughed again as Robin exclaimed a thanks to Lucas for validating her point. Steve slumped farther into the couch cushions with an exasperated sigh.

“I don’t know, man. I just feel like every time I try to be serious about someone, they look at me like I’m insane.”

“You are kind of intense.” Mike interjected.

“I hate all of you,” Steve muttered, before continuing quietly. “I’m just saying it’d be nice if somebody actually picked me for once.”

The room shifted immediately with his words. It was tiny, and almost imperceptible, but you felt it immediately. Looking around the room, you could tell the others felt it, too.

Lucas stopped smiling first. Max’s expression flickered uncomfortably before she looked at the ground and Robin stiffened in the armchair she was in. Even Dustin, who typically could not read a room took a sudden interest in the fuzz on the rug.

Because everyone knew. Not in the dramatic way a coming-of-age movie would portray it. There had never been a dramatic confession or some declaration of your love for Steve. But it existed in smaller ways that stacked up over time and made it clear to those around you.

It was in habits, instincts. The way your eyes searched for him first in every room you entered. Every time he’d call and you’d answer before the first ring could finish. Everyone knew because they watched you love him constantly.

And now, the way he said those words, looking directly at you, made your chest tighten. Knowing he was blissfully unaware of their affect on you. But he didn’t stop there.

“I don’t know,” he said with a humorless laugh, hand rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he’d start overthinking. “Maybe I’m just hard to stick with.”

You opened your mouth, before snapping it shut immediately. What could you possibly say anymore that you hadn’t already spent years trying to convince him of?

You’d told him he was lovable before. That he was good and easy to choose. But none of it mattered. He’d smile at the reassurance but you could tell he put your feelings in a completely separate category from everyone else’s. In the category of someone who loved him because they had to and not because it was real.

The room suddenly felt too warm and too loud, the walls seemingly drawing closer to you. You stood carefully, quietly declaring you were grabbing another drink as your untouched one still sat on the coffee table.

You’d made it about 3 steps before you heard rustling behind you and Robin’s voice muttering a quick, “move, dingus” as she shoved past Dustin.

A second later she appeared in the doorway, arms crossed as she leant against the frame. She watched as you opened the refrigerator without looking inside it and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You could hear the muffled sound of the movie from the other room, someone’s laughter combining with it. Steve’s.

Robin walked closer and rested her back against the counter next to you. “You okay?”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose before answering. “Yup.”

“Cool. Very believable. I’m completely convinced.”

Despite your mood, your mouth twitched into the start of a smile. Robin’s expression softened immediately at the sight of it, which somehow made everything worse.

Robin knew way too much. You were convinced she knew before everyone else — even before you did, maybe.

“You know he doesn’t mean it like that,” she said gently after a second.

And there it was. The same sentence everyone always gave you in this reoccurring situation.

You stared down at the condensation gathering on the soda can you’d grabbed from the fridge, swallowing hard. “I know. That’s what makes it worse.” You laughed softly, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “I mean if he was rejecting me on purpose, at least I could be angry at him for it.”

“You’re still allowed to be angry about it.”

“No, I’m not.” Your voice cracked around the words. “Because he just genuinely doesn’t see it.”

Robin’s face tightened, and that hurt, too. It confirmed what you already knew. That everyone understood except the one person you needed to.

You leaned back against the counter with a tired sigh, eyes fixed somewhere past the kitchen window into the dark backyard beyond it.

“I just…” You shook your head once. “I don’t know how many more conversations I can sit through about him wanting somebody to love him while he looks right through me.”

That made Robin close her eyes briefly. It wasn’t because she disagreed — she definitely didn’t. But Steve was her best friend and so were you. Watching the invisible string between you both start to tangle and not being able to do anything about it was hard.

From the living room, Steve’s voice suddenly carried down the hall. It was casual, warm and completely unaware of the mental turmoil he was causing in his own kitchen.

“You guys coming back or what?”

Robin looked at you immediately and your whole face dropped. That was the whole problem.

Steve already had you. He had you so completely that the possibility of ever losing you had never even crossed his mind. And he didn’t notice.

After a moment, you forced your expression back into place and grabbed the soda from the counter. As you walked back down the hall, towards the living room, you made a silent pact with yourself.

You couldn’t keep feeling like this. You couldn’t keep letting Steve have this affect on you.

So you had to let him go.

—

wrote this during a zoom meeting w record label associates wearing my steve harrington shirt and playing my djo vinyl in the background. this is peak.

taglist: @itmekelpy @ophirei @pumpkinleavess @harringtonsb1tch @mrtonystark @starryymeg @apocalypse-v @turtlamour @83927xoxo @keerygirlie98 @dramallama9 @hello-nah817 @bakugouswh0r3 @solynoche @daddyavesxx @loriepov @beezusvreeland @eleanor-harrington @swirledyouintoallmypoems

[scoopsahoydjo]

you can’t love me | steve harrington

childhood friends, angst, oblivious(?) steve, one-sided love

part one • part two • part three • part four • part five

—

“You know what Robin said to me today?” Steve asked, sprawled across the foot of your bed like he owned it. You were flipping through a magazine, only half listening to him, so you gave a weak hum that he took as his cue to continue. “She said, and I quote, ‘You go through girls faster than Eddie goes through guitar strings.’ And she was so serious, too!”

Steve seemed genuinely offended by her words, so it probably didn’t help that you nodded and scoffed in agreement. “I mean, is she wrong?”

“Of course she’s wrong!” He sat up abruptly and threw himself closer to you on the bed, plucking the magazine out of your hands. “He buys, like, 2 packs of strings a week.”

“How many dates did you go on last week?” You gave up on trying to get your magazine back and leaned against your headboard, arms crossed as you looked at Steve.

“Like 2?”

“And … the week prior?”

Steve glared at you, seeing where this was going.

“Another 2, but that’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point, Steve. The first step to getting help is admitting you have a problem.” The teasing in your voice was clear but your best friend had a knack for dramatics, so he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms like a little kid.

It was always like this.

Steve showing up at your window or front door at impossible hours with another story about another almost-relationship that collapsed before it started. Another night spent trying too hard to be charming because if he stopped talking for long enough, people tended to leave.

Right now he was staring at the ceiling with that familiar restless look in his eyes.

“You ever think,” he started carefully, “there’s maybe just something wrong with me?”

Your chest tightened instantly as the two of you finally got to the real reason he came over tonight.

“Steve—”

“No, seriously.” He sat up straighter now, elbows on his knees. “Like, what if people meet me and after a while they realize I’m actually kind of a disaster?”

“You are a disaster,” you said lightly.

He pointed at you. “See? Exactly.”

“But not in the way you mean.”

Steve laughed once, quiet and humorless, gaze dropping to the floor. “I don’t know. Nancy left. Half the girls I take out look bored halfway through dinner. The other half just want…” He cut himself off, the implications settling in the air.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked after a second. “I keep thinking if I can just get somebody to stay long enough, maybe they’ll finally tell me what’s wrong with me so I can fix it.”

Your heart ached so violently it almost made you angry.

The way he said things like that so casually now, like he genuinely believed love was something people earned by becoming easier to tolerate. It affected you more than it should.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Steve immediately rolled his eyes.

“There she is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always say stuff like that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Because you’re biased.”

Your jaw tightened slightly. “I’m not biased.”

Steve looked over at you then, giving you that familiar smile that somehow made everything worse.

“You’ve known me since we were six,” he said. “You kinda have to love me.”

The words hit like a slap because you’d heard them before. You know he didn’t mean them cruelly, but they still sat heavy in your chest. He said it so easily. With so much certainty. Like your love for him wasn’t a choice you made every single day despite how badly it hurt sometimes.

You tried to laugh it off anyway.

“That’s not how that works.”

“It kinda is,” he teased, bumping your socked foot with his. “You’re like genetically programmed to be on my side.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Steve didn’t notice, and honestly, he never did.

Instead he stood, wandering toward your bedroom window restlessly before pushing it open. Summer air drifted in warm and thick.

“You know what I think?” he said. “I think maybe I missed my chance.”

“With what?”

“With all of it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “The whole love thing.”

You let out a soft incredulous laugh. “Steve, you’re twenty.”

“Yeah, I’m ancient.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He leaned against the window frame now, face softer in the moonlight. “I mean, maybe some people are just the temporary person, y’know?”

You hated when he talked like this. The worst part was that everyone else only saw the version of Steve that performed confidence so well it almost looked real.

They didn’t see this side of him. The boy who stayed awake until three in the morning wondering why nobody chose him. The boy who looked genuinely startled anytime someone was kind to him. The boy who wanted love so badly it was practically bleeding out of him.

The boy you’d fallen in love with 10 years ago, before you really even knew what love was.

And maybe that was why it hurt so much to sit here and love him while he searched for it everywhere except the one place it had always been.

“You’re not temporary,” you said quietly.

Steve smiled again, dismissively.

“See?” he said gently. “That’s what I mean. You don’t count.”

Something inside you cracked so quietly you weren’t even sure he heard it.

Steve kept talking after that.

You answered where you could, but the words kept echoing anyway.

You don’t count.

In his head, your love wasn’t real because it had always existed. To him, you were just another part of Hawkins he took for granted that would still be there tomorrow.

Eventually Steve glanced toward the clock on your nightstand and sighed.

“I should probably go before your mom starts thinking I live here.”

You forced a smile. “Pretty sure she already does.”

“Fair.”

He grabbed his jacket from your desk chair before pausing in front of you.

For a second, his expression softened and you thought maybe he was finally going to see you.

Instead he reached down and squeezed your shoulder affectionately.

“Thanks for listening to me spiral again.”

Anytime, you almost said automatically. But suddenly the thought exhausted you.

So instead, you just nodded.

Steve frowned slightly at your wordless reply.

“You okay?”

The terrifying thing was that he sounded genuinely concerned.

You swallowed hard and looked away first.

“Yeah,” you lied softly. “Just tired.”

And because Steve Harrington had never once believed he could be the reason someone was hurting, he accepted the answer immediately.

—

this is just gonna be a short lil fic, maybe 3-5 parts, that i’ll update in between Off the Record updates (:

i miss my 80s boyfriend, steve harrington, and will do all i can to keep his presence alive🙂‍↕️

taglist is OPEN, lmk if you wanna get added <3

[scoopsahoydjo]

Off The Record | Steve Harrington

Chapter Twelve - Rigged

words: 7.1k

series masterlist

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The next morning felt dangerously normal.

That was the first thing you noticed as you followed Steve through the automatic doors of the grocery store with a cart rattling softly beneath his hands. Nothing about the last few weeks should have allowed normalcy to exist between the two of you anymore. Not after the months of damage sitting unresolved between you like broken glass neither of you knew how to stop stepping on.

And yet somehow, standing beside him in the produce section while he argued with you about avocados, it almost felt easy.

“You’re squeezing them too hard,” you said, watching him manhandle an avocado with absolutely no technique whatsoever.

Steve looked up innocently. “How else am I supposed to know if they’re ripe?”

“You press gently.”

“I am pressing gently.”

“That thing is fighting for its life.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, low and warm and real enough to make something tighten painfully in your chest. God, you had missed that sound. You hated how much you had missed it.

He held the avocado out toward you. “Okay then, teach me, Paparazzi.”

The nickname still did something awful to you every time he said it now. Softer than before. Like he understood it meant something now instead of just being a joke between you.

You took the avocado from his hand, trying not to think about how your fingers brushed his in the process.

“See?” you said quietly, pressing your thumb lightly into the skin. “Not too hard.”

Steve watched your face more than the avocado.

“Right,” he murmured. “Got it.”

Your stomach flipped unpleasantly when you realized he wasn’t listening to a single word you were saying.

You quickly looked away, placing the avocado into the cart before he could notice the effect he was having on you. That had become a recurring problem over the last twelve hours. Every time you let yourself relax around him for even a second, he’d say something gentle or look at you too softly or do something stupidly thoughtful, and suddenly you’d remember exactly why you fell in love with him in the first place.

In the moment it felt nice, but then the logical side of you knew it was dangerous.

Because no matter how easy this felt right now, your heart still remembered the image of Courtney tangled up in his sheets.

Your chest tightened instantly at the thought.

Almost subconsciously, you folded your arms tighter over yourself.

Steve noticed immediately, his smile fading slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

You shook your head quickly, turning toward another display before he could study your face too hard. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

You grabbed a random tomato you didn’t even want just to have something to do with your hands. “You don’t have to analyze every mood change I have.”

“Yeah, I kinda do.”

You glanced at him.

Steve’s expression had softened now, concern replacing the teasing look from earlier.

“Because half the time lately,” he said carefully, “I can practically see the second you remember I hurt you.”

The honesty of it knocked the air from your lungs a little.

You looked down at the tomato in your hands.

“That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

Part of you wanted him to stop noticing things about you so easily. It would’ve made this so much less complicated.

Instead, he reached over quietly and took the tomato from your hands before placing it back in the display. “You hate tomatoes,” he said.

You blinked.

And somehow that hurt too.

Because he remembered things. He noticed things. He cared. Which made it infinitely harder to reconcile with the version of him that had looked you in the eyes and tried to destroy you at that party.

You swallowed and turned away before he could see your expression shift again.

For the next few minutes, the two of you moved quietly through the aisles together. But it wasn’t awkward silence. It was the kind that came from familiarity. Your bodies naturally adjusted around each other without thinking. Steve pushed the cart while you reached for ingredients. He handed you things before you even asked for them. At one point he grabbed your favorite cereal off the shelf without a word and dropped it into the cart like it belonged there.

Every little thing he did felt intentional now. Not a single moment felt performative or manipulative, and a cynical part of you wished it did.

Because if he’d been cruel all the time, this would’ve been easy.

Instead, Steve Harrington was standing in the frozen foods aisle remembering your favorite snacks and walking slightly slower whenever you fell behind him and looking at you like he was still a little stunned you came back at all.

It made your resolve feel thinner than it should’ve.

You were halfway through deciding between pasta brands when a voice suddenly cut through the aisle behind you.

“Steve Harrington?”

Both of you turned at the same time.

A girl about your age stood a few feet away staring at him with obvious recognition. Pretty. Blonde. The kind of girl who looked like she’d spent high school sitting on the sidelines of a basketball game in a cheer uniform, knowing exactly how attractive she was.

Steve blinked in surprise before recognition crossed his face.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Megan?”

She laughed immediately. “Wow. I can’t believe you actually remembered me.”

Your stomach dropped a little.

Of course he remembered her.

Steve had probably kissed half this town.

The thought came bitter and immediate before you could stop it.

Megan stepped closer, smiling warmly at him. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Since what? Junior year?”

“Something like that.”

Your chest tightened quietly. You tried not to let it show.

Megan’s eyes finally slid toward you curiously. “And who’s this?”

Your body entered fight or flight mode immediately, preparing to be brushed aside like your first time meeting Courtney. But before you could even open your mouth, Steve answered easily.

“My girl.”

The words hit you so hard you almost physically reacted.

Your head snapped toward him immediately.

Steve didn’t even seem to realize what he’d said at first. Or maybe he did? Because when his eyes flicked toward yours a second later, there was no panic there. No hint of backtracking or regret.

Just something warm and certain.

It made your pulse stutter traitorously in your chest.

Megan smiled instantly. “Oh my god. That’s actually so cute.”

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to correct him, but Steve’s hand landed lightly against the small of your back before you could.

“Yeah, this is…” Steve glanced at you carefully for a second before saying your name softly.

The way he introduced you felt different than it would’ve months ago. Less like a flirtation and more like something he genuinely cared about.

Megan smiled at you warmly. “Nice to meet you. I knew Steve way back when.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve muttered.

She laughed. “Please. You were such an asshole in high school.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Steve looked offended. “Wow. Okay.”

“She’s probably right,” you said.

“Oh, so this is how it’s gonna be?”

Megan grinned. “Honestly, good for you, Steve.”

He blinked. “For what?”

She shrugged lightly. “You seem different.”

Something shifted subtly in his expression at that.

“Yeah?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “Happier.”

Your chest tightened again.

Megan looked between the two of you one more time before smiling knowingly. “Anyway, I won’t interrupt your domestic little grocery trip any longer.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Thanks.”

“It was good seeing you.”

“You too.”

She waved once before disappearing down the aisle.

The second she was gone, silence settled between you again.

You stared very hard at the pasta shelf.

Steve cleared his throat softly beside you.

“You okay?”

You let out a quiet breath. “Your girl?”

His ears immediately turned pink.

