❝ well i’ve been afraid of changing, cause i’ve built my life around you ❞
slight season 5 finale spoilers
masterlist
word count :: 2.3k
pairings :: steve harrington x reader
content warnings :: fluff so sweet you’ll need extractions for your cavities, pregnancy, doubt, pre-established relationship, takes place during season 5 epilogue
writers note :: it’s so bittersweet, the show i’ve been watching since i was ten finally ending like wdym… when i heard fleetwood mac oh i was DONE FOR. my face is still puffy from how much i cried— and im so happy with it all, the epilogue was gold. still writing the SAME llie chapter (like why am i so stuck) it’s coming out i SWEAR
anyways this was inspired by when they were talking about kids on the WSQK rooftop and by steve’s incredibly hot suit. thx for reading!!
i do not allow my content to be stolen, copied or reposted anywhere else. do not put my work through any ai tools or generators
(stop using ai for gods sake.)
༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅
Eighteen months had passed since the fight. Thirty-six months since the earthquake. Five hundred and forty-seven days of finally remembering how to breathe.
And even though things still weren’t exactly normal, it was close enough to stop flinching at the word.
You and Steve moved in together, into a small apartment just outside Hawkins. Not much to look at. Thin walls. A heater that rattled like it might give up every other night. But it was yours.
It was fifteen minutes away from Hawkins and only twenty minutes away from the kind of house the two of you talked about in half-jokes. The one with a big yard, a wooden porch, the one that didn’t smell faintly like old paint and dust. Something you could afford someday.
Something your kids could grow up in
Today was like every other day, and lately, you liked that.
You liked how the air stayed still, undisturbed except for the low hum of the radiator pushing warmth into cold corners. How the windows didn’t shake. How the floor stayed solid beneath your feet. How the air was clear and smelt like pine oak— courtesy of the candle Steve bought to make it a bit more homely
You liked the way time moved slower now— not because it dragged, but because nothing was chasing it.
Steve was in the other room, close enough that you could hear him moving around, the soft scuff of socks against the floor. Normal sounds. Safe ones. The kind that anchored you without trying.
But when you said this was like every other day… you were partly lying.
Because wedged between your fingers was a pregnancy test.
One you’d taken five minutes ago.
Recently, you’d been feeling off. Not the unsettling kind, not the something is wrong kind, but the why am I throwing up every morning kind of off. The kind that lingered in your throat and followed you into the bathroom before you were fully awake.
And, not to mention, your period was eight days late.
It was no question that you and Steve fucked like rabbits and you’d always wanted kids.
Someday. In the near future. Not at this very moment. When everything felt settled and solid and planned. But now? Now it felt like your life had only just begun again and you were already being shoved headfirst into the deep end. The big, terrifying adult deep end.
You’d only just gotten your job. How were they supposed to feel about you asking for a leave of absence so soon? Before you’d even learned everyone’s coffee orders. Before your name felt permanent on the schedule.
And your family— your brother, your mom. How were you supposed to explain this to them without sounding like you were drowning? Like there was too much going on right now for you to be calm— how were they not going to worry?
But most importantly how the fuck were you going to tell Steve?
You already knew he’d be excited. He always was, heart-first, consequences later. He’d smile too fast, pull you into his arms, start talking about names and cribs and someday before thinking about the reality of it. about today
The apartment only had one bedroom. And even calling it a bedroom felt generous. Because it was barely bigger than a broom closet. There was no space for a baby here. No room for a crib, or late night pacing, or anything small and human that cried. You couldn’t even get a dog because Steve said there was no space.
Which means moving. Again. Another change stacked on top of all the others.
Your pulse starts to pound, loud enough that it fills your ears.
Deep breaths.
Everything will work out in the end.
Will it?
You turn the test over in your hands, plastic warm from your grip. Your thumb hovers over the little window, hesitant. Like if you don’t look, this doesn’t become real.
You hear Steve shift somewhere in the other room. The world keeps going.
You look.
For a split second, your brain refuses to process it. The lines blur, your vision swimming as your heart stutters in your chest.
Then it clicks.
Two lines.
Not faint. Not questionable. Not something you can dismiss as a trick of the light.
Two solid, unmistakable crimson lines.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, your hands flying to your stomach. It’s still as flat as it was ten minutes ago, still familiar. Still unchanged.
And yet… everything feels different.
The room feels smaller. The air heavier. Like something someone invisible has shifted its weight inside you.
You’re not just holding a test anymore.
You’re holding the proof that nothing will ever be the same again.
“Hey, baby— you okay? You’ve been in there for ages.”
