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

Steve Harrington x Hopper!fem!reader strangers to friends with benefits (fwb) 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)

PART 3 SPOILERS: It's a cruel summer, and Starcourt goes from zero to a hundred to make sure of it. You're filing away your feeling in literal filing cabinets for summer cashflow, while Steve looks like a slutty sailor moon dreamboat scooping ice cream. His snarky coworker susses you out for a hot minute. But then the world blurs, and everything changes, after keeping her and Steve, the kids and El, miraculously alive.

But if there's anything life's taught you, it's that it's always going to balance out the playing field. So if you're not next, then someone else is. Someone who shares your blood. And your last name.

Said, "I'm fine," but it wasn't true. I don't wanna keep secrets, just to keep you. ♡

BRIEF SERIES SUMMARY: 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.

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 the other needs, and giving it to them before going back to normal the next day.

Full series summary here.

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).

% ҂ 𓈈 ｡✦ ⟆ ֊ ꗃ ⌗ ❍ ﹕ཿ ♡ ■ .˳⁺⁎˚ ꒰ఎ ♡ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ ⋆ﾟ♡ ໒꒱꒰ఎ ♡ ໒꒱ ˚⁎⁺˳𓈈 ｡✦

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Cruel Comfort of Summer: The End of the Beginning

JUNE & JULY 1985

Monday morning comes slowly, bleached and too bright. The scent of coffee fills the cabin, along with light chatter amongst El and your dad, as you cross off the previous day on the calendar that hangs in the fridge, now a good ten days into the beginning of June 1985.

You got up early for your new job, for once not dreading the start of something. It’s decent work. Clean, quiet and structured. You catalog old documents, file photographs, help organize local exhibits in a sleepy municipal archive nestled twenty minutes out, in a converted bank building with thick windows and decent coffee. Benefits include no screaming. No gates. No blood. Just paper, some passive silence and fluorescent lighting.

And honestly? That’s all you want.

Your dad had been thrilled. Same with El, even though she’d miss having you around during the rest of summertime. Steve had scoffed when you told him last night, after he had come over to pick up Mike and take him back home (since disclosing this safe location to Karen Wheeler was clearly not an option).

“Sounds like heaven,” he’d deadpanned. “You sure they’ll let a local criminal in?”

“I’m sure you’ll be begging me to forge you a new identity by July.”

“Yeah, alright, just make it something cool. You know, like Chase. Chase Harrington.”

“…Chase Harrington. That’s it? That’s all you got?”

“It’s cool.”

You squinted. “Chase. Harrington…?”

“See? It’s catchy.”

You’d laughed into your glass and let it go. Because that’s what the two of you do best lately: let it go. Pretend like there’s nothing deeper pressing under the skin.

Today, you swing by Starcourt on your way home. Just to see him. You don’t plan it. You just kind of… end up there. Your whole group seems to do that these days.

Even though right now, it’s just you.

Steve’s mid-shift at Scoops Ahoy. You spot him through the counter window before you even get inside. Sailor getup. The stupid hat. His name tag crooked, because of course it is. And still way too damn good looking for his own good, Sailor Moon dreamboat fit and all.

You’d helped him find the job, after finding out which spots would pay best inside the brand spankin’ new mall. The two of you had brushed up his resume, using his mom as a reference after you had passively (aggressively) given her no choice when letting her know she could expect a phone call.

“Because I know this town loves you, and you’d love to see your boy make some big bucks this summer instead of hosting here in your eternal absence, right?”

That might’ve been a little much. But she’d done it. And Steve hadn’t done anything except smile at you sheepishly, rock the interview and land the job.

Now he’s here, looking like a wet dream.

And beside him? Some girl. Faintly freckled, sharp, short hair, sailor sleeves rolled, one sly eyebrow arched at something Steve’s saying. She’s answering back before he even finishes. Their rhythm is snappy, quick, like a duel that’s already ten rounds in.

Her voice hits first when you walk up. “Welcome to Scoops, home of capitalism’s finest frozen shame spiral. Want a sample?”

You blinked at her.

Steve leans into view from behind a massive tub of strawberry, not looking up yet. “Ignore her. She’s defective.”

You raise your eyebrows. “That’s rich, coming from Mr. Conehead.”

He looks up, surprised, then just smirks like he’s been expecting you anyway. “Well look who it is. Office royalty.”

You grin. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, I feel betrayed. You traded me for filing cabinets.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t talk back.”

That deepens Steve’s smirk into something coy. Secretly coquettish.

His coworker watches the whole thing with faint confusion. “Wait, you two… know each other?”

“Unfortunately,” you both say.

In unison.

Robin blinks a few times. “Wow. Jesus. Okay.” She glances at Steve. “You have weird taste in friends.”

That makes you tilt your head at her with the faintest, most wry-ass little smile at her. Pardon me, bitch?

“Not that you’re weird,” she backpedals, eyes wide. “Steve’s weird.”

“Oh so my friend is weird. Got it.”

Now she’s really stuttering. “Like weird as in just—just like, his weird sorta balance of having uhm, middle schoolers and folks his age as friends, not like—like he’s weird.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I like your shirt!”

“Thanks.”

“You score it here at the mall?”

“…it’s my mom’s.”

“Oooooh,” she wiggles her eyebrows, trying to get back in your good graces and make a better first impression. “She let you steal her best fits often?”

Your lips pressed into a hard line. “Wouldn’t exactly say that, given the whole, y’know. Divorce-and-dip thing.”

Her eye twitches. “Right,” she barely whispers, taut with strain.

After giving her a painfully long beat of silence, your lips curve into a wry grin as you glance down at her name tag. Then right back up, as if unimpressed.

Steve looks mortified… but changes the subject easily, looking at you the whole time until he sees you ease up and not look quite so stiff.

With him? It’s easy.

With his coworker, you stay neutral.

Not unfriendly, just… uninterested.

This “Robin” girl seems too aware, too observant. She doesn’t insult you intentionally, which somehow makes it worse. Oddly? You would almost prefer it. At least then you’d have something to aim at.

Instead, she tries too hard to be nice to you and not to Steve, while lowkey being too smart for her own good.

And more than anything, she’s there. With Steve, all day, every day.

Unlike you, at your new desk job.

You catch yourself staring, looking away whenever you do. Or, well. Trying to, and failing. Eventually, Steve offers you a sample like some sort of peace treaty.

“It’s the least terrible one,” he claims.

With a sigh, you take it, raising it once before sampling. Your face sours in signature displease Hopper fashion. “God, it tastes like glue and regret.”

“Then I nailed it.”

You scowl at the little wooden sample spoon, giving it a toss then lick your thumb, tapping the glass. “Give me the next worst.”

It keeps going like that for a while. Samples and sarcasm. Effortless back and forth that you never seem capable of with anyone else. And you don’t even realize how long you’ve been there until he asks…

“So?” Steve leans against the glass, tossing his little sailor hat over his shoulder without looking. “First week recap?”