“Oh.”

You finally looked at him.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “That just kinda came out.”

“Mhm.”

“But,” he added quickly, stepping closer to the cart, “I also didn’t hate saying it.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

“Steve—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly. “I know we’re not there yet.”

The gentleness in his voice almost hurt.

“But I meant it,” he admitted. “Maybe not officially. Not in a way I deserve yet.” His eyes held yours carefully. “But in my head? It’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

You had to look away again.

Because the worst part was you believed him.

And believing him was becoming terrifying.

•

The drive back to his house felt quieter after that. Like both of you were thinking too hard about the same thing but neither wanted to say it out loud first.

When you got inside, Steve carried the grocery bags into the kitchen while you started unpacking ingredients.

“You cook,” you said. “I’ll supervise.”

He scoffed immediately. “That sounds fake.”

“You need supervision.”

“You wound me.”

You laughed quietly despite yourself, and Steve’s expression softened instantly at the sound like it was still the best thing he’d heard all day.

You needed to stop reacting to him like this.

But then he’d lean against the counter looking unfairly pretty in a plain gray sweatshirt while talking about whether garlic bread counted as a full food group, and suddenly your heart would start acting stupid all over again.

At one point while he cooked, music started playing softly from the little speaker near the sink. Some old song you vaguely recognized.

Steve glanced toward it before looking back at you.

“You wanna dance with me?”

You stared at him. “In your kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re holding pasta sauce.”

“So?”

You shook your head immediately, laughing under your breath. “Absolutely not.”

But Steve was already setting the spoon down.

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“Paparazzi.”

“That nickname isn’t gonna work on me right now.”

“It literally always works on you.”

You rolled your eyes as he walked around the counter toward you, holding his hand out dramatically.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet here you are.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the words.

Here you are.

You stared at his outstretched hand for a long moment before finally placing yours in it.

•

Sleep became impossible somewhere around midnight. You’d laid in Steve’s guest room staring at the ceiling for nearly two hours, listening to the old house settle around you in soft creaks and distant hums while your brain refused to shut off for even a second. Every time you closed your eyes, another moment from the day replayed itself immediately afterward. Steve smiling at you over grocery store shelves. Steve introducing you as his girl without hesitation. Steve swaying with you in the middle of his kitchen like he’d forgotten there was a world outside of the two of you entirely.

It was cruel, honestly.

Because the more time you spent with him away from campus, away from the whispers and articles and basketball games and everything else, the easier it became to remember why this had hurt so badly in the first place.

You loved him.

You loved him enough that forgiveness was starting to feel dangerously possible.

With a frustrated sigh, you finally shoved the blankets off yourself and sat up. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 2:17 AM in dull red numbers.

Maybe sugar would fix the situation. Or at least distract you from it.

You quietly opened the bedroom door and slipped into the hallway, the floor cool beneath your feet as you made your way downstairs. The house was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the living room windows. For a second you thought you might actually be alone.

Then you heard the freezer door open.

You blinked in surprise as Steve straightened from the kitchen, an ice cream tub in one hand and a spoon in the other. He looked equally startled to see you standing there.

There was a beat of silence before he lifted the spoon slightly.

“Can’t sleep either?”

A laugh escaped you softly despite yourself. “Guess not.”

Steve glanced down at the ice cream in his hands before holding it up sheepishly. “I was hoping this would emotionally fix me.”

“What flavor?”

“Chocolate chip cookie dough.”

You nodded approvingly. “Acceptable.”

“Thank you. I try.”

His voice was still rough with sleep, softer than usual in the quiet house. It did dangerous things to your nervous system.

You stepped further into the kitchen while he grabbed another spoon from the drawer without even asking if you wanted one. The gesture was so natural it made your chest ache a little.

You took the spoon from him quietly, your fingers brushing for half a second.

Steve climbed onto the counter instead of sitting normally, one leg dangling slightly while he peeled the lid off the ice cream. You leaned beside him a moment later, shoulder almost brushing his.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn’t awkward anymore. That was the thing that kept sneaking up on you during this trip. Silence with Steve used to feel charged in all the wrong ways. Full of tension and avoidance and all the things you weren’t saying.

But now it felt safe. It felt like both of you were finally too exhausted to keep pretending you didn’t understand each other.

The refrigerator hummed quietly behind you while Steve absently scraped his spoon against the carton.

Then, without looking at you, he said softly, “I’ve been thinking about coming clean.”

You frowned slightly. “About what?”

He finally looked up.

“My dad.”

Your stomach tightened instantly.

Steve stared down at the melting ice cream for a second before continuing. “Everything with the donations. The pressure. Him trying to control the program through me.” He swallowed. “All of it.”

You blinked at him.

“Steve…”

“I’m serious.”

The tone of his voice made your chest tighten.

There wasn’t any anger in it, or dramatics. His voice was just heavy with pure exhaustion

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if someone else had found out first,” he admitted quietly. “If someone had published it before I had the chance to say anything.”

Your throat tightened immediately because you knew exactly what he was talking about.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed somewhere on the kitchen floor now. “I think maybe I deserve it.”

Your eyebrows pulled together immediately. “Deserve what?”

“To lose everything.”

The words hit so hard your chest physically hurt.

“Steve.”

“No, seriously.” His voice cracked slightly around the edges now. “Because maybe if I’d just been honest from the beginning none of this would’ve happened.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You think destroying your career is gonna fix this?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t know what’s gonna fix this.”

The honesty of it hurt.

Steve looked up finally, and the expression on his face almost wrecked you completely. There was no ego left in him right now. No cocky basketball captain act. Just a tired boy sitting in the middle of a dark kitchen looking like the weight of the world had finally become too heavy to carry.

“My entire life,” he said quietly, “people have looked at me and assumed things came easy for me.”

You stayed silent.

“They think because my dad has money or because I’m good at basketball that none of it actually means anything.” His jaw tightened slightly. “And now every time I think about the championship or the captain thing or any of it, all I hear is him.”

Your chest ached.

“He made you feel like none of it belongs to you,” you said softly.

Steve looked at you like he hadn’t expected you to understand that so quickly.

“Yeah,” he admitted after a second.

Silence settled again.

Then he laughed quietly to himself, bitter around the edges. “The fucked up part is I almost handed him exactly what he wanted.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“When I saw your notebook.” His voice dropped lower now. “I thought you saw me the same way he does.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

“Like I was just some spoiled kid who got handed everything.” He swallowed thickly. “And I got so angry that I stopped seeing you clearly.”

The tears hit your eyes before you even realized they were there.

That was the tragedy of all this, wasn’t it?

Two people loving each other so much they accidentally destroyed everything trying to protect themselves first.

You quickly looked away, blinking hard before the tears could fully fall.

Steve noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You shook your head once, pressing your lips together.

“No, because you don’t get to sit here and act like you didn’t earn everything you have.”

Steve blinked slightly at the sudden sharpness in your voice.

“You are so talented,” you continued, your throat tightening painfully around the words. “Like genuinely, ridiculously talented.”

“Paparazzi—”

“No.” You looked back at him now, tears finally slipping free despite yourself. “Do you know how hard it was writing about you all season?”

His expression softened immediately.

“Because every single game I had to pretend I was objectively observing some athlete when really I was watching someone who loves the sport so much it practically bleeds out of him.” Your voice shook harder now. “You think I would’ve fallen in love with you if you weren’t good enough to deserve it?”

Steve went completely still.

You laughed weakly through the tears. “You worked for that team, Steve. I watched you work for it.”

His eyes glistened immediately.

“You stayed after practices to help freshmen. You played through injuries. You carried pressure nobody else even knew about.” Your chest ached harder with every word. “Your dad donating money doesn’t magically erase your talent.”

Steve looked away quickly then, jaw tightening.

“You can’t let him win by giving all of this up,” you whispered. “Because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to believe none of it belongs to you unless it came from him.”

Steve’s breathing had gone uneven now.

You could practically see him trying to hold himself together.

“He doesn’t get to take credit for who you became,” you said softly.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Steve suddenly laughed once under his breath, though it sounded suspiciously emotional.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked quietly.

You sniffed slightly. “What?”

“You see the best in me even when I don’t deserve it.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“You do deserve it,” you whispered.

Steve looked at you then and suddenly the air shifted.

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before flicking back up again, hesitant this time.

Your heart started pounding immediately.

Slowly, Steve set the ice cream carton aside before leaning in slightly.

And then he stopped, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

The fact that he stopped nearly broke your heart all over again.

Because old Steve wouldn’t have.

Old Steve would’ve acted first and thought later.

This version of him looked at you like your comfort mattered more than what he wanted.

Your breath caught softly in your chest. Then, before you could think too hard about it, you closed the distance yourself.

The kiss was devastatingly gentle.

Steve made the quietest sound against your mouth, something halfway between relief and heartbreak, and suddenly his hand was against your jaw like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

You kissed him again before he could overthink it.

It felt nothing like the rushed almost-moments you’d shared before.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you stayed close enough that your foreheads brushed lightly together.

Steve’s eyes stayed closed for a second longer before he whispered. “I missed you so much.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“I know.”

•

Neither of you made it back upstairs after that.

At some point you ended up curled together on the couch beneath an old blanket, Steve half sprawled against the cushions while you rested against his chest. His arm stayed wrapped tightly around you even in sleep like he was scared you’d disappear if he loosened his grip too much.

For the first time in weeks, you slept peacefully.

Which was probably why the sound of the front door slamming open a few hours later startled both of you awake instantly.

Heavy footsteps echoed through the house and you could feel Steve stiffen beneath you immediately.

Before you could register what was happening, a cold voice rang through the entryway.

“Steven?”

The second Steve heard his father’s voice, every part of him changed.

His body went rigid. His breathing practically stopped. Even the warmth that had settled into him while you slept against his chest seemed to vanish all at once, replaced by something cold.

You recognized it as fear.

Steve carefully untangled himself from you and sat up too quickly, running a hand through his messy hair while trying to shake the sleep from his expression. Beside him, your own heart had started pounding nervously in your chest.

The front door slammed shut as the heavy footsteps got closer.

You looked toward him uncertainly. “Should I…” you trailed off, eyes darting between Steve and the stairs.

“No.”

The answer came too fast.

Steve stood immediately, already looking panicked at the idea of you disappearing upstairs before his father saw you.

Steve swallowed hard before holding a hand out toward you. “Just stay with me, okay? Please.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the look on his face.

You nodded once and took his hand.

The two of you barely made it into the kitchen before a figure appeared in the doorway and suddenly you understood Steve in a way you never fully had before.

Standing there in a sharply pressed coat with exhaustion and irritation etched permanently into his face was a man who looked at his son like disappointment had become second nature to him.

Richard Harrington’s eyes landed on Steve first.

Then slid to you before immediately hardening.

Steve spoke first.

“What are you doing here?”

His father ignored the question entirely.

“I had to hear from someone else that you skipped the donor dinner last night.”

Steve’s jaw tightened slightly. “I wasn’t exactly in the mood for public appearances.”

“You don’t get to decide when you’re in the mood,” his father snapped immediately. “Not after the embarrassment you caused this family last week.”

Steve looked exhausted already, but now you could practically see him retreating into himself in real time.

“I said I was sorry.”

Richard laughed humorlessly. “Sorry doesn’t erase the fact that you blew the biggest game of your career.”

The words hit like a slap.

You glanced toward Steve instinctively.

His face stayed carefully blank.

Your chest ached.

Richard finally looked toward you again. You caught a slight hint of recognition in his eyes before he spoke again.

“And you are?”

Before you could answer, Steve spoke sharply.

“She’s with me.”

The immediate defensiveness in his voice made something flicker across his father’s face.

Richard sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was all just deeply exhausting for him. “Of course she is.”

Steve’s posture straightened immediately.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” his father said coolly, “you’ve always had a habit of letting girls distract you whenever something important is happening.”

Your stomach dropped.

Beside you, Steve’s expression darkened instantly.

“Don’t.”

“What?” Richard continued casually. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes.”

The word came hard enough to cut glass.

But his father just looked unimpressed.

“You had one job this season, Steven. One. Keep your head straight long enough to secure your future.” His eyes flicked toward you dismissively. “Instead, you’re here playing house.”

The humiliation hit you instantly even though you knew the comment wasn’t really about you.

Your arms folded instinctively tighter over yourself.

And unfortunately, Richard noticed that too.

“Nothing personal,” he said toward you, though there was absolutely nothing apologetic in his tone. “But girls like you come and go. Basketball doesn’t.”

Something in Steve snapped.

“No,” he said sharply.

His father blinked once.

Steve stepped slightly in front of you before continuing, voice suddenly shaking with anger.

“You do not get to talk about her like that.”

The kitchen went still.

Richard stared at his son for a long moment like he genuinely couldn’t believe he was being challenged right now.

Then he scoffed quietly.

“Jesus Christ.”

Steve’s breathing had gone uneven now.

“You don’t know anything about her.”

“I know enough. More than you might think.”

“No,” Steve repeated, louder this time. “You don’t.”

Your heart was hammering now because this wasn’t normal arguing anymore.

This felt deeper. Years of swallowed resentment finally starting to rupture open.

Richard crossed his arms. “You’re proving my point right now.”

“Your point?” Steve laughed sharply. “What, that I care about someone?”

“That you’re weak.”

The word landed like a gunshot.

You physically saw the impact it had on Steve.

His entire face just fell.

Tiny. Brief. Barely noticeable unless you were paying attention. And suddenly every piece of him made sense.

Every moment he’d overperformed. All the times he’d tried to seem unaffected. Every reckless decision or desperate attempt to be enough for everybody around him all the time.

Somewhere along the way, this man had convinced Steve that love was conditional. That worth was conditional. He was made to believe that failure made him disposable.

Your chest hurt so badly you almost couldn’t breathe through it.

Steve looked away briefly, jaw flexing hard.

“I played through an injured ankle.”

Richard shrugged coldly. “And?”

“And I still showed up.”

“You still lost.”

The silence afterward was devastating.

Steve blinked slowly.

In that moment you suddenly understood why he’d looked at you with that awful smirk in the hotel room. Why hurting you had felt easier than risking vulnerability.

This was what he’d grown up with.

Love that turned cruel the second he disappointed someone.

Your eyes burned immediately.

Richard sighed impatiently. “You’re lucky I’ve spent years building relationships with this athletic department, because another performance like that and they would’ve buried you.”

Steve laughed softly then.

But it sounded wrong.

“You really believe that, huh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve finally looked back at him fully.

And for the first time since Richard walked into the house, you saw something in Steve’s expression other than fear.

“You think everything good in my life exists because of you.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Careful.”

“No,” Steve continued, voice trembling now. “Because I’m starting to realize how insane this actually is.”

“Steven—”

“You donated money to a program and spent years making me feel like that somehow means I didn’t earn my place there.”

“You benefited from my connections.”

“I benefited from basketball.”

His father scoffed. “You think talent alone gets people opportunities?”

“No,” Steve snapped. “I think I spent years killing myself to prove I deserved the opportunities you kept holding over my head.”

The room went completely silent.

Your chest was tight enough to hurt.

Steve looked furious now. Devastated too, somehow.

“You wanna know the worst part?” he continued. “For a while, I actually believed you.”

Richard stared at him coldly. “You’re being dramatic.”

Steve laughed in disbelief.

“Dramatic?”

“You lost one game and suddenly you’re spiraling.”

“It’s not about the game!”

The shout echoed through the kitchen.

You flinched slightly.

Steve immediately looked guilty for it before dragging a hand through his hair again, breathing hard.

“It’s about the fact that nothing is ever enough for you,” he said more quietly now. “Not one thing.”

His father looked entirely unmoved.

“You’re emotional because you’re embarrassed.”

“No,” Steve said. “I’m emotional because I’m tired.”

Richard scoffed again, eyes sliding toward you dismissively. “And I’m sure she’s helping with that.”

That did it.

Steve stepped forward instantly.

“Don’t talk about her again.”

“Or what?”

The challenge in his father’s voice made the entire room feel dangerous.

Steve’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Or I swear to God I’ll tell the university everything.”

Silence.

Even you stopped breathing.

Richard’s face darkened immediately.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“You ungrateful little—”

“No.” Steve’s voice cracked sharply now. “I am done letting you act like you own me.”

Your heart was pounding violently.

Because suddenly this wasn’t just emotional anymore.

This was nuclear.

Richard stepped closer slowly. “You think exposing me hurts only me?”

Steve swallowed hard.

“It hurts you too.”

