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tell me what you need.

🖤 An Extended One-Shot Fanfic, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ♡ TMWYN | <- all chapters and my series file here

PART 1 ☾⋆ Part 2 ☾⋆ Part 3 ☾⋆ Part 4 ☾⋆ The Finale: Part I ☾⋆ The Finale: Part II 💌 Epilogue

📁 series file (+my author archive & infodump file for TMWYN)

Steve Harrington x Hopper!fem!reader strangers to friends with benefits to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4 (into post S4), suspense and morbid humor, heavy plot-driven smut (...but with hella plot). 18+ (mdni)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This has been sitting in my drafts for way too long and finally came into fruition. But it also became a very unorthodox one-shot (because it's a four-part, one-shot... smh I can't behave or follow rules).

If you like reading heavy plot-driven smut and suspense that revolves around two strangers forced into friendship and alliance becoming the most tragically complex, hopelessly codependent fwb's, specifically centered around Steve Harrington and Jim Hopper's daughter, then you're in the right place. Throw in dry, morbid humor, tag-teaming as babysitters, jealousy, trauma, and an unhealthy coping mechanism that only feels strangely right, you've got this story from the darkest corners of my brain. I didn't expect to fall so devastatingly in love with these two, but I did. This pairing is weirdly a new source of comfort for me, and I kinda put them through the ringer but like... there's a lot of self-indulgent comfort to balance the pathological, ghastly gore that I put everyone through before they make it to the other side.

Xx misha

p.s. it's over 75k+ words oops

SUMMARY: Steve Harrington wasn't built to fall in love and let it stick. And neither was Jim Hopper's oldest daughter.

You're beautiful damage control in combat boots. He's a pretty boy bandaid with good hair and the stupidest heart on earth. You were meant to fight side by side, as alliances, as friends. Not fall apart in each other's mouths.

But coping with trauma is funny like that.

One minute you're patching up Steve Harrington's beaten up face on the floor of your safe house, the hideaway cabin. the next, he's pressing you up against the wall like it's the only way to keep breathing. She let him into the part of her bedroom that still felt like it was on fire, while he let her into the part of him the never stopped bleeding. And it's never stopped.

Your friends don't know. The kids can't know. And it's impressive, really, how long you two have managed to keep this up. Given how many nights end with his gasps down your throat, sharp as a prayer, as you bite into his shoulder so that El doesn't wake up in her bedroom. That's the unspoken rule: no getting caught. The two of you've got more of those things, these so-called rules that continue going unsaid.

It's adorable you think you're following them.

Because the truth is, somewhere in the midst of monster madness and blood and blackout sex, between all of the silence and all the secrets, you and Steve become something else entirely. Even though you sleep like strangers around the kids and your friends, but whisper like lovers behind closed doors.

You know Steve kisses when he's angry. He knows you cry when you're still pretending that you're fine.

But the dangerous part is, this was supposed to be one night after survival. A coping mechanism. A way of asking the other what they need, and giving it to them before going back to normal the next day.

Steve waits for you to walk away from him, just like Nancy did. Little does he know, you're waiting for him to give you up when it becomes too much. Because as soon as it's real, you know it's over. It always is... isn't it? 🖤

OVERALL WARNINGS: graphic descriptions of gore, injuries, battles, near-death experiences, etc. (aka the typical Stranger Things mayhem but if it was directed by Ari Asterer and maybe Tarantino lol); graphic descriptions of s*x (unprotected p in v, oral, physical description of Steve and the female reader, mutual receiving, mixture of fluff and steamy and hot & heavy / rough), deflection, avoidance, the inability to actually express what they freaking want but can't risk saying. Strong language and one life-altering injuries (someone gets diagnosed with permanent bodily damage).

CHAPTER ONE

Shotgun Rides to What Will Never End

You haven’t slept in twenty-seven hours.

Your hands are still shaking from the adrenaline, and your shirt smells like gasoline and blood. Not yours. Not yet. The air in Hawkins tastes like smoke and sweat and a little bit of something worse—like the underside of a corpse, or maybe the inside of that thing you all just torched in the woods. You’re not asking for clarification.

“Keep your foot on the gas, Dad,” you mutter into the walkie clipped to your belt. You’re not even sure if your dad’s listening anymore. But you say it anyway, because your voice feels like the only thing you have left.

You’re riding shotgun in Nancy Wheeler’s station wagon, but she’s not the one driving.

Steve Harrington is behind the wheel, jaw tight, shirt torn open at the collar, and eyes locked on the road like it insulted his mother. There’s a smear of dried blood on his temple. Again, not his.

…you think.

…hard to keep track when everything’s gone sideways and upside down and tunneled in on itself like hell decided Indiana was a good spot to plant roots.

“You sure this is the right road?” he asks, not looking at you.

You raise your eyebrows. “What, the one that smells like a barbecue pit and screams like a dying pig? Yeah, Harrington, I’m real sure.”

He grunts, but you catch the flicker of a smirk tugging at his lip.

It’s gone in a flash.

Thing is, you’ve known of Steve Harrington for years, in the way you know a poster hanging in the hallway. Pretty to look at, serves no real function, and always seems to just be there as you walk by. You two ran in completely different circles, despite orbiting.

You were the Hawkins sheriff’s daughter with a chip on your shoulder and dirt under your nails, and scoffed when you’d heard yourself as “the silent beauty with a guarded heart” by someone at school, as if that were a compliment and not some backhanded way of saying “oh so that one’s attractive but for no good reason, because her parents divorced after the tragic death of their youngest daughter, so now it’s just the her and her old man — no mother or chance of romance in sight.”

He was King Steve: hair god of Hawkins High. Pretty boy. Mr. Funny, Mr. Cool. The golden only child of the richest couple in Hawkins with the ability to charm you as he undresses you with his big brown doe eyes and crooked smile and perfect teeth and effortless finesse. Yeah, that Steve Harrington, whose biggest worry (until November ‘83) used to be hairspray and whether Tommy Hagan would show up with the keg.

Now you’re both here: sweating in the front seat next to him, teeth chattering not from cold but from the reverb of chaos, and something much, much more dangerous.

“Why the hell did you even come out there?” he asks finally, voice rough. “That place was a war zone.”

You laugh without humor. “Same reason you did, I guess.”

“To prove I’m not a complete asshole?”

“No,” you say, tilting your head to glance over at him with a very wry expression. “Because someone had to cover the kids’ backs, and I don’t trust you not to die dramatically while making a dumb face.”

That earns you a real smirk, even if it’s a wounded one.

It’s crazy really. You never spoke with each other until your dad went on a mission to figure out what the hell was Joyce Byers’ deal, after he’d spent day after day, night after night, bitching about her… but things got real, and suddenly you were offering Jonathan a beer after catching him and his mom fight in the literal middle of the sidewalk in the downtown area, sometime before Will’s fakeout funeral. Then you had ended up with freaking Callahan and Powell, watching the damn alleyway showdown from their freaking cruiser before shoving Steve off of Jonathan.

“Unless you wanna call your dad from jail?!—haul ass, Harrington.”

He’d looked at you in bewilderment as Tommy yanked him away, the two of them tearing off down the alley, following Carol and Nicole and narrowly avoiding arrest. You’d seen him again that night, fighting off a Demogorgon that fucked around and found out inside of the Byers’ home. And the last thing you’d expected was to watch none other than Steve Harrington swing a baseball bat with nails sticking out of it swinging ruthlessly at supernatural monsters, defending your life.

Well, mainly Nancy’s life. That had a lot to do with it.

That had basically everything to do with it.

“How’s your head?”

Steve sighed through his nose, jiggling the ice pack with one hand as he drove with the other. “Still throbbing. But I’ll survive.”

You hummed lightly, nodding towards the windshield before reaching for your back in the backseat, digging into the pouch. “Take these.”

He glanced sideways at the three pills now nestled in your palm, and he squinted. “You druggin’ me, Hop?”

“Keeping you from feeling concussed by dulling the migraine. I know damn well it’s splitting your brain open right now.”

That earned a deep sigh, but he took them with a muttered thanks as you handed him a water bottle. He turned onto Maple Street with a screech of tires that probably just woke up half the cul-de-sac.

You think you should care. You don’t.

“First thing we’re doing is repatching you up.”

“What, you don’t think the kids did a good job?” Steve deadpanned.

You smirked at the dark treeline up ahead as you both approached the woods. “Think they did what they could.”

“Mm. In other words, no.”

“In order words, you need proper medical attention.”

“I really don’t have it in me to go to the ER,” he groaned.

“Welp. You’re in luck.” You pointed out the dash. “Next left.”

He blinked. “Next left?—we’re offroad, driving into the woods."

“And you’re turning left as soon as we do.”

He made a face, eyes flicking from onto the trees as he flicked on the blinker — which made you downright snort.

“What??”

“Sorry. It’s the traffic signals in the woods for me.”

“Umm, it’s the neighborhood GPS driving instructions for me.”

