cherry slushies | steve harrington
pairing: steve harrington x byers!reader summary: you kick the shit out of steve harrington for messing with your brother -- from that moment on, he's sickeningly infatuated with you. themes & warnings: byers! twin reader, intro takes place around the time that jonathan beats steve up but instead of jonathan its reader!!, switches time periods after intro, slow burn, not accurate to plot necessarily, reader is kind of mean, lovesick steve, descriptions of violence, enemies to ALMOST lovers
The Byers' family women had always been fierce.
You defended your brothers in more than one way -- in all of the ways that your mother couldn't be there for. You'd joined forces to make sure that your brothers' sensitive souls were always protected. Jonathan, your twin, was gentle, quiet, and never one to snap. Will was the same.
That couldn't be said for you or your mom.
You'd socked more bullies in the face than you could count when you were in middle school. When things were their worst for Jonathan, no one could so much as look at him without you kicking them in their knees with your sparkly pink sneakers, promptly ensuring that no one would ever touch him again or get the chance to say something that he'd think about for days after.
Will, your younger brother, knew you extended the same type of protection to him. But instead of putting your hands on people, you terrified the little shits by chasing them in your Sedan, honking loudly. You'd yank the window down and yell something in warning, then drive away satisfied.
You were the spitting image of Joyce.
You were a storm in a hand-me-down flannel. The spitfire second child, born ten minutes after Jonathan and inheriting all the fight he seemed to have been born without. Where Jonathan observed the world through a camera lens, absorbing its pain and beauty quietly, you met it head-on, fists up and teeth bared. You were your mother’s daughter through and through -- the same wild curls, the same wide, expressive eyes that could flash from warmth to warning in a heartbeat, the same stubborn set to your jaw that said try me.
Joyce fought monsters you couldn’t see, battles with bills and bad wiring and a world that felt constantly tilted against her. You fought the monsters you could. The ones with names like Troy and James, who shoved Will into lockers and called Jonathan a freak. Your weapon of choice evolved with age: the sparkly pink sneakers of middle school gave way to a terrifying competence with your father’s old wrench, the one he'd left when he did, and finally, to a reputation. A reputation that said, mess with a Byers, and you answer to her.
Jonathan never asked you to fight his battles. He’d just give you a small, irritated frown when you came home with scraped knuckles, wordlessly cleaning you up at the kitchen sink. Will would look at you with a mixture of awe and worry, knowing his big sister was a force of nature, one he was secretly grateful was on his side.
The Byers family was a fortress, and you were its most volatile, loyal guard. You loved fiercely, protected violently, and held a grudge like it was a cherished heirloom. You didn’t start fights, but you sure as hell finished them.
When Will went missing, it wracked you and your brother's souls -- and destroyed your mother's. She was spiraling out of control, and you two were desperately trying to hold her together in any way you could. Caught between missing and grieving Will and making sure your mother would survive, it definitely made things tense.
The world had gone silent in the worst way. Will’s absence wasn't just an empty chair at dinner; it was a scream that had sucked all the sound out of the house, leaving only the frantic, scraping noise of your mother’s fear. You watched her tape up Christmas lights, her hands trembling, her eyes seeing things you couldn't. The fortress was cracking, and you and Jonathan stood in the breach, holding up the crumbling walls with your bare hands.
You took the night shifts, patrolling the quiet, oppressive dark of the house with Lonnie’s old wrench held tight, your knuckles white. Jonathan took the days, following your mother on her desperate errands, a silent, anxious shadow. You communicated in looks, in sighs, in the way you’d wordlessly make a pot of coffee at 3 AM for the other. The twin bond, usually a quiet understanding, had become a taut wire of shared dread.
School was a forgotten concept. The bullies, the whispers, the petty high school dramas -- they were echoes from another life. Steve Harrington and his court were irrelevant, just background noise in a town that was eating your family alive.
Until they weren’t.
The aroma of the corner store made you cringe -- all of the smells combined themselves into a raunchy odor. Pizza, cleaning supplies, medication and plastic. You'd only gone in to buy Jonathan something to eat. In fact, you were forcing it on him, just like you had to force your mother sometimes.
Fingering a 5 dollar bill out of your back pocket, you paid for the slice of pizza and the bottle of soda quickly, giving the clerk a polite smile before getting out of there as quickly as you could.
The street was empty. Jonathan and Nancy were nowhere to be seen.
Furrowing your eyebrows, you took a few steps forward before you heard the commotion. Scuffling, yelling, Nancy's cries of "stop!" You turned into the direction you'd heard it, your steps increasing in speed until you reached a jog. This was the sound of danger. This was a sound you were familiar with -- your brother being fucked with.
As you rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of you.
"BYERS IS A PERV" spray painted onto a garage door in red ink, glaring into your face brightly.
Steve Harrington, the infamous douchebag king of Hawkins High, had an iron tight grip on your brother, close to wrestling him to the ground. Without another word, you stalked forward, shoving the brown paper bag of Jonathan's lunch into Nancy's arms when you finally reached her, and threaded yourself quickly between the two men.
Your shoulder connected hard with Steve's chest, shoving him back a step, breaking his grip on Jonathan. Then, you curled your nimble hands into Steve's shirt, shoving him further, watching him stumble back.
"You wanna fight someone? Fight someone who's good at it!" You hissed.
Before Steve could regain his footing, there was a crack in the air. A groan followed soon after, but immediately, another crack sounded. After years of fighting for your brother, you'd learned how to do it effectively, not giving Steve time to respond before decking him yet again in his face.
"Where'd all that confidence go now, Harrington? Huh?" You taunted, watching him fall, jeans soaked in a puddle on the pavement, bleeding on the ground.
"Y/N, stop it--" Jonathan attempted, but you were beyond that.
Reeling your leg back, you sent it straight into Steve's gut.
Once.