You shrug, then surprise yourself by actually answering. In detail. As in you tell him about the building, about the guy who brought in a box of photos from 1942, about the coffee machine that doesn’t work unless you kick it. You talk, while Steve listens. Really listens. Like no one else has in weeks.

You find yourself enjoying it, opting not to bother rushing home and sticking around for a movie afterwards with him and the kids. It goes like that for all of June. Coming in to pester him when you’re off work, bringing El (after damn near bribing Hopper by promising him a pint of rocky road, all for him). You bring Dustin to the mall to surprise him whenever he finally gets back from space camp, grinning like a devil as you watch Steve lose his shit and then witness the most ridiculous handshake known to man go down between the two of them. On top of that, Robin grows on you. Somehow, over the month of June, she found a way to make you snort and laugh. And she always gives you and Steve space, knowing when to participate then bow out without having to be asked.

The next thing you know, it’s July Fourth and you’re on the floor of an employee bathroom, somewhere tucked inside of Starcourt Mall from a remaining outlet.

Tile.

Mess.

Gunsmoke.

Blood somewhere.

Breathing hard enough to taste iron in your mouth.

You’re on your back now, legs trembling, knees bent around Steve’s torso, nails sunk into his arms with his cock sunk fully into you. Your heartbeat’s still a wildfire. You don’t fucking remember getting in here. Just that there was running, there was screaming, there was blood dripping from El’s nose, and then you’d been cornered. Almost killed, trying to get to her while Billy towered over her but getting side swept and narrowly missing your chance at a chest deep puncture, the way that Billy ended up taking it after that instead.

But then Steve had been there.

The second you had been thrown and left winded, he was screaming your name like it was the only one he knew, diving for you.

You’re not even sure if the bruises on your knees now are from being thrown like that, or from right now.

But one thing you’re sure of is that right now, you and Steve are both a mess. Dirt, sweat, panic, that ‘holy shit we almost died’ frenzy back in full swing again.

But worse. So much fucking worse.

Your pants are wrapped around your ankles, bunched at your penny loafers from work, blouse halfway unbuttoned, ripped, smeared with blood and grime that you can’t remember getting there.

He’s still wearing part of his uniform, half-ripped and stained with his own blood that had spilt after he’d taken punch after punch, blow after blow, instead of you and Robin. Steve had taken every brunt force of a fist, time after time, after the Soviets had caught up to you both, along with Robin and Dustin and Erica. He’d let them torture him senseless on repeat, no matter how hard you tried to intervene, tried to get to him, begging them to stop, please stop.

They hadn’t.

The soldiers just kept wailing on him, over and over, on a loop, until you’d both gotten drugged with Robin, thrown up, bonded in the bathroom stalls. Found out that she’s gay. Then you reunited with your sister, along with everyone else. From your dad, to the kids, to Nancy fucking Wheeler looking at Steve, then you, then Robin, with audacious curiosity and irritation, all while you managed to hug El tightly plus help Steve keep all the other kids calm before that damn parasite had to get ripped out from El’s shin as you held her tightly, along with Mike.

After that, you’d all but sagged into your dad’s arms with relief, only to find yourselves being pulled in opposite directions again, crashing into Billy’s car, hurling fireworks at a fucking Mind Flayer, then getting yourself hurled by it into oblivion and barely managing to survive it…

Only to find yourself cornered.

Seriously, you’d landed and felt the harsh blow of the air being blown right out of your lungs, and that thing’s damn tentacle had flown at you as it went in for the kill.

That was when Steve had tackled you sideways with him, taking the brunt of the next blow himself, no chest puncture in sight.

You remember him shouting.

You remember your name wrecked on his lips.

You remember the bone-crushing crash of limbs.

Now you taste copper on your tongue and it’s not yours.

Steve is panting into your neck, saying your name like it’s a broken prayer, a stuttered warning and a dark curse all at once. You feel his forehead pressed to your collarbone, his voice cracking, his body shaking like the adrenaline’s still ripping through his bloodstream, his shorts and briefs around his knees.

You barely register that the damn building’s still trembling beneath yours and his trembling limbs. Hell, you barely even register that Steve’s inside of you, that your hands are clenched in his ruined uniform, that you’re not kissing but devouring each other like oxygen, like this is the only way either of you remember how to live.

…and there’s voices calling out from somewhere.

“Don’t,” he wheezes out, pounding harder. “Not yet. Not—fuck—not yet.”

“I know,” you whimper, arching up into him. “I know, I know.”

His hands are everywhere, frantic and greedy and gripping too tight like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your own fingers thread through his hair and pull, and the sound that rips out of him isn’t something you’ve ever heard before.

Jesus, you don’t even remember finding this bathroom. You don’t remember undressing what was in the way. But now you’re here. And Steve’s not gentle. You aren’t either. You don’t want to be gentle.

You want pain.

You want proof that you’re still alive.

You want something louder than your heartbeat and the way the mall still smells like fire and blood.

“9-1-1,” someone is hollering loudly from far away. “…coming! …9-1-1!…”

It’s drowned out as you choke on a sharp gasp, while Steve’s hips harshly slam into yours again, a helpless sound breaking from your throat like a gargled sob. He catches your face with a shaking palm, pressing your foreheads together, breaths tangled and ragged. Damn near-animal. Primal.

And somehow, somehow, even with the world ending around you, he still asks you…

“What do you need?”

It’s guttural.

It rips out of him involuntarily. Like it’s more reflex than question now.

You can’t speak. You don’t have words. You nod hard. Once, twice. Then you wheeze out, hoarse and fractured, “You. Y-y-you, Steve, just you—”

Steve shoves his tongue down your throat as you all but swallow it whole, moaning and groaning into his open mouth. Then you dig your nails in deeper and echo it, unthinking as his thumb presses into your pulse at your throat.

“What—y-you. You too, what—w-what do you. N-need.”

Steve chokes on something that might be a laugh or a cry as his girth pounds into you relentlessly.

“You—breathing.”

That’s his answer.

Then quieter, wrecked, “—you not gone.”

You can’t cry. There’s nothing left, the tears are already out from the way your whole body has been clenched around him, and still is, like it’s trying to hold onto him on some cellular level. And he’s not even kissing you anymore. He’s practically sobbing into your mouth, blood and snot all over both your faces.

Both of you can hear the faint echo of sirens.

But the two of you just keep holding each other like it’s the only thing keeping you both from blacking out, hands gripping, fumbling, both of you desperate to finish and to finish together before you’re torn apart again.

You hear the world still falling.

But all you can feel is Steve Harrington, holding you down on the tile floor like he’s the only thing anchoring you to gravity. His mouth now pressed to your temple, his fingertips bruising you with their grip, all heat and desperation and the kind of madness that doesn’t wait.

You both reach your climax like you’re breaking. Like it’s not pleasure at all, it’s the flood that comes after holding your breath too long, way too long.

“Steve, fffffuck, S-S-S-teve—”

“C’mon angel, c’mon, come—”

Steve’s cock twitches violently inside of you, his entire body seizing against yours, absolutely no control.

Your own body follows suit, convulsing violently against his own.

Then mid-babble, mid-sob, you both collapse together.