“I know.”

“You lose basketball. Your scholarships disappear. Your future disappears.”

Steve’s jaw tightened painfully.

He glanced toward you and something in his expression shifted completely.

“I almost lost her because of this,” he said quietly.

Your breath caught.

Richard looked unimpressed. “And?”

Steve laughed bitterly.

“And you still don’t get it.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Then Richard straightened his coat calmly like the conversation bored him now.

“You’re making a mistake.”

“No,” Steve said softly. “I think I’ve been making the same mistake my whole life.”

For a second, something almost human flickered across his father’s face.

Then it vanished faster than it arrived.

Richard looked toward you one final time.

“You should be careful,” he said coolly. “Steve gets attached to things that make him feel better about himself.”

Your stomach twisted immediately, but before you could even react, Steve stepped fully between you.

“Get out.”

The words came low and shaking.

Richard stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re seriously defending this girl to your own father? In my home?”

Steve didn’t even hesitate.

“Your home? You haven’t spent an actual night here in years.”

The answer hit the room like lightning.

Your heart physically stuttered in your chest.

Even Richard looked slightly thrown by how immediate it was.

Steve’s breathing had gone uneven again now, emotion bleeding through every word despite how hard he was trying to hold himself together.

“She’s the only thing that’s felt real in my life in months,” he said quietly. “So yeah. I’m choosing her.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

Richard looked between the two of you for a long moment before letting out a cold laugh and walking out the door. It slammed behind him hard enough to shake the walls.

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

Steve still stood between you and the doorway like his body hadn’t realized the threat was over yet. His chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the thin gray t-shirt he’d thrown on, shoulders tensed so tightly it looked painful. You could see the imprint his father’s presence had left on him in real time. The rigid set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the slight tremor in his breathing he was clearly trying to suppress before you noticed it.

But you had noticed it.

You noticed everything about him now.

Steve finally turned around.

And the second his eyes landed on you, the anger left his face entirely.

What replaced it was somehow worse. It was a thin line between shame and embarrassment.

It looked like he hated that you had witnessed that part of his life.

His throat bobbed slightly before he looked away first.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out rough.

You frowned immediately. “Steve—”

“No.” He shook his head once, quick and frustrated, dragging a hand back through his hair. “Don’t do that thing where you try to make this okay. You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

His voice cracked slightly around the last word, and your chest tightened painfully.

For the first time since meeting Steve Harrington, you realized something terrifyingly simple: no one had probably ever been there to comfort him after his father verbally attacked him.

The realization settled heavily inside your chest as Steve leaned both hands against the kitchen counter, head dropping forward for a moment like he was trying to physically hold himself together.

“I just…” He exhaled shakily. “Jesus Christ.”

You stayed quiet.

Steve laughed softly then, but there was nothing humorous in the sound.

“That was probably insane for you to watch.”

You realized with disbelief that the thing that seemed to upset him most wasn’t what had been said to him.

It was that you’d had to hear it.

Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer.

“Steve.”

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“You don’t have to apologize for him.”

“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly, “well apparently he’s still my father, so.”

The self-loathing woven into the sentence made your stomach twist.

Without really thinking about it, you reached for his wrist gently.

Steve went still beneath your touch.

“You know what the worst part is?” he asked quietly after a moment.

Your fingers tightened slightly around his arm. “What?”

“When he talks to me like that…” His eyes shut briefly. “Part of me still feels like I’m 16 again trying to convince him I’m worth being proud of.”

The words hit you so hard you physically felt it.

Suddenly everything about Steve made sense in a way it never fully had before. The need to perform. The constant pressure he put on himself. The parties, his image, the desperate need to be liked by everyone around him.

It was never a confidence thing for him. It was purely survival.

“Steve,” you whispered softly, “look at me.”

For a second you didn’t think he would.

Then finally his eyes lifted to yours.

He looked emotionally exhausted in the way people look when they’ve spent years carrying something heavy by themselves.

“You are not your father.”

His jaw tightened instantly.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes,” you said firmly, “I do.”

Silence settled heavily between you.

Steve swallowed hard before shaking his head faintly. “You really shouldn’t be this nice to me after everything I put you through.”

The honesty of it nearly destroyed you. Knowing that the same crushing guilt he carried around constantly now was still lingering in his mind, haunting him.

You stepped closer until barely any distance remained between you.

“You hurt me,” you admitted quietly.

Steve physically flinched.

“Yet you also spent weeks hating yourself for it.”

He stared at you silently.

“And after seeing him?” you glanced toward the front door. “I think I understand why.”

Steve’s entire expression shifted at that.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then finally Steve looked away and muttered quietly, “I don’t want you thinking I’m some tragic charity case now.”

You let out the smallest breath of laughter.

“That’s what you took from this conversation?”

“I’m serious.”

“You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to let people take care of you sometimes.”

Steve’s eyes flicked back to yours immediately.

The vulnerability there nearly took your breath away.

It was terrifying, realizing how much softer he’d become with you.

How much less guarded.

The Steve from campus would’ve laughed this conversation off three different times by now. He would’ve hidden behind sarcasm or charm or flirtation.

This Steve just looked at you like he was trying to figure out whether he deserved kindness at all.

And somehow that version of him was the one you loved most.

“We should probably head back today,” you said quietly.

Reality settled back over the room immediately.

Real life.

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

•

The drive back to campus that afternoon felt completely different than the drive to Hawkins had.

The sky outside remained overcast the entire drive, soft gray clouds stretching endlessly above the highway while Steve sat beside you with one arm resting against the open window. The wind pushed through his hair carelessly, occasionally lifting strands across his forehead before he shoved them back absentmindedly.

You caught yourself looking at him more than once. It wasn’t intentional. Your brain just kept drifting toward him now that things felt different.

Steve noticed eventually.

“You keep staring at me.”

“I literally don’t.”

“You literally do.”

You rolled your eyes slightly, focusing back on the road. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re annoying.”

Steve smiled faintly to himself before turning slightly in his seat. “You still came all the way to Hawkins for me.”

“I was worried,” you admitted quietly.

“I know.”

The sincerity in his response made your chest ache.

For a while after that, the car settled into comfortable silence. Steve eventually took over music despite your complaints about his objectively terrible taste, and somewhere outside Indianapolis you found yourself laughing quietly when he started aggressively defending some old rock song like his life depended on it.

“Did you just sigh during the guitar solo like some middle aged divorced dad?” The words barely came out, swallowed by the laughter you couldn’t seem to stop.

Steve looked deeply offended. “This is why opening up emotionally around you is dangerous.”

You laughed again.

And the sound seemed to affect him instantly.

Steve looked over at you so fast it almost startled you.

“There you are,” he murmured softly.

Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard.

Even the way he said things now felt different too.

The realization followed you the rest of the drive back to campus.

By the time the university buildings finally came into view again hours later, something resembling hope had settled in the center of your chest.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

a/n: i actually hate this chapter but i just need them to be fixed so i can rip them apart again wait what who said that ??

taglist: @veeweepeeknee @blackgurlieee @sincerellie @mhayes777 @daddyavesxx @napofaprincess @mj202323 @swirledyouintoallmypoems @solynoche @hstlut @1iliaanxz @turtlamour @superfreaksteve @beezusvreeland @bookmarkedmen @lacywithdrawal @ultimate--daydreamer @jeokeery @biologicallyyours @skelkitty @skkeletonns @exooojongdaeee @djolover4ever @softstaticclub @eller41 @ilovest3veh4rr1ngt0n @kurtsw7rld96 @jorkingtodjo @mortalselfprojected @dude-where-s-my-tardis @p-nkj @beelzebzb @dramallama9 @ttttt127

[scoopsahoydjo]

HOLD ON WHEN ARE Y COMING BACK.?

posted this before i saw this ask but MAY 11 !!

[scoopsahoydjo]

if anyone still cares:

OFF THE RECORD returns may 11 (:

working in the music industry is all fun and games until you’re too busy to update your steve harrington fanfic🫩

but i promise, i’ll make it worth the wait bc there’s still SO much story left to tell <3

[scoopsahoydjo]

Off the Record | Steve Harrington

masterlist

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A modern AU about your experience documenting the team captain of university’s basketball team, Steve Harrington

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

•. Intro

I. Tip Off

II. Full Coverage

III. Safe House

IV. Damage Control

V. Half Time

VI. Conflict of Interest

VII. Out of Bounds

VIII. Technical Foul

IX. Offense vs Defense

X. Time Out

XI. Overtime

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

COMMENT BELOW TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST FOR THIS STORY <3

[scoopsahoydjo]

pushing this back out now that the busiest month of my life is over (shoutout bieberchella) and i can get back to writing angsty steve !!

[scoopsahoydjo]

Off the Record | Steve Harrington

Chapter Eleven - Overtime

summary: you’re mad at steve but you also love steve so you’re kinda mentally fucked

words: 5.7k

series masterlist

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Still standing at his doorway, your throat tightened slightly as you quickly drew your hand back down to your side. Embarrassed at the small display of affection.

Steve blinked once.

Then again.

Like his brain was still trying to catch up.

His eyes moved slowly over your face, searching for something. Proof, maybe. A sign that this wasn’t just another cruel trick his mind had decided to play on him while he was half-hungover and barely awake.

“You’re…” He swallowed roughly. “You’re actually here.”

It wasn’t a question.

More like disbelief given a voice.

You nodded once.

The morning sunlight was spilling over the edge of the porch now, warm against the side of your face. Behind Steve the house was too quiet, the way it always was when you’d been here before. The kind of silence that filled the space where a family should have been.

He dragged a hand slowly down his face, pressing his palm against his eyes for a second like he was trying to reset himself.

Then he looked at you again before his eyes drifted to the driveway where your car was sitting.

“You drove all the way here?”

The question came out almost cautiously.

Like he was afraid to push too hard on the reality of it.

You shifted your weight slightly on the porch, suddenly aware of how wrinkled your clothes probably looked after hours in the car.

“Yeah.”

Steve stared at you like that single word carried an explanation big enough to make sense of everything.

When it didn’t, he frowned faintly, shaking his head slightly as if the thought itself didn’t make sense.

“That’s like, what, four hours?”

“Something like that.”

Another silence stretched between you.

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your sleeve as his gaze stayed fixed on you, searching, confused, overwhelmed in a way you had never seen before.

Finally you exhaled quietly.

“You sounded like you needed someone.”

The moment the words left your mouth you could see the way they landed.

Steve’s expression shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just a small tightening around his eyes, a subtle drop in his shoulders like something inside him had loosened and hurt at the same time.

For a second he didn’t say anything.

Then he stepped back from the doorway.

The movement was slow, almost automatic.

“Come in,” he said quietly.

You crossed the threshold before your nerves had time to second-guess the decision.

The house smelled faintly like coffee and something sharper; probably whatever cheap alcohol Robin had let him drown in the night before.

The familiar quiet of the Harrington house wrapped around you immediately.

It hadn’t changed.

The entryway still opened into that wide living room with furniture that looked expensive but somehow still impersonal. The kind of house that seemed more designed to impress people than to actually live in.

Your shoes were barely inside before Steve shut the door behind you.

The soft click echoed slightly through the empty space.

For a moment neither of you moved.

The air between you felt thick with all the conversations you hadn’t had yet.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

Then he winced slightly, pressing his fingers against his temple like the motion had reminded his body just how hungover he was.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

“You okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

He gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Yeah. Fantastic.” He dragged a hand through his hair again. “Apparently tequila and self-destruction are not a great mix.”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched slightly.

Steve noticed.

His expression softened for half a second before something heavier replaced it again.

There was another pause.

Then his face shifted suddenly like a thought had just slammed into him.

“Oh.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Your notebook. I should give it back.”

Your stomach tightened instantly.

Steve ran a hand over the back of his neck again, suddenly looking uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover.

“I, uh.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “It’s upstairs.”

You felt your pulse quicken slightly.

His words came out stiff.

Guilty.

And suddenly the weight of that small object felt enormous again.

The notebook had started all of this.

The misunderstanding.

The anger.

The night that had detonated everything between you.

You nodded slowly, not expecting that to be the first line of business.

“Okay.”

Steve hesitated like he wasn’t sure if you would follow him.

Then he turned toward the staircase.

You trailed behind him quietly as he walked up the steps, the wooden boards creaking faintly beneath his weight.

The upstairs hallway looked exactly the way you remembered it.

Too clean.

Too empty.

Like no one actually lived here most of the time.

Steve slowed when he reached the end of the hall, stopping in front of his bedroom door.

He rested his hand briefly on the doorknob.

For a second it looked like he might say something.

Instead he just pushed the door open.

“Come on.”

You stepped inside after him and immediately felt the shift.

Because unlike the rest of the house, Steve’s room actually looked lived in.

Messy in a way the downstairs never was.

Clothes draped over the back of a chair. A pair of sneakers kicked half-under the bed. The curtains pulled only halfway open, letting in uneven streaks of morning light that stretched across the floor.

The bed itself looked like he had barely managed to drag himself out of it before answering the door.

Steve crossed the room quickly, heading toward the desk near the window.

“That thing caused enough problems,” he muttered, reaching for something on the surface. “Figured the least I could do was—”

His words cut off as he turned around.

The notebook was in his hand.

But you weren’t looking at it.

Your eyes had landed somewhere else.

Something on the bed.

Because there, tucked beside his pillow like it had been carefully placed there, was a folded piece of paper you knew immediately.

Your letter.

The room seemed to shrink around the moment.

For a second Steve didn’t move.

He followed the direction of your eyes and immediately went still, like his body had locked up before his brain had time to react.

“Right,” he muttered quietly.

Your throat tightened as you looked back at him.

“You kept it.”

The words weren’t accusatory.

Just surprised.

Steve shifted his weight slightly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck in that familiar nervous habit you had written about without realizing he might ever see it.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

His voice was quieter now.

More careful.

You glanced back at the pillow.

The paper looked worn in a way it hadn’t when you first handed it to Ethan. The edges softened from being unfolded and refolded too many times.

“You actually read it,” you said softly.

Steve let out a breath through his nose.

“That’s one way to put it.”

Your eyes lifted back to him.

“What do you mean?”

A small, humorless smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve read it so much I could probably recite it to you.”

Your chest tightened.

Steve crossed the room slowly, sitting down on the edge of the bed like his legs had suddenly decided they were done holding him up.

He picked up the folded paper from the pillow and turned it over once in his hands.

“You wrote about the stupidest stuff,” he said quietly.

You blinked.

“What?”

He looked down at the page.

“The free throw thing.”

Your heart skipped.

“Helping the freshmen after practice,” he continued. “You said I stayed an hour because I didn’t want them to feel stupid asking for help.”

His voice softened slightly.

“I didn’t even realize anyone noticed that.”

Your throat felt tight.

“I noticed.”

Steve gave a faint, crooked huff of air.

“Yeah. Apparently.”

His thumb brushed along the crease in the paper.

You watched as his gaze drifted away again, somewhere distant.

Then he looked back down at the letter again.

His voice had gone rough now.

“You said you wrote the article and then you closed the notebook.”

Your chest tightened.

“That was the whole point,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“I saw the pages in the notebook first,” he admitted. “The article about my dad.”

Your stomach twisted painfully.

“And then I read this.”

He lifted the letter slightly.

“And I thought you were just explaining it. Or justifying why you were gonna publish that.”

You shook your head instinctively.

“I wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

The words came out firm.

Certain.

Steve exhaled slowly.

But it sounded broken.

“You know what the worst part was?”

You hesitated.

“What?”

His eyes lifted to yours.

“I didn’t believe you.”

The silence that followed was thick and felt like it lasted hours.

Steve’s gaze dropped again to the bottom of the page.

“You said something else in here. About being in love with me?” His voice came out so small and timid, like he was scared of your reaction.

Your heart lurched.

“Yeah.”

He ran a hand through his hair slowly.

“That part ruined me.”

Your breath caught.

Steve let out a long exhale, leaning forward slightly with his elbows resting on his knees.

“I read that line like… twenty times,” he admitted. “Trying to figure out if you actually meant it.”

You stared at him.

“I did.”

Steve nodded once.

“I know.”

Another quiet moment passed before he reached for something on the nightstand.

His phone.

He unlocked it quickly and scrolled for a moment before turning the screen toward you.

Your breath caught instantly.

The message.

I think I love you too.

The timestamp sat beneath it.

Undelivered.

Your stomach dropped.

“You sent that?”

Steve nodded.

You felt something heavy settle in your chest.

