you are my medicine
Pairing: Steve Harrington x female reader
Summary: Steve shows up at your house with a terrible cold.
Warnings: fluff. dating Steve Harrington. Steve being a baby about being sick (but in a adorable way) no use of y/n.
_____________
Steve Harrington is, objectively, the worst sick person you’ve ever met.
You realize this about ten minutes after he shows up at your door looking like a tragic Victorian orphan.
“I think I’m dying,” he croaks.
You blink at him. “…You have a cold.”
“It’s worse than that,” he insists, leaning dramatically against the doorframe. “I can feel it. This is how it ends for me.”
You stare at him for a long second. His hair is somehow still perfect. His eyes are glassy. There’s a blanket draped over his shoulders like he’s committed to the bit.
You sigh, stepping aside. “Get in here before you infect the entire city and cause a pandemic.”
Ten minutes later, Steve is fully horizontal on your couch, cocooned in three blankets he absolutely did not need.
You stand over him, arms crossed. “You’re not even that warm.”
“I run cold,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “It’s serious.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being brave,” he corrects weakly.
You roll your eyes—but you’re already heading to the kitchen. Because dramatic or not… he came to you. And that still means something.
When you come back, you’ve got water, medicine, and a bowl of soup that’s probably too hot but he’ll survive.
Steve squints up at you like the light itself has betrayed him. “Is that… for me?”
“No, I just like carrying soup around for fun.”
He gives a faint, approving nod. “You’re so nurturing. I always knew.”
“Take the medicine, Harrington.”
“Bossy,” he mutters, but he sits up anyway—barely.
You watch him fumble with the pills, slower than usual, like everything takes more effort right now. Your chest tightens a little.
“Here,” you say quietly, handing him the water.
He takes it, fingers brushing yours—warm, a little shaky. “Thanks,” he murmurs.
And just like that, the dramatics fade a little.
It hits you later when he falls asleep. Because of course he does—mid-movie, halfway through complaining about the plot. His head tips sideways, then slowly—inevitably—ends up in your lap.
You freeze at first. Old instincts. Old fears. But he doesn’t move away. Breathing soft. Even and trusting.
Your hand hovers for a second before settling carefully in his hair. It’s as soft as you imagined. You thread your fingers through it gently, slow enough not to wake him.
Steve hums in his sleep, barely there. And something in your chest settles.
“Don’t go.” The words are slurred, half-asleep.
You blink down at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His hand finds your wrist, loose but insistent. “Promise?”
There’s that flicker again—that old reflex to deflect, to avoid saying things that might break later. But he’s here.
Even like this—messy, sick, a little pathetic—he showed up.
“Promise,” you say softly.
His grip loosens, satisfied. “Okay,” he mumbles. And then he’s out again.
You don’t realize you’ve dozed off too until you wake up to movement. Steve’s shifting, blinking up at you with that soft, unfocused look.
“…Hi,” he rasps.
You smile a little. “Hi.”
He studies you for a second like he’s piecing something together. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah,” you say. “I told you I would be.”
He nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense. “Good,” he whispers.
There’s a pause. Then— “You’re really pretty, you know that?”
You snort. “You’re delirious.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, frowning slightly. “Like, unfairly. It’s kind of rude, actually.”
“Drink your water.”
“You’re avoiding the compliment.”
“I’m managing your condition.”
He squints at you. “…You’re a really good nurse.”
“I am not your nurse.”
“Could be.”
“Steve.”
“Okay, okay,” he sighs, sinking back down. “But if I survive this, I’m writing you a glowing review.”
“You have a cold.”
“A devastating cold.”
By evening, he’s a little better. Less dramatic... slightly.
You’re sitting beside him now instead of under him, your shoulder pressed lightly against his. The TV is on again, something equally unimportant.
Steve nudges you gently. “Hey.”
“Mm?”
“Thanks.”
You glance at him. “For what?”
“For… letting me come here,” he says. “Taking care of me. Not… you know. Kicking me out when I got annoying.”
“You are always annoying.”
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. But you kept me anyway.”
Your heart does that quiet, steady thing. “Someone has to make sure you don’t actually burn down your house trying to make soup.”
“Wow,” he says. “So this is purely practical.”
“Entirely.”
He leans his head against yours. You don’t move away.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then you’re stuck with me.”
Later, when he falls asleep again—this time properly, tucked into your bed—you pull the blanket up around him carefully. He shifts slightly, reaching out even in sleep.
Your hand finds his without thinking. He settles instantly. You stand there for a moment, watching him.
Still here. Still yours.
“…You’re such a baby when you’re sick,” you whisper.
Steve hums, half-dreaming. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “But I’m your baby.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. And this time you don’t even try to hide it.
_____________
Thank you so so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated
STEVE HARRINGTON MASTERLIST