And when the sirens get louder, neither of you move.

The shrillness of it multiplies, roaring, along with voices. But neither one of you moves to come down any quicker than you’re capable of, despite the urgency to get back to your friends. To reunite with your dad, with Murray and Joyce, who you pray to God are back by now.

Steve kisses your cheek once. Not sweet. Not soft. Just real. Then he presses his forehead to the tile beside your head and breathes.

You feel your heart trying to slow. It doesn’t.

So you just lay there underneath him, hiccuping for air as his hand slips into yours. He keeps it pinned to the tile on the side of his head, which stays right next to yours.

Neither of you speaks. Neither of you says what just happened.

And even when the sirens get louder, getting closer, neither of you move yet. His forehead stays right there. Bent low, and pressed to the floor beside your skull like gravity’s got him by the spine. Both of you just shudder against each other, both sets of lungs still synched and offbeat, every muscle twitching with the withdrawal of adrenaline, climax, sex, terror, everything.

There’s something being shouted.

Distant and distorted, muffled voices you know too well.

Jonathan and Nancy, shouting commands.

Robin’s panicked rasp.

Mike’s shrill retorts.

Dustin, yelling back.

Paramedics and officers, barking orders.

You part your lips to speak... Maybe to say Steve’s name. Maybe to warn him.

But he doesn’t let you.

Steve drags his face from the tile back to your mouth, so sudden that it feels like whiplash… but the kiss he gives you this time is nothing like the ones from before.

It’s slower. Thicker.

Softer somehow, but not gentler. And he just… holds you there. Right there, with his lips. Again. Again, and again. And again. Like he’s checking that you’re real each time, or like you’ll vanish if he stops. He’s shaking so badly you can feel it in your teeth.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not until you hum into him, quiet and low, and even then, he kisses you again. Long. Exhausted. Dominant in a way that feels less about control and more about clinging. Like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your mouth just to stay alive a little longer.

There’s snot. Blood. Sweat. Saliva. All of it mixing between your lips, your chests, your trembling bodies.

The mall still smells like smoke and terror. But all that you can smell is Steve, his faded cologne and his sweat mixed with it. And when he finally pulls back, it’s not far. Just enough to breathe.

The stretch of silence that follows is somehow too long and not long enough. Eventually, though, still on top of you, still inside you and still barely stitched back together… Steve shifts, pulling out of you with a slow, pained sound that isn’t quite a groan and isn’t quite a whimper. His hands are frantic again, fumbling to help you sit up as you both start clumsily pulling back on your clothes, grabbing at your ruined uniforms, trying to remember how to stand, how to function.

You’re still only half dressed when you reach for him.

Quietly and deliberately, both hands slide underneath his sailor shirt, crusted with blood, finding the tender edge of a fresh bruise along his ribs. And you press your palm right there.

Steve makes a noise you’ve never heard from him before. Strangled. Sharp. He jerks like he’s been electrocuted, gasps loud enough to echo off the tile, and nearly throws his head back—but you keep your hand there. Keep the pressure firm. Keep your body angled into his like an anchor.

His breath breaks apart, and then he sags against you so suddenly it knocks you both into the wall. He’s gripping your wrists now. Hard. Not to stop you. Just to hold on.

And he’s whispering your name in pieces. “Don’t, just— fuck, wait—”

But you don’t. Not yet, you can’t. Not until he tells you.

“Please, please tell me what you need,” you whisper, barely above a breath.

Steve shakes his head hard, then grips your face with both hands, as if trying to physically force the words out of his own mouth.

“Need—” he swallows, voice shredded, “—I need us to get. Looked at. Together.”

Your bleary eyes blink, stunned at the specificity of it.

But he keeps going, stammering through it, still working to pull your shirt over your head as he talks, voice breaking all over the place.

“I just—if they separate us—if they make you leave—if I don’t see you walk out of here with me—I can’t fucking do it. I can’t not know you’re okay. You’re not okay. I know that. But I need—need to see it.”

“Okay,” you barely breathe, nodding.

“—I need to see you. The whole time.”

The words are nonsense. The words are everything. And somehow, he gets you both dressed. Of course he does.

Because that’s what Steve does. He gives.

He gives everything.

Even when it guts him. Even when he’s bleeding and shaking and too wrecked to think straight. Even when he’s running on empty.

He gives and gives, and doesn’t expect anything in return.

Steve might not talk about this. Might never let you talk about it. You might keep pretending it’s normal. That this is just what friends do. That this is just about comfort and coping and getting each other through it. But none of that matters right now.

Maybe it won’t ever matter again.

Because for now, the only thing that does matter is this: You’re alive. He’s alive. And he’s still holding your hand.

Even as the door slams open.

Even as the medics flood in.

Even when the world comes crashing back.

He doesn’t let go.

CHAPTER NINE

The Cruel Comfort of Summer: I Wave Goodbye

...and it's new, the shape of your body It's blue, the feeling I've got... It's a cruel summer.

You’re seated in the back of an ambulance with Steve on one side and Robin on the other, a thermal blanket draped around your shoulders like a goddamn costume. The illusion of being whole.

Erica’s got her arms crossed like she’s trying not to shiver, sitting on the ledge beside Dustin, who’s got a bandage pressed to his head and a wild-eyed calm that only Dustin Henderson can manage after something like this.

No one suspects a thing.

Not Robin. Not Dustin. Not even Erica.

Not with the way your knees are still drawn up to your chest, or the way that Steve keeps himself perfectly composed beside you. Hands braced to his thighs. Breathing measured. Jaw tight.

It’s almost impressive, the performance you both give.

The kind where no one would guess that minutes ago, seconds ago, you were both shaking apart in each other’s arms. That his forehead had been against tile, not an EMT’s glove. That your mouth had been on his, not pursed tight with shock. That you both had just shared the most unraveled sex of your lives and broke not broken confessed the neverending need for one another. Because this is the part you both know how to do.

The seamless transition from frantic survival to brittle functionality.

The aftermath.

You don’t even look at each other. And it doesn’t matter, because you don’t need to. You feel him anyway. Steve’s thigh brushing yours. The way that his shoulders twitch every time someone new walks by the ambulance, like he’s ready to go again. Fight again. Die again.

Dustin is talking now. Something about what the fuck just happened. Erica’s filling in with her version of things. Robin is dazed, and her voice keeps cracking as she contributes. You nod, hum responses, even let out a laugh at one of Henderson’s ridiculous punchlines, and Steve somehow manages to pull off being the most collected one in your group, even though he looks wrecked beyond all reason.

And still, not a single person in that ambulance has any clue. That’s how good you and Steve are at this. You don’t look like two people who just fell into each other like dying stars.

You look like two friends with trauma and a history.

Which, technically… you are.

It’s just far more than that, regardless of what you both don’t admit to each other or even yourselves.

Then you glance at Steve once, just once, and his gaze flicks toward yours for half a breath, then down again. His hands haven’t stopped shaking.

You’re reaching for it, and he takes it right when—

“Hey,” Robin suddenly blurts, leaning halfway out of the ambulance. “Is that—?”