The way that made you deeply chuckle was absolutely impossible to prevent. Your nose scrunched, your eyes crinkled, your chest eased. It was strange, how instant the humorous relief felt.

Steve definitely glared at the road, and you, incredulously. But then he was grinning too, shaking his head. “Unreal,” he mumbled.

The car shook over the uneven terrain, and Steve tried not to outright wince as his injuries burned more with each sharp movement. To his surprise, you not only asked if he was good with an unusually tender tone, but you also placed your hand on his forearm as you continued to navigate him through the pitch black forest.

“Shouldn’t be another ten minutes.”

“You guys are really off-grid out here, huh?”

You nodded once, mind elsewhere. “Yeah.”

Steve wasn’t sure why the way your arm was resting on his bicep felt so warm right now. He also wasn’t sure why he kept looking at your face’s reflection in the rearview mirror as he drove.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

“Probably,” you mutter, instinctively touching your side.

Huh, you think, feels damp. Could be blood. Could be sweat.

Could be the fucking Upside Down leaking through your pores.

“I’ll survive.”

There’s a silence between you then, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just… there. Weighty, like the space between a strike and a blow. You tilt your head against the seat and let the streetlights strobe over your face as he drives. You’d forgotten how quiet it can be, after the screaming stops.

When he pulls into your cabin’s makeshift driveway, the porch light is off. Your dad’s not home yet. Probably still out at the Byers’ place or chasing down something with teeth, after he swore to you that he’d be “right behind you” and demanded you to “get the hell home" with a firm forehead kiss as he cleared his throat.

Of course, he was still out handling shit.

You’re not even surprised anymore.

“What can I carry?” Steve asks, but he doesn’t make a move to get out of the car yet.

You stare at him for a second. There’s a cut on his cheekbone. His shirt is sticking to his chest. He looks like he’s been dragged through three horror movies and came out looking way too hot for someone covered in other people’s blood.

Maybe it’s the stress. Or maybe it’s the way his knuckles are still white from gripping the steering wheel. Or maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t felt safe all night, and there’s something in the way he looked back at that burning tunnel before driving away—like he wasn’t ready to leave. Like maybe he understands.

Maybe that’s why you say, “You umm. Wanna stay?”

Why did you put emphasis on the word ‘wanna’ like that, as if you’re asking him to have a freaking slumber party?

And also, was that hopefulness in your tone…?

He blinks, looking at you. Hard.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” you say. “But stay anyway.”

——

Your house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that feels wrong after what you’ve been through.

You toe off your combat boots by the door. Steve doesn’t. He hovers near the entryway like he’s waiting for your dad to yell at him for tracking in demon guts on his Nike’s.

You throw him a look over your shoulder. “Kitchen’s that way. There’s whiskey in the top cupboard, if you’re not a coward.”

He chuckles, low and breathless, and follows as you jog off.

“Just gonna grab the med kit,” you holler back easily, your ponytail swinging and loose strands of hair flying.

Eventually, you’ve got him seated in the kitchen as he guzzles down a second glass of water while you tend to his face.

You’re surprisingly gentle. Not that you look like someone with brash hands and calloused fingertips. You don’t. But being the daughter of the town sheriff, who’s gruff and kinda mean and cynical to a fault, it’s just a little surprising is all.

“S’gonna sting,” you murmured, lithe fingers around a cotton swab as you carefully pushed back his hair. “Won’t be for long. Ready?”

Steve nodded, secretly tracing the outline of your neck, gazing at the arch of it that isn’t covered up by your jacket anymore. So you got to work. And all the wild, Steve just subtly took in the sight of you. As if that might help him not wince or hiss or grimace too hard.

You never once made fun of him.

You never once called him a baby.

You never once got rough with him.

You never once made him feel like—

“What you did for those kids? That’s what it’s about, Harrington.”

His brow furrowed. “The hell dogs or the Rottweiler wannabe?”

You smirked as you carefully placed a fresh bandaid over his brow, a certain glint in your eye. “Both. But mainly the racist who threatened an innocent kid for making his sister feel like she can be a kid.”

That made his big doe eyes flick up at you. Steve couldn’t read your expression. You couldn’t read his either. But after a second, you took a deep breath in impulse and kept patching up his pretty face that took a beating for four kids who now worshiped him.

After finishing up, you gave him a pair of your dad’s older sweatpants that no longer fit him, along with a fresh t-shirt and clean flannel. He took them gracefully, adrenaline still buzzing despite the exhaustion. And then the two of you shared drinks together in silence, leaning against opposite counters of the kitchen.

You’ve discarded your thick, grimy windbreaker. Your shirt is ruined, your ribs ache, your whole body is vibrating with leftover fear and you barely managed to throw a clean albeit faded flannel over yourself so that you’re not wearing slime and grit and grime.

And yet…

Steve watches you. Not subtly now. But not creepily either, like Billy Hargrove. Nowhere near it. Just openly, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one’s bothered to explain to him.

“What?” you ask.

His lips curl inwards, teeth gnawing at them slightly. And you wait, maintaining your resolve as best you can, but almost afraid to hear whatever he’s—

“You’re not what I expected.”

You sip your drink. “You’re exactly what I expected.”

He smiles like it hurts. “Yeah. I get that.”

The moment stretches. Then breaks.

You actually move first.

The bottle hits the counter with a sharp clunk. You cross the distance between you in three steps. You’re not thinking. You’re not planning. You just move. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like survival. Like hunger.

You grab the collar of Steve’s shirt, and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He just crashes forward, mouth on yours like it’s a goddamn fight. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the only one either of you knows how to win.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s not something you’ll tell your kids about one day.

It’s teeth and breath and desperation. It’s pain turned inside out. It’s your fingernails digging into his back and his hands fisting in your hair like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. It’s bruises that will bloom like violets.

And it’s the first time you’ve felt anything but terror in weeks.

Steve pulls back to look at you, eyes soft, pupils blown. The brown of his irises are small rings now, dancing over your face with frenzied wordless questions. You almost ask him what they are.

But…

“Shit,” he breathes against your lips.

You’re in his arms before you can even process the movement, arms looping around his neck as you feel his hands grip onto your hips and urge you up. In the swiftest heap, both your legs wrap around his waist, letting Steve haul you over to your couch as if you weigh nothing.

His lips never leave yours, even as you crash onto the worn cushions as he hovers above you, just barely bracing himself with a palm firmly pressed into the pillowy fabric beneath you as his tongue dives into your mouth. The second you gasped at the impact, he all but seized the moment to fill the space between your tongue and teeth with his own.

It’s panicked, scared and messy. So fucking messy.

But fuck he tastes and feels good.

His tongue against yours, faint mint and citrus, even after taking a beating from Billy and having to swallow his own blood. The coppery tang from it laces his saliva, and yet it only enhances the bright flavor from the inside of Steve’s pretty boy pout.

A shuddered, breathy moan escapes your lips as you feel one of his strong hands slip to your inner thigh, your back arching on instinct.

“This okay?” he asks you, all breath, pulling back instantly to make sure.

You tug his face back to yours, nodding profusely.

“Yeah,” you speak into his lips, kissing them senseless with your eyes clamped shut. Your fingers hungrily rake through the hair as my the nape of his neck, taking hold of him so that he doesn’t move away. “Yes, y-yeah,” you rasp.

Steve groans.

The rest all happens in slow motion, but all too fast for you to capture it. All you know is that Steve’s bare chest is against your own at some point, one of your legs hiked up around his back as he slams into you, stretching you out with every overwhelming inch of his length inside your portal, the sounds of slick skin slapping together in a frantic rhythm that underscores the gasps and moans you both sing into each other's throats, mouths and skin, the climax shared between the two of you enough to make you see stars.

And when it’s over, you lie there on the living room rug, sweat cooling on your skin, and your heart hammering in your chest like it’s trying to dig its way out. Steve is on his back beside you, staring up at the ceiling like it might cave in. Neither of you speak for a long moment, catching your breath together. But eventually, in the dark, he speaks first.

“…So, that’s a no on telling your dad?”

You laughed, sharp and breathless. “Oh, you’re adorable. If my dad finds out, you’ll be six feet under by sunrise.”

“Cool,” Steve says, exhaling. “Guess I’ll cancel brunch.”

You don’t talk about what it means.

You don’t talk about what it did to you, and he doesn’t offer up any sort of explanation for himself nor ask you questions.

Instead, you just let yourself fall asleep next to the boy you never planned to know, who kisses like war and touches you like you’re the last solid thing in a collapsing world.

Thankfully, tonight, your dad’s now staying with Joyce to watch over Will with Eleven and Jonathan and Nancy, so you’ll have the place to yourselves until late morning.

And tomorrow, you’ll both pretend it didn’t happen and go back to normal. Where it won’t happen again.

Except it will.

Because you will do it again.

And again.

Again, and again, and again.

Because little did you know, the first time was all it took for both of you to start lying to yourselves.