Steve’s knuckles tap gently against the door, his voice warm in the way it always is. Familiar. Safe. Worried.
“Uh— yeah”
You say quickly. Too quickly.
“m’ fine. Just… feeling a little faint. One second.”
Your voice cracks anyway. Tears sting behind your eyes and you tilt your head up, staring at the popcorn ceiling like it might rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
Steve hums on the other side of the door.
“Really? Maybe we should get that checked out”
He says.
“You’ve been really sick recently.”
He notices. He always does.
Your chest tightens.
You shove the test behind the shampoo bottle on the shower shelf, plastic clacking softly against tile, then turn on the sink and splash cold water onto your face. You breathe. Once. Twice. You unlock the door then step back.
Steve slips inside, his expression caught somewhere between concern and routine as if he’s trying not to alarm you but failing anyway.
And then there’s his outfit.
A white button-down, sleeves rolled just enough. Beige suit trousers. Too put together. Not at all normal for a regular sunday morning
“I was gonna shave real quick”
He says.
“Thought I’d clean up a little. You sure you’ll be okay for today?”
Today.
Dustin’s graduation.
Fuck. Of all days— why did you take the test today?
Steve steps closer, his hand settling at your lower back. You flinch before you can stop yourself it’s barely there, barely noticeable but enough.
His thumb starts rubbing slow circles anyway.
You hope he doesn’t notice.
He notices.
His hand stills. His brows knit together.
“Hey”
He murmurs barely over a whisper.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head too fast.
“Nothing. I’m just a bit tired.”
He studies you, eyes flicking over your face, your posture, the way you won’t quite meet his gaze. He doesn’t push, not yet. But his concern doesn’t fade.
“We don’t have to stay the whole time”
He says gently.
“We can leave early if you need to. Dustin will understand.”
You nod, even though your stomach twists.
“Okay”
You say.
“I’ll be fine.”
Steve leans in, presses a soft kiss to your temple— lingering like he’s grounding himself as much as you. Then he reaches for his razor and the can of shaving cream, turning toward the sink.
“Anyways, Robin wanted us to escape a bit earlier too so that we could have that little catch up— remember, like we did last month”
You nod
“Shit”
He mutters, giving the can a little shake. It answers with a pathetic hiss of air.
“Did we run out of shaving cream?”
He asks, already half-looking toward the shower.
“Uh—”
Your voice sticks.
“I think so?”
He hums, thoughtful.
“It’s fine. I’ll just use conditioner.”
No.
No, no, no.
He steps toward the shower, curtain already sliding back with that familiar shhk of plastic rings on metal. Your pulse spikes so hard it makes you dizzy.
“Steve—”
You start, but he’s already reaching.
His hand goes straight to the shelf.
Right past the soap.
Right past the loofah.
His fingers brush the conditioner bottle.
Right next to it.
The shampoo.
The shampoo bottle you shoved the test behind.
Time stretches thin.
You watch his knuckles nudge the shampoo as he grabs the conditioner, the bottle wobbling slightly on the slick tile. Your lungs forget how to work. You swear you can hear your heartbeat in your teeth.
The test shifts.
Just a little.
Steve freezes.
“…Did you move stuff around in here?”
Fuck.
You swallow hard.
“I— no. Why?”
He turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the shelf. The conditioner is in his hand now, but his attention isn’t on it anymore.
It’s on the sliver of white plastic peeking out from behind the shampoo.
He places the conditioner on the sink top and reaches back. For the test.
Your vision blurs and you move.
Immediately.
You grab him, spin him around by the front of his shirt and crash your mouth into his.
It’s clumsy. Too fast. Teeth knock, lips miss before finding each other again. The kiss tastes like panic and mint and the desperate hope that this will buy you time— just a second, enough to keep his mind on something else.
Steve makes a surprised sound into your mouth before instinct takes over, his hands finding your waist, grounding, familiar.
You pull back just as quickly.
He barely lets you.
Steve lingers there, lips still brushing yours, breath warm against your face. You can feel the curve of his smirk before you even open your eyes.
“You feelin’ better?”
He asks softly, amusement threading through his voice like nothing in the world is wrong.
He laughs under his breath, stealing one more quick kiss before finally stepping back.
And just like that, the moment slips.
But the test is still in his hand.
The smile fades.
Slowly.
His gaze drops— to the white plastic, to the two unmistakable lines. He then lifts back to you, searching. Careful now. Serious in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Steve, I swear I was going to tell you— I just—”
Your words tangle over each other.
“I took it ten minutes ago. I didn’t— I didn’t even have time to—”
Your voice fractures completely.