Your breath catches before you even look.

As if you already know.

Outside the rear doors of the emergency vehicle, Joyce Byers is now hugging someone so tight you’d think her arms might snap. She’s crying… but that’s not what stops your breath.

It’s who she’s holding.

Eleven.

Your Eleven.

Your sister, not by blood but by bond.

Your dad’s second daughter now.

The little girl who looked at your broken family and quietly climbed in after only a single peace offering of Eggos in the woods.

And she’s sobbing.

Crashing to her knees.

Hard on the pavement.

You don’t think.

You just move.

You shove the blanket right off, legs aching, ribs flaring. You vault out of the ambulance barefoot, and Steve nearly trips trying to follow, but you’re already running. Robin shouts your name behind you, but it’s too late.

You fall to your knees in front of El.

Her hands are over her face. Her shoulders shake so violently you can feel the quake of it just sitting near her.

“Hey, hey—” you whisper, reaching for her wrists, gently pulling them from her eyes. “Baby, what’s wrong? You’re okay. You’re alright, I’ve got you, I’m right here—what’s—??”

But she’s not answering. She’s just clutching onto you and bawling…

…the kind of bawling that comes from the center of something that’s already broken, shattered beyond repair.

…the same kind of bawling you experienced after you’d lost Sarah.

And that’s how you begin to dreadfully understand.

…that’s when you realize…

You don’t see him.

You don’t see Hopper.

You don’t see your dad.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Jonathan’s there suddenly. Nancy behind him, white as paper. Mike sprints over like he can outrun the truth. And then, slower, deliberate, dreading, Will follows. And you’re registering Joyce’s face now, even though she’s been there this whole time… how it looks like it’s been carved out of grief.

And you know.

You know.

The world tunnels.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t convulse.

You just sit there holding Eleven, slowly turning your head as all your friends begin to form a circle around you like a protective wall. You hear the blood rushing in your ears louder than the sirens now. You see their faces before you register their words.

Nancy, ghost-pale, eyes glistening.

Jonathan with his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might snap.

Mike stammering.

Dustin right behind him.

Robin and Erica flanking the edges.

And Steve, standing right above you, eyes blown wide.

“Where’s Hopper?”

Callahan’s voice. Powell’s, too.

Your dad’s coworkers. Practically your uncles.

Their eyes dart everywhere — over you, over El, over Joyce.

And Joyce… can’t even speak. She tries. She opens her mouth three times, closes it four. Then finally, she just manages, “He—he told us to go. He stayed behind. He—he said he’d buy us time—”

Callahan stares. Blinks. Nods once.

Powell covers his mouth. Walks away.

You still don’t physically react.

You register it. You hear it. You even believe it.

…but the weight doesn’t quite land.

Not like it had with Sarah.

Not with that instant knife to the gut that draws blood, and tears from the jump, and lets the screams bleed out from your eyes and soul in sweet relief.

It’s like your body refuses to let it this time. Like somewhere inside of you, there’s a valve that’s been locked shut. And behind it, your grief is now pacing. Screaming inwardly. Waiting.

But right now? It’s not allowed in.

So you just… nod.

You just… breathe.

And you hold Eleven tighter.

Steve trembles like a leaf, lips parted in soft despair as a paramedic kneels beside you with a flashlight, checking your pupils, as another asks if they can check your ribs. You say yes. Sure, yeah of course.

Because what else are you supposed to say? They lift your shirt to gently prod at the bruised bones. You let them.

You answer their questions.

You let them touch your shaking hands.

You’re polite. You’re normal.

…and it’s terrifying.

Because you are not okay.

And the only person who sees it, who really sees it, is Steve.

He’s still standing just behind you. Robin’s beside him now, Dustin too, all of them stunned and pale… but Steve?

Steve is only looking at you.

He hasn’t blinked.

He hasn’t spoken.

He just… watches you with that expression he only wears when he’s holding back the entire ocean behind his eyes.

Because he knows you.

And he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Knows that your silence isn’t strength, that it’s a scream your body is too numb to let out. Knows that you’re leaning into shock, allowing it to bury you as you cast comfort for yourself away and give it to El in your place.

“Hop,” he rasps, now kneeling to place his hands on your shoulders as you hold onto Eleven, feeling you let your spine lean against his chest, even as you soothe and gently shush her. And still, even then, no one suspects a thing between the two of you.

Because that’s the last rule you and Steve have never broken.

Even when everything else does.

You don’t even really notice at first, because your brain is still locked in that cold, quiet white-noise place… but he’s there. Steve, your one constant, your tragic source of comfort and reminder that you still feel deeply, even when you try not to. You feel the warmth of his hand now grazing your elbow. The gentle, grounding pressure of his palm between your shoulder blades. Jonathan’s on your other side, steady as ever, and Mike’s hovering just a step behind, trying not to fall apart himself. Then Will kneels down, quietly devastated.

Eleven’s still clinging to you, her weight almost gone limp except for the sharp little tremors in her small frame. And somehow, the five of you (Steve, Jonathan, Mike, Will, you) all become this silent convoy, guiding her and each other back to the ambulance.

Joyce is anguished looking at you, unable to speak, in fear that she’ll somehow make things impossibly worse for you as she tries hard to answer Powell and Callahan’s questions.

No else one says a damn thing. That’s how you know it’s bad.

Robin’s now sitting back where she was, knees hugged to her chest now. She clocks the way Steve’s hand lingers on your back, the way that he’s doing too good a job of not looking directly at you. But she doesn’t say anything either. She just scoots to the side, makes space for you both, like she’s just simply making room in the narrative, not suspecting a thing. Because no one does.

That’s the power, albeit danger, of what you and Steve have crafted. A whole universe buried under plain sight.

Just like the fucking upside down.

“Hey, you,” Powell grips your shoulder firmly, tears brimming his eyes but doing his best to not let his expression, or voice, wobble. “C’mon, let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

You think you nodded.

It was hard to tell, given how disorienting everything felt.

Eventually, you’re being seated in the back of Powell and Callahan’s cruiser, letting El fold into your lap again without hesitation. Your fingers curl into her hair. Lightly, protectively. And paramedics start checking your vitals again, checking Robin too, and you nod along to their questions without really hearing them.

Everything’s moving slowly and also way too fast.

Powell and Callahan both hang nearby, nervous and stiff, their eyes flicking to your face and back to the paramedics like they don’t quite know where to look. You’ve known them since you were a kid, grown up bringing your dad leftover dinner on late shifts and running in their circles in and around the station. They’ve always let you call them Uncle, always treated you like an actual niece.

But now, neither of them are saying much.

“I’ll take her home,” Callahan says eventually, nodding solemnly and slowly as he glances from you to Powell. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

But Powell’s still eyeing Eleven with pensive confusion, despite him nodding at Callahan’s words. Not even five seconds go by before you open your mouth to respond, but Steve beats you to it.

“She can come to mine.”

Just like that.

Solid, like there was never going to be another answer.

“Both of them,” he adds, glancing once at Joyce.

Joyce doesn’t argue. She just nods, one single sharp nod. And then something wordless passes between the two of you.