CHAPTER TWO

Tell Me What You Need

The next morning starts with your clothes on the floor, a knot in your back, and a sore spot on your neck where Steve Harrington left his mark like a goddamn signature.

You wake up before him, curled on your side on the living room carpet with the sunrise making a slow crawl across the hardwood. Steve’s shirt is bunched beneath your head like a half-assed pillow, and his strong arm is draped over your waist, heavy and warm and too familiar.

You don’t move. Not right away. The clock ticks, the heater kicks on, and you just breathe.

The night was a flinch. A reaction. A release. That’s what you tell yourself as you slip out from under his arm and quietly grab your shirt off the back of the couch. You pull it on inside out, not looking back until you’re standing in the hallway and his voice breaks the silence.

“What time are the kids supposed to be at school?” he mumbles, barely awake.

You glance over your shoulder. His eyes are half-lidded, hazy, but tracking you like you matter. It’s infuriating. And comforting. And strange.

So strange.

“Well Harrington, that’s the thing about Sundays.” You shoot him a tiny smirk as you walk back to pluck your jeans off the floor, moving to slip them back on as you stand in front of him. “They get the day off.”

He rolls onto his back, groans. “I don’t even know what year it is, let alone what day.”

You sigh, fastening the button at the waist and letting your hands fall back at your sides so that a solid tap of skin against flannel rings out before you walk down the hall.

“Makes two of us.”

“Hey, Hop?”

You quietly take a breath, turning to face him with the best casual expression that you can manage. But your eyes definitely sparkle with newfound vulnerability as you look back at Steve.

And he doesn’t miss it.

“Yeah?” you ask softly.

He leans against his forearm, tucked underneath his head while the other rests across his abs. His toned, really hot abs. The same abs you had pressed to your ribcage last night.

The same ones you kissed as he gasped.

“Sure you’re alright?”

Your lips part slightly, giving him a nod. “All good. You?”

He nods, but his eyes still reflect some sort of question. Another one, different from what he asked. You’ve never realized just how pretty he actually is whenever he looks a little lost in thought.

“That was just a one time thing,” Steve murmurs. “Right?”

You blink once, eyebrows raising slightly.

“Yeah,” you nod.

A beat passed, then two. You shuffle your feet briefly, averting your gaze down to the carpet before meeting his eyes again. “Yeah, just a one time thing.”

Steve’s expression doesn’t change. Neither does yours. The two of you just look at each other simply, letting that land.

“Cool, thought so,” he says simply, stretching and moving to sit up. His knees come up, bending so that he can let himself rest his arms on top of them easily with his hands loosely clasped together. He looks straight ahead for a moment, cracking his neck. Then he glanced back over at you, almost to confirm what you both just said.

He finds you nodding at him still, arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. Those same full lips that he’d bitten and kissed and sucked on relentlessly last night.

“Cool,” you echo.

____

Four days later, you and Steve have spent most of the afternoons with the kids and managed all four nights in your own homes, in your own beds. No “holy shit, we almost died sex” took place, just as planned. So things were definitely looking back to normal, exactly how you both intended for things to be.

That all goes flying out the window the night of the Snowball.

By noon, you’re showered, caffeinated, and driving the Chief’s truck like a bat out of hell toward the Byers’ place, because apparently no one else (especially not your dad) is emotionally prepared to dress up Eleven for the damn Snowball except you.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

Just another post-trauma domestic errand on a long list of things no one else is mentally stable enough to deal with.

She doesn’t say anything when she opens the door, just stands there holding a soft blue tulle in her hands as they twitch nervously.

“Well, well,” you grin at her. “Look who’s already picked out her dress.”

Eleven smiles at you sheepishly. “Miss Joyce let me pick one from her closet.”

“Oh yeah?” You lifted an eyebrow, still grinning. “Did she outgrow it recently?”

“No,” she giggles shyly. “Her friend’s daughter did. I guess she got too big for it, and brought it over with other clothes.”

You actually pursed your lips at that, curious. “How come?”

Eleven shrugged. “Miss Joyce says that she told them that a little girl new to town couldn’t afford much, and could use some… some hands-them-downs.”

You bit back a laugh. “Ah. You mean hand-me-downs?”

She blinked a few times, computing that.

“…yes.”

You shook your head fondly at her, biting your lip as you grinned and pulled her in for a big hug.

“C’mon,” you told her. “Let’s go thank her and get you ready.”

By the time you’d managed to actually give her a decent little face of sweet, gentle makeup, styled her short hair with some hairspray, and gotten her dressed, the older sister in you felt alive again.

As if Sarah was alive again.

“You look like a badass Cinderella,” you say, grinning, “but, like, the kind who might shatter glass with her mind.”

Eleven beams.

The two of you make your way over to the truck, and you help her up into the front seat as she holds onto the tulle skirt with such care. It looks as though she fears she’ll mess it up by just shifting in it.

“There ya go, passenger princess,” you wink at her. “Just wait till dad sees you.”

Her eyes sparkle up at yours. “Will he think I’m pretty?”

You chuckle warmly. “Lovebug, that man has thought you look pretty ever since you showed up with a shaved head and no table manners.”

She smiles all over again, more radiant than ever. You buckle her in, toss her a piece of gum from the glovebox, and make your way around the hood before hopping behind the wheel. The two of you drive towards Hawkins Middle School, watching the sky fade from the same shade of blue as her dress into cobalt with silver specs that shine bright, along with the moon. And as you listen to music and give her any advice that you can about the dance she’ll share with Mike, you try not to think about the fact that you just got railed by Steve Harrington on your living room couch just a few days ago after she saved the world.

__

Steve beats you to the school.

You see his BMW in the parking lot, sleek and smug under the lights. Dustin’s already out and bouncing his way toward the gym in that nerdy little tux, his hair styled in that now-iconic monstrosity Steve forced onto him. It’s charming. It’s stupid. It’s sweet.

It makes you smile.

You park and walk Eleven to the door. She doesn’t need you to, but she happily lets you anyway. Hopper already cried and pretended not to, by doing that choked up grunt talk of his as he hugged her and let you snap a picture of the two of them, before he snatched it from you and took both your pictures together instead.

Now, he’s taking off with Joyce with plans to consume their feelings at Benny’s Diner.

Inside the school, the music’s already echoing across the gym floor, and you watch the kids vanish into the haze of string lights and hormone-fueled courage. A nice moment passes as you quietly watch, peeking in through the glass one last time before you turn to make your way back to your car.

Then you see him.

Steve.

There he is, standing outside the gym, staring through the tiny glass pane in the door at Nancy Wheeler.

Of course.

You know that look. You’ve seen it in the mirror. That look that says ‘I lost something I didn’t know how to keep.’ It’s why your stomach flips, but not from jealousy. That would be stupid. Not even from anger.

Just… mirrored recognition.

Yeah, that’s what it is, you tell yourself, convinced of this lie even more than the lies you’ve told yourself since four nights ago.

“Am I dreaming, or is that you, Harrington?”

Ugh, you think. Of all the damn people to quote right now, even though it’s sarcasm, really? Billy Hargrove? The guy who just bashed up his face, his obnoxiously pretty face that somehow healed itself in less than a week and went back to being pretty?

He chuckles lightly after glancing at you. “Yeah, it’s me, Hopper,” he mutters, looking down at his feet. He shuffled them briefly. “Don’t umm…”

“We can skip the last part,” you say casually, waving it off with a little tilt of your head and purse of your lips.

Steve nods at you, his sad eyes amused and almost curious. But then he looks back through the glass, so you can’t figure out if you might’ve just imagined that.

You walk up behind him without saying anything. He hears you, though. Doesn’t flinch. Just shifts his weight like he’s waiting for a hit.

“She looks good,” you say flatly.

Steve exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”

“She gonna dance with him?”

“Probably,” he murmurs.

You pause, then squint at him after seeing that he’s staring right at Jonathan. “I meant Henderson.”

Steve blinks a few times, the furrow of his brow softening after his eyes shift over to another part of the gymnasium. He finds Dustin there, waiting for a dance partner.

“Oh,” he manages, blinking a few more times. “Yeah, yeah, she better. Honestly, that kid’s night would be made, if not his… whole year.”

You nod at him, even though he doesn’t see it. Sure enough, Nancy moves towards Dustin and pulls him to the dance floor, making every eighth grade girl in the room gawk. The two of you smile in sync, watching it happen. Steve even laughs a few times, as your nose scrunches in delight. Especially whenever you see El, dancing with Mike. That’s when you really feel at ease.

Finally, you tilt your head. “You plan on heading out, or just gonna keep staring like a sad puppy?”

He glances sideways. “You always this charming?”

You shrug. “Only when I’m trying to help emotionally stunted babysitters.”

He puffs a laugh… and something shifts as he takes in the sight of you, before briefly turning to look back through the glass. You don’t rush him. You let it happen, content with continuing to watch El dance with Mike, letting it drown out the pulse that audibly drums against your wrist as if it wants to beat its way out from your skin and the sweater sleeve that warms it.