“I never saw it.”

“I know.”

His voice softened slightly.

“You blocked me.”

The quiet way he said it made the guilt sting more.

“I had to,” you said quietly.

Steve nodded.

“I get it.”

He locked the phone again and set it back down.

“But that message doesn’t really matter anymore.”

You frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?”

Steve stood up again.

Now he was closer.

Close enough that you could see the faint tremor in his hands.

“I said ‘I think,’” he explained.

Your pulse quickened.

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

Steve met your eyes.

There was no hesitation this time.

No uncertainty.

“Before I knew.”

Your breath caught.

“Knew what?”

His voice didn’t waver when he answered.

“That I love you.”

The words landed quietly.

For a moment after he said it, the world seemed to narrow down to the space between you.

Not the room. Not the house. Not even Hawkins.

Just the two of you standing there with the words I love you hanging in the air like something fragile enough to shatter if either of you moved too quickly.

Steve didn’t look away.

That was the first thing you noticed.

In the past, whenever emotions got too close to the surface, whenever a conversation started drifting into territory that couldn’t be brushed off with sarcasm or charm, he would usually retreat a little. Look down. Run a hand through his hair. Crack some self-deprecating joke to break the tension.

But not now.

Now he was just standing there in front of you, eyes a little red, hair a complete disaster, still wearing the same wrinkled t-shirt he’d clearly slept in.

Looking terrified.

Not of you.

Of what you might say next.

Your heart thudded unevenly in your chest.

“You love me,” you repeated softly.

Steve nodded once.

“I do.”

There was no hesitation.

No careful phrasing.

Just the truth.

And somehow that made it harder to breathe.

Because a few weeks ago, hearing those words from him would have felt like the best thing in the world.

Now they landed differently.

Heavier.

Complicated by everything that had happened between you.

You swallowed, your fingers curling loosely around the edge of the notebook still resting on his desk behind you.

“Steve…”

Your voice faltered slightly.

He noticed immediately.

The shift in your expression.

The tension in your shoulders.

His gaze dropped for a brief moment before he nodded to himself, almost like he’d expected this.

“Yeah,” he murmured quietly.

Your chest tightened.

“I came here because I was worried about you.”

The words came out slower than you intended.

“But that doesn’t mean everything’s fine between us.”

Steve didn’t flinch.

Didn’t argue.

He just nodded again.

“I know.”

The acceptance in his voice made something in your chest ache.

“I’m not expecting it to be,” he added after a moment.

You studied him carefully.

“Then why say it?”

The question hung between you.

Why tell someone you loved them if you already believed it might not change anything?

Steve exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck again.

“Because you deserved to know,” he said.

A beat passed.

“And because after the last time we talked, I wasn’t sure I’d ever get another chance to say it.”

Your stomach twisted.

The memory of that night still sat like a bruise somewhere deep inside you.

The party.

The crowd.

Courtney’s arms around his neck.

The smirk on his face when your eyes met.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze.

“Why Courtney?”

The question came out quieter than you expected.

But it landed hard.

Steve went completely still.

Not surprised, but resigned.

Like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you walked through the front door.

He looked away first this time.

His eyes drifting toward the window where pale morning light was spilling across the floor.

“I thought you were writing the story.”

The words came out flat.

Self-critical.

“And then when I saw you at the party that night…”

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly.

“I figured you were just waiting for the right moment to publish it.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Steve—”

“I know,” he cut in quickly.

His voice wasn’t defensive.

Just tired.

“I know that’s not what you were doing.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

“But at the time? It felt like everything we had was just research.”

The words stung more than you expected.

“I never treated you like research.”

“I know that now.”

Another pause stretched between you.

Then Steve laughed quietly.

But there was no humor in it.

“So I did the most mature thing possible.”

You didn’t like the way he said that.

“How drunk were you?”

“I was just angry,” he admitted. “Hurt. Embarrassed.”

His eyes lifted back to yours.

“And convinced you had already decided to ruin me.”

Your chest tightened.

“So you slept with someone else?”

The bluntness of the question made him flinch.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t try to soften it.

Didn’t try to dodge it.

“I figured if you were going to destroy me anyway,” he muttered.

He hesitated.

Then finished the thought.

“I might as well ruin everything first.”

The words sat heavily between you.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then Steve shook his head slightly.

“It was the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

Your eyes searched his face.

“Did you even care about her?”

His answer came immediately.

“No.”

Not defensive.

Not hesitant.

Just certain.

“I didn’t care about her at all.”

He looked down at the floor.

“I just wanted to stop thinking about you.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

Steve rubbed his hands together slowly, like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them.

“And then you walked in,” he continued quietly.

The memory seemed to hit him all over again.

“I saw your face.”

He swallowed.

“And I still didn’t stop.”

The shame in his voice was almost unbearable.

“You humiliated me,” you said softly.

Steve nodded.

“I know.”

“I lost my story.”

Another nod.

“I know.”

“You didn’t trust me.”

This time he didn’t nod.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

“I should have.”

Your throat burned slightly.

“You loved me and I punished you for it,” he said quietly.

The words echoed softly in the room.

And somehow hearing him say them out loud hurt almost more than the night itself had.

Steve looked at you again, his expression tight with something that looked dangerously close to self-loathing.

“You were the only person who ever chose me without wanting something from me,” he said.

His voice had dropped lower now.

More vulnerable.

“And I still managed to screw it up.”

The room fell silent again.

You looked down at the letter still in his hand.

The worn folds.

The creases from where he’d clearly opened it too many times.

“I meant what I wrote,” you said quietly.

Steve’s gaze lifted instantly.

“Every word.”

Something fragile flickered across his face.

Your chest tightened.

“But loving someone doesn’t automatically fix what happened.”

The reminder was gentle but firm.

Steve nodded slowly.

“I know.”

His voice softened.

“I’m not asking you to pretend it does.”

He hesitated.

Then added quietly,

“I’m just asking you not to give up on me yet.”

The plea was so simple.

So honest.

And somehow that made it harder to answer.

Instead of diving deeper into the heaviness of the conversation, you took the deflecting route.

“Buy me some food and maybe I’ll stick around,” you said teasingly.

Steve’s mouth curled up on one side, a relieved laugh escaping his lips.

“Alright, let’s feed the paparazzi.”

•

The diner looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were here.

Same cracked red vinyl booths. Same buzzing fluorescent lights overhead. Same faint smell of coffee and fryer grease clinging to the air like it had soaked into the walls decades ago.

You slid into the booth across from Steve while he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it beside him.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

It was strange sitting across from him like this again.

Not in a press box.

Not in a crowded bar.

Not across a room where a hundred other people could overhear every word.

Just the two of you.

A waitress dropped two menus on the table.

Steve didn’t even glance at his.

“You want the burger,” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t know what I was gonna order.”

He leaned back slightly, arms crossing over his chest with quiet confidence.

“You always get a burger.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“You’re making that up.”

Steve shook his head.

“Last time you were here you got the bacon cheeseburger.”

“That was months ago.”

“And when we’d go to the campus diner after practices?”

Your mouth opened.

Then closed again.

Steve smirked.

“You get a burger.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged.

“I know things about you.”

Your chest tightened a little at how easily he said it.

You quickly looked back down at the menu.

“Well maybe I’m getting pancakes.”

Steve leaned forward slightly.

“You hate pancakes.”

“I do not hate pancakes.”

“You literally said they taste like regret.”

“That was one time.”

“You said it very passionately.”

You tried not to smile.

Tried.

It didn’t fully work.

Steve noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

For a brief moment something warm flickered across his face.

Then he cleared his throat and looked down at the table.

The shift was small.

But you felt it.

Like he’d caught himself getting too comfortable too quickly.

The waitress returned with two glasses of water.

“Ready to order?”

You glanced at Steve.

He raised his hands.

“Burger,” he said.

You sighed.

“Burger.”

Steve grinned.

“I knew it.”

You kicked him lightly under the table.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

The waitress scribbled something on her pad before walking away again.

The booth fell quiet.

Not awkward.

Just careful.

Steve traced his finger along the condensation on his water glass for a second before finally speaking.

“Have you eaten today?”

You frowned slightly.

“What?”

He looked up.

“Before this.”

You shrugged.

“A little.”

“Define a little.”

“Coffee.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted.

“That’s not food.”

“It counts.”

“It absolutely does not.”

You tilted your head.

“You’re the one who admitted your last meal was pizza yesterday.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I was spiraling.”

You studied his face.

He said it like a joke.

But there was enough honesty under the surface that your chest tightened slightly.

“You do that a lot?” you asked quietly.

His eyes flicked up.

“Spiral?”

You nodded.

Steve let out a quiet breath.

“More than I’d like to admit.”

Your fingers curled loosely around your water glass.

“Why didn’t you call someone?”

“I did.”

Your gaze lifted.

“Who?”

He gave a small, crooked smile.

“Apparently Robin.”

You huffed out a quiet breath.

“She seems to think I’m responsible for your emotional well-being.”

Steve laughed softly.

“She’s decided that, yeah.”

Another pause settled between you.

Then his voice softened slightly.

“You didn’t have to answer the phone.”

Your stomach tightened.

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to come here either.”

“I know.”

He studied you carefully.

“Why did you?”

The question lingered in the space between you.

You didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth wasn’t simple.

Because you had spent the entire drive here arguing with yourself about it.

Because loving someone and trusting them again were two very different things.

“You sounded broken,” you said finally.

Steve looked down at the table.

“That tracks.”

“And Robin sounded scared.”

His jaw shifted slightly.

“I didn’t mean for her to worry.”

“You didn’t mean for a lot of things.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Steve flinched slightly.

You immediately felt guilty.

But he nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I didn’t.”

The food arrived a moment later, giving both of you an excuse to look away.

Steve waited until the waitress walked off before speaking again.

“I meant what I said earlier.”

You glanced up.

“When?”

“This morning.”

He picked at the edge of his napkin.

“About loving you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I wasn’t saying it because you showed up,” he continued. “Or because I thought it would fix things.”

His gaze lifted to yours again.

“I said it because it’s true.”

Your throat tightened slightly.

“Steve—”

“I know it doesn’t undo anything.”

His voice was softer now.

“I know I hurt you.”

You studied him carefully.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“But you’re not defending yourself.”

“There’s nothing to defend.”

The certainty in his voice made your chest ache.

Steve leaned forward slightly.

“I screwed up,” he said simply. “Really badly.”

Your gaze dropped to the table again.

“I keep replaying that night,” he admitted quietly.

Your stomach twisted.

“Don’t.”

“I can’t not.”

His voice cracked just slightly.

“I saw your face when you walked in and I still didn’t stop.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“That’s the part I hate the most.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you stayed quiet.

Steve took a breath.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me right now.”

You looked up again.

“But I am going to spend however long it takes trying to earn it.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds ambitious.”

He gave a faint shrug.

“I’ve got time.”

You leaned back in the booth slightly.

“And what exactly does that look like?”

Steve tilted his head.

“Groveling.”

You snorted.

“Groveling?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

You studied him.

“Steve Harrington groveling.”

He nodded solemnly.

“I’m prepared to embarrass myself.”

“That’s a big step for you.”

“I know.”

You took a bite of your burger.

“I’m not promising anything.”

Steve nodded immediately.

“You don’t have to.”

“I might still decide you’re not worth the trouble.”

“That would be fair.”

“And if I leave Hawkins tomorrow—”

“I’ll still keep trying.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“You’re very confident.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

His voice softened again.

“Just stubborn.”

A small silence settled between you.

Then he added quietly,

“You’re worth being stubborn about.”

Your heart betrayed you a little at that.

Because for the first time since everything fell apart, it felt a little like sitting across from the Steve you used to know.

Not the one who hurt you.

The one who stayed late after practice helping freshmen shoot free throws.

The one who read your letter enough times to wear down the folds in the paper.

And the worst part was you still loved him too.

Which made everything infinitely more complicated.

•

The bell above the door of Family Video gave its usual pathetic little jingle when Steve pushed it open.

You barely had time to take two steps inside before a voice from behind the counter shouted.

“OH MY GOD.”

Your head snapped up.

Robin was staring at you like someone had just resurrected you from the dead.

For half a second she didn’t move.

Then she vaulted the counter.

Like actually vaulted it.

“ROBIN—” Steve started.

Too late.

She slammed into you in a full body hug that nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

“You’re alive!” she declared dramatically.

“I was not aware I had died,” you wheezed.

She pulled back, gripping your shoulders and looking you up and down like she was performing a medical examination.

“No, no, no, you might as well have been,” she said. “Because someone,” she jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Steve, “has been acting like the world ended.”

Steve groaned.

“Robin.”

“I’m serious!” she continued, completely ignoring him. “He’s been wandering around Hawkins like a Victorian ghost. Just moping. Staring at walls. Drinking orange juice straight from the carton like a psychopath.”

You blinked.

“Orange juice?”

“He hates orange juice.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face.

“Can we not do this right now?”

Robin turned to him with a completely innocent expression.

“What? I’m painting a picture.”

“Please stop painting.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to you.

“Anyway,” she said, grabbing your arm and pulling you further into the store, “welcome back to the saddest establishment in Indiana.”

The store looked exactly how you remembered it.

Rows of tapes. Faded movie posters. The faint smell of plastic cases and carpet cleaner lingering in the air.

Robin leaned closer to you and whispered loudly,

“I told him you’d come.”

Steve made a strangled sound from somewhere behind you.

“You absolutely did not.”

“I did,” she insisted. “He just refused to believe me because he has the emotional resilience of a damp paper towel.”

You bit back a smile.

Steve dropped onto the stool behind the counter with a defeated sigh.

“Why are you like this?”

Robin gasped.

“Because someone has to keep you humble.”

“Mission accomplished.”

She ignored him and turned back to you again, excitement bubbling over.

“So. Important question.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“Are you staying for a few days or did you just drive four hours to yell at him and leave?”

Steve coughed.

You shot him a look.

Then turned back to Robin.

“A few days.”

Her entire face lit up.

“YES.”

She spun around toward Steve.

“See?! I told you!”

Steve didn’t even look up.

“I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Robin corrected.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like agreement.

The door jingled again a few minutes later.

Dustin’s voice rang out immediately.

“Steve, you forgot your—”

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw you.

His eyes went wide.

“HOLY SHIT.”

Steve groaned again.

“Oh no.”

Dustin pointed at you like you were a hallucination.

“You’re here.”

“Hi Dustin.”

“You’re actually here.”

“Yes.”

He looked at Steve.

Then back at you.

Then back at Steve.

“Oh my god you didn’t screw it up completely.”

Steve threw a box of tapes at him.

“Get out.”

Dustin caught it easily.

“This is incredible.”

Robin clapped her hands together.

“Okay, great, reunion moment over. Steve, Dustin, go pick up Eddie from the arcade like you said you would.”

Steve blinked.

“We said that?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

Dustin grinned.

“Oh, I’m in.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“You’re doing something.”

Robin smiled sweetly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Steve looked from Robin to you and back again.

Then sighed.

“Fine.”

Dustin immediately followed him out the door, still looking thrilled about the entire situation.

The bell jingled again as the door shut behind them.

The store fell quiet.

Robin leaned back against the counter.

And then her expression softened slightly.

“Okay,” she said.

You frowned.

“Okay what?”

She studied you for a moment.

“Can I be honest with you?”

Your stomach tightened slightly.

“That depends.”

Robin folded her arms.

“I know things between you two are complicated.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“But I need you to know something.”

Her tone had shifted now.

Less chaotic and more sincere.

You felt your chest tighten a little.

“What?”

Robin glanced toward the door to make sure Steve was really gone.

Then looked back at you.

“He’s been a mess. Like an absolute grade-A disaster.”

You leaned against the counter beside her.

“Yeah, you told me.”

“He was an idiot,” she continued bluntly. “A colossal idiot.”

You huffed out a small laugh.

“But…” she added gently.

Your smile faded slightly.

“But?”

Robin looked down at the floor for a moment before speaking again.

“I’ve known Steve a long time,” she said.

“Long enough to know when he’s being dramatic versus when he’s actually hurting.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And this?” she continued. “This has been the second one.”

You didn’t respond.

Robin sighed.

“The night after the championship, when he came home,” she said quietly, “he got so drunk he tried to explain your entire letter to me.”

Your heart skipped.

“He what?”

“Word for word.”

Your eyes widened.

Robin nodded.

“Yeah. I didn’t even know he had the thing memorized until he started quoting it.”

A strange warmth flickered in your chest.