I’ll be there soon.

Steve hears it, too. Of course he does.

“She’ll be safe there,” Jonathan adds, voice hoarse, gently brushing his hand against your arm. “We’ll meet you. Okay?”

You nod. That’s all you can do.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream.

You just… nod.

Steve feels a strange sort of anger flare up inside of him as he glares at Jonathan, as if his kindness were some other attempt at taking yet another person who means the world to him far away. And he knows better than that, but his heightened emotions, and all of the dwindling adrenaline, cloud his judgement.

“Hey.”

But then you’re looking up at him as he blurts. He didn’t even realize he had until your eyes shined up at him through your lashes, even with the fog that washes over them and the tears you won’t let fall.

He shudders a sigh. “I’ve got you.” Then he nods at El. “Both of you.”

You’d cry if you could.

The paramedics finally finish clearing you. Then Robin gives you a long, searching look, her eyes full of questions that she doesn’t ask. Maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe she just knows this is the part where she can’t help. She’s used to being the one who keeps folks upright. But now she watches Steve steer the ship, and doesn’t flinch once at that either, knowing better than to overstep.

Even Jonathan took the hint, catching Steve’s glare and stepping off to the side. He doesn’t even need context to understand. His gut gets it enough to tell himself, leave it be.

Powell and Callahan insist on escorting the whole thing. They’re both visibly shaken but trying not to show it. They still think your dad’s just… missing. Hurt. Caught in the fire or smoke. Not actually gone.

You know better.

So does Steve.

Which is why he just keeps you close. Never touching you too much, never doing anything that would give it away and make people ask you too many questions in a time like this, or make you wanna just throw it all away and abandon him for good.

But he keeps you close. Always.

Outside the ambulance, the crowd has shifted.

Mike’s mom is there now, tear-streaked and frantic. Karen Wheeler nearly knocks over a row of traffic cones trying to get to both him and Nancy. Her voice breaks somewhere between a sob and a shout as she wraps her arms around both of them.

Mrs. Sinclair shows up next. Her hug around Lucas is so tight he winces, and even Erica lets it happen without sass. Dustin’s mom appears not long after, her eyes wide and desperate as she scans the crowd. The second that Claudia finally sees him, she crumples a little, crying openly as she pulls him into her arms.

They’re all distractions. Loud, chaotic, emotional distractions.

Which is perfect.

Because while they’re busy reuniting, Jonathan helps Joyce and El quietly load into another car so that the officers don’t start looking too closely or asking more questions. So they load up into Joyce’s car… one that peels off gently and unnoticed into the dark.

And then it’s your turn.

Steve opens the door to the front seat of one of the squad cars. Powell’s already behind the wheel, while Callahan gets up front. You hesitate for half a second, glancing toward where El disappeared.

You suddenly hear your dad’s voice…

“Never let each other outta either of your sight. Not when I’m gone. Got it? You wait for me. Wait for me to—”

“Hop…?”

But then Steve touches your elbow again. Just briefly, breaking the spell. His big brown eyes are soft but firm.

“Come on,” he says. Just to you.

So you do.

You climb in next to him, eyes hollow, pulse slow. And you don’t ask questions or even speak. You just stare straight forward, letting this nightmare keep unfolding around you.

And you know that what you are about to step into… Steve’s house, Steve’s care, Steve’s silence… will be the only thing holding you together once the stillness breaks.

And it will break eventually.

But not yet.

For now, you ride. Quiet. Numb. Not alone.

Callahan and Powell are too engulfed with the whiplash of everything that they can’t even suspect a thing as you two sit together.

Not about Steve.

Not about you.

Not about what you’ve built in the dark.

Not about what you just lost in the light.

Not about the way it’s all about to come apart.

It’s been just over a week.

Nine days, if you’re counting. Not that you’ve been counting.

At least not on purpose.

Currently, you’re standing in a church you’ve never once stepped foot inside before. One of those old county buildings with the hollow acoustics and too many fake ferns. All you can think about is how your father hated this kind of place. Hated organized religion. Hated the pageantry. Hated being told how to grieve or when to believe.

But here you are anyway. In an unfamiliar building that smells like old hymnals and perfumes that don’t blend. Wearing the black dress that your mother wore to Sarah’s funeral and left behind, along with you and her husband. Standing beside a closed casket, and listening to a preacher mispronounce your dad’s name while talking about “God’s grace” and “healing” and “mercy” and other words that mean less than nothing to you right now.

Eleven stayed home with Max. She hadn’t even argued about it. In fact, to your surprise, she’d been the one who suggested it.

“He always wanted me safe,” she’d whispered tearfully to you that week while you sat at the dinner table, staring blankly at the wall and pretending to mull over casket selections.

She wanted to respect Hopper’s wishes, even if he was gone.

She also didn’t want you to worry. But you’re pretty sure that a part of her feels unworthy. Like this isn’t her place to grieve him the same way as you, even though that’s preposterous.

It’s the only time you’d snapped at her.

“Stop acting like you weren’t family to him. He’d hate that.” You’d all but glared at her. “After everything he—”

Thankfully, you’d stopped yourself in time.

Not in time for her eyes not to brim with tears, or for her bottom lip to not quiver. But in time to take a sharp, deep breath in… and exhale it slowly before hugging her, eyes clenched shut while forbidding her to apologize as you did instead.

It hasn’t been warm. It hadn’t been gentle or kind.

But it had been remorseful and tightly laced with regret.

So now, she’s home with Max. Safe and sound, away from the eyes of people who ask too many fucking questions.

And right now, Joyce Byers has both her hands around your bicep, fingers digging in… not painfully, but with purpose. Like she’s holding on for both your sakes. Jonathan stands on your other side, solid and tall, while Will is tucked in beside him.

None of them speak. None of them need to.

They’re all dressed in black, just like you.

Just like everyone else in the room.

And across the aisle, every one of your friends is lined up in a jagged formation of worry. Mike and Nancy stand stiffly beside Karen and Ted, who look just as hollowed out as the pews behind them. Lucas and Erica are flanked by their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, both subdued in the kind of way that comes when you’ve got kids who are too young to carry this much trauma but too old to be shielded from it anymore.

Dustin is gripping his mom’s hand so tightly, her knuckles are white. She’s crying openly, unlike you. You haven’t cried at all.

And then there’s Steve. Steve and his parents.

His mother, polished and blank-eyed. His father, checking his watch. Both of them are completely oblivious to the fact that their only son, their boy, standing between them… has never once left your side since the moment this all came crashing down. That he’s spent every waking hour doing anything that he can to keep everyone else from falling apart, especially you. That he’s spent night after night inside of your bedroom, stayed at the cabin, refusing to let you sleep alone, or just staying on the couch with you as you stare at the TV playing with reruns of Miami Vice.

Robin is next to him now, her parents right behind her. Her mouth’s pressed into a thin line, her green eyes raw with concern. She keeps glancing between you and Steve, like she’s trying to send you and him psychic encouragement, or maybe just keep herself grounded by knowing he’s standing there.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you. Not once.