"Don't you ever fucking touch--"
Again.
"--my brother again, you brainless--"
The final time, releasing all of the power in your lean, trembling body.
"--douchebag!"
The final kick was a punctuation mark of pure, unadulterated fury. Steve folded around the impact with a sickening wheeze, curling into a fetal position on the wet asphalt. The alley fell into a shocked, heavy silence, broken only by Steve's ragged, pained gasps.
You stood over him, chest heaving, the adrenaline a deafening roar in your ears. You’d done it. You’d put the king in the mud. It should have felt like victory. It just felt like another terrible thing in a week of terrible things.
Nancy was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, the brown paper bag crumpled forgotten in her arms. Jonathan looked pale, his own anger drained away, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. He wasn't looking at Steve; he was looking at you.
And Steve… Steve was looking at you too.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Blood and dirty water streaked his face, his expensive jacket was ruined, and he was holding his stomach where your foot had connected. But his eyes, one already swelling shut, were locked on you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look humiliated.
He looked… transfixed.
A slow, pained look of shock spread across his bloody face. "Holy shit," he breathed, the words a pained rasp of pure wonder.
In the midst of your confusion, there were police in the alley. To add bullshit to bullshit, you were being arrested.
The cold, impersonal grip of the officer’s hand on your bicep was a jarring slap back to reality. The adrenaline haze evaporated, leaving you shivering in your damp clothes, the metallic taste of fury still on your tongue. You didn’t resist as you were pulled away from Steve, who was still staring at you from the ground with that dazed, bloody smile.
“You’re under arrest for assault,” the officer was saying, his voice a flat monotone as he recited your rights.
Assault. The word seemed ridiculous. You’d been defending your brother from the guy who’d just spray-painted a lie about him for the whole town to see. You looked over at Jonathan, who was being questioned by another cop, his face pale and pinched. Nancy was crying quietly, her arms wrapped around herself.
As you were led toward the waiting patrol car, you heard a groan and a scramble of movement.
When you looked back, Steve, Tommy, and Carol were all gone. Groaning, you allowed yourself to be tucked into the squad car.
The ride to the police station was a blur of gray streets and the officer's low, crackling radio. Your knuckles throbbed in time with your heartbeat. The quiet in the car was oppressive, broken only by the occasional staticky transmission.
It gave you too much time to think. To replay the scene. The red spray paint. Jonathan's terrified face. The solid, sickening impact of your fists and feet connecting with Steve Harrington. And that look on his face... that wasn't right. People didn't look at you like that after you beat them senseless. They cowered. They swore revenge. They didn't stare like you'd just performed a miracle.
The processing at the station was a numb, bureaucratic nightmare. Mugshot. Fingerprints. The cold metal of the holding cell bench seeping through your damp jeans. You sat, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the scuffed floor. They'd let Jonathan and Nancy go after taking their statements. You were the one who'd thrown the punches. Well, and the kicks.
You didn't know how long you'd been there when the heavy door clanged open. There stood Hopper, gesturing for you to come out.
"You're being released. Your family has been through enough without this," Hopper remarked. "Your mother's here. No more assaulting people."
Hopper’s voice, a familiar gravelly mix of authority and exhausted compassion, cut through the fog. You looked up, meeting his tired eyes. He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t approval, but it was understanding. He knew what it was to fight for family.
You stood, your joints protesting, and followed him out of the cell. The fluorescent lights of the station lobby were blinding. And there was Joyce, a small, frantic silhouette against the harsh light. She looked like she’d been carved from pure anxiety, but when she saw you, she surged forward, pulling you into a hug so tight it hurt your bruised ribs. You didn’t mind.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice cracking. Her hands fluttered over your back, your arms, as if checking for broken pieces.
“I’m okay, Mom,” you mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back, her eyes scanning your face, landing on your raw knuckles. A flicker of that old, fierce pride shone through the worry before it was swallowed by fresh fear. “We’re going home.”
Hopper cleared his throat. “I’ll drive you. Your car’s still back there, and you,” he pointed a thick finger at you, “are in no state.”
You didn’t argue. The thought of getting behind the wheel made your hands shake. You just nodded.
-
When the worst was over, it seemed that everyone's perspective on Steve changed. Aside from yours, of course.
Will had returned home, tentatively healthy. Your mom was doting over him more than ever. Jonathan was now transfixed on Nancy Wheeler. And you were back in your element -- working at the automotive shop in town. There were three of them; you just happened to work at the one that Steve and family took his BMW to.
He knew it was weird. He knew it was completely off center and extremely to the left that ever since you'd kicked the dog shit out of him, he was completely enamored by you. But he couldn't help it. And he saw you a few times a week -- after all, he chaperoned your little brother and his friends wherever they went. When he picked Will up and he clambered his way into Steve's backseat to sit next to Mike, he always looked up into the window. And he always caught your look of distaste.
He'd helped your family. He'd protected the kids. He'd swung nail covered bats at alien creatures with 200 teeth to defend Jonathan. But you still hated him. It should've driven him away.
But.. Steve Harrington had a problem.
It wasn't the usual kind. Not failing grades, or a fight with his dad, or even the lingering, bone-deep terror from facing down inter-dimensional monsters. No, his problem had your wild, furious eyes, your fists that hit like a freight train, and a grudge you held that was colder and harder than the wrench you’d once threatened him with.
You. Your name was a constant hum in the back of his mind, a background noise to every other thought. It had been months. Months since the alley, since the spray paint and the blood and the blinding, life-altering moment you’d looked down at him, a vengeful angel in a hand-me-down flannel, and he’d realized he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
Everyone else had moved on. Hell, he’d moved on, in every practical sense. He’d ditched the asshole crown. He’d apologized to Jonathan (who’d accepted it with a quiet, wary nod). He’d become the kids’ glorified babysitter, a role that was somehow more exhausting and more rewarding than being King Steve had ever been. He’d fought actual monsters. He was trying to be a better guy.