Robin sighed again.

“And then he got really quiet.”

You looked at her.

“What did he say?”

She hesitated slightly.

Then answered softly.

“He said he ruined the only good thing that’s ever been his.”

Your eyes stung a little.

“He kept saying he should’ve trusted you,” she continued. “That if he’d just taken two seconds to actually talk to you none of this would’ve happened.”

You looked down at the floor.

Robin nudged your arm lightly.

“He also said he loved you.”

Your heart skipped.

“A lot.”

You laughed weakly.

“People say things when they’re drunk.”

Robin shook her head immediately.

“He said it sober too.”

Your head lifted.

“Multiple times.”

The words landed softly.

Robin gave a small shrug.

“Look, I’m not saying you have to forgive him.”

You nodded slowly.

“He screwed up. Catastrophically.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh.

“But I’ve also never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you,” she added, “or talk about someone the way he talks about you.”

Your chest tightened again.

Robin tilted her head slightly.

“You make him nervous.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Steve Harrington? Nervous?”

“Completely.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

She grinned slightly.

“You didn’t see him pacing around this store yesterday trying to figure out if he should text you again.”

Your stomach twisted.

“He already knew you blocked him,” she added.

Your heart dropped slightly.

“And he still stared at his phone for twenty minutes like maybe the universe would change its mind.”

The image hurt more than you expected.

Robin’s voice softened again.

“I know he hurt you,” she said gently.

“And you’re allowed to take all the time you need.”

You nodded slowly.

“But if you’re wondering whether he actually loves you…”

She gave a small, knowing smile.

“…that boy has been painfully obvious about it.”

The bell above the door jingled again before you could respond.

The boys walked back in, arguing about something loudly.

Steve looked up the second he saw you.

His eyes softened instantly.

Like he had just spotted something fragile he didn’t want to scare away.

And suddenly Robin’s words echoed a little louder in your head.

That boy has been painfully obvious about it.

And for the first time since everything happened, you wondered if maybe he really did deserve another chance.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

a/n: okay quick lil update so we can set the scene for the next few chapters bc whewww … it’s gonna be a rollercoaster <333

taglist: @veeweepeeknee @blackgurlieee @sincerellie @mhayes777 @daddyavesxx @napofaprincess @mj202323 @swirledyouintoallmypoems @solynoche @hstlut @1iliaanxz @turtlamour @superfreaksteve @beezusvreeland @bookmarkedmen @lacywithdrawal @ultimate—daydreamer @jeokeery @biologicallyyours @skelkitty @skkeletonns @exooojongdaeee @djolover4ever @softstaticclub

[scoopsahoydjo]

Off the Record | Steve Harrington

Chapter Ten - Time Out

summary: championship games and regrets

words: 6.7k

series masterlist

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The inside of your dorm room had been doused in a tense silence ever since you got that flight confirmation from Ethan. Trying to focus on anything else was seemingly impossible.

Your laptop screen had dimmed twice already.

Each time you absentmindedly tapped the space bar to wake it up again, staring at the blank document in front of you like it might eventually decide to write itself.

It didn’t.

Because you couldn’t stop thinking about the plane ticket.

Your phone sat face down beside your laptop, but the knowledge of it was still there. Lingering. Heavy. Pulling at your attention every few seconds like a loose thread begging to be tugged.

You flipped it over again.

The email confirmation was still open.

Departure: 1 hour, 32 minutes.

Your name sat printed neatly across the ticket, the destination city glowing beneath it.

The same city where the championship game would be played tomorrow night.

The same city where Steve Harrington was apparently waiting for you.

Your stomach twisted.

You dropped your phone back onto the desk like it had burned you.

This was insane.

Absolutely insane.

Three days ago he had stood in a crowded party and told you he was glad nothing ever happened between you.

Three days ago a video of that moment had spread across the internet like wildfire.

Three days ago Colin had called and calmly informed you that you were being pulled from the story that was supposed to define your entire senior year.

And now? Steve wanted you to get on a plane.

You leaned back in your chair, dragging both hands down your face slowly.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he had asked.

The worst part was that you were actually considering it.

•

The Uber arrived twenty minutes later.

You hadn’t even realized you’d ordered it until the notification popped up on your phone telling you the driver was outside.

Your laptop was closed.

Your backpack was slung over one shoulder.

And your small rolling suitcase sat beside the desk like it had been waiting there the entire time.

You stared at it for a long moment.

The newsroom lights hummed softly overhead as you reached for the handle and pulled it upright.

The wheels echoed quietly across the tile floor as you walked toward the exit.

Each step felt strangely disconnected from your body, like you were watching someone else make the decision.

Outside, the air was cold enough to make your breath visible.

The Uber idled at the curb, headlights cutting pale lines across the pavement.

The driver leaned slightly toward the passenger seat window when he saw you approaching.

“Airport?” he asked.

Your grip tightened around the suitcase handle.

For a moment, the only sound was the low rumble of the engine.

Airport.

That was where this would go.

You would get on the plane.

You would fly across the country.

You would walk into that arena tomorrow night and see Steve again.

See the same boy who had called you Paparazzi like it was your real name.

The same boy who had quietly pushed gummy Coke bottles across tables toward you like it was a secret only the two of you understood.

The same boy who had kissed you in his room in Hawkins like he’d been waiting to do it for months.

The same boy who had smirked at you while another girl was wrapped around him.

Your chest tightened sharply.

You swallowed.

The driver waited.

“Actually,” you said slowly.

Your voice sounded distant, even to yourself.

“Cancel the ride, please. I’m sorry.”

The driver blinked in confusion.

“Oh, uh, okay.”

You stepped back from the car.

The door closed with a quiet thud.

A second later the Uber pulled away, disappearing down the dark street.

The silence that followed felt enormous.

For a long moment you stood there alone on the sidewalk.

Then you pulled your phone from your pocket and opened Ethan’s message again.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Finally, you typed.

Tell Steve good luck tomorrow.

You hit send before you could second guess it.

The message delivered instantly.

You stared at the screen for another few seconds.

Then you turned around and walked back toward your dorm building.

•

Across the country, Steve Harrington sat alone in a nearly empty arena.

The overhead lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floor.

Most of the team had already gone back to the hotel.

Coach had insisted everyone get some sleep before the game tomorrow.

Steve had nodded.

Promised he would.

But instead he had found himself drifting back toward the arena after dinner, like something in his chest needed to see the place again before everything happened.

He sat halfway up the bleachers now, elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at the court.

The championship banner hung above it.

Tomorrow night it would be packed.

Thousands of fans.

Camera crews.

Reporters.

But right now it was quiet.

Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket again.

The screen lit up instantly.

No message.

No call.

No sign that you had gotten on the plane.

His jaw tightened.

Maybe you were already in the air.

Maybe you had turned your phone off.

His phone buzzed suddenly.

Steve sat up immediately.

Ethan’s name flashed across the screen.

He answered before the second ring.

“Is she coming?”

There was a pause on the other end.

Then Ethan sighed quietly.

“She told me to tell you good luck.”

The words hit harder than Steve expected.

For a moment he didn’t say anything.

The arena felt even bigger around him suddenly.

Even emptier.

“Got it,” he said finally.

Ethan hesitated.

“I’m sorry, man.”

Steve nodded even though Ethan couldn’t see it.

“Yeah.”

The call ended a few seconds later.

Steve sat there for a long time after that, staring down at the court.

Tomorrow night he would play the biggest game of his life.

Tomorrow night scouts would be watching.

Reporters would be writing stories.

His future would be decided in forty minutes of basketball.

But right now, all he could think about was the empty seat at the edge of the court where you used to sit.

And the fact that tomorrow, you wouldn’t be there.

~

Steve barely slept.

He tried. At some point after leaving the arena he had returned to the hotel with the rest of the team, nodding through Coach’s final speech in the conference room before everyone was sent upstairs to get rest before the biggest game of their season. But sleep never really came. Instead, he lay on top of the stiff white hotel sheets staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the digital clock beside the bed slowly ticking through the early hours of the morning.

1:47 am.

2:32 am.

3:19 am.

Every time he closed his eyes, the same image replayed in his head.

You standing in that doorway.

Your face falling.

The way you had looked at him like you didn’t recognize the person in front of you anymore.

By the time his alarm finally went off at seven, Steve had already been awake.

~

The arena felt completely different on game day.

By the time the team bus pulled up outside that afternoon, the streets were already crowded with fans in school colors, their voices echoing loudly off the concrete buildings as cameras and reporters swarmed near the entrance.

Normally Steve thrived on that kind of energy.

The noise. The attention. The pressure.

But today the sound felt strangely distant, like it was happening somewhere far away from him instead of directly outside the bus window.

He stepped down onto the pavement with the rest of the team, the familiar flashes of cameras lighting up the entrance as reporters shouted questions toward them.

“Harrington! How’s the ankle feeling?”

“Steve! Big night tonight!”

“Any comment on the championship matchup?”

He didn’t answer any of them.

He barely even registered the words as he walked past the crowd and into the arena tunnel.

Because without thinking about it, his eyes had already started scanning the stands.

•

You were doing everything in your power not to watch the game.

By 6PM the campus already felt different.

The basketball team had made the championship game before, but not in years, and the entire university had decided to treat it like a national holiday. Students crowded the sidewalks in school colors, groups spilling out of dorms and bars and student lounges as the night crept closer to tip-off.

It was impossible not to notice.

Which was exactly why you grabbed your jacket and left your dorm before the broadcast even started.

You told yourself it was because you needed food.

Because you had been sitting in the same chair staring at the same unfinished homework for three hours and your brain needed a break.

Because you were hungry.

Not because you were trying to outrun the fact that Steve Harrington was about to play the biggest game of his life.

Not because you couldn’t stand the thought of watching it happen without being there.

The cold air hit your face the second you stepped outside, sharp enough to make your eyes water as you shoved your hands into your pockets and headed toward the edge of campus.

The first restaurant you tried was packed.

Students crowded every table, jerseys and hoodies filling the room as the loud cheers from the televisions mounted above the bar echoed against the walls.

You froze just inside the doorway.

The game had already started.

On the screen above the counter, a familiar figure jogged across the court as the commentators loudly discussed the matchup.

Steve.

Even from across the restaurant you could recognize the way he moved.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Someone near the bar shouted when he made the first shot of the game, the crowd erupting in applause that bounced around the room like fireworks.

You turned around immediately.

“Actually,” you muttered quietly to the confused host behind the stand, “never mind.”

The door closed behind you a second later.

The second place wasn’t any better.

Neither was the third.

Every restaurant, every bar, every café you walked into had the same thing happening.

Televisions glowing.

Crowds cheering.

The same game playing on every screen.

By the time you reached the small diner just off campus, you had almost convinced yourself that this one might finally be quiet.

It usually was.

Half the time the television mounted in the corner wasn’t even turned on.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside and immediately heard the commentator’s voice echoing across the empty tables.

“Harrington driving down the lane again—”

You stopped walking.

The TV above the counter showed the court from a wide camera angle as Steve pushed past two defenders, his jersey sticking slightly to his back as he moved.

The waitress behind the counter glanced up at the screen just as he scored.

“Well, damn,” she said under her breath.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t realize you had been staring until the waitress turned toward you.

“You wanna sit down?”

You blinked quickly and looked away from the television.

“Can I just get something to go?”

“Sure thing.”

You ordered the first thing you saw on the menu board without really reading it.

While the waitress disappeared into the kitchen, you sat at the counter with your back carefully turned toward the television.

You still heard everything.

The commentators.

The crowd noise.

The occasional cheer from the couple sitting in the corner booth who had clearly come here for the same reason everyone else on campus had gone somewhere tonight.

Your fingers tapped nervously against the counter.

You hated how easy it was to picture what was happening without even looking.

The way Steve would rub the back of his neck during timeouts.

The way he paced slightly near the sideline when the team was down.

The way his eyes always drifted toward press row between plays.

Your stomach twisted.

You wondered if he was looking tonight.

By the time your food was ready, the game had reached halftime.

You paid quickly and grabbed the bag from the counter.

As you turned toward the door, the television behind you showed a close-up shot of Steve standing near the bench, breathing hard as one of the trainers wrapped something around his ankle.

The commentators’ voices filled the diner.

“Harrington has been battling through that ankle injury all week…”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then you forced yourself to keep walking.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped back into the cold night air.

For a moment you just stood there on the sidewalk, the warm paper bag clutched in your hands.

The sounds of cheering drifted faintly from the dorm buildings across campus.

Your chest felt tight again.

You looked down at the food in your hands.

And suddenly realized you weren’t hungry anymore.

~

You didn’t walk straight back to your dorm.

Instead you wandered toward the small courtyard behind the library, the one with the old wooden benches that were usually empty after dark. The campus had quieted slightly as the game went on, most students either packed into common rooms or crowded around televisions in bars off campus.

The courtyard lights cast soft yellow circles across the pavement as you lowered yourself onto one of the benches and set the takeout bag beside you.

For a moment you just sat there.

The cold air brushed against your cheeks, carrying distant bursts of cheering from somewhere across campus. Someone must have left a window open in one of the dorms because every so often the roar of a crowd spilled faintly into the night before fading again.

You pulled the container of food from the bag and peeled the lid open slowly.

The smell hit you immediately.

You realized you hadn’t actually eaten anything all day.

Your fork scraped quietly against the container as you took a bite, chewing mechanically while staring out across the dark courtyard.

Your mind drifted without your permission.

To a kitchen in Hawkins where Steve had leaned against the counter with that lazy smile, sliding a bag of Coke gummies across the surface toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

To the way he had looked at you that night.

Like he was finally letting himself.

You swallowed hard and forced another bite down.

The food tasted like nothing.

Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of cheering erupted again.

Your chest tightened.

You imagined the arena thousands of miles away. The packed stands. The bright lights reflecting off the polished court. The sound of sneakers squeaking across the floor.

Steve pacing near the sideline.

Rubbing the back of his neck.

Looking toward the press row without realizing he was doing it.

You pressed your lips together.

After a while you gave up trying to eat.

The container went back into the bag, barely touched.

Your hands felt colder now as you stood from the bench and slung the bag over your arm.

The walk back to your dorm felt longer than usual.

The closer you got to the residential buildings, the more you noticed something strange.

It was quiet.

Earlier that evening the sidewalks had been crowded with students in school colors, voices loud and excited as they talked about the championship game like it was already theirs.

Now most of them walked with their heads down.

Small groups moved slowly across the quad, their conversations muted and heavy in a way that made your stomach begin to twist before your brain fully caught up.

One guy wearing a team hoodie kicked a loose pebble across the sidewalk as he passed.

“…we should’ve had that,” he muttered to the friend beside him.

Your steps slowed.

Another group walked past you near the dorm entrance.

“…Harrington’s ankle was clearly screwed up…”

“…last five minutes were brutal…”

Your chest tightened painfully.

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

Still, your heart started beating faster as you climbed the stairs to your floor.

The hallway felt strangely subdued too. Doors that had been wide open earlier in the night were now closed, the usual bursts of cheering replaced by quiet conversations and the occasional disappointed groan drifting through the walls.

Your room felt colder than usual when you stepped inside.

You set the bag of uneaten food on your desk and closed the door behind you.

For a long moment you just stood there.

Then slowly, almost reluctantly, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

You already knew what you were going to see.

But somehow that didn’t stop the dread from pooling heavily in your stomach as you opened your browser.

It only took one search.

The score appeared immediately.

Bright and unavoidable.

Final: 74–68

Your school’s logo sat by the 68.

You stared at the screen.

Your chest tightened sharply as the reality settled into place.

They lost.

Which meant the season was over.

Which meant Steve’s last game as captain had ended with confetti falling for the other team.

You sank slowly onto the edge of your bed, the phone still clutched loosely in your hand.

For a moment you pictured him standing on the court when the buzzer sounded.

The stunned quiet.

The celebration happening around him.

The way he probably looked toward the stands without thinking.

Toward the place where you used to sit.

Your vision blurred.

You swallowed hard, pressing the heel of your hand against your eyes as the sick feeling in your stomach deepened.

Because the worst part wasn’t the loss.

The worst part was knowing that somewhere across the country, Steve Harrington had probably spent the entire night looking for you in a crowd where you were never going to be.

And you weren’t sure which one of you that hurt more.

•

After the final buzzer, after the confetti fell for the other team and the arena filled with the deafening sound of celebration that had nothing to do with them, he stood frozen near the sideline for longer than anyone else.