But none of them are close enough. None of them are holding your arm like Joyce is right now. None of them are standing in the center of it with you, right beside the closed casket that holds nothing.

Because that’s what’s left of your father.

And you’re here: the last standing Hopper.

“…the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”

The preacher’s voice drones on, praying over you before going into something about integrity and public service and how Chief Hopper kept all of Hawkins safe for decades. Like this was some quiet, noble death. Like this wasn’t all tied up in the kinds of horrors no one in this room would dare to believe, even if you screamed the truth into their faces.

You haven’t screamed. You haven’t spoken. Not really.

You’ve nodded. You’ve accepted condolences. You’ve sat through silence. You’ve allowed El to fall asleep curled up next to you, night after night, without ever saying aloud that you’re not okay, letting the need for sleep become a forgotten afterthought. You’ve answered questions with empty expressions. You’ve let Murray Bauman barge into Steve’s house, insisting on cooking meals you don’t eat. You’ve let Joyce tuck you into bed like a child. And you’ve let the grief wrap around your brain like static. Like a fog machine that never turns off.

No one’s forced you to do more than survive.

That’s the one small mercy.

And it’s only because you’re eighteen. Barely. Just young enough not to be sent back to a mother who left you years ago. Just old enough, just legal enough, to not be anyone’s problem, even though clearly you are. Even though everyone in this room is looking at you like you might collapse under the weight of a single gust of wind, and almost seem disappointed that you’re not outwardly falling apart.

Joyce hasn’t moved. She’s still clutching your arm.

Jonathan and Will haven’t either.

You don’t remember anything the preacher says, really. You just keep watching the casket. Closed. Wooden. Shiny and wrong. Your father should’ve had a Viking funeral, something on fire, something primal. Or a freaking cremation in Scotland, lit up with scotch. Not this.

Goddamnit, not this.

And there are too many people. So many you don’t even know. So many you do, in the way that small towns make everything intimate, even when you wish that they wouldn’t. Cops. Firemen. Grocery clerks. PTA moms. Teachers. People your dad arrested. People your dad protected. People who never liked him, but showed up anyway, probably because someone told them they should.

Eventually, the service ends. The preacher says amen.

The casket doesn’t move. But people begin to line up. People who want to shake your hand and say they’re sorry for your loss and tell you that he was a great man.

You stand perfectly still.

Mike is the first to approach. His hands are trembling. He pulls you into a hug and doesn’t say anything. And then Nancy, soft-voiced and uncharacteristically shaky. Then Lucas, who hugs you like he’s afraid that you’ll disappear, and Erica, who hugs you like she dares you to disappear. And then Dustin, crying again, whispering something you can’t hear because his face is buried in your shoulder.

Their parents follow. Karen’s face is splotchy from tears, while Ted is pale in dulled surprise. Claudia Henderson clutches both your hands. Mr. Sinclair mutters something gentle. Mrs. Sinclair offers you tissues you don’t need but nod at her for… letting that be your sign of thanks for the offer.

The Buckleys eventually reach you. Robin hugs you with both arms, hard, and her parents offer their names like it matters, and maybe it does, but you’re too far under the surface to reply. Their aloofness still seems intact, which subconsciously justifies your not engaging much with any verbal conversation.

And then it’s Steve’s turn.

He walks up beside his parents, tall and handsome and haunted, his big brown eyes locked on yours with such brutal softness you almost forget how to stand. The Harrington’s have that effect on people. Your dad used to clock that, any time Dane would walk into a town hall meeting and make everyone suddenly feel small, or when his trophy wife Verena would walk out of the nicer dining establishment after a “spontaneous lunch.”

His mom says something polite to you.

His dad doesn’t say much at all.

But Steve engulfs you.

He hugs you like it’s the last thing holding him together. Like he is trying to fix something without letting it show. Like he wants to say so much, everything, but all that he can do is hold you. His cheek rests against your temple and you close your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what real contact feels like.

And then he lets go. Too soon, always too soon. Steve’s parents tug him gently away, and you watch him leave as your gut and stomach both threaten to bottom out. But you don’t show that, don’t overreact.

You don’t call after him. All you do is stare.

You stare at him as though you can see straight through the version of him he shows the world, and he looks back at you like he wishes that were enough.

More people come. More people go.

And eventually, after the viewing, without warning, you slip away.

No one stops you. You don’t even walk fast, just move with wordless intention, with numb silence, like a ghost leaving the room she never wanted to haunt.

You find an elevator at the end of a hallway. The old kind with bronze doors and a button that sticks. You press it once. Maybe. Or maybe it was already coming.

Either way, you step inside. Alone.

Fatherless and alone.

The tall doors close with a soft metal sigh as you lean back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted just enough to watch the numbers change.

You don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t do anything except exist in that little metal box, suspended in silence, letting gravity do what it always does.

Pulling you down.

Down.

…but then the doors open again.

Softly, no sound except the subtle click of release and the breath of air conditioning rushing in like a sigh, stirred by movement.

You don’t look up right away. Not until you feel the shift in pressure. Something warm, something familiar, entering the elevator with care. Then you lift your gaze just in time to see someone step inside.

Steve.

He’s alone now, too. No parents, no voices, no expensive black coats or passing friends or strangers pretending to know you more than they actually do. No looming crowd or flurry of adults talking over his shoulder, no worried glances from your friends down.

No Robin. No Dustin. No Mike, Will or Lucas.

No Nancy or Jonathan.

Just Steve Harrington, stepping into the elevator like it was always meant for him. And you actually see him now, more than you had earlier as everyone paid their respects. His signature hair is less styled than usual, but somehow still perfect. Thick and soft, his chestnut waves a little windblown, like he’s been outside longer than he should have been, or like maybe he couldn’t stand the stale air inside the funeral home any longer. His mournful attire fits him in that uniquely Steve Harrington way. Casual but sharp, nothing showy, nothing stiff. A sleek black button-up tucked into charcoal slacks with a belt, sleeves rolled once at the subtly veiny forearms of his lightly sunkissed skin. No tie, with the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

He looks as though he couldn’t stomach anything too formal today. Like he needed to feel like himself.

And yet he’s never looked more grown, more beautiful, than he does right now. Somehow a boy and a man, all at once. Still only nineteen. Still not really equipped for grief, but already carrying so much of it on his shoulders.

Just like you.

His expression is unreadable, except for how open and glossy and dark his eyes are. His mouth is set. Gentle with intent. There’s no hesitation in his steps. No panic. No fear.

And he doesn’t let his gaze linger for too long before he turns to the panel of buttons instead.

You watch him.

Quietly.

Blinking.

Breathing…

“You. Breathing.”

The memory of him saying this to you, pleading this to you, comes rushing in now, watching him reach for the circled numbers. You’d let Steve speak it into your mouth, let him weep it into your skin…

blip, blip, blip.

There’s a soft mechanical sound as he presses one of the top floors now. Not the one the elevator had already started drifting toward, but another one. Not down but higher.

Because that's what Steve does. He lifts you up when your spirit tries to pull you down, when life gets too heavy and feeling is too much for you to bear, unless it’s with him.