Finally you hear him sigh through his nose.

Without another word, Steve jerks his head toward the parking lot. You follow, not bothering to ask where he’s taking you. He doesn’t look back, at the school or at you, not even as he reaches back for your hand as you approach BMW, his fingers lacing with yours.

You’re in the back seat of his car five minutes later, letting him look at you for a moment before he shuts the door and rounds the front.

Then Steve shuts his own door, and before you can say anything, his mouth is on yours. Urgent and consuming. He tastes like peppermint and denial, swirling with your own.

You barely register the seatbelt jabbing your hip before he’s crawling over you, his hand is already underneath your shirt. This time, he initiates. And he doesn’t let any trace of hesitation or doubt cloud his mind.

“What do you need?”

Steve pulls back just long enough to murmur it against your bottom lip, eyes on you.

Your breath gently catches, brows furrowing as you open your eyes to look up into his… but before you can ask him what he means, he’s asking it again. This time, into your chin.

“What do you need,” he mumbles there, gliding his teeth along your jaw to the column of your throat. He nips at it, sucks it.

It earns a little squeak from you, tiny and contained, barely keeping itself from becoming a yelp.

“Tell me,” he breathes.

So you decide not to ask what that means. Because you’re beginning to know what he means.

It’s not any sort of romantic question. Not sweet, not even soft. No, instead, it’s a question that’s made of sex and sympathy. Made of survival.

“I need,” you whisper, “to not feel like this anymore.”

Steve doesn’t ask for details. He just gives you exactly what you ask for. Because that’s what Steve does.

He gives.

And afterward, when your breath is still catching and your thigh is cramping from the rough angle after he’s made sure to make you feel the traces of loneliness and indescribable bouts of depression morph into something new, something treacherously good… and as he lies there with his forehead pressed to yours like you’re the last cigarette in the pack, he whispers to you…

“Next time, I get to ask.”

You look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, still buzzed from the sex. His words let themselves into your veins before you’ve even opened the door to let them.

Next time.

Your forehead nods lightly against his, and his brown eyes search yours for something but he’s closed them the second they go glassy so that you don’t catch it.

——

(Weeks Later)

You’ve stopped pretending it won’t happen again.

It happens too much to bother.

In his car. In your bed. In his bed. In the back office of his dad’s workplace, with a coat on the doorknob and his dad too busy with meetings to care. At one point, after you’ve clocked out from a shitty overtime shift at the local coffee shop, it happens in a hotel on the edge of town that he slaps onto his daddy’s AMEX, where you both register under fake names, not for secrecy, but because it’s funny.

Every time, it starts the same way.

A question.

“What do you need?”

Sometimes it’s you, dragging him through the front door by his belt loops and slamming him against your kitchen counter like your hands are made of fire, murmuring, “I need to feel like I’m not just built to burn things for just a second.”

Sometimes it’s Steve, sitting on your bed with a distant look in his big doe eyes, murmuring, “I need to feel good for ten minutes. That’s all.”

Sometimes the answer is rough, all teeth and sweat and low, whispered curses.

Sometimes it’s slow. Messy. Too soft.

Too honest.

Once, you tell him you need to be held. You expect him to laugh. He doesn’t. He pulls you into his lap and holds you until your eyes sting, holding you through your pique as it swells with his own.

There’s one time he tells you he needs to hear you. You don’t ask what he means by that, you just give him your voice, cracked and real, until he comes with your name spoken from his mouth like a confession.

It’s a game, but it’s not.

It’s sex, but it’s not just sex.

It’s comfort, but it’s too much. It’s too intimate.

And neither of you stops.

Because you don’t know how.

Because it only started as a way to cope.

And now it’s the only thing keeping you both from falling apart.

One night, it started with a knock. Not a polite one. Not the kind people do when they mean well. A single sharp tap against your bedroom window, then two more in fast succession. The kind that feels like urgency. Like panic.

You sit up immediately, heart in your throat. It’s nearly 2AM. Your room’s dark. Silent as the grave. The small cabin is asleep. Your dad is passed out in his room, and El is dreaming peacefully inside the comfort of her own room.

Meanwhile, your sleep’s been disturbed. Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain can even catch up, crossing to the window and pulling back the curtain.

Steve’s face is right there. Up close and too close, framed in shadows, breathing hard enough to fog the glass. His jaw is clenched. His brown eyes are wild. Not angry, not high, not drunk — just wrecked.

You unlock the window without a word.

He slips through like he’s done it a hundred times. Like he was built to find his way into your life in the middle of the night, all heat and heartbeat and shaking hands. His shoulders are trembling beneath his jacket, breath too fast, knuckles scraped.

You whisper. “Jesus, Steve—”

“Don’t—” he cuts in, low and rasped, “don’t let your dad hear me.”

You shut the window quietly behind him.

“He’s fine,” you whisper back.

“Well I don’t want El thinking this is cool,” Steve hisses out in another harsh whisper.

“She won’t,” you hiss back, but not with heat. Just urgent adamance. “Trust me, she’d already be in here if she suspected anything.”

But Steve’s already backing into the corner of your room, pressing his palms to the wall like it’s holding him up with a ticking jawline.

Jesus, you’ve never seen him like this.

You step closer.

“Steve.” You say it softer this time. “What the hell happened…?”

He won’t look at you. His eyes are on the floor. Then the wall. Then the ceiling. Anywhere but your face. When he finally speaks, it’s just a tight, cracked whisper.

“I thought it was real.”

You blink. “What?”

“I thought it was real. The… the shit in the tunnels. You—” He stops himself, swallowing, and wipes a hand across his mouth. “You didn’t come back. Dustin got stuck, so you went after him, he ran back, you didn’t, I was screaming and they kept holding me back—”

“The kids?” you whisper, staring at him as it dawns on you that he’s had another nightmare.

“Yeah, and I couldn’t fucking see you and I couldn’t get to you and it was so loud—”

You’re already moving before he finishes. One hand on his chest, the other in his hair. Grounding. Steve jerks like he might pull away, but he doesn’t. His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

So you do it for him.

You guide him backward until the backs of his knees hit your bed. He sits, breathing heavily, jaw still ticking. His eyes flick toward the door like he expects Hopper to come crashing through it any second.

“You’re okay,” you murmur.

“No, I’m not.” His laugh is hollow. “I’m fucking not.”

You crouch in front of him, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, the soft cotton damp with his cold sweat. “It wasn’t real.”

“It was real,” he mutters.

“Not that version,” you clarify.

“It felt real.”

“I know it did.” You keep your tone steady, same as your gaze as he stares back at you now. “I get them, too.”

Steve’s hands come up suddenly. His trembling palms and fingers all curl into your shoulders, your neck, your hair. He pulls you in like he’s drowning.

And something gives.

Not in him.

In you.

Because you can fucking feel it now, just how close Steve really is to shattering. How desperate that he is to anchor himself to something solid, something real, something warm and alive and not screaming in his ears while the walls collapse, or leaving him for another guy, after telling him that he’s bullshit by someone that he loves at some Halloween house party inside a random bathroom.

So you give it to him.

Without asking, without teasing and without pretense, you climb into his lap, straddling him on the edge of your bed, and press your lips to his before he can spiral again.

Steve softly moans like it hurts.

Because it means something.

Your mouths crash like flint to stone. No finesse, just the kind of kiss you don’t survive unchanged. His hands are suddenly everywhere. Under your shirt, in your hair, on your hips, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. He mutters something into your mouth. Your name, maybe. Or a plea, maybe a warning.

You can’t tell.

You don’t care.

You grind against him slow and deep, and he bites your bottom lip so hard you gasp, having to shove your face into his neck.

Then, rough in your ear, Steve’s voice is low and guttural.

“Tell me what you need.”

You choke on it.

Your hands fumble at the buttons of his jeans, forehead still pressed into his neck, your answer falling against his collarbone.

“No, don’t ask me that. I’m asking you—”

“No,” he growls. “I’m asking. What do you need. Tonight. What do you—god, Hop, tell me what you need.”

You swallow hard. “Take it,” you whisper. “Just… take it. Don’t ask. Don’t hold back, please, just fucking—”

The second you say it, something else snaps.

Steve flips you over in one breathless motion, pinning you to the bed with a hand on your throat. Not tight, not mean, just there. Just enough pressure to say I need to feel you under me while you take it.

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, nails dragging down his back as you claw at him. It’s like he suddenly can’t be close enough to you now, as if you’d had the nightmare rather than him.

You’ve enveloped his pain, allowing him to remind you of your own that you bury down so deeply you can’t even fucking find it most days. Which is why he doesn’t waste time, or bother with clothes beyond what’s necessary. You’re both panting, tugging, biting, a half naked pretzel of friction and heat and hushed noise. There’s no build up or foreplay, no prelude. Just raw unadulterated need.

Every movement is sharp and fast and deliberate, like he’s making sure you’re real. Like he’s burning the memory of your skin into his palms.