But it all felt… secondary. Like he was just killing time between sightings of you.
He saw you at the shop, grease smudged on your cheek, wielding tools with a competence that made his mouth go dry. He saw you dropping Will off, your expression softening for a millisecond for your little brother before hardening again when you spotted him. He saw you everywhere, and every time, it was like a punch to the solar plexus, a jolt of something electric and painful and addicting.
He knew it was pathetic. Tommy would have laughed himself sick. Nancy, in the brief, awkward moments they still had to interact, looked at him with a sort of pitying confusion. He didn’t care.
Because the thing was, Steve had been liked his whole life. For his hair, his car, his family’s money, his position on the team. It had been easy, surface-level. What he felt for you was the exact opposite of easy. It was a bruise that wouldn’t fade. An obsession born not from getting what he wanted, but from being thoroughly, decisively destroyed by it.
You hated him. He could see it in every line of your body when he was near, in the way your eyes would sweep over him like he was something unpleasant you’d stepped in. You held that grudge like it was a precious thing, and he was weirdly, desperately proud of you for it. Of course you wouldn’t forgive him. He didn’t deserve it. You had standards. You had fire.
He wanted to stand in that fire forever.
So he drove the kids to the arcade, he picked up parts from the shop even when he didn’t need to, he made sure Will got home safe, and he stole every single glance of you he could get. He was a lovesick idiot, pining after you, who’d probably rather set his car on fire than speak to him. And the worst part -- the truly, wonderfully, sickeningly worst part -- was that he wouldn’t have it any other way. The kick had broken something in him, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Steve Harrington back together again. He didn't want them to. He just wanted you to look at him one more time, even if it was with pure, unadulterated hate.
The scent of motor oil and old rubber was a familiar comfort, a welcome replacement for the cloying smells of antiseptic and fear that had haunted the house for weeks. You were back where you belonged: under a car, the solid weight of an engine above you, a problem you could actually solve in your hands.
You were replacing the alternator on a sleek BMW. You knew whose car it was. Of course you did. It was an unwelcome, persistent fact, like a pebble in your shoe. Steve Harrington’s shiny, expensive toy. The shop owner, old man Murdoch, had handed you the work order with a grunt, and you’d taken it without a word, because a job was a job, and you were damn good at this one.
But it didn’t mean you had to like it.
As you tightened a bolt, your knuckles -- the same ones that had split open on his jaw months ago -- ached faintly with the memory. You could still see the red spray paint. You could still hear Nancy’s cry, and feel the sickening give of his ribs under your foot. The violence didn't haunt you; you’d done what needed doing. What haunted you was the aftermath. The way he’d looked at you. Not with anger, but with a dazed, bloody wonder. It had been confusing then, and it was infuriating now.
Because now, he was everywhere. A permanent, unwanted fixture. He’d wormed his way into your family’s new, fragile peace. Will spoke of him with a hesitant admiration. Your mom mentioned him in passing, a tone of weary gratitude in her voice. Jonathan… Jonathan had forgiven him. Or at least, he’d accepted his help, which in your brother’s book was close enough.
It made your blood boil. They’d all forgotten. Forgotten the years of whispers, the casual cruelty, the way he and his friends had made your brothers feel small. They saw the redeemed hero, the monster-fighting babysitter. You saw the entitled king who’d only changed his tune because the world had literally gone to hell, and even then, it had taken you beating it into him first.
Your forgiveness wasn’t for sale. Not for apologies, not for nail bats, not for driving your brother home. That grudge was yours. You’d polished it, honed it, held it close. It was the last line of defense for the people you loved, a reminder that not everyone got a clean slate just because they decided to stop being the worst version of themselves.
Hearing steps crackle on the garage cement, you slid out from under the car, anticipating a customer or your boss coming to see how the work was going. Wiping your hands quickly on a rag, you turned to face them, a professional look on your oil blemished face.
Immediately, your jaw set.
Harrington.
He stood in the open bay doorway, backlit by the sinking sun like some misplaced golden boy statue. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. The confident swagger he’d worn like a second skin in the halls of Hawkins High was gone, replaced by a nervous, watchful energy that was almost worse.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little too casual, like he’d practiced the tone in the mirror.
You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him, the rag twisting tight in your grip.
He cleared his throat, his eyes darting from your face to the BMW and back again. “Is it, uh… is it ready?”
You bit your cheek, your eyes analyzing him like a snake did its prey. "No. It'll take a couple more minutes. Feel free to wait." You said shortly.
Steve fought the urge to shiver. The frigidness of your demeanor was enough to cool down the entire garage. But something about it was just so intriguing, he couldn't get enough.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex to the verbal slap. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "I'll wait."
He didn't go back to the waiting area with the stained magazines and the lukewarm coffee. He just... hovered. Leaning against the tool cabinet a careful distance away, watching you as you slid back under the car. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it made you bristle, that it probably violated some unspoken rule. But he was a moth to a particularly dangerous, grease-stained flame.
The sounds from under the car were efficient, professional: the clink of metal, the ratcheting of a wrench, the soft thud of something being set aside. You worked with a focused silence that was somehow louder than any tantrum.
He cleared his throat again. "What made you choose cars?"
You stilled. "What?"
He faltered slightly, but persevered. "What, um.. What made you choose working on cars? As a line of work."
Your wrench clattered against the concrete floor with a loud, jarring ring. The sudden noise made Steve jump.
For a long moment, there was only the fading echo of metal on concrete. You didn't move from under the car. He could see the tense line of your legs, frozen in place.
When you finally spoke, your voice was dangerously quiet, each word measured and sharp. "Why do you care, Harrington?"
He swallowed, his throat dry. This was it. This was the crack he'd been prying at, and it was about to split wide open, maybe right in his face. "I just... I don't know. I see you here, you're... you're really good at it. Seems like more than just a job. I was curious."