His teammates eventually disappeared down the tunnel one by one, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion and disappointment.

Coach had clapped him on the shoulder at some point, saying something about being proud of the season.

Steve didn’t remember what he said back.

All he remembered was looking toward the stands.

Just one more time.

Just in case.

It was stupid. He knew that.

But part of him had still hoped you’d changed your mind.

~

The hotel room was dark when he got back.

The team had gathered in one of the conference rooms downstairs for a short meeting after the game, the mood quiet and heavy as Coach talked about the season and the future and how proud he was of the work they’d done.

Steve barely heard any of it.

By the time he reached the hallway outside his room, the adrenaline from the game had worn off completely, leaving behind a dull ache in his ankle and an even heavier pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.

The key card clicked softly in the door.

The room was silent when he stepped inside.

For a moment he just stood there in the darkness, staring at nothing.

Then the door shut behind him with a quiet thud and something inside him snapped.

“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly to the empty room. “Nice job, Harrington.”

He dropped his gym bag onto the floor harder than necessary, the sound echoing against the hotel walls.

“Captain of the fucking year.”

His hands dragged through his hair roughly as he paced once across the small room.

“You had one job.”

The words came out harsher now.

Louder.

“One goddamn job.”

He stopped near the window, staring down at the dark city streets far below.

“You just had to show up and play the game.”

His reflection stared back at him in the glass.

Sweat-damp hair.

Exhausted eyes.

A bruise already forming along his jaw where someone had caught him with an elbow in the second half.

Steve let out a humorless laugh.

“Couldn’t even do that right.”

His gaze dropped slowly toward the floor.

Toward the small folded piece of paper sticking out of his bag.

Your letter.

He had brought it with him to the game.

Like an idiot.

Like somehow carrying it around in his pocket would magically undo everything he had done.

Steve dragged a hand down his face.

“You deserved to lose,” he muttered quietly.

The words landed heavily in the silent room.

His jaw tightened as the anger turned inward.

“You humiliated her in front the damn country.”

His voice rose again, sharper now.

“You let Courtney crawl all over you just to prove a point.”

His chest tightened painfully.

“And for what?”

He shook his head slowly.

“For a notebook.”

The word tasted bitter.

A stupid misunderstanding.

A stupid assumption.

A stupid, selfish decision that had blown up everything.

Steve turned away from the window, pacing again as the frustration boiled over.

“You really thought she was using you?” he scoffed to himself.

“You’re not that important, Harrington.”

His hands clenched at his sides.

“She wrote you a fucking love letter.”

The words echoed loudly in the room.

“And you slept with someone else.”

Silence followed.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Steve let out a shaky breath as he sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.

“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You deserved that loss.”

His phone buzzed suddenly on the nightstand.

Steve barely glanced at it at first.

But when the screen lit up, the name made his stomach drop.

Dad.

For a second he considered ignoring it.

But something bitter twisted in his chest and he grabbed the phone anyway.

“Yeah?”

There wasn’t even a greeting on the other end.

“What the hell happened tonight?”

Steve closed his eyes.

Of course.

“Good to hear from you too,” he muttered.

His father ignored the comment.

“I put too much into this program for you to screw it up now.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Steve’s jaw clenched.

“We lost a game,” he said flatly.

“You lost the championship.”

His father’s voice carried that same sharp edge it always had.

“That’s not just a game.”

Steve stared down at the carpet.

“Right.”

“I made calls for you, Steve.”

The words came slower now.

More pointed.

“You think those scouts just magically show up?”

Steve felt something ugly twist in his chest.

“You think that coach built this whole offense around you because he felt like it?”

His father exhaled sharply.

“Even with my help you still managed to screw this up.”

The silence that followed stretched long and painful.

Steve’s grip tightened around the phone.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

His father scoffed.

“Grow up, Steve.”

The line went dead.

Steve lowered the phone slowly.

For a long moment he just sat there.

Then he let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a broken exhale.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself.

“Guess that’s what I do. Screw shit up.”

His eyes drifted back toward the letter on the bedside table.

Toward the careful handwriting that ended with two words he had read a hundred times in the past two days.

Love, Paparazzi

Steve swallowed hard.

Then he leaned back against the wall behind the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The one person who had actually believed in him had chosen not to come tonight.

And for the first time in a long time Steve Harrington finally understood exactly why.

•

A week passed.

Not quickly.

Not cleanly.

A week that dragged across every hour of every day like something heavy stuck to the bottom of your shoes.

Campus had slowly returned to normal after the championship loss. The first few days had been filled with loud debates in dining halls and disappointed conversations outside classrooms, but by the end of the week even that had faded into something quieter.

People moved on.

They always did.

Except for you.

Because the one thing that hadn’t returned to normal was Steve.

At first you hadn’t noticed.

Why would you? You had been avoiding the athletic buildings entirely since coming back from the tournament, sticking mostly to the journalism wing and the library and your dorm like those were the only safe corners of campus left.

But by the third day the rumors started slipping into conversations you couldn’t avoid.

Someone mentioned the basketball team had resumed workouts.

Someone else mentioned the captain hadn’t been there.

Then Ethan had walked into the newsroom that afternoon and tossed his bag onto the table with a frustrated sigh.

“He still hasn’t come back.”

You looked up immediately.

Your stomach dropped.

“What do you mean?”

Ethan frowned slightly.

“The team got back last Sunday.”

You nodded slowly.

You knew that.

Everyone knew that.

The buses had pulled into campus late that night. Videos of disappointed players stepping off the bus had circulated around social media for half a day before people eventually got bored and moved on to the next thing.

But Ethan shook his head.

“Harrington wasn’t on it.”

Your chest tightened.

“He probably just stayed with family or something,” you said quickly.

The explanation came out almost automatically.

It wasn’t unusual for players to go home for a few days after the season ended.

But Ethan shrugged.

“Maybe.”

He didn’t sound convinced.

“And nobody from the team has heard from him either.”

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table.

That part didn’t sound like Steve.

He might disappear for a day or two after a loss. He might sulk or avoid reporters or hole up in his apartment for a weekend.

But he wouldn’t vanish.

Not completely.

Not like that.

~

By the end of the week you had checked your phone more times than you were willing to admit.

Not for a message.

You had blocked him.

That part hadn’t changed.

But something restless had started growing in the back of your mind.

A quiet uneasiness that you couldn’t quite shake.

You told yourself it wasn’t your problem anymore.

You told yourself a dozen reasonable explanations every time the thought crept in.

But none of them stopped the knot tightening slowly in your stomach.

~

The call came just after midnight.

Your phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand beside your bed, dragging you abruptly out of sleep.

For a second you just blinked up at the dark ceiling, disoriented.

The buzzing continued.

You groaned softly and reached for the phone, squinting at the bright screen, an unknown number flashing in your face.

You frowned.

For a moment you considered letting it go to voicemail.

But something about the late hour made your chest tighten uneasily as you swiped to decline the call.

The phone went quiet again.

You set it back down on the nightstand and rolled over.

Ten seconds later it started ringing again.

You stared at the screen.

Same number.

Your stomach twisted slightly.

Slowly, you tapped the small information icon beside the number.

Then opened your browser.

The area code appeared instantly.

Your breath caught.

Hawkins, Indiana.

Hawkins.

You sat up immediately.

Your heart started beating faster as the phone continued ringing in your hand.

You answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

There was a second of static on the other end of the line.

Then a familiar voice rushed out quickly.

“Oh thank god.”

You blinked, sitting up slightly in your bed.

“Robin?”

“Yeah,” she said immediately, sounding both relieved and slightly breathless. “Hi. Sorry. I know it’s like insanely late.”

Your confusion deepened.

“How did you even get this number?”

“Steve gave it to me.”

Your stomach tightened instantly.

Before you could respond, a muffled voice echoed somewhere in the background of the call.

“Robin—”

The sound was slurred.

Familiar.

Your chest tightened sharply.

“Was that—”

Robin sighed heavily.

“Yeah.”

Another muffled voice behind her.

“Robin, seriously—”

There was the sound of something bumping against the phone like someone trying to grab it.

“Steve, stop—”

“I just wanna talk to her.”

Your breath caught.

The words were thick and unsteady.

Drunk.

Very drunk.

Robin covered the receiver for a second, but his voice still carried through faintly.

“You said you’d call her.”

“I did call her!”

“Then why isn’t she answering?”

“She is answering, you idiot.”

A pause.

Then his voice again, closer now.

“Wait.”

Your heart started beating faster.

Robin exhaled slowly into the phone again.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “So. Here’s the situation.”

You rubbed your eyes tiredly.

“Robin—”

“I know things are complicated right now,” she said quickly. “Trust me. Dustin has filled me in on basically everything.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“Yeah.”

“But he’s really not okay,” she continued, her voice softening slightly.

Another sound in the background.

Steve again.

“Robin, please—“

Your chest tightened painfully.

Robin sighed again.

“He’s been like this for 5 days.”

“What do you mean like this?”

“Drunk. Sad. Dramatic. The usual Steve Harrington spiral but like way worse.”

There was a faint thud in the background.

Then Steve’s voice again.

“Did she hang up?”

“No.”

Silence for half a second.

“She didn’t?”

Your throat tightened.

Robin lowered her voice slightly.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive him tonight or anything,” she said carefully. “But if you’d just consider talking to him for a minute… I think it would help.”

You hesitated.

Your mind immediately filled with the last mental images you had of Steve.

Courtney’s arms around his neck.

The humiliation.

But then another thought followed.

Steve sitting alone on the court after the championship loss.

Looking up into empty stands.

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Fine,” you said quietly.

Robin let out a relieved breath.

“Okay.”

There was a rustling sound as the phone shifted hands.

“Don’t yell at him too much,” Robin added quickly. “He’s already doing that himself.”

Then another shuffle.

And suddenly his voice was right there.

“Hello?”

Your heart stopped.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Steve inhaled sharply.

“Paparazzi?”

The nickname came out soft.

Uncertain.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining you.

“Yeah,” you said quietly.

Silence filled the line.

Then you heard him laugh.

Except it wasn’t really a laugh.

It sounded more like disbelief.

“Holy shit.”

Your chest tightened.

“I thought Robin was lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Robin called from somewhere behind him.

“You lie all the time,” Steve muttered faintly.

Then he sighed.

And the sound that came out of him next was so tired it made your stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t have answered.”

You frowned slightly.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t deserve that.”

Your throat tightened.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then Steve exhaled slowly.

“Did you watch the game?”

You hesitated.

“A little.”

Another quiet laugh from him.

“Yeah.”

Silence again.

Then his voice dropped lower.

“I lost it for them.”

Your chest tightened.

“That’s not how basketball works.”

“It is when the captain screws up.”

“Steve—”

“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly, though the words came out slurred again. “It’s fine. I deserve it.”

A pause.

Then he added quietly,

“I deserve a lot worse actually.”

Your stomach twisted.

“Don’t say that.”

He ignored the comment.

“You know what my dad said after the game?”

Your grip tightened around the phone.

“What?”

Steve let out a hollow laugh.

“He said he put too much into this program for me to screw it up.”

The words hung heavily in the air.

“And then he said even with his help I still managed to ruin it.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Steve…”

“I think he hates me.”

The sentence came out casually.

Like he was stating the weather.

Your throat burned.

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah it is.”

Silence.

Then his voice softened slightly.

“But it’s fine.”

You waited.

Because you knew there was more coming.

And there was.

“Cuz I hate me too.”

Your heart cracked a little at the words.

Steve inhaled slowly.

“You wrote me a letter,” he continued quietly. “Like a whole letter.”

You swallowed hard.

“And I read it.”

Your stomach twisted.

“And you said you loved me.”

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

“I did.”

Another pause.

Then his voice broke slightly.

“And I slept with someone else.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“I know.”

“I ruined it,” he said hoarsely.

Silence stretched between you.

Then he whispered, “I ruin everything.”

Your eyes burned.

“You don’t ruin everything.”

“I ruined you.”

The words landed softly.

But they hurt anyway.

Another quiet moment passed before he spoke again.

“I needed you to be real.”

Your breath caught.

“What do you mean?”

Steve exhaled slowly.

“Everything else is fake.”

His voice had dropped almost to a whisper now.

“My dad, my teammates, the scouts. All that shit.”

Another pause.

“But you were real.”

Your throat tightened.

“You called me out when I was being an asshole.”

A quiet laugh escaped him.

“You literally wrote an article about it.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that flickered briefly through the pain.

“And then you still—”

His voice broke slightly.

“You still loved me anyway.”

Silence filled the space between you.

Then Steve said softly, “I needed that.”

Your heart ached.

“And I screwed it up.”

Another pause.

Then the words came out rough.

“I really need you right now.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Not because of the words themselves.

But because of how honest they sounded.

Like he wasn’t trying to manipulate you.

He was just desperate.

“I know I don’t deserve that,” he added quickly. “I know that.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone.

“But you’re the only person I want to talk to.”

His voice softened even more.

“Please don’t hang up.”

And suddenly you realized you hadn’t even considered it.

•

You didn’t hang up for a long time after that.

Eventually Robin reappeared somewhere in the background, gently prying the phone away from Steve after his words started slurring together more heavily. You heard faint arguing, the rustle of movement, then Robin’s quieter voice apologizing again before the call finally ended.

But the silence that followed felt louder than anything Steve had said.

You sat on the edge of your bed for a long time with the phone still pressed loosely against your ear.

Your room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside your window. The campus had gone completely quiet hours ago, the occasional sound of a car passing in the distance the only reminder that the world outside still existed.

Your heart still hadn’t settled.

Steve’s voice kept replaying in your head.

I hate me too.

You were real.

I really need you right now.

Your chest tightened painfully.

You dropped the phone onto your mattress and dragged both hands down your face.

“This is a terrible idea,” you muttered quietly to the empty room.

Because it was.

Going to Hawkins would be reckless. Emotional. Completely illogical after everything that had happened between you.

You had spent weeks trying to put distance between yourself and Steve Harrington.

You had blocked him.

You had convinced yourself that walking away had been the right decision.

That it had been the only decision.

But hearing him tonight had cracked something open again.

And now the doubt was back.

You laid back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.

Sleep never came.

Instead your mind wandered through every version of the same argument over and over again.

He hurt you.

He humiliated you.

He didn’t trust you.

But another voice kept pushing back.

He read the letter.

He apologized.

He’s hurting.

You groaned softly and rolled onto your side, burying your face in the pillow.

“This is stupid,” you whispered into the fabric.

But even as you said it, you already knew you weren’t convincing yourself.

~

The sun was just beginning to rise when you finally sat up.

Your room was pale with early morning light now, soft gray shadows stretching across the floor.

You felt exhausted.

Emotionally wrung out.

But the restless feeling in your chest still hadn’t faded.

Your eyes drifted toward your phone sitting on the nightstand.

For a long moment you just stared at it.

Then you grabbed it.

Your fingers moved to type in your browser before you could overthink it.

Directions to Hawkins Indiana.

Your heart started beating faster as the map appeared.

It wasn’t close.

Not even remotely.

But it wasn’t impossible either.

You stared at the screen for another few seconds.

Then you stood up.

~

The drive took most of the day.

Long enough for doubt to creep back in at least a dozen times.

Long enough for you to question whether this was the worst decision you had ever made.

But you didn’t turn around.

Even when the roads grew smaller.

Even when the city buildings slowly gave way to long stretches of quiet highway and open farmland.

Even when the sign that read Welcome to Hawkins appeared on the side of the road.

Your stomach twisted nervously as you drove past it.

It only took one stop at a gas station and a hesitant question to a bored cashier before you had directions to the Harrington residence.

By the time you pulled onto the quiet residential street your hands had started sweating slightly against the steering wheel.

You slowed the car as you approached the house.

The last time you were here, you had thought things between you and Steve were beyond perfect.

Now, your heart pounded harder as you pulled into the driveway.

For a moment you just sat there.

Watching the front door.

Nothing moved.

No lights flickered on.

The house looked completely still.

Your stomach twisted.

Maybe he wasn’t even home.

Maybe Robin had taken him somewhere else.

You forced yourself to stop stalling and get out of the car.

The gravel crunched quietly under your shoes as you walked up the driveway.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

You stopped at the front door.

Your hand hovered over the doorbell.

For a moment your brain tried one last time to talk you out of it.

You can still leave.

But your finger had already pressed the button.

The chime echoed faintly inside the house.

You waited.

Nothing.

Your stomach dropped.

You knocked this time.

Then you heard movement.