By the time you're taking him while laying on your side, leg hiked up over his torso as he keeps an arm looped under the bend of your knee, Steve presses so that you’re still taking him from this angle but hovers just enough while still on his own side.

He leans down, foreheads pressed, hips grinding deep, and breathes against your cheek. “You’re here. Still fucking here.”

You grip his tousled hair hard, pulling him closer.

“Both are,” you rasp, doing everything in your power not to scream while his cock twitches against your walls and buries itself in you until you feel it pulsing in your fucking ribcage. “We both a-are.”

Steve exhales hard and deep, his eyes boring into yours as he bucks into you aggressively, somehow only making you feel safe as he pants and gasps into your mouth. You can barely see him in the dark, but you feel everything.

The tension.

The restraint fraying at the seams.

The way he’s trying so fucking hard not to let it be more than this, even though it already is.

His rhythm falters only once. And that’s when you moan his name.

That’s when he loses it.

Steve’s whole body shudders violently. He curses under his breath, hips jerking, and his open mouth crashes to your shoulder as he finishes. It’s all breath and heat and emotion he refuses to let out any other way. He doesn’t say it, but it’s in every groan, every grind, every clutch of your hip in his hand as unleashes himself inside of you and paints your insides with his thick ropes.

You’re the thing keeping him tethered.

Even if you’re the secret he won’t name.

——

After your bedroom’s gone still again and the sheets are cold against your bare legs, Steve stays. Not in the usual way, where he fucks you and forced himself to bolt before sunrise.

No, tonight he stays.

Fully clothed now, sitting upright at the foot of your bed with his head bowed, hair in his eyes, and his hands clenched between his knees like he’s in a confessional. Like maybe he’s contemplating staying or going, and running out of ways to convince himself it’s best to leave.

You watch him from the pillow, your chest still rising and falling too fast as you somehow still need to catch your breath. Even after he’s long since slipped out of you, and helped clean you up without you having to ask. Even after he’s collected himself, as if he didn’t just convulse against you after you’d tightly moaned his name into his ear, not even twenty minutes ago.

Steve doesn’t look at you. Just tugs his socks off, murmuring, “what time you gotta get up?”

Your brow furrows, glancing over at the clock. “Eight,” you murmur back. “Basically four hours. Gotta pick up my last check before I start that new job next week.”

He nods, his back still to you as he tosses his socks into the middle of your room. Then he just scoots his way back into the bed, lying flat on his back next to you, shoulder to shoulder.

With total ease, he lifts an arm up to adjust his wristwatch, taking a moment before he unfastens it.

“I’ll wake you up if you sleep through it,” Steve mutters while setting it down onto the bedside table. Then, he lets himself settle in next to you, the way that he has before.

Only this time feels different.

It feels charged, borderlining domestic, even as he lays here beside you with his eyes closed, flat on his back with an arm under his head beneath the pillow while he breathes evenly. His shoulder is still pressed against yours, and pushes his leg under your own, already anticipating that’s where it’ll end up eventually.

You don’t know it’s the only way he can keep from outright grabbing your hand and tugging you to him with fear.

Instead, you just let yourself lean into his subtle touch with your own and let sleep consume you, saying nothing

Because you don’t trust yourself not to say everything.

CHAPTER THREE

It’s Fine How It Is, Isn’t It?

MAY 1985

It’s so hot the air feels like it’s pressing down on you.

The summer of 1985 is clearly out here to serve as a cruel reminder that comfort is a usury you’ll never afford. Cicadas scream from the trees surrounding the Hawkins community pool, along with several clumps of random children. The pavement is radiating heat through your sneakers, and the kids have already been in the water less than two minutes before a giant splash war breaks out between Max and Lucas.

Because school’s out and it’s the first day of summer break,

Steve is muttering something about liability under his breath while dragging two towels and a cooler to the shaded side of the pool deck, his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

You follow behind him with a bag of sunscreen, snacks, and Mike’s unholy trench coat of a towel slung over your shoulder like it had personally assigned you the responsibility.

“You know,” Steve starts, flopping into one of the shitty lounge chairs that creaks under his weight. “If we survive another summer with these kids, I'm pretty sure I legally qualify for sainthood. Or at least a timeshare in a place that doesn’t smell like chlorine and Axe body spray.”

You drop the bag next to him and squint against the sun. “Think you meant motherhood.”

He shoots you a wry look. “No. I didn’t.”

You hummed, squatting to grab some sunblock from your bag and pretending not to notice all the bikini girls gawking at his beauty.

“Either way,” you shrugged with a barely concealed smirk, “you’d last four hours in a timeshare before getting in some territorial feud with someone’s dad over who gets to use the grill.”

“Um, yeah, and I’d be right.”

You bite back a huge grin.

He’s so weirdly sexy whenever he’s bitchy. You arch an eyebrow at him, loudly squirting the sunblock into your hands with your hip cocked out to the side, as if unimpressed.

Fuck, why is he hot even when he’s bitchy?

“This is about the barbecue at Joyce’s house last week, isn’t it?” he asks pointedly, tone flat.

“You mean the one where you nearly blue screened, watching my dad operate the grill with Jonathan?”

“Because you can’t just put raw chicken where the corn’s been,” he makes clear. “What kind of barbarian—”

“You’re so suburban it physically hurts.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You roll your eyes and grab your sunglasses out of the bag. “And I’ll take your cooler hostage unless you admit Mike’s just your mini-me.”

Steve pulls a face. “I have way better posture and way better hair.”

“Okay, hair? Maybe. Posture, yeah.” You tossed him the sunblock bottle, watching him catch it one-handed. “But the constant sarcastic monologuing? The obsessive over-explaining of your opinion literally none of us asked for—?”

“He’s a smartass.”

“He’s you with more puberty rage and less haircare.”

Steve points toward the pool. “He just cannonballed and splashed an entire grandma. I have never—”

“She flipped him off and called him a string bean over by the vending machine earlier.”

He stares at Mike, who’s now smugly swimming back to his friend. “…Okay fine, then that was kind of amazing.”

You grin, biting your lip with a light snort.

The two of you lounge back in the sun, watching them. Max has Will in a headlock and is laughing maniacally. Lucas is trying to invent some new pool sport involving a floaty, a tennis ball, and something he swears he “saw on ESPN once.” Mike’s treading water and yelling about a rule nobody cares about.

“Exhibit A,” you sing-song lazily.

Steve shakes his head, but he’s watching the kids fondly. It’s all loud, alive and normal in a way neither of you really trust anymore. But you stay quiet about that and just let it be, for however long it may last before another demo dog decides to eat another neighborhood cat.

Just long enough for it to feel like breathing again.

You squint out at the water, despite your sunglasses that shield your eyes from the blinding summer sun despite your hat. And then, without looking at him, you speak.

“Last night.”

Steve’s lips part slightly, but he doesn’t look at you. Just keeps his eyes trained on the kids. After a few beats, he leans back in the chair like he’s adjusting for comfort, eyes hidden behind his shades as he keeps watching the pool.

“What about it?”

You shrug lightly. “It happened.”

Another beat.

Then, Steve scratches the back of his neck. “As they often do, after the sun’s gone.”

You turn to face him slowly, mirroring his posture like you’re in sync without meaning to be. “That nightmare. It really messed with you.”

“I get those sometimes,” he says, quick. Then adds, “Just not always like that.”

“I know.”

Another long beat. And then, Steve does what Steve does best.

He deflects.

“Hopper would kill me if he knew I came over without being re-read the riot act,” he says lightly, as if it’s the most casual timing for this type of banter. “Like actually murder. Probably with that bat of mine.”

You pretend to ponder that, nodding. “He’d definitely ground me. Since technically you’re not his kid, and even though I’m an official adult.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re his kid. And I’m an idiot climbing through your window at two in the morning looking like I just lost a knife fight with a memory.”

That gets a laugh out of you. It’s short, tired.

Fond.

You glance sideways at him.

His mouth is curled into the same boyish smirk he wears when he’s pretending that he isn’t spiraling.

“So,” you say carefully, stretching your legs out in front of you, “do we ever actually talk about it?”

He shrugs. “What’s there to talk about? We freak out, we cope, we move on.”

You glance toward the pool again. Lower your voice. “Is that what we’re calling it now? Coping?”

“I mean…” Steve trails off then sighs, shrugging one of his shoulders. “Sure. Works for me.”

“But that’s not all it is.”

He doesn’t answer. Just presses his lips into a line and reaches for a water bottle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

The silence stretches. So you push, just a little.

“You ever think maybe pretending it’s casual makes it harder?”

He opens the cap, hearing you just fine but drinking from it as though you’re just going over a grocery list, rather than trying not to flip a lid.

You feel your stomach twist as you try another approach, dreading it instantly. “Ever think maybe it’s better to stop while we’re ahead?”

Steve looks at you then.

Actually looks this time, still hidden behind his shades.

And for a second, he’s not smirking. He’s not cracking a joke. He’s just looking at you like he wishes he knew how to answer that without making everything worse.