You slid out from under the car slowly, like a predator emerging from its den. You didn't stand up. You stayed on the creeper, looking up at him from the floor, grease smeared across your cheekbone, your eyes blazing. The position should have made you seem vulnerable. It didn't. It made him feel like he was the one being inspected from a disadvantage.
"You want to know what made me choose cars?" you repeated, your voice low. "Lonnie."
The name hung in the oily air. Steve knew that name. Everyone in Hawkins knew the story of Lonnie Byers, the deadbeat dad who took off.
"He left a lot of things when he walked out," you continued, your gaze never leaving his. "Bills. A broken family. A lot of bad memories." You picked up the wrench you'd dropped, your grip tightening on the handle. "And a toolbox. A really nice, professional-grade toolbox."
You pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, the wrench held loosely at your side. "My mom was drowning. Jonathan was... Jonathan. Will was a baby. The bills kept coming. So I opened the toolbox." You took a step toward him, and he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. "I figured out how to fix the sink. Then the wiring in the wall that was making the lights flicker. Then the neighbors' lawnmower for twenty bucks. Then Mr. Perkins' pickup when it wouldn't start, for fifty."
You were close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in your furious eyes, smell the sharp, clean scent of the industrial soap you used under the grease. "It was the one thing he left that wasn't completely useless. The one thing I could turn into something that actually helped my family. So I got good at it. Really good. Because when the world is falling apart, being able to fix something, anything, makes you feel like you're not completely powerless."
You stopped, your chest rising and falling slightly. The raw honesty of the confession seemed to hang between you, stark and uncomfortable. You'd just shown him a piece of your backbone, the gritty, unglamorous reason for your competence, and you looked like you regretted every word.
"So that's why, Steve," you finished, your voice dropping back to its usual icy chill. "Not because it's fun. Not because I like getting dirty. Because it pays the bills he left behind. Now, are we done with the heartfelt interviews, or do you need to know my favorite color next?"
He just stared at you, his heart hammering. He’d asked for a glimpse behind the wall, and you’d handed him a blueprint of your soul, etched in hardship and resilience. It was the most incredible, devastating thing he’d ever heard. He’d never wanted to kiss someone and apologize to them so badly in his entire life.
"Blue," he heard himself say, his voice hoarse.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
"Your favorite color. It's blue. Will told me."
You stared for a moment, your eyes mixing shock with the leftover hatred from moments ago. Then, as if snapping back into yourself, you laughed bitterly.
"Obviously me spraining your ribs with my size 6 taught you nothing." You hissed. "I don't like you, Harrington."
The laugh, bitter and sharp, was the final straw. Something snapped inside Steve. The awe, the infatuation, the desperate hope -- it all coalesced into a stubborn, white-hot defiance. He was done just taking it.
He took a step forward, closing the distance you’d just created. He didn't tower over you, but his presence was suddenly solid, immovable. The playful, nervous energy was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.
“I know you don’t like me,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the garage’s hum. “Trust me, the feeling’s been made crystal clear.”
You stared right up into his face, not moved at all by his change in behavior. But it didn't surprise him, nor did it scare him.
"I hate you. You and your fuck-face friends terrorized Jonathan for years. You broke his camera, which I don't know if you realized, but was his entire world," you growled. "And we aren't made of money like the Harrington family. If Nancy didn't feel bad, that would've taken over a year to replace."
Instead of cutting in, instead of a rebuttal, Steve just listened.
"Tommy used to knock his books out of his hands and shove him into lockers until I put a stop to it," You continued, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest. He could feel the warmth of your touch seep through his sweater. "I know your kind. You're all self-centered, shallow, day-dreaming morons. You think you have all the answers, or that your magical charm is gonna forge a relationship between us? You're delusional. I don't know what your problem is, or why you stare at me all the time, ask my brothers questions about me, why you're so obsessed, but you're gonna get a rerun of the ass kicking from months ago if you don't use your brain a little bit!" You finished, breathing hard.
Steve didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He absorbed every word like a blow, letting them land, letting them settle. The truth of them was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it. He’d earned every single accusation.
When you finished, chest heaving, finger still pressed against his sternum, he was quiet for a long moment. The garage felt charged, the air thick with the history you’d just thrown in his face.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough but calm. "You're right."
You dropped the hand that was pressing a harsh fingertip against his chest.
"About all of it," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "I was a self-centered, shallow moron. Tommy and Carol... they were my friends, and I let it happen. I didn't start it, but I didn't stop it. I'm sorry about his camera. I'm sorry about the spray paint. I'm sorry for what I said about your family. I'm sorry for every single day Jonathan felt small because of me or anyone near me."
He took a slow breath, your touch still burning a hole through his sweater. "But I'm not asking for a relationship. I don't have any charm, not with you. It doesn't work. All I've got is this." He gestured between the two of you, at the scant inches of charged space. "This... whatever it is. This thing where you want to murder me and I can't stop thinking about you. I don't understand it either. But I'm not going to pretend I'm not obsessed. I am. I'm completely obsessed with you, Y/N Byers."
He saw the shock flash in your eyes, the way your anger momentarily faltered, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"And you're right about another thing," he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "I am delusional. Because I think, somewhere under all that justified hate, you see that I'm trying. You see that I'm not that guy anymore. And that pisses you off even more, because it’s easier to hate a cartoon villain than a real person who’s actually sorry."
You felt your throat close up.
"So go ahead," he murmured, his eyes holding yours, dark and serious. "Give me that rerun. Kick my ass again. I'll probably thank you for it. But it won't change anything. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to keep driving your brother around. I'm going to keep picking up my car from this shop. And I'm going to keep being pathetically obsessed with you until you look at me and see something other than an asshole in a varsity jersey."