Footsteps shuffled somewhere deeper inside the house.

Slow.

Unsteady.

The sound of something bumping against a wall.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

The door finally opened.

Steve stood there.

He looked rough.

His hair was sticking up in every direction like he had run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, and he wore an old Hawkins High t-shirt and sweatpants like he had just rolled out of bed ten seconds ago.

For a moment he didn’t even look at you.

He squinted out into the sunlight like it physically hurt.

“Robin,” he muttered hoarsely, rubbing his face with one hand, “I swear to god if this is another one of your—”

His eyes finally lifted.

And landed on you.

The words died in his throat instantly.

Steve froze.

His expression shifted slowly from irritation, to confusion, and eventually to something that looked a lot like disbelief.

“Paparazzi?”

The word came out barely above a whisper.

Like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.

You swallowed.

“Hi, Steve.”

He just stared at you.

Clearly trying to process what he was seeing.

Then he blinked slowly.

“Did I hit my head?”

You couldn’t help the small breath of laughter that escaped you.

“No.”

Another long pause passed.

Then Steve ran a shaky hand through his hair.

“I think I might still be drunk. How did you know I was here?”

And the realization hit you all at once.

He didn’t remember the phone call.

Not fully.

Your stomach flipped.

Because the last thing he remembered was probably still the worst version of himself.

Steve stared at you for another few seconds, waiting for a reply.

As you stared back, trying to decide how to approach this, you noticed the wetness suddenly rimming his eyes.

Something in your chest twisted as you realized he was crying.

His voice cracked as he finally broke the silence instead, hesitantly stepping closer to you.

“God please tell me you’re real.”

Whatever invisible wall you’d been meticulously crafting for the last couple weeks suddenly crumbled and you found yourself reaching up to touch him.

Brushing his disheveled hair out of his face before cupping his jaw with your hand.

“I’m real, Steve.”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

a/n: imagine losing the championship and the girl, rip

taglist: @veeweepeeknee @blackgurlieee @sincerellie @mhayes777 @daddyavesxx @napofaprincess @mj202323 @swirledyouintoallmypoems @solynoche @hstlut @1iliaanxz @turtlamour @superfreaksteve @beezusvreeland @bookmarkedmen @lacywithdrawal @ultimate--daydreamer @jeokeery @biologicallyyours @skelkitty @skkeletonns @exooojongdaeee @djolover4ever

[scoopsahoydjo]

Hi, I love your Steve Harrington Off the Record and you added me to the taglist, however I’m not getting the notifications. I was wondering if you could double check my handle is correct? Please and thank you!

ahh okay i think i fixed it!! it was making the 2 hyphens into an em dash so I’ll just remember to type yours out manually<33

[scoopsahoydjo]

hii when’s the next chapter?

I’m drafting it tonight and will hopefully have it up tomorrow afternoon! so in likeee 17 hours ideally🙂‍↕️

[scoopsahoydjo]

Off The Record | Steve Harrington

Chapter Nine - Offense vs Defense

summary: some perspective shifts as hidden feelings bubble to the surface

words: 6.2k

series masterlist

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The paper was trembling in Steve’s hands by the time he reached the last line.

Love, Paparazzi

For several seconds he didn’t move.

The gym around him was still loud with the end-of-practice chaos. Basketballs thudding against hardwood, sneakers squeaking, someone laughing too loudly across the court. It all felt strangely distant, like the sounds were coming from another room entirely.

His eyes drifted back up the page without meaning to, rereading the last few paragraphs again. And then again.

Each sentence seemed heavier the second time through.

I wrote the article…

His jaw tightened.

…so I could let it go.

A strange, hollow feeling opened somewhere in his chest.

Across the page, her handwriting curved neatly through every line, but every word felt like it was pressing straight into his ribs.

He swallowed.

The letter crinkled faintly as his grip tightened around the edges.

I was in love with you.

The sentence stared back at him.

Written like it hadn’t even occurred to her to soften it or hide it behind something else.

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath leaving him shakier than he expected.

In his other hand, the necklace lay tangled loosely between his fingers.

Three tiny charms caught the bright overhead lights of the gym.

Basketball.

Soda bottle.

Camera.

For a moment he just stared at them.

The stupid camera charm made his throat tighten unexpectedly.

Paparazzi.

He had meant it as a joke the first time. A sarcastic little jab at the girl who showed up to practice with a notebook and a raised eyebrow and a question he didn’t want to answer.

Except somewhere along the way the nickname had stopped feeling like a joke.

It had become something else.

Something that belonged to them.

Steve dragged a hand over the back of his neck.

Across the gym floor, the rest of the team was still lingering near the benches, talking about dinner plans and the championship game in two days.

Normal conversations.

His stomach twisted because none of this felt normal anymore.

He looked down at the letter again.

The words blurred slightly as his brain started replaying the last 24 hours in a completely different order.

The training room.

The notebook sitting open on the table.

His name scrawled across the top of the page.

The article.

The way his chest had burned reading it, anger and humiliation and betrayal crashing together so fast he hadn’t even stopped to think about any other possibilities.

He had assumed the worst.

Assumed she had been waiting all season to write something like that.

Assumed the nights in Hawkins and the quiet conversations and the stupid gummies were just part of an act.

Steve shut his eyes briefly.

Because now he could hear her voice in the letter again.

I wrote it so I could let it go.

His stomach dropped.

The realization hit slowly.

She hadn’t written it to publish it.

She had written it so she wouldn’t.

A dull ache spread through his chest.

Across the court someone bounced a ball hard enough that the sound cracked through the air, dragging him back into the present.

Steve opened his eyes again.

The gym lights felt too bright suddenly.

His gaze dropped back to the line he had read three times already.

I was in love with you.

His throat tightened.

Because suddenly a different memory pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Christmas lights glowing dimly against the walls of his bedroom in Hawkins.

Her sitting beside him on the edge of the bed with the necklace clasped between her fingers, staring at it like it was something fragile.

The soft way she had looked at him right before she kissed him.

At the time, he had told himself it was just the moment.

Just the weird nostalgia of being home again.

But now he realized she had already known.

And he had—

Steve’s jaw clenched.

Across the gym, Ethan was still stuffing equipment into a bag near the sideline.

Steve folded the letter slowly and slipped it back into the envelope before walking toward him.

“Hey.”

Ethan looked up.

The tension in his expression was immediate.

Steve stopped a few feet away.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Ethan didn’t even pretend not to understand who he meant.

“She left.”

Steve frowned.

“Yeah, obviously. I mean where?”

“Campus probably, I don’t know.” Ethan shrugged one shoulder, but there was no real indifference in the movement. Just irritation. “Somewhere that isn’t here.”

Something uncomfortable twisted deeper in Steve’s chest.

“Why?” he asked.

Ethan gave him a look like the question itself was ridiculous.

“Seriously?”

Steve didn’t respond.

Ethan huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“I mean would you stick around if you were her?”

Steve thought about that for a moment. About everything you were going through — losing your dream assignment, apparently being in love with a guy who had no problem breaking your heart in public. A guy you’d had to see in bed with another girl just 2 nights before.

Ethan shifted his bag higher on his shoulder.

“You know,” he added, his voice quieter now, “she fought pretty hard to keep this assignment.”

Steve looked up.

“What?”

“Yeah.” Ethan shrugged again. “Colin thought she was getting too close to the team weeks ago.”

A hollow feeling spread through Steve’s chest.

“And she still stayed on it,” Ethan said. “Because she said she could stay objective, but I think she just didn’t wanna lose you.”

Steve felt something in his throat tighten painfully.

Ethan studied him for a second.

Then shook his head again.

“Honestly, man,” he muttered. “You were the one story she never wanted to write.”

The words hit harder than Steve expected.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Ethan turned and headed toward the locker room without another word.

Steve stayed where he was.

The gym felt too quiet suddenly.

Slowly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

The screen lit up instantly.

Notifications flooded the display.

His stomach dropped further as he tapped one of the links.

The video opened automatically.

The music from the party filled the tiny speaker.

The camera shook slightly as someone adjusted their grip.

And then there he was.

Standing in the middle of the crowded living room with a red cup in his hand.

Her standing in front of him.

Even through the grainy phone footage, Steve could see the tension in her shoulders.

The way her hands were clenched loosely at her sides.

He listened to himself talk.

He watched her face.

The flicker of hurt in her eyes.

And then the line.

Not even a front page story would’ve been worth all that.

The room in the video went quieter immediately after.

Someone nearby made an uncomfortable sound.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t defend herself.

She just looked at him.

For a brief second, even through the shaky recording, Steve could see the exact moment something inside her seemed to collapse.

Then she turned and walked away.

The video ended.

Steve stared down at the screen long after it went dark.

His stomach churned.

Because at the time he had felt justified saying it.

Now all he could see was the look on her face.

And the letter in his pocket suddenly felt heavier.

I wrote it so I could let it go.

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth.

A dull headache had begun forming behind his eyes.

The championship game loomed in the horizon.

The biggest moment of the season.

The game his dad would undoubtedly fly in for.

The game every scout and reporter would be watching.

And for the first time all year, Steve Harrington couldn’t bring himself to care about any of it.

Because 1,000 miles away was the girl who had spent months writing about him, watching him, learning him.

Loving him.

And he had stood in the middle of a crowded party and told her she wasn’t even worth the headline.

Steve stared down at the necklace in his hand.

The tiny soda bottle charm tapped softly against the basketball.

His chest tightened painfully.

For the first time in a very long while, Steve Harrington realized something with absolute clarity.

He had made a massive mistake.

And the worst part was that he had absolutely no idea how to fix it.

•

The campus looked exactly the same.

That was the first thing you noticed when the Uber finally turned onto the familiar street lined with bare trees and brick academic buildings. Students crossed the sidewalks with backpacks slung over their shoulders, laughing about weekend plans or complaining about upcoming exams, completely unaware that your world had quietly collapsed somewhere several states away.

It felt almost offensive how normal everything looked.

Your suitcase wheels rattled softly over the uneven pavement as you dragged it up the walkway toward your dorm building, the sound echoing faintly in the chilly afternoon air. You had barely slept the night before, after you’d written the letter, the hours between midnight and sunrise were spent staring at the hotel ceiling and trying not to replay the moment Steve’s voice had cut through the noise of the party with that cruel, dismissive tone you hadn’t heard from him since the very beginning of the season.

Relax, Paparazzi.

The nickname used to feel different.

Almost affectionate in a way he probably never intended when he first started saying it.

But last night it had sounded like something else entirely.

Like a punchline.

Your grip tightened slightly around the handle of your suitcase as you pushed open the door to the dorm lobby.

For a moment you just stood there.

The familiar space should have felt comforting.

Instead it felt like you had walked back into a version of your life that no longer quite fit.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder and headed toward the elevator, already dreading the inevitable questions that would come once people realized you were back on campus in the middle of the tournament weekend.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket halfway down the hallway.

You froze.

For one irrational second your brain immediately jumped to the possibility that it might be him.

You stopped the thought before it could finish forming.

Slowly, you pulled the phone out.

The notification wasn’t from Steve.

It was from a group chat in the journalism department.

Your stomach sank before you even opened it.

A video preview filled the screen.

You recognized the setting immediately.

The party.

Your chest tightened as you pressed play.

The recording was shaky, clearly filmed by someone standing across the room, but the audio was perfectly clear. Music pounded faintly in the background as the camera focused on the two of you standing in the middle of the crowded living room.

You watched your own face on the screen.

Watched the way your expression faltered just slightly.

And then you heard it again.

Relax, Paparazzi. Not even a front page story would be worth all that.

Your throat burned.

Even though you had lived through it less than twelve hours ago, seeing it from the outside somehow made it worse.

On the screen, the room around you fell quiet as the words settled in.

You watched yourself stand there for one brief second before turning and walking away.

The video ended.

Your phone screen went dark.

For a long moment you simply stared at your reflection in the black glass.

Then you slipped the phone back into your pocket and kept walking.

Inside your dorm room, the quiet felt heavier than usual.

Your suitcase landed softly on the floor beside your bed as you sank down onto the mattress, the exhaustion that had been trailing you since the night before finally settling fully into your bones.

Your gaze drifted automatically toward the small desk by the window.

The spot where your notebook normally sat.

Except now the surface was empty.

Your stomach twisted again.

You could still remember the exact moment you had realized the notebook was missing that morning in the hotel room. The sudden rush of panic when the thought crossed your mind that someone else might have picked it up. That someone else might have read the article you had written late the night before.

At the time you had been terrified that another reporter might see it.

Now you realized the only person who had ever needed to see it to misunderstand everything already had.

Your eyes drifted slowly toward the empty space on your collarbone where the necklace had rested for the past several weeks.

The skin there felt strangely bare now.

You had taken it off early that morning while packing your bag, the small charms cold against your fingertips as you stared down at them for a long time before slipping them into the envelope with the letter.

Part of you had wanted to keep it.

The sentimental part.

The stupid part that still remembered the look on Steve’s face the night he gave it to you.

But the rest of you knew better.

If he had read that article and still believed you had written it to betray him, then the necklace didn’t mean the same thing anymore.

It was easier to give it back.

Easier to pretend none of it had mattered as much as it actually had.

Your phone buzzed again.

This time you didn’t bother checking it.

Instead you leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes.

Somewhere several states away, the basketball team you had spent the last three months following was preparing for the biggest game of the season.

And for the first time since September, you wouldn’t be there to write about it.

•

Steve didn’t remember the end of practice.

The sounds of basketballs hitting the floor and sneakers squeaking across the hardwood had slowly blurred into something distant and indistinct, like background noise behind the steady rush of blood pounding in his ears.

The only thing he could hear clearly was the echo of her words.

I wrote it so I could let it go.

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose, folding the letter with far more care than he had intended and slipping it back into the envelope. The necklace followed a moment later, the thin chain tangling faintly between his fingers before he tucked it away inside his bag.

His chest still felt tight.

Across the gym, the rest of the team had already started drifting toward the locker room, their voices carrying easily through the open space as they talked over each other about the championship game and the dinner plans Coach had apparently arranged for that night.

Steve barely registered any of it.

He grabbed his phone from the bench and unlocked the screen.

For a second he hesitated.

Her contact sat pinned at the top of his messages.

Paparazzi

He had changed it weeks ago without thinking, sometime after the nickname had stopped feeling like a joke and started feeling familiar.

His stomach twisted slightly as he opened the thread.

Steve swallowed.

Then he started typing.

Steve:

- We need to talk.

He hit send.

The small gray “delivered” notification appeared beneath the text, and something in his chest tightened as he stared at it, waiting for the typing bubbles that didn’t appear.

He tried again.

Steve:

- I read the letter.

A pause.

The gym around him had started to empty now, most of the team already disappearing into the locker room. Steve leaned back against the bleachers, dragging a hand through his hair as he stared down at the screen.

His fingers moved again before he could overthink it.

Steve:

- I’m sorry.

The words looked painfully small sitting there in the thread.

They didn’t even begin to cover it.

He inhaled slowly and kept going.

Steve:

- I didn’t understand what I was reading in that notebook.

Another pause.

His jaw tightened.

For the first time since reading the letter, a small flicker of panic started to creep into his chest.

Steve:

- You didn’t deserve what I said last night.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He thought about the video.

About the way the room had gone quiet after he said it.

About the look on her face right before she walked away.

His stomach twisted harder.

Steve:

- Please just let me explain.

Steve leaned forward slightly, elbows braced against his knees as he watched the screen like something might magically appear if he stared at it long enough.

Nothing did.

The silence stretched on long enough that the uneasiness in his chest began turning into something heavier.

He typed again.

Steve:

- I was wrong.

The words sat there on the screen.

Steve exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

Across the gym, Mark shouted something at him about the bus leaving soon.

Steve barely heard him.

He stared at the thread for several seconds.

Eventually he shoved the phone into his pocket and stood, forcing himself toward the locker room before Coach noticed he was the only one still lingering on the court.

But the moment he sat down on the bus, he pulled the phone out again.

The same string of messages stared back at him.

All delivered.

All unanswered.

He tried again. Finally typing what he’s been scared to admit for who knows how long.

Steve:

I think I love you, too.

Something uneasy twisted in his stomach as he hit send.

This time, though, a small red notification appeared beneath it.

Message not delivered.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

He tried again.

Same result.

He tapped the call button.

The phone rang once.

Then twice.

Then three times.

His pulse picked up slightly.

And then the call disconnected.

Steve frowned at the screen.

The automated voice cut in almost immediately.