The sob comes out of nowhere, ripping through your chest before you can stop it. Your knees give and you slump down onto the closed toilet seat, hands coming up to cover your face like that might hold you together.
You don’t look at him.
You can’t.
“Hey— hey”
Steve says immediately, crossing the space between you in two steps.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re okay.”
His voice is steady, grounding.
“I’m not mad. I swear to you, I’m not mad.”
He crouches in front of you, his hands finding your arms, rubbing slow, familiar paths up and down your sleeves— the exact way he does when he knows you’re spiraling.
You finally look up at him.
His eyes are glassy. Not panicked. Not angry. Just… full. His jaw is tight, his expression caught somewhere between worry and something softer. Something almost stunned.
“Are you actually—“
He starts, then stops himself, breath hitching.
You nod.
Once.
That’s all it takes.
Steve lets out a shaky laugh that sounds like it was pulled straight from his chest. His hands slide to your knees, grounding himself now too.
“Oh”
He breathes.
“Oh my god.”
He runs a hand through his hair, then laughs again— quieter this time, disbelieving.
“We’re— we’re having a baby?”
The word baby makes your stomach twist.
Your doubt rushes back in all at once.
“Steve, I don’t know if we can—”
You start.
“The apartment, our jobs, we barely—”
He shakes his head, not dismissive, just sure.
“Hey. Hey.”
He leans in, forehead pressing to yours.
“Not all at once. You don’t get to do that to yourself.”
Your breath stutters.
“I’m scared.”
“I know”
He says immediately.
“I am too.”
Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes bright, smile small but real.
“But I’m also… really happy right now.”
You swallow hard.
“You are?”
“We made a baby.”
He nods as he says it, like he needs the motion to make the words real. His voice is threaded with disbelief, wonder creeping in around the edges.
“We made a baby”
He repeats, softer this time. Then he’s moving.
Steve pulls you up from the toilet seat before you can argue, before your legs can remember how shaky they are, and wraps you in his arms. Tight. Protective. Like he’s anchoring you to the ground.
Your face presses into his chest, his heartbeat loud beneath your ear.
“I know you’re scared”
He murmurs into your hair.
“I know this is a lot. And you don’t have to feel how I feel yet. You don’t even have to feel happy.”
You stiffen slightly at that— like you’re bracing for the but.
It never comes.
Steve pulls back just enough to look at you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs warm where they press into your sides.
“You don’t get to be alone in this”
He says instead.
“Not for even a second. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not letting your brain convince you this is the end of something.”
His hand slides gently to your stomach— tentative, like he’s asking permission without words.
“This is just the start”
He whispers.
“And yeah, it’s terrifying. But it’s also… kind of incredible.”
Steve’s hand stays at your stomach, warm and careful, like he’s memorizing something he hasn’t even met yet.
You look at him, really look; at the way his smile wobbles at the edges, at how his eyes are still shining like he’s holding onto something fragile and precious all at once.
“Hey”
He murmurs, like he’s afraid to startle the moment away.
You don’t answer.
You just lean in.
The kiss is slow. Not rushed. Not desperate. His lips are warm and sure against yours, grounding and hopeful all at once.
It doesn’t taste like panic this time. It tastes like possibility. Like something unfolding instead of collapsing.
Steve’s hands cradle your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if to remind you you’re here. That you’re real. That this is happening.
When he pulls back, just barely, his forehead rests against yours.
At the end of the Bridgerton series, if they do not have a scene with all the Bridgertons and their spouses and their collective 5 thousand children, I will absolutely riot. They can start planning now already, please and thank you.
summary [jack’s pov] six years after that six month leave, a glimpse into the future, on your 35th birthday.
warnings proof jack abbot has a heart ™, grief and loss, jack’s late wife, jack is a girl dad, implied suicide, brief postpartum depression discussion, mention of postpartum and religious psychosis, widowed jack abbot, morbid humor, robby the wise man, hucklerobby, kingdon, walshellis (if you squint) first three photos (gerbil’s ig, her text, and her tweet) happen a year before the other photos!
a/n took a while to address abbot being a widow but here it is! i was always intentional in some of the texts and her nicknames (gerbil and angel) were always meant to foreshadow the ending. i didn’t want the ending to be something of shock value, i do genuinely believe it was warranted. just because everything gets better physically doesn’t indicate anything getting better mentally. i don’t think time heals all wounds. i hope you guys have enjoyed this smau, i never planned for it to go on this long. i think this is the best ending for her, we can agree to disagree if you think otherwise 💌 also finished this just in time for me to start locking in for finals 🫶🏽🫶🏽 have a great finals season everyone !!