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, the scent of oil and metal suddenly overwhelming. Your hand, which had been jabbing his chest, now hung limply at your side, tingling with the phantom echo of his heartbeat.
He’d stripped it all bare. No defenses, no excuses, just the raw, ugly, bewildering truth. An obsession. He’d named it, claimed it, and laid it at your feet like a challenge.
You wanted to hit him. The urge was a physical pulse in your tightened fists. You wanted to wipe that intense, earnest look off his face, to prove that nothing he said could penetrate the fortress of your resentment.
But you couldn’t move.
Because he was right. It was easier to hate the caricature. The King Steve who sneered from the yearbook, the one-dimensional bully. This Steve -- the one with shadows under his eyes from babysitting monsters, the one who spoke in a ragged whisper about being sorry, the one who looked at you like you were a complicated, terrifying puzzle he was willing to spend a lifetime solving -- this Steve was infinitely more dangerous.
He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything. He was just… stating facts. Uncomfortable, insane facts that shifted the ground beneath your feet.
Your voice, when it finally came, was a dry rasp. “You need help.”
A smile touched his lips. “Probably.”
You turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You focused on the BMW, on the job you’d finished, on the mundane reality of a repair invoice. You snatched the keys off the bench and thrust them toward him without looking. “$285.40. Then get out.”
You heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled out his wallet, the soft shuffle of bills being counted. He placed the cash on the counter next to you, his fingers careful not to brush yours.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. Not for the car. You knew what he meant.
Then he was gone. The sound of his engine starting was too smooth, too perfect -- a testament to your skill. You stood rigid, staring at the greasy imprint your fingertip had left on his dark sweater, now slowly fading from view.
The anger was still there, a familiar, comforting furnace in your chest. But it was banked now, smothered under the weight of his confession. Obsessed. The word echoed, disturbing and potent.
As much as you wanted to, you had the sinking, terrifying feeling that simply hating him wasn’t going to be enough to make him disappear this time.
-
Your keys jingled in the lock, alerting Will to the fact that you were home. A weak smile crossed your lips as you heard his footsteps, leaving his room and coming to the kitchen to welcome you home.
Will padded into the kitchen, a comic book dangling from one hand. "Hey," he said, his voice still soft, a permanent reminder of everything he’d been through. His eyes, so much like your mother’s, scanned your face with an empathy that always unnerved you a little. "Long day?"
"You could say that," you mumbled, dropping your keys on the counter with a clatter that felt too loud in the quiet house. You moved to the fridge, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger. "Mom still at work?"
"Late shift," Will confirmed, hovering near the doorway. He was watching you, that quiet observation you’d inherited from Jonathan. "Steve brought me home."
Your hand stilled on the refrigerator door handle. Of course he had. "Yeah?"
"Yep." Will responded. His tone allowed you to realize that he knew the situation between you and the man in question.
You shut the fridge door a little harder than necessary. “Great,” you said, the word flat.
Will bit his lip, his comic book forgotten. “He… he asked the best way to get you to talk. Without yelling.”
The air left your lungs. So it wasn’t just general, creepy interest. It was specific. He’d left the garage, driven your brother home, and immediately asked about your state of mind. The intimacy of it, the concern, felt like a violation.
“What did you tell him?” Your voice was tighter now.
Will shifted his weight, looking down at his sneakers. “I told him… I told him you like it when people are honest. Even if it’s bad honesty. And that you hate small talk. And that you really like the cherry slushies from the Gas-N-Sip.”
You stared at your brother. He’d just given Steve Harrington a tactical manual. Honesty. No small talk. Cherry slushies. Three data points to be used against you. The betrayal was quiet but profound.
“Will,” you said, your voice dangerously calm. “Why would you tell him that?”
He looked up, his eyes wide and earnest. “Because he seemed… lost. And he’s trying. Really trying. And… I don’t know. Maybe if he stops being such an idiot about it, you could at least not hate him so much. It’s exhausting just watching it.”
The blunt truth from your usually gentle brother hit you like a physical blow. It’s exhausting just watching it. You were so busy guarding the fortress, you hadn’t considered how the siege looked to those inside with you.
You turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. The image of Steve, with his “lost” expression, grilling your little brother for tips on how to handle you, was too much. It was pathetic. It was infuriating.
And yet, a tiny, traitorous part of you recognized the strategy. It was smart. Going to the source. Seeking intel. It showed a level of thought and effort that the old Steve Harrington would never have possessed. The old Steve would have just bought you a meaningless gift or tried to flash a smile. Turning back towards him, you rolled your eyes at the younger boy in front of you. Always doing what he could to help. Always meaning well.
"If Steve Harrington shows up here with a slushy and a page of notes on what to say to me, I'm hiding all your D&D figures."
Will cracked a small smile.
"You won't. You always say that."
A comfortable silence filled the room as Will settled into the living room couch next to you, covering himself with his favorite blanket.
"What is it that you kids love about Steve so much anyways?"
The question felt foreign to your lips. Never in your life had you allowed yourself to express any interest in the fluffy-haired rich prick. You wanted to curse yourself for allowing today to change anything.
Will didn't answer right away. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his gaze fixed on the static-snow of the turned-off TV, as if the answer were written there in the fuzz.
"It's not one thing," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "It's... a bunch of little things. He always shows up when he says he will. He doesn't treat us like we're dumb kids, even when we're being dumb kids. He listens. Like, really listens. He remembered that Lucas is allergic to peanuts, and he checks candy bags before he hands them out."
You stayed silent, your own fingers tracing a seam in the couch cushion.
"And..." Will hesitated, his voice dropping. "After everything that happened... with me... he never looked at me like I was broken. Or weird. Everyone else does, a little. Even Mike sometimes. But Steve just... he treated me the same. Maybe even tougher, because he knew I could handle it."