“Look, I dunno what you want me to say,” he says, and there’s this tightness in his voice that hadn’t been there just five seconds ago. “What—what are we even talking about? You’re the one who usually makes a break for it first, and now I bring up chicken on a grill and suddenly we’re—”

“I’m not fighting, Steve.”

“I’m not fighting either, I’m just saying it—” His voice lifts slightly, then drops again, thick with breath. “It’s fine how it is. Isn’t it?”

You look at him, really look without faltering.

And this time, you don’t push. Because you see it.

The harsh sun gives away his eyes, even concealed by the tinted frames. The panic flickering under the surface. The quiet, desperate desire to keep things where they’re manageable. Where he can still make you laugh. Where you don’t have to talk about how it’s not an actual coping method that people practice. That friends practice. Even though you’re both riddled with otherworldly stresses that normal people can’t even remotely imagine, let alone fathom with a regular coping method.

This coping method wasn’t even briefed. It never has been. It just… happened.

Fears getting muffled into bare shoulders.

Scarred flesh pressed against another’s scarred flesh, naked and petrified, having fought the same fights and survived the same wars.

Forgetting the involuntary screams of terror that you’d both endured with your friends, only by wrenching voluntary screams from one another’s throats as you bury yourselves, skin to skin.

You lean back again, and then your expression softens as you finally answer Steve’s question.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet but even. “It is.”

After a moment, Steve somewhat relaxes. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop half an inch. And then, like he’s either anticipating that you’ll try another angle (or like he’s been waiting for the exact moment to drag you out of uncharted emotional territory) he stands up mid-conversation and shields his eyes from the sun.

“Alright, I’m gonna challenge Lucas to pool dodgeball,” he declares with cocky bravado, wrenching off his shirt. “We’ll see how smug he is when I wipe the floor with his ass and Will defects to my team.”

You blink at him. “That’s not even a real game.”

“It is now.” Steve tosses you a smirk over his shoulder. “I’m calling it Harrington’s School of Pool.”

You snort. “That sounds like a punishment.”

“Oh it is,” he calls back as he walks toward the pool. “Punishment for ever doubting me.”

You watch him go.

Let him have the last word.

Because for now, that’s all either of you can handle — tiny moments of truth wrapped in banter and sunburn, buried under splash fights and sarcasm. No one watching would know the difference. Not even the kids.

But you know.

And he knows.

Even if neither of you says it out loud, not yet — it’s already louder than anything else.

Chapter Four

The Cruel Comforts of Summer: Movie Nights

MAY 1985

“If any of you dumbasses lay another finger on my Wizard’s Cloak of Invincibility,” Dustin states, deadly serious, “I will curse your entire bloodline with lifelong halitosis.”

There’s a comical beat of silence around the coffee table.

Then Lucas snorts, Max breaks first with an open-mouthed laugh, and Mike immediately follows, howling, “That’s not even a real threat, man. You made that up!”

“You made up halitosis!” Lucas shouts.

Dustin adjusts his trucker hat like a young man wrongfully accused. “Tell that to your breath, Sinclair.”

Max falls sideways into Eleven’s shoulder, gasping for air.

You walk in at that exact moment, a bowl of pretzels in one hand, a tray of cut-up fruit in the other, and instinctively slow your steps, blinking at the chaos unfolding in front of you. It takes one second for Dustin to flash you a proud smile.

“Hop!” he says, triumphant. “Back me up. Halitosis is real, right?”

“I’m not taking sides in your magical breath feud,” you say, dry as sand, setting the snacks down with practiced grace. “Also, yes. It is. Also, if I catch one of you trying to use one of these bananas as a sword again, I’m calling the Department of Child Services.”

“They can’t arrest a level five elf!” Lucas yells.

“Kinda related to one who’ll find a way,” you reply. “Find out, Sinclair.”

Mike scoffs. “He’d never.”

“Wheeler?” You flick popcorn at him. “Find. Out.”

Dustin snorts. “You’d be the first one in cuffs, man.”

“Yeah,” Eleven giggles.

The kids all fall apart again. Eleven slides closer into Max, and when you sit back down beside her, she immediately leans into your side without a word. It’s instinct now. She’s barely left your side since spring, and you’re more than okay with that.

From the kitchen, Steve’s hunched over the landline like a desperate sitcom mom trying to order dinner during a school talent show.

“No, no—large pepperoni, yes. Just—sorry, one second.” He presses the phone to his chest and flaps a hand at Mike and Lucas, who are loudly arguing about whether elves can use ranged attacks. “Guys! Indoor voices! I’m trying to give them the address!”

“Try saying it louder!” Mike yells helpfully.

Steve sighs like he’s aged twenty years.

“Hey, yeah sorry, my daughter is on one today,” he tells whatever Dominos staff is on the other line, shooting daggers at Mike.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to keep from laughing as he turns back toward the phone. Because the fact that he not only just referred to one of the kids as his daughter, and the fact that it was in reference to Mike, not Max or Eleven, is priceless.

“Yes. Pepperoni. One veggie. One cheese.” A beat. “Yeah no, that’s great, we’ve got, like, six kids here, and I’m the one keeping them alive, so please make that fast. I’ll tip fat.”

Max glances at you with a wicked glint. “Are you gonna tell him he sounds like a soccer mom or should I?”

“Oh, I’m just letting him live his truth, girl,” you say, smiling wide, trying so hard not to laugh. Max snickers.

“You’re mocking me, Mayfield,” Steve deadpans without looking up. “I can feel it.”

“Nuh-uhhhhhh.”

“Yuh-huhhhhh,” you growl at her with viscous, tickling fingers that go straight for her, earning a squeaky squawk.

You all settle into Dungeons & Dragons again — elbows bumping, snacks disappearing one by one. There’s yelling, laughter, a furious debate about rule interpretation, and Lucas trying to cheat when he thinks no one’s looking (which Eleven catches immediately and shuts down with a deadpan “No,” like a tiny, psychic enforcer).

And then the doorbell rings.

Steve still has the house phone to one ear as he moves to answer it, mid-conversation. “Yeah, and can we get like three orders of egg rolls? Wait—hang on—”

He pulls the door open, and standing on his front porch are Nancy, Jonathan and Will.

“Oh hey,” Steve says, blinking before ruffling Will’s hair. “C’mon in.”

“Hey!” Will lights up the second he sees everyone at the coffee table. “Oh, sweet.”

The kids all yell his name in unison, immediately waving him over as you stand up, grinning. “Hey, lil’ Byers.”

Will hugs you full-force, knocking the wind slightly out of your lungs. “Hop! You’re here too?”

“Of course I am,” you smirk at him fondly. “You’d all be feral without my adult supervision.”

Jonathan raised his brows. “Didn’t realize you were hanging out too.”

You shrug easily. “Dad trusts me with El. Plus, Steve needs backup.”

Right on cue, you caught a banana mid-air. “What’d I say?—”

Steve waves from the hallway without turning around, still deep in his food order. “Thumper, what do you want from the Chinese place?”

You don’t blink. “Same as last time. But extra soy sauce.”

“Got it.” He turns away, still talking. “Yeah, and one sesame chicken, white rice, extra soy sauce. Also...”

Nancy’s eyes narrow.

Jonathan glances at her sideways.

“…same as last time,” Nancy quietly echoes under her breath, not even meaning to.

Jonathan subtly juts his chin out at you, eyes flicking over to Steve. “Take it you two tag-team on the babysitting now?”

You flash a smile without realizing it. “It’s our routine.”

That earns an odd stare from Nancy. But Will’s already halfway across the living room, being devoured by his friends, and you wave at the couple over your shoulder as you’re dragged back into your place in the game.

“Come on, it’s your turn!” Max barks. “We’ve been waiting!”

“God forbid you wait thirty seconds—” you say, flopping down beside Eleven again, who immediately reattaches to your side like Velcro.

Nancy’s still standing in the entryway, watching you and Steve out of the corner of her eye. Watching the ease. The way he calls across the room to ask you what you want without blinking. The way you answer like it’s nothing. The way he doesn’t even look surprised when you know exactly how to handle the kids.

Jonathan shuffles awkwardly beside her, clearing his throat as Steve hangs up the phone and catches them still standing there.

“Oh—uh, did you guys… wanna stay…?” he asks, polite but clearly hesitant. “We’ve got a lot of food coming.”

Nancy shakes her head, a little too quickly. “No. No, no, we were just — dropping Will off.”

“Yeah, thanks though,” Jonathan adds, backing it up with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Cool, cool,” Steve nods. “Safe drive.”

“Bye!” Eleven calls sweetly. Lucas and Mike and Dustin all yell, “Later!” in a chaotic chorus. You offer a lazy salute from where you’re half-curled up on the floor, sorting dice.

And just before the door shuts behind them, they hear you ask Steve, “What time do we need to pick it up?”

To which Steve answers, without hesitation, “Did delivery. You’re not leaving me alone with these gremlins for five seconds.”