Last time you two were in an elevator, just last week, you’d wound up plunging down towards the very bottom. But not this time. This time, the destination is decided. And Steve decided that it’s going up.

He does something else then. You’re not entirely sure what, but his thumb moves over a small metal keyhole, pressing a combination. A few buttons light up briefly in sequence, then die out. The elevator doesn’t move yet. It stalls with a subtle shudder.

And once it does, Steve finally turns to face you.

You’re still leaning against the back wall, unmoving… but your eyes are steadily on him now. Distant, lost and still somehow seeing right into him instead of through him.

He crosses the space with a kind of careful reverence. Stopping right in front of you. Close. Not claustrophobic. Just enough to let the air shift around the two of you. He’s taller than you. The generous height difference between the two of you has never been more apparent than it is right now.

You don’t tip your chin up, but you don’t have to and nor does he let you. Because Steve lifts his hands slowly to gingerly cradle your face like you’re something delicate. Like you’re glass but warm.

Human and trembling.

Real and impossible.

“I need to feel like I’m not just built to burn things.”

That’s what you told him before. Back when this thing between the two of you had just barely gotten started. When this strange, passing ‘tell me what you need’ sort of binding contract that was wordlessly spoken into existence.

And Steve has made you feel that ever since.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes now.

It’s so quiet it’s not even a whisper. It’s the ghost of a voice. Like wind through a crack in the door.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

He kisses you then. Not the kind that breaks you open. Not the kind that tries to fix anything. Just featherlight on your lips. Barely there. Tender. Not in the way that kisses usually are. It’s more like he’s asking permission in real time, breath warm and mouth brushing.

Steve doesn’t say hello.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

His palms simply cradle your cheeks so delicately, so tenderly, that it barely counts as touch. Just warmth. Just presence. Just him, his thumbs moving slowly along the edges of your jawline, like he’s reminding himself that you’re here with his lips in yours.

“You—not gone.”

He kisses you again, just the corner of your mouth. Your cheek, then the other. Your brows. There’s a quiet tremble of air in the way that he exhales against your skin, comforting you and your safety in the silence when he’s near.

Your hands, loose by your sides, don’t rise just yet.

You’re still trying to remember how they work.

But your eyelids flutter, melting in his hold, embraced by Steve as he pulls back only a fraction to look at you through hooded eyes.

“What do you need, tell me,” he murmurs. Still with that voice. Like breath, like breeze against your face. “Tell me so I can do it, tell me.”

One of his hands slides to the back of your head, thumb brushing lightly just behind your ear… cradling you there. Holding you steady. Holding you like you’re something he’s terrified of dropping. Not because he thinks you’ll fall, because he knows you already are. The other stays at your jaw, his fingers resting in the hollow under it like he’s memorizing the way you’re put together. He’s looking into your eyes. Not trying to search for the answer. Just staying there. With you.

As if he knows you might not say anything at all.

As if that’s okay if you don’t.

But you do.

It takes a while. A long silence. But Steve’s large hands never leave you. And your fingers, at some point, curl into the belt loops of his pants, like they got there without your permission, because they’ve done that so many times before, and every time you’d swear to yourself that you’d never do it again.

It’s just enough to feel him breathing beneath your palms.

You’re looking at his waist now. Not his eyes. Your breath shudders. Not from crying. Not from anything so dramatic.

Just from being seen.

Then you let your gaze drift down to his chest, to the curve of his jaw. To the freckle on the left side of his neck. He smells like fresh linen and cinnamon gum and warmth and summer days shared together when everything seemed like it might all end up being alright, even if you knew better.

And finally, finally, you look at him.

The elevator hums around you both. Still suspended. Still quiet.

And you say, soft as his voice, “I need…”

You trail off.

Not because you don’t know, because it’s hard to explain.

But Steve waits.

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t move. And eventually, you breathe in deeply again, thinking through the weight of it as you exhale through your nose silently and slowly. Letting the words shape themselves inside your chest before they reach your mouth.

“I need everything to stay the same.”

His brows twitch. But he doesn’t interrupt.

“I need everyone to act like he’s still here,” you go on. “Like he just stepped out. Like he’s in the other room or getting snacks or waiting in the car. I need it to feel normal. I need you and me…”

Steve holds his breath, almost fearfully.

“…to still be you and me,” you continue. “Same as always. I need the kids to have a routine. I need us to have one. I need it to keep going. I need to not…” You swallow. “I need to not fall.”

Your fingers are still curled through his belt loops, loose but there. And you glance up at him through glossed-over, haunted eyes that drown in loss and pain and heartbreak that’s never been able to repair.

Steve is silent for another long moment. His mouth pulls inward, lips pursing… but then he gives you the smallest, most devastated smile you’ve ever seen.

He nods once. Twice, then again. Slow, and then smaller.

Like each nod is harder than the last, and yet like it’s the easiest yes in the world.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

And his lips part like he’s going to say something else, but he closes them again… before his throat bobs.

So instead, he leans in again. His kiss this time isn’t quite as light. It’s still gentle. Still careful. But fuller. Anchored. Steve kisses your lips again and again, his Cupid bow brushing your upper lip as though he’s planting something there. Rebuilding something, letting himself press into you with every ounce of breath he has, giving it all to you because you need it more than he does.

And now, this time, you kiss him back.

Weakly, maybe. Quietly. But not without strength. Because there’s something in it that’s steady. Something that reaches out instead of just receiving. It’s not passion. Not urgency.

It’s survival.

It’s Steve’s.

It’s yours.

It’s the act of living for your dad now.

You don’t close your eyes. You just let them flutter. Let yourself feel his breath, the way he exhales so slow, trying not to scare you.

He feels it, the way you’re drifting.

He feels how gravity is trying to take you again.

Which is why he chose to send the elevator up.

Not down.

Because he won’t let you fall.

He can’t let you fall.

So Steve presses his forehead to yours, still holding you gently like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered, nose brushing yours, eyes still shut, his arms now wrapping around you, and tells you in a whisper that’s barely audible, but one that’s decided something…

“We can stay here. You and me. For as long as you need.”

Somehow, he found the exact way to say it that doesn’t sound like a line, or a promise he can’t keep.

It’s just the truth.

You don’t even have to answer.

He already knows you’re not ready, and that’s okay.

You’re both in this little box. Floating. Stalled. Together.

And there’s nowhere else you’d rather be, other than in a world where your dad was never taken from you, or Sarah… or your belief in beautiful things never leaving once you’ve finally made yourself at home.

CHAPTER TEN

California Isn’t Real

You don’t expect it to start like this.

Because when you wake up that morning, still curled in beneath the soft plaid quilt Hopper always used to use for cold nights and worse moods, you’re in the cabin. Alone.

El’s not here right now. She’s at the Byers’ house.

You’d let her go over. Every time she asks, you let her go. And you always call her, and she always answers. Sometimes she wants you to come pick her up, and sometimes she stays.

Joyce makes her feel mothered in a way that you don’t know how to replicate.