The number you are trying to reach is unavailable.

Steve slowly lowered the phone.

For a moment he just stared at the screen, the meaning settling into place piece by piece.

Unavailable.

The realization landed slowly, heavily.

She had blocked him.

The chaos of the bus was loud, but Steve barely heard any of it.

Because the one person he needed to talk to had just cut him off completely.

And he couldn’t even blame her for it.

From her perspective, the last time they had spoken he had been standing in the middle of a crowded party accusing her of using him for a story and telling her she wasn’t even worth the headline.

And the night before that she had seen him in bed with Courtney.

Steve leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed his hands over his face.

For the first time since the season started, Steve Harrington had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to fix something.

•

The first text came through while you were sitting on the edge of the narrow dorm bed, staring blankly at the show on your laptop without actually watching it.

The room was quiet in a way that made your ears ring. The curtains were half-drawn against the afternoon sunlight, leaving the space dim and gray, and your suitcase sat open on the floor where you had abandoned it hours earlier without the energy to finish unpacking.

Your phone buzzed against the nightstand.

At first, you ignored it.

You had spent most of the morning doing exactly that: ignoring everything. News notifications about the team making the championship game. The group chat from the journalism department exploding with messages about the tournament coverage. The email from Colin that you still hadn’t worked up the nerve to open again after the initial shock.

You had convinced yourself the buzzing was probably just another one of those things.

But when it vibrated a second time, curiosity got the better of you.

You reached for the phone slowly.

The moment the screen lit up, your stomach dropped.

your favorite athlete

You froze.

For a second, you considered turning the phone back over and pretending you had never seen it. That would’ve been easier.

Instead, your thumb betrayed you.

You opened the message.

your favorite athlete:

- we need to talk.

Your chest tightened instantly.

The words were simple, but they carried the weight of everything that had happened the night before — the crowded party, the sharp edge in his voice, the way the room had gone quiet when he said he was glad nothing had ever happened between the two of you.

You stared at the message for a long time.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

You could respond.

You could ask him why he said those things.

You could finally explain the notebook.

But then another memory crept in, unwelcome and vivid.

Steve in bed with Courtney tangled in his arms. The slow curl of that smirk when your eyes met his.

Your throat tightened.

You locked the phone and set it back on the nightstand.

A minute later, it buzzed again.

Against your better judgment, you looked.

your favorite athlete:

- i read the letter.

Your breath caught slightly.

He had read it.

Every humiliating, painfully honest word you had drunkenly poured into that page.

You squeezed your eyes shut briefly, wishing you could somehow take the entire thing back.

The phone buzzed again.

your favorite athlete:

- i’m sorry.

A shaky breath escaped your chest.

You hated how quickly the apology made your resolve falter.

You hated that some small, stubborn part of your heart still wanted to believe him.

Still wanted to believe the boy who brought you Coke gummies before practice and waited patiently while you scribbled notes from the sidelines.

But then another message appeared.

your favorite athlete:

- i didn’t understand what I was reading in that notebook.

You stared at the screen.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

Of course he hadn’t.

Because he never gave you the chance to explain.

The next message arrived before you could stop yourself from rereading the last one.

your favorite athlete:

- you didn’t deserve what I said last night.

Your throat tightened.

The words blurred slightly as tears began to gather in your eyes.

For two months you had worried about the possibility of hurting him with that article.

You had agonized over it so much that you wrote the entire thing out just to get it out of your system.

Just to prove to yourself that once it was written, you could move on.

You had never imagined that the thing that actually destroyed everything between you would be the moment he believed the worst possible version of you without even asking.

Another buzz.

your favorite athlete:

- please just let me explain.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

Explain what?

Explain the smirk?

Explain the way he had stood there and told you that even a good headline wouldn’t be worth being with you?

Your fingers curled slightly around the phone.

The screen lit up again.

your favorite athlete:

- i was wrong.

Your chest felt tight now, your emotions tangled into a painful knot that made it difficult to think clearly.

Because the worst part of all of this was that you still cared what he thought.

If you didn’t, the messages wouldn’t hurt this much.

Part of you wanted to answer.

Part of you wanted to send a long explanation about the article and the letter and how the entire thing had been written because you loved him.

But another part of you knew exactly what would happen if you opened that door again.

You would forgive him.

And if you forgave him, you would let him hurt you again.

Your thumb hovered over the screen for several long seconds.

Then you opened his contact information.

The option sat there quietly near the bottom.

Block Caller

Your chest tightened painfully.

You stared at the button.

Blocking him meant ending the conversation before it ever had the chance to happen.

It meant accepting that whatever the two of you could have been was already gone.

But it also meant protecting yourself.

You thought about the party.

About the way everyone in that room had looked at you after he said those things.

About the video that was still circulating somewhere online.

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You wiped it away quickly.

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered to the empty room.

Your thumb pressed the screen.

Block Contact

The thread disappeared from your message list.

Just like that.

Silence returned to the room.

You set the phone down beside you on the bed and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around them as you stared blankly at the wall.

•

By the time Steve finally found Ethan the next day, the sun had already started setting behind the hotel across the street from the arena.

Players from other teams passed through the lobby with backpacks slung over their shoulders, reporters clustered around the elevators discussing the championship matchup tomorrow night, and somewhere near the front desk a group of fans were arguing loudly about bracket predictions.

Steve barely registered any of it.

His focus locked the moment he spotted Ethan sitting alone at one of the small tables near the windows, laptop open in front of him while he typed something quickly into a document.

Steve hesitated for half a second.

Then he walked over.

Ethan noticed him before he reached the table.

The sophomore’s fingers stopped moving immediately.

His expression hardened.

“Oh, great,” Ethan muttered, leaning back slightly in his chair. “This should be good.”

Steve ignored the jab.

“I need your help.”

Ethan let out a short laugh.

“You’ve got some nerve.”

“Probably,” Steve admitted.

Ethan stared at him for a moment like he was trying to decide if the conversation was even worth having.

“You already got her kicked off the biggest story of her college career,” Ethan said flatly. “What exactly could you need from me?”

The words hit harder than Steve expected.

He nodded slowly.

“I know.”

Ethan scoffed.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Steve didn’t look away this time.

“I know exactly what I did.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment.

Ethan’s arms crossed over his chest.

“Then why are you standing here?”

Steve took a breath.

“Because she won’t answer me.”

That got Ethan’s attention.

“Won’t answer you?”

“I think she blocked my number.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow.

“You think?”

Steve pulled his phone out and held up the screen.

The red message not delivered notification glowed accusingly at the bottom of the thread.

Ethan stared at it for a second.

Then his expression shifted into something unreadable, seeing the confession of Steve’s that didn’t go through.

“Yeah,” he said dryly. “I can’t imagine why.”

Steve exhaled slowly.

“I don’t need her to forgive me,” he said quietly.

Ethan tilted his head.

“Then what do you need?”

“Five minutes.”

Ethan frowned.

“To explain.”

“Explain what?” Ethan shot back. “The part where you humiliated her?”

Steve flinched slightly.

But he didn’t argue.

“That’s… part of it, yeah.”

Ethan leaned back in his chair again.

“Why would she want to hear that?”

“She probably doesn’t.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair.

“But she deserves to know the truth.”

The younger student studied him carefully now.

Like he was trying to decide whether Steve Harrington was full of shit or genuinely desperate.

Finally Ethan sighed.

“What exactly do you want me to do?”

Steve hesitated.

Then nodded toward Ethan’s phone sitting on the table.

“Call her.”

Ethan blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“She won’t answer me,” Steve said. “But she might answer you.”

Ethan narrowed his eyes immediately.

“And then what?”

Steve swallowed.

“Then you give me the phone.”

Ethan stared at him like the suggestion had personally offended him.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“You think she’s just going to stay on the line once she hears your voice?”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

“Honestly? Probably not.”

“Then why—”

“Because it might be the only chance I get until we get back to campus. And she doesn’t deserve to wait that long.”

The honesty in the answer hung heavily between them.

Ethan watched him for another long moment.

Then he muttered under his breath.

“This is such a bad idea.”

But he picked up his phone anyway.

Steve’s pulse picked up slightly as Ethan scrolled through his contacts.

“You get about ten seconds,” Ethan warned. “If she hangs up on you, that’s it.”

“That’s fair.”

Ethan shook his head once, already regretting the entire situation, and tapped the call button.

The phone rang.

Steve’s heart thudded heavily against his ribs with every second that passed.

Then, Ethan straightened slightly.

“She answered.”

Steve froze.

For a moment Ethan just listened.

“Hey,” Ethan said casually. “Yeah. No, I’m still here.”

Pause.

Steve couldn’t hear her voice from where he stood, but he could see the moment her tone must have shifted.

Ethan glanced up at him.

Then sighed.

“Okay, don’t get mad.”

Another pause.

Then Ethan held the phone out toward him.

Steve’s stomach flipped as he took the phone.

“Hello?”

The silence on the other end lasted barely a second.

Then-

Click.

The line went dead.

Steve lowered the phone slowly.

His chest felt strangely hollow.

“Well,” Ethan said awkwardly. “That went about how I expected.”

Steve stared at the dark screen.

Yeah.

He probably deserved that.

He handed the phone back without saying anything.

But just as Ethan took it, the device buzzed in his hand.

Both of them froze.

Ethan frowned slightly and looked down at the screen.

Then his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“…She’s calling back.”

Steve’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Ethan didn’t answer.

He just handed the phone over again.

Steve took it carefully this time.

Like the call might shatter if he moved too fast.

“Hello?”

•

The journalism building was almost completely empty by the time you finally gave up pretending you were getting any real work done.

Your laptop sat open on the desk in front of you, three different tabs pulled up for an assignment you were supposed to be finishing, but your eyes hadn’t focused on a single sentence in nearly twenty minutes.

Instead, your attention kept drifting to the fourth tab.

The one you definitely shouldn’t have opened.

March Madness Championship Preview

You stared at the headline for a long moment before scrolling again, the dull glow of the screen reflecting in the dark window beside your desk.

Every sports outlet in the country seemed to be talking about the game.

Predictions. Player breakdowns. Injury reports.

You didn’t have to read very far before you saw his name.

Steve Harrington continues to lead the team despite a lingering ankle sprain…

Your jaw tightened.

Of course he did.

Of course he was still the star of every article.

Of course the world kept spinning for him.

You leaned back in your chair and rubbed your eyes, frustration bubbling up in your chest all over again.

Three days ago you had been sitting courtside at that same tournament arena with a press badge hanging around your neck.

Three days ago you had been writing the biggest story of your college career.

Your phone buzzed suddenly on the desk.

You flinched slightly.

For a second you considered ignoring it.

But when you glanced down and saw Ethan’s name lighting up the screen, confusion crept in.

You picked it up.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral as you answered.

You heard shuffling from the other side of the phone and someone mumbling.

“Um, you there?”

“Hey,” Ethan replied. “Yeah, no. I’m still here.”

There was something slightly strange about his tone.

Almost… hesitant.

Then Ethan sighed.

“Okay, don’t get mad.”

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“Ethan—”

The line shifted.

And suddenly a different voice came through the speaker.

“Hello?”

Everything in your chest locked up.

You didn’t need the introduction.

You would’ve recognized that voice anywhere.

Steve.

For half a second you couldn’t even breathe.

Your fingers tightened around the phone as the wave of emotion hit you all at once — anger, embarrassment, heartbreak, all of it crashing together so violently that your brain didn’t even try to process the words he had just said.

Your instinct took over instead.

You hung up.

The silence that followed rang loudly in your ears.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you stared down at the phone in your hand like it had personally betrayed you.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

Of course Ethan had done that.

Of course Steve had asked him to.

Of course he couldn’t even respect the fact that you had blocked him.

You tossed the phone back onto the desk and leaned forward, pressing your hands against your temples.

You weren’t doing this again.

You had spent the last forty-eight hours dragging yourself through the emotional wreckage he had left behind.

The smirk.

The video.

The article.

Colin’s phone call.

The humiliating realization that your entire professional reputation had taken a hit because of something that had nothing to do with journalism and everything to do with a stupid, messy, complicated… whatever you guys were.

Then something in your chest twisted painfully.

Because as much as you hated it, there were still questions sitting in the back of your mind.

Questions you hadn’t been able to silence since the night of the party.

You picked up the phone again, pressing Ethan’s contact.

“Hello?”

Your heart raced at the sound of his voice answering.

“I’m not doing this for you,” you said.

There was a small pause.

“Okay,” Steve replied quietly.

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m doing it because the last thing I want is to be the reason you’re distracted tomorrow.”

“You’re not—”

“You might’ve ruined my dreams,” you cut in, your voice sharper now, the anger finally rising to the surface, “but I’m not gonna ruin yours.”

Silence settled between you.

For a second you thought he might argue.

Your grip tightened slightly around the phone.

“You get one conversation,” you said flatly. “That’s it.”

“Okay.”

The word came quickly.

Almost too quickly.

“So talk.”

There was a beat of hesitation on the other end.

Then Steve exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a humorless laugh.

“That’s it?”

“No.”

“Because if that’s your big explanation—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly.

Silence stretched again.

Clearly he was struggling to find words despite being the one who reached out to you. But your patience had gone out the window, along with your dreams, so you took the lead.

“You didn’t even let me explain.”

“I know.”

“And instead you,” your voice faltered slightly. “Instead you slept with Courtney.”

The silence on the line stretched painfully long.

Then Steve spoke again.

“I thought you were using me.”

The words landed like a slap.

Your throat tightened.

“So your response was to prove me right?”

“No,” he said quietly. “My response was panic.”

You let out another short laugh.

“Great.”

“Please just listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“You wrote that article because you were trying to let it go.”

Your chest tightened sharply.

“You really read the letter.”

“Yes.”

Silence hung between you again.

“And?” you asked finally.

“And I was wrong.”

The words came out heavy.

Simple.

Too late.

You leaned back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling of the empty newsroom.

“That doesn’t really fix anything.”

“I know.”

Then Steve said something that caught you off guard.

“Please come to the game tomorrow.”

You sat up immediately.

“…What?”

“Just hear me out.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I’m not flying across the country to watch you play basketball, Steve.”

“It’s not about the game.”

You scoffed.

“Then what is it about?”

There was a beat of hesitation.

“I just need you there.”

Your jaw clenched.

“You don’t get to ask things from me anymore.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because it’s the only chance I have to explain everything properly.”

“You had that chance at the party.”

“I know.”

Your chest tightened again.

“And you blew it.”

“I know.”

The repeated admission took some of the fight out of you.

You rubbed your forehead tiredly.

“I can’t do this again, Steve,” you muttered quietly.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”

“Good.”

“I’m asking you to hear the truth.”

Your stomach twisted.

You hated how much a part of you still wanted that.

But the memory of the party still lingered too strongly.

Neither of you spoke for a moment after that until Steve broke the silence.

“Please, Paparazzi.”

The pure desperation in his voice almost made you break.

You sat there for a few seconds more, having an internal battle with yourself.

Then finally, you spoke.

“Good luck tomorrow.”

The words tasted strange coming out of your mouth and you were desperately trying to hold back your tears.

So you hung up.

You lowered the phone slowly.

The newsroom suddenly felt too quiet.

Too still.

You sat there for a long time staring at the blank screen, replaying the conversation in your head.

The apologies.

The explanations.

The way his voice had cracked slightly when he asked you to come to the game.

Your chest felt tight again.

5 minutes later, your phone buzzed.

You glanced down absentmindedly.

A new message from Ethan.

You opened it.

An email confirmation filled the screen.

Attached was a plane ticket.

Your name typed neatly across the top.

A second message appeared beneath it.

Ethan:

- From Steve.

You stared at the screen.

Then at the clock on the wall across the newsroom.

Then back at the ticket.

The departure time was in 2 hours.

Your heart started beating a little faster.

And for a long moment, you didn’t move.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

a/n: ugh i wonder if she’s gonna go !!! thoughts? predictions? angry comments?

taglist: @veeweepeeknee @blackgurlieee @sincerellie @mhayes777 @daddyavesxx @napofaprincess @mj202323 @swirledyouintoallmypoems @solynoche @hstlut @1iliaanxz @turtlamour @superfreaksteve @beezusvreeland @bookmarkedmen @lacywithdrawal @ultimate--daydreamer @jeokeery @biologicallyyours @skelkitty @skkeletonns @exooojongdaeee

[scoopsahoydjo]

hmm i wonder what my favorite picture of joe keery is