The door closes with a quiet click.

Nancy blinks at it, eyebrows raised, lips parted like she wants to say something — but Jonathan’s already halfway down the steps.

She lingers a beat longer, eyes distant.

Then follows him without a word.

——

A couple hours later, and it was like gravity had pulled every kid in the damn house into the living room, like a pile of cats magnetized to warmth and pizza grease. The game-night-turned-movie-night space was a disaster zone. Pizza boxes half-stacked with soda cans dripping condensation onto mismatched coasters, all adorning the Harrington’s sleek coffee table. There were a few rogue Chinese takeout containers with chopsticks sticking out of them like flags from conquered territory. Which was true, given that you and Steve were moving through them in rapid succession. He earned himself a very approving fist-bump and wink from you, mid soy sauce packet pour, because the kids were eating every slice of pizza as if they were all famished orphans. And Dustin still had the audacity to ask you for an egg roll, and complain about being told no, even as he sat with a literal tower of ‘Pisa.’

But none of that really mattered, because currently, all of them were laser focused on the TV. And what was playing?

Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde.

Not the first Legally Blonde, mind you. Nay, the sequel.

And not a single one of them had ironically turned it on.

Max had accidentally flipped to it while trying to find Die Hard, while Lucas had groaned about her thinking that Bruce Willis is hot, but then Reese Witherspoon had appeared onscreen and delivered the ‘You can do anything if you just believe in yourself’ line with such heartfelt sparkle that Will had blinked and mumbled “Wait… what is this?”

…and they just… never changed it.

Now, every single one of them was all in.

Lucas was curled up with Max on one side of the couch, the two of them wrapped in a shared blanket, with Max holding a slice of pepperoni halfway to her mouth and Lucas shushing her because Elle Woods was giving a speech to Congress, and she was chewing too loud.

Mike and Eleven were cuddled up on the other side of the couch. They were absolutely holding hands like the middle school version of a Nicholas Sparks movie, their heads tilted toward each other, even as Mike occasionally let out comments like, “Wait, is Bruiser like… the best character in this entire franchise?” and Eleven would nod with devastating seriousness.

Dustin sat between Will and a stack of crumpled napkins, chewing quietly and whispering things like “This is exactly how government should work,” to which Will would nod sagely, the crust of a cheese slice hanging from his hand while curled up next to his buddy on the recliner.

And then there was you and Steve, squeezed together on the big loveseat, side by side. But not touching in any way that was technically romantic. No hand-holding, no lingering glances or puppy love stares. Just his arm pressed lightly against yours, your knee brushing his whenever one of you shifted. And neither of you shifted away. You didn’t even notice when you started sharing food between your remaining takeout boxes, his half of beef lo mein and your chicken and broccoli, quietly traded off back and forth with zero verbal coordination. Just this seamless, casual sort of sharing that was so normal it almost broke your heart.

You were thrown by just how badly you wanted to reach out and grab his hand. Just like Mike had done with El. Just to lace your fingers into his and rest it right there in your laps. But you didn’t. Steve was sitting too easy, too relaxed. He wasn’t nervous or tense at all. He was just watching the movie with a soft half-smile, occasionally pointing at the screen when Bruiser barked and getting Dustin to laugh too loud. It was the cutest thing in the world, and you had no clue when you’d become such a damn softie about it. Because anytime Steve cracked a smile at the screen while leaning back against the seat, leg pressing more into your thigh and knee as Dustin laughed his head off, you just felt… warm, fuzzy. All the typical teenage girl shit that you never got a chance to really feel without consequence while in high school. But right now, you got it. Because now, you were seated in the Harringtons’ loveseat, with an unrequited desire to hold Steve’s hand without you both needing to be naked and afraid to do it.

But you didn’t know it wasn’t unrequited.

You didn’t know that he was thinking the exact same thing.

You had zero clue that Steve, cool and casually suave Steve, was in the exact same boat as you. Dying to hold your hand like a boyfriend, hating the fact that’s not what he was to you, and wondering if that would ever change. Better yet, if he wanted that to change. He wasn’t relaxed at all. Like, at fucking all. This might be the calmest moment of his week so far, and still, his whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out every time that your shoulder leaned into his just a little more.

But he didn’t fixate on it. Nor did you. Because you both had this. This moment. This softness. That was enough.

And then the front door opened.

Like, literally just opened.

Like the front door of Steve’s house swung wide open as if it were a damn saloon, and in walked Jim Hopper like a thief in the night. Without knocking, without calling ahead. Without even pausing at the threshold.

He walked into Steve Harrington’s house like he owned the place, which honestly? As the chief of police and your father and the secret guardian of one of the teens currently cuddling on the couch? Well, fair enough.

The room reacted in slow motion.

Steve’s head turned first, halfway between stuffing a dumpling in his mouth and passing you a soda.

You froze halfway through lifting a crab Rangoon, your mouth already open like a cartoon character.

And then Eleven looked over, and her whole face lit up. “Dad!” she whisper-yelled.

She was on her feet in a second, practically launching herself over Mike’s knees and running straight for Hopper, her arms thrown around his middle with the kind of force that could knock over a less stubborn man.

“Hey, kiddo,” your dad chuckled.

He’d caught her instantly, squeezing her with both arms, the tension in his jaw relaxing just enough to let that big, dumb, goofy dad-smile stretch across his face.

“Oh,” you said under your breath, smiling despite yourself as you leaned towards Steve. “He missed her.”

Steve hummed in agreement beside you, then took a bite of your egg roll without asking. “Hey, Chief.”

Jim saluted him. “Harrington,” then he tipped his hat to you, “m’lady.”

“Father,” you smirked, smacking Steve’s hand lightly as took literally one noodle from your box.

“Sharing is caring,” he said with his mouth full, nudging your shoulder gently like it was muscle memory.

Meanwhile, Hopper was still holding El when he asked, completely baffled, “What the hell are you all watching?”

“Shhhh—!” came at least six voices at once.

Max hastily waved him over, Lucas pointed wildly toward the couch, and then Mike, without hesitation, muttered, “Sit down, man, you’re missing the best part.”

Your dad arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve gotta catch up,” Will added, scooting a pizza box aside to clear space on the armrest. “Elle’s about to testify.”

Hopper gave them a look like he was trying to process all of that information, then shook his head and slowly made his way to the couch, pulling Eleven with him. And when he sat? He very, very, very intentionally wedged himself directly between her and Mike.

You had to bite down on your lower lip to stop from laughing, while Steve sucked in his cheeks and stared straight ahead, clearly doing the same.

Mike blinked, betrayed.

Eleven looked confused, then entirely accepting.

And Jim? He looked smug as hell, like he’d just won a damn custody battle in the span of thirty seconds. But then, once they were all situated, he briefly glanced over at you and Steve, the two of you sharing six different takeout boxes like you’d done it a hundred times before.

And he winked, before any of that could really register with him, the way he always does whenever you’re both seated in different parts of a room and not able to talk. You gave him one of those signature faux-awkward smiles and little wave of a chopstick. Because yeah, you technically hadn’t gotten your own hello-hug, but it was okay. El needed it more. She needed him more. You’d had him all your life. She deserved this.

Still, as he turned his eyes back to the screen, you felt him glance over again. Just his eyes this time.

And you knew it.

You felt it.

Which is why you internally cursed yourself for daring to flick your eyes back over at him, succumbing to the peer pressure of it… because sure enough? Your pops was looking right back at you and Steve again, an unreadable expression on his face.

Then his eyebrows started subtly twitching, like maybe he was quietly putting something together. Something he hadn’t let himself consider before. Something he didn’t want to fully acknowledge because…

No, you and Steve weren’t… that… right?

…right?

But that’s when Steve casually swapped out the container in your lap for the one in his, like he could read your mind before you’d even decided what you were going to do.

You didn’t even say a word. Just looked down at the takeout box with a warm, wordless satisfaction, scooping another bite with your sticks before watching Elle Woods lay down the law in a pink pleated skirt.

And from across the couch, Hopper’s eyes tracked the entire thing as he remained perfectly still, just watching it happen.

He blinked once.

Blinked twice.

Lifted a brow.

Tilted his head slightly.

Squinted…

No. No way. That wasn’t anything.

You two weren’t anything.

…naaaaah, Steve Harrington was the last guy you would ever take interest in, and as it stood, you had just as many trust issues as your dad did, whenever it came to love and dating.

The two of you weren’t more than pals.

You weren’t an item.

Were you?

…but then you smiled at something stupid on the screen. Something like a tiny pink chihuahua barking during a Senate hearing, as if it was just precious. As if it wasn’t something you would normally look at it with a very sour face, repulsed by the pure cheeseball aspect of it. Nope, it made you smile. Like a sweet little grandma enjoying her favorite corny Hallmark movie.

…then you happened to glance back over at your dad in the middle of your smile.

…and your face fell.

Like, visibly deflated. Comically so, like a cartoon character who just realized they were caught red-handed.

It was so subtle it was almost unnoticeable.