You felt a sharp pang in your chest. You'd been so focused on the past Steve had with Jonathan, you hadn't fully considered the present he had with Will. The Steve who had been in the trenches, who had seen the unspeakable and come out the other side trying to be a decent human being. A guardian, not a king.
"He's just... there," Will concluded simply. "Solid. You can count on him. And I think... I think he's lonely. And we're kind of all he's got now."
Lonely. The word landed with a soft, surprising weight. You'd never considered Steve Harrington as lonely. He was supposed to be surrounded by people, by adoration. But the court was gone. Nancy was gone. The easy, shallow life was gone. All he had was a beat-up nail bat, a BMW, and a bunch of nerdy kids who relied on him.
You hummed.
"Lonely? What about.. Nancy? I thought they were a thing."
Will shook his head, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Not for a while. They broke up after… you know, everything. It wasn't messy. Mike said Nancy didn't even cry. Steve doesn’t really talk about it. Its just another thing to him.”
You absorbed this. The perfect King Steve and Princess Nancy fairytale had shattered. Another casualty of the upside-down chaos. It made sense, in a way. The things they’d seen would either bind people together with unbreakable glue or tear them apart with the sheer weight of it all.
“So he’s just… what? A free agent with a bunch of middle-schoolers as his social circle?” The words came out, but the old edge was gone. Now it just sounded like a genuine, bewildered question.
Will gave a small shrug. “Pretty much. He hangs out with that girl Robin sometimes. She’s cool. But mostly… it’s us. And he doesn’t seem to mind. He acts like it’s the most important job in the world.”
The most important job in the world. The phrase echoed, reshaping the Steve in your mind from a pathetic hanger-on to something else entirely. Someone who had found purpose in the rubble of his old life. It was a kind of strength you understood -- the kind forged in necessity and duty.
"Huh. Different than I would've thought. Not that I cared much." You disguised your shock with disinterest.
Will snorted.
"You spent so long hating him that you didn't even realize what you were hating changed. Even Jonathan doesn't mind him much now."
The observation, delivered with the brutal, unvarnished clarity only a little brother could muster, felt like a bucket of cold water. It doused the last flickering embers of your performative disinterest.
You stared at Will, who was now completely absorbed in his comic again, as if he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb that shattered the entire foundation of your worldview.
Even Jonathan doesn’t mind him much now.
Jonathan. Your twin. Your gentle, wounded mirror. The primary victim of Steve Harrington’s reign. If he could move past it… what did that make you? You felt like everything was crumbling beneath you -- all of the resentment, the anger, the grudges. The things you'd held on to in an attempt to block of the softness of yourself.
Your eyes welled up. You realized who you needed. Even just for a moment. The person that knew you inside and out. Getting up gently, you walked to Jonathan's room and hesitantly knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been expecting you. Jonathan stood there, camera in hand as usual, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to instant concern when he saw your face. He knew your every micro-expression, the way your jaw tightened when you were angry, the way your eyes shimmered just before you cried.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping aside to let you in. His room was a familiar sanctuary of developing photographs, band posters, and the faint chemical smell of fixer. “What’s up?”
Without another word, you curled yourself into his chest.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, his camera pressing gently into your back. He didn't ask questions. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, the familiar, steady rhythm of his heart a calming metronome against your ear.
You didn't cry. Not fully. But you trembled, the dam of your own stubbornness finally cracking under the weight of Will's observation and your own exhausting solitude. You clung to your brother, the one person who had shared every scar, every silent battle, every moment of defending your tiny, fragile kingdom.
After a long while, when your breathing had evened out, he spoke, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest.
"This is about Steve." He acknowledged.
You released a watery laugh, tears finally spilling over.
"Unfortunately."
Jonathan’s arms tightened around you for a second, a silent acknowledgment of the absurd, painful truth. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Figured.”
He guided you to sit on the edge of his bed, keeping an arm around your shoulders. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, leaving a faint smudge of grease and tears.
“It’s just… everyone else has moved on,” you whispered, the confession torn from a raw place. “But it feels like betraying you if I do.. And he won't leave me alone. He keeps finding ways to reach me.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, staring at a photograph of a lonely-looking tree on his wall. “He’s hard to ignore when he’s trying that hard,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. “The guy’s like a golden retriever that got hit by a car but still wants to be your friend.”
The analogy was so unexpectedly accurate it startled another wet laugh from you. “A really annoying, formerly evil golden retriever.”
“With a blowout haircut,” Jonathan added, finally cracking a real smile. It faded as he turned to face you fully. “Listen to me. You moving on, you letting this go… that’s not a betrayal of me. It’s the opposite. It’s you finally letting me be okay. Because I am okay. I’ve made my peace. You holding onto this… it feels like you’re still fighting a battle I’ve already walked away from. It hurts to watch.”
His words were a gentle, precise incision, cutting straight to the heart of your guilt. You weren’t protecting him. He no longer needed it.
“He’s reaching you because you’re the only one still in the ring with him,” Jonathan continued. “Will’s team Steve. Mom’s grateful to him. I’m… neutral territory. But you? You’re the final boss. And he’s weirdly into it.” He made a vague, frustrated gesture. “He’s not going to leave you alone until you either knock him out for good or step out of the ring.”
You sniffed, the options laid bare. Permanent violence or surrender.
“There’s a third option,” Jonathan said, as if reading your mind again. “You stop seeing it as a ring. You stop seeing him as an opponent. You just… see him as Steve. The slightly pathetic, overly persistent guy who got beat up by a girl.”
You leaned back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling. “How?”
“Next time he looks at you, don’t think ‘there’s the guy who broke Jonathan’s camera.’ Think, ‘there’s the guy who keeps Will safe when we can't.’ It’s harder to hate him that way.”
The reframing was a mental sucker-punch. Simple. Brutally effective.
The guy who keeps Will safe.
You’d been so fixated on the past -- the broken camera, the spray-painted lies, the locker shoves -- you’d deliberately blinded yourself to the present. The present where Steve Harrington was the one in the driver’s seat when your little brother needed a ride. The one who had stood between Will and things far worse than high school bullies. The one who, by all accounts, took that job seriously.
Your anger, once a roaring fire, guttered and sank into embers. It wasn't gone, but its fuel had been cut off.
"Yeah," you breathed out, the word carrying the weight of a thousand released tensions. "Okay."
Jonathan nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, unless you want to help me mix developing chemicals, I need you to vacate. Your emotional crises are bad for the exposure."
You managed a weak smile and shoved yourself off his bed. "You're a real comfort, you know that?"
"The best," he said flatly, already turning back to his trays of chemicals.
You left his room, the hallway feeling different. Lighter. The blueprint of your soul you'd accidentally shown Steve in the garage -- the one built on Lonnie's toolbox and sheer necessity -- had a new line on it now. A line that connected, however tenuously, to him. Not as an enemy, but as a fellow guardian. A terribly flawed, deeply annoying, but undeniably present one.
You walked back into the living room. Will was asleep on the couch, comic book splayed on his chest. You gently pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, your heart doing that familiar, fierce squeeze. The guy who keeps Will safe.
-
You sat on the bench in your bay of the garage, picking at a piece of pizza. You peeled the greasy pepperoni off, tossing it into the garbage behind you, before turning back to the food your stomach felt too unsettled to consume.
The scent of pepperoni and motor oil was a familiar, oddly comforting combination. You were on your lunch break, but your appetite had vanished somewhere between Jonathan's talk and the seismic shift in your own head. You were just going through the motions, peeling toppings off as if fixing the pizza would fix the weird, hollow feeling in your gut.
The familiar, smooth purr of a BMW engine cut through the garage's usual cacophony. You didn't need to look up. You knew the sound, the way it idled, the specific timbre of its door closing.
Footsteps approached, hesitant at first, then more decisive. They stopped at the entrance to your bay. You took a deliberate bite of your now-bare-cheese pizza, chewed slowly, and finally looked up.
Steve Harrington stood there, holding two gas station cups. He looked nervous, his free hand shoved in his pocket, but there was a new determination in his stance, a lack of that cowering deference. He met your gaze head-on.
He walked forward and placed one of the cups on the workbench beside you. Condensation beaded on the red plastic. A cherry slushie.
"Harrington." You acknowledged, now attempting to keep the bitterness out of your tone. It was easier than it had been before. But it felt so odd to you. Your constant objective of icing Steve Harrington out had been stripped bare, so now it only left him.
Now that you had no reason to hate his guts, you were forced to see the appeal in him in the first place.
He was easy on the eyes, as much as you'd previously hated to admit it. His face was handsome in a clean way, chiseled lines with a boyish smile. His hair, which must've taken time, looked effortless. And he smelled good. The scent of an impeccably picked cologne flooded the bay -- not assaulting you, but seeping in quietly. He even dressed well.
You caught yourself staring, scolding yourself with disgust inwardly.
He saw you looking. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look away. He just stood there, holding his own cup, letting you look. There was no smugness in his expression, just a quiet, hopeful vulnerability that was somehow more disarming than any confident smirk.
"The, uh... the kid said you liked these," he repeated, his voice a little softer this time. "Peace offering. From the Gas-N-Sip."
The simple, honest statement cut through the last of your internal noise. Nothing grand or dramatic. Just a peace offering, sourced from intel provided by your own brother. It was disarmingly straightforward.
You looked from the slushie to his face. The vulnerability was still there, but it was grounded now. This wasn’t the desperate, bloody awe from the alley. This was a conscious choice. He was here, trying, with a cherry-flavored token.
Your fingers curled around the cold cup. “He’s got a big mouth,” you said, but there was no real heat behind it.
A small, genuine smile touched Steve’s lips. “He’s a good kid. Worries about you.”
That did it. The last brick in the wall wobbled. Will, your sweet, observant brother, was worried about you in this stupid standoff. And here was Steve, not just acknowledging it, but showing he’d listened.
You lifted the slushie and took a long pull. The sugar was a shock, the cold a relief. You swallowed and met his eyes. “It’s mediocre.”
The smile on his face widened, transforming it. The boyish charm you’d been reluctantly cataloging became fully, devastatingly operational. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice warm. “The cherry’s always kinda fake-tasting. But it’s the principle.”
“The principle of bribery?”
“The principle of showing up,” he corrected softly.
You hummed, unwanted warmth spreading through your chest.
"You're not afraid I'll kick your ass? Paint your windshield with slushy?"
The question, laced with a hint of amusement, made his smile turn wry, almost fond. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Nah,” he said, his voice low and sure. “The ass-kicking’s already happened. And it was… informative.” He rubbed his jaw absently, a gesture that was both an acknowledgment of the past and a dismissal of its threat. “And you can paint my windshield if you want. I’ll just bring it back here for you to fix. Seems like a waste of a good slushie, though.”
The logic was circular, stubborn, and utterly Steve. He wasn't afraid because he'd already faced the worst you could do, and he'd not only survived it but somehow decided he liked the view from the floor. And he’d found a way to loop even your potential vandalism back into another interaction with you.
It was maddening. It was also, you realized with a sinking feeling, kind of impressive. The guy had resilience. A stupid, baffling, unkillable resilience. And it was somewhat.. attractive, which was a truth, but also a betrayal to who you'd been since you were in 8th grade.
You took another sip of the mediocre slushie, using the cold to ground yourself. “You’re a real piece of work, Harrington.”
“I’ve been told,” he repeated, but this time there was a lightness to it, a shared acknowledgment of the absurdity. "You kicking the shit out of me in an alley turned into me having a huge crush on you. Anyone else would've pressed charges for assault."