But Jim noticed.

And you noticed that he noticed.

And now you were stuck in this stupid silent staring contest, looking between the movie and your dad, while he stared back at you and Steve with the slow, dawning expression of someone who absolutely was not born yesterday.

But the kids? Oblivious.

Steve? Still munching on food like nothing was weird.

And you? Couldn’t take it.

You shoveled three consecutive bites of chicken and broccoli into your mouth and glued your eyes to the screen like you were studying for an exam. Then Steve turned casually to Hopper and, with zero idea what kind of Eye Olympics had just occurred, asked him all too effortlessly —

“Hey Chief, you want anything? There’s plenty. Soda, pizza, Chinese. Take your pick.”

Hopper, not missing a beat, smiled all easy and said, “I’ll take you up on that for the next movie.”

The next movie?

Steve just nodded, turned back to the screen, already reaching for another dumpling.

But Jimothy Hopper? He looked right back at you. Blankly. But this time, you didn’t dare look back. You just kept on chewing. Too fast. Too obviously.

You were so not ready to have this conversation.

Nope. Nah, let him chaperone Mike and Eleven. Let your old man worry about the literal teens making heart-eyes across the room.

Because if he even thought about asking you what was going on here? What this was?

You might actually crawl inside one of those takeout boxes and never come out.

——

“You’re seriously making us watch The Last Unicorn?”

“I didn’t pick it!” Dustin exclaims, pointing at Eleven like she’s the final boss in a court case. “It was her turn!”

“I’ve never even heard of this,” Mike mutters, inspecting the VHS sleeve like it personally insulted him.

“It’s a cult classic,” Will defends, curling deeper into the corner of the couch as he grabs a blanket. “Also, it’s beautiful.”

“Yeah and also, it’s weird,” Lucas adds, plopping down beside Max and dodging the pillow she immediately hurls at him.

“That’s the point, dumbass,” she says fondly.

“Language,” Steve mutters on autopilot, not even looking up as he stands up from the loveseat with his hands on his hips like he’s about to start clapping to a beat and assigning chores.

He’s so goddamn sassy and you have no clue how and when you started loving that about him.

The bickering continues. Dustin’s got his hands on his hips like a mother hen, as if mirroring Steve, arguing with Mike about how “no one appreciates the art of voice acting anymore,” while Mike just continues to side-eye the unicorn on the cover like it’s beneath him. Will is the only one already settled in, while El looks quietly pleased to have won. Max slurps her third soda.

That’s when Steve raises his voice.

Not loud, not sharp, just final.

“Okay, okay. Movie’s great. I’m excited. Yay. But we’re not starting anything until this place doesn’t look like a raccoon broke in and threw a kegger.”

Immediate groaning. Someone mutters “Ugh, seriously?” but no one even dares to aim that grumble directly at him.

You’re already standing, sighing with ease, brushing your hands off like you’re about to help.

“Nope,” Steve stops you smoothly, stepping in front of you and gently guiding your hand off the pizza box you just picked up. “You’re off the clock. Sit down.”

You blink. “What if I want to—”

“Nuh-uh,” Steve points at the kids like a crossing guard at the gates of hell. “They made this mess, they clean this mess. You,” he adds, flicking his eyes back to you and raising an eyebrow, “look cute, stay seated. You’re management tonight.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, giving him the floor as he goes full Mr. Mom.

And the thing is? They do it.

The kids actually do it.

Mike Wheeler, full of fire, teen angst and eternal rage, wordlessly gets the hell up and starts stacking pizza boxes. He’s a brat about it, but for the first time ever he’s not vocally expressing his inner brat. Lucas, not one to be outdone, smirks and shoulder-checks him as he passes, which turns into a whole silent wrestling match over who gets to throw the pizza boxes away. Dustin snorts.

“Children,” Steve mutters.

“I heard that,” Dustin shouts from the kitchen.

“I meant for you to.”

Max is singing some Madonna song as she fetches paper towels and glass cleaner from underneath the kitchen sink.

Will and Eleven, of course, are perfect angels, already helping like they’re starring in an after-school special. El even grabs a paper towel and starts dabbing at a spot of soy sauce on the counter. Steve nods at her approvingly like she’s the only employee getting a bonus this quarter.

Meanwhile, your dad is sitting in the armchair with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, watching all of it unfold with his eyes wide and his eyebrows so high they might detach. His mouth is a tight, flat line that’s clearly trying to prevent him from grinning. Or gawking. Or both.

You catch him watching, and he doesn’t even pretend to look away.

He’s seeing all of it.

Mainly? He’s seeing Mike Wheeler obeying Steve like he’s the law. That alone is a miracle and something he’s definitely gonna need to learn from him, because that little shit is at the top of his list.

Jim also watched Dustin nearly slipping in his socks while throwing away a half-empty container of fried rice. Lucas tries to trip him for the third time in a row. Steve’s running point, like he runs a damn daycare-slash-frat house.

Your dad’s face just says it all.

This is surreal.

“Hey, Chief,” Steve calls out suddenly, glancing over from the kitchen doorway. “Ready for that grub now? Got extra Chinese if you want a plate.”

Your dad leans back in the chair and raises a brow. “You bought extra?”

Steve just shrugs, all charm and sincerity. “Figured you’d show up at some point,” he replies, as if it was obvious. As if this was the only logical outcome.

“I’ve become that predictable?”

You shoot him a wry smirk. “You’re not exactly subtle, Pops.”

“Says the pot to the kettle,” Steve murmurs, grinning.

That earns a little snort from your dad. “All right, Harrington. You win. Dish me up.”

Steve gives him a quick nod, then throws you a light wink before disappearing back into the kitchen and slipping between the chaos like it’s choreographed. He moves easily past Dustin and Lucas, muttering something about “if one of you breaks something, I swear to God,” while lightly flicking Dustin’s ear on the way — who yelps, while Lucas cackles.

And that’s when your dad turns his head slowly to look at you again.

You meet his stare with your lips pressed into the exact same flat line he was wearing earlier, arms crossed.

Neither of you say a single word.

It goes on.

And on.

Until finally, you click your tongue, glance casually away, and ask, “Soooo, how’s the new AC in the cruiser? Still rattling?”

He squints, grinning a little wider now. “Only when it’s on. Which I refuse to admit is a problem. And before you ask, yes, I’m gonna fix it myself.”

You nod solemnly. “Of course you are. Very manly of you.”

He hums. “Damn right.”

The both of you settle into the most aggressively nonchalant conversation of all time, neither one of you acknowledging the domestic golden retriever in the kitchen who just cooked your father dinner and wrangled a group of feral teenagers into scrubbing the coffee table clean with wet wipes.

Steve reappears with a plate in one hand, a soda in the other.

“Beef lo mein and General Tso’s,” he says, offering the plate to your dad, who accepts it without hesitation. “Extra fortune cookie in there. You look like you could use some wisdom.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Jim drawls, eyeing the food like it’s the best offer he’s gotten in months. “Thanks, kid.”

“Of course,” Steve says with ease as he hands you the Sprite. Iced cold. Perfectly timed. Like he read your mind.

And now the kids all start noisily making their way back into the living room as he plops down beside you again and exhales like he’s been coaching a soccer team through finals.

“You good?” Steve asks under his breath.

You smirk and nod, popping the tab on your soda. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he says breezily, glancing around at the now semi-clean room. “All according to plan.”

“You planned for Lucas to body-check Dustin into the trash can?”

“No,” Steve admits. “But I liked it.”

The kids are all returning to their places, collapsing on the couch and floor in a pile of limbs, grumbles, and sarcastic insults. Will is already tucked back into his blanket. Eleven curls up next to him like they’ve been doing this forever.

“Alright, gremlins,” you say, sipping your Sprite. “Let’s roll it.”

“Will, make room,” Mike grumbles, now squishing himself in between him and El.

Max groans. “Why are you such a Velcro boyfriend—”

“Mayfield, just save it,” Mike snaps at Max, huddling into the blanket with his girl and his best friend.

“Everyone shut up, the movie’s starting!” Dustin suddenly announces at full volume, nearly shrieking while throwing his arms out like Moses parting the Red Sea.

The room falls dead silent.

Steve blinks slowly at him, eyes narrow, unimpressed. “You wanna say that a little louder, Henderson? Think the neighbors in Ohio didn’t hear you.”

Your dad loses it.

Just straight up barks out a laugh, head tossed back. Even you can’t help but snicker into your soda can, nose wrinkling, eyes shut.

Max is biting her lip trying not to join in, but Lucas fails entirely and wheezes. Mike mutters something about Dustin being a narc. Will is holding his face in his hands while El just eats her popcorn.

Steve huffs exasperated, right as the TV flickers.

The movie begins, and for a second, for a whole stretch of minutes, it’s just… warm. Like family. Like a weird, chaotic little found family that just sort of formed out of exhaustion, loyalty, bad jokes, and Steve Harrington’s inability to let you else do the dishes.

——

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