The words hung in the oily air, stark and breathtakingly honest. He’d said ‘obsessed’ before, in the heat of the garage confrontation. But this… ‘huge crush’. It was simpler. More human. More terrifying.
The slushy felt suddenly too cold in your hand. You set it down with a soft clack on the workbench.
“Anyone else wouldn’t have deserved it in the first place,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just… context. The context he’d finally, fully acknowledged.
He nodded, accepting that too. “True.” He took a half-step closer, the space between you humming with the weight of all the unsaid things. “But it’s not about deserving it. It’s about… what happened after. I looked up from the pavement, saw you standing over me looking like some pissed-off avenging angel, and something in my brain just… clicked. Or broke. Not sure which," He admitted. "Plus, I wondered where all the strength came from. You're tiny and almost knocked me out.”
The observation, delivered with such bewildered admiration, was the final straw. The last vestige of your defensive posture crumbled into dust. An incredulous laugh escaped you, shaking your shoulders.
"Comes from Joyce. She would've handed it to you too if she walked into that alley instead of me."
"Yeah," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the garage hum. "I believe that. I met her, when Will was... you know. She's... she's badass." He shook his head, a flicker of genuine awe in his eyes. "You come by it honestly, then. The fierceness."
He wasn't just complimenting you. He was acknowledging your lineage, your roots. Seeing the connection between you and your mother not as a weakness, but as a source of power. It was a level of perception you hadn't thought him capable of.
A genuine smile finally formed onto your lips.
"She likes you. Will does too." You admitted.
The admission felt like unlocking a door you’d kept deadbolted for years. It wasn’t about you. It was about them. About the people you loved most giving their stamp of approval to the person you’d dedicated so much energy to despising.
"Will tells me every time he sees me that he has the best sister in the world. And I'm not just being a kiss ass." Steve responded, stuffing his hands in his pockets, a mannerism of his that you'd seen countless times. "You're his world. Literally."
You looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. Your eyes stung. You focused on a greasy smudge on the floor, blinking rapidly. He wasn't trying to flatter you. He was stating a fact he'd observed, a truth he'd been trusted with. You're his world. It was the highest compliment, the heaviest responsibility, and the one thing that could instantly dissolve the last of your icy resolve.
When you finally looked back, your vision was slightly blurred, but your voice was steady. "He's mine too."
Steve nodded, his expression solemn, understanding the weight of that simple exchange. It was a pact acknowledged. He saw the heart of you, the protector, and he respected it. More than that, he was telling you he valued it.
The air between you changed again. The last of the combat zone evaporated. This wasn't a battlefield anymore; it was common ground, hallowed by shared love for a kid who'd been through hell.
"So," Steve said, his voice regaining a bit of its normal cadence, though it was still softer than you'd ever heard it. "I figure if I'm gonna be hanging around... I should probably be on the good side of his world. Seems like a smart play."
Another laugh escaped you. "I wouldn't worry about smart plays anymore. I don't think you've ever made one."
The insult, delivered without malice, with almost fond exasperation, made him laugh.
“You’re probably right,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But hey, I’m here, aren’t I? In your garage. You’re talking to me. You haven’t threatened bodily harm in…” He made a show of checking an invisible watch on his wrist. “...at least ten minutes. I’d call that progress. Maybe my first smart play was just being too stupid to quit.”
He had a point. His strategy -- if it could even be called that -- had been sheer, dogged persistence. A stubborn refusal to be vanquished. And against your fortified walls of anger, it had somehow, miraculously, worked.
You looked at him, this former king, standing in your domain with grease on his designer shoes and hope in his eyes. He was a mess. A beautiful, confusing, resilient mess.
“Just don’t break anything on purpose anymore,” you said, the warning lacking any real threat. It was practically an invitation.
His smile softened, turning sincere. “No sabotage. Scout’s honor.” He took a step backward toward the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe with another slushy. Maybe with flowers if I can get Will to tell me which ones you like."
He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, leaving you with the echo of his words.
You watched him go, the sound of his BMW fading into the Hawkins afternoon. The bay was quiet again, but the silence was different. It wasn't empty. It was full of the echo of his laugh, the ghost of his cologne, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that Steve Harrington wasn't just a problem you'd solved or a war you'd ended.
He was a possibility. A messy, complicated, stubbornly present possibility who bought cherry slushies for research and talked to your brother about how to get a chance with you.
You finished your shift in a daze. The world had tipped on its axis, and everything looked new. Grease was just grease. Tools were just tools. But the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm, except this storm smelled like synthetic cherry and expensive aftershave.
When you got home, Will was in the living room, a knowing look on his face. "So?"
"So, what?" you grumbled, hanging up your keys.
"Steve. Did he... you know. Do the thing?"
"What thing?"
"The cherry slushy. The weird stare where he acts like you invented gravity. They're his signature moves."
You stared at your little brother, this suddenly wise, observant creature. "Since when are you an expert on Steve Harrington's signature moves?"
Will shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I pay attention. He asked about flowers, by the way. I told him you like dandelions because they're weeds and they piss off the neighbors."
A laugh burst out of you, loud and surprised. "You did not."
"I did. He wrote it down. In a little notebook." Will was grinning now, delighted with himself. "He said, 'Weeds. Got it. Makes sense.'"
You stood there, stunned. Steve Harrington was keeping a notebook. About you. And your brother was his chief informant.
The world hadn't just tipped. It had somersaulted.
That night, as you lay in bed, you didn't think about spray paint or broken cameras. You thought about a notebook entry that spoke about your favorite flowers. You thought about shared looks over a slushie, and a truce built on common ground named Will.
The war was over. The peace was strange, and it came with a side of floral research and potential dandelions. And as you drifted to sleep, you realized you weren't just okay with it.
You were, against all odds, kind of excited to see what weed-related nonsense tomorrow would bring.