Joyce knows how to hold a child. How to feed them without making it feel like a transaction.

How to tell a story without spinning a cautionary tale out of it.

El gets to be a kid there. With Will, and with Mike. With normal food and terrible TV and the full strength of a matriarch who survived hell and decided to live louder because of it.

So she stays for a few days, while you collect yourself.

And that means sometimes, you’re alone in the cabin not collecting yourself at all.

Steve comes over every day.

Most times, he doesn’t say anything right off the bat. Just takes his shoes off by the door then pads toward you slowly, like if he moves too fast he’ll break something and mess this whole thing up. But then finally, someone moves first. Usually it’s you. Sometimes, it’s himself. Steve touches you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still in your body. Kisses like he’s trying to convince you both that you still live in one. He never says the part about being afraid, not even when you cry so quietly that he starts silently crying too and pretends it’s from the cold. But you know better. You know damn well, Steve Harrington wakes up terrified that one day he won’t be enough to pull you out of your own head. That one day you’ll disappear inward and forget how to come back. That he’ll be just another thing you erase to keep the pain manageable.

So he makes it impossible.

He fucks you like he’s memorizing proof of you, like if he does this right, maybe you won’t forget him or cast him out.

And sometimes you go to his place, whenever El’s with Joyce. You hang out with Robin and the kids. Jonathan shows up. Murray brings over weird homemade dishes. You pretend to laugh while everyone else finds real ways to laugh like the world’s not ending anymore.

In group settings, you don’t fixate on Steve. He doesn’t fixate on you. But the second everyone leaves, your hands are in his hair and his mouth is on your neck, pulling at each other like the air’s running out.

That part you expect.

What you don’t expect is this phone call.

“Hey,” Steve says. Sharp, immediate.

You smile before you even register it. “Hey—”

“You home?”

His tone is tight. Clipped. Strained.

Your brow furrows. “Uh, yeah?”

“Good. I’m coming over.”

Click. He hangs up.

You just stare at the receiver like it insulted you.

And when he gets there? When you open the door and find him on your porch with his jaw clenched tight and his hands already halfway through a nervous gesture… you realize that this is a whole different kind of storm.

“This is about El, isn’t it?” you ask, the moment you sense it. “I talked to Joyce.”

Steve’s usually warm brown eyes blaze. Fire and fury.

“You talked to Joyce?” he parrots. “You talked to Joyce—that’s the part you’re starting with?”

You cross your arms.

You’re already tired, and you haven’t even made it to the part where you explain anything.

“She asked me what I thought,” you say.

“Yeah, and apparently what you thought,” Steve snaps, “was maybe you should just go with them. To fucking California.”

You blink. “That’s not—”

“She told Mike,” he cuts you off. “Eleven told Mike, and then he told everybody.”

You gape.

Son of bitch, you think, how does word travel this fast...

“...I didn’t know she told Mike—” you nearly sputter, voice rising.

“But you did know,” Steve cuts in again, undeterred, “that you weren’t gonna tell me?”

You blink again. “I was going to tell you.”

“When? After the U-Haul pulled out?”

“Jesus Christ, Steve—”

“No,” he barks, pacing now. “No, because this—this—you were just gonna leave.”

“No, I wasn’t,” you say, firm now, tracking him. “I’m not. Steve, I’m not going anywhere.”

But he doesn’t stop pacing.

Doesn’t stop moving, like if he stands still he’ll actually feel what he’s terrified of feeling.

You take a breath and try again. “Joyce asked me if I’d consider it. If I thought El might need that. And she wanted me to feel okay, too. She didn’t wanna make me feel like she was just trying to take her from me, Steve.”

“She wouldn’t have to,” he snaps bitterly. “You were already packing.”

“No, I wasn’t,” you damn near laugh now, exasperated.

Your frustration is on edge, and if it weren’t literally Steve across from you right now, you would have already flown way off the handle and kicked the person out.

But you don’t. Because it is Steve.

So instead, you huff out whatever irritation wants to shriek its way out and step towards him.

“Steve,” you speak more evenly now. “I never said yes. I never even considered going. I just… El needs stability. She needs a mother.”

“I know,” Steve mutters, still pacing, but not as hostile. Now he feels guilty for not validating that, despite his frazzled aggravation. You can hear it.

“…El needs to live in a house that doesn’t creak with grief every time the wind blows,” you continued carefully. “I’m trying to do right by her.”

“I know, Hop. Trust me, I’m—” he cuts himself off, still pacing while dragging a hand through his hair as he looks at his shoes that keep traipsing the length of the cabin's wooden floor. He sighs heavily. “I know she needs that, I do. She does.”

“Which is why I’m sending her,” you nod, staring hard at him while standing perfectly still. The exact opposite of what he’s doing. “I’m sending her somewhere safe. Somewhere stable. Where she can actually be a regular kid, just like dad wanted.”

“She can’t be without you,” Steve interjects quickly, locking eyes with you urgently as he keeps treading a moat into the floor. “El needs you. Your dad wanted you to be a family. Together.”

“And we are,” you manage, not letting that make you cry. You’re too tired at this point, honestly. “Which is why she’ll come visit me on weekends, once a month. No less. Or I’ll go visit her, but really, she deserves to see the kids too. Mike’s already lost her enough. Max needs a friend more than ever now that Billy just got slaughtered in front of her. And Dustin’s not gonna stay focused on school if he’s too busy missing both Will and her.”

Steve finally stops fucking moving.

He stops dead in his tracks, looking at you as if your words are finally sticking. He’s silent. Staring.

And you stare right back, lifting an eyebrow.

Steve squints. “You’re not going?”

“I’m not fucking going.”

More silence.

More staring from Steve. He doesn't blink.

And it makes your hands twitch, so you keep talking.

“I’m gonna keep working that boring job until I figure out something else. I’m gonna keep taking the kids to school. With you. Keep on listening to Murray rant, and helping Robin pretend she’s not in love with Vickie while you support all her lesbian dreams, and I’m gonna live right here. Inside this cabin that Dad’s gonna haunt the rest of my life, so yeah. I’m staying right here.”

Steve’s lips part, processing everything as if he’s got twenty-two tabs open.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

…yeah, no. It still doesn’t land. Jesus, you can see it not landing.

Because Steve’s staring at you like he’s trying to find the trap door in the words. Like he doesn’t trust them to stay still. Like he’s waiting for a punchline that’s going to wreck him. So you will yourself not to roll your eyes, not let yourself huff, and not throw your hands up in the air from sheer exhaustion and bewilderment that he thinks you’d ever just disappear in the night without a trace. As if you’d ever even think about moving off to some west coast hippie city where dreams are scams and heartbreak is currency.

You’ve got more than enough where that came from.

“Harrington,” you try carefully.

…he’s still just staring.

Great.

You inhale deeply, and then exhale just as deeply through your nose. Resetting. Just like your dad always did, and how he taught you to do it. Because you got your shirt fuse from him, so he had to help you navigate through it better than he did himself.

You take a tiny step forward. “Steve.”

He opens his mouth to speak. But he doesn’t. And so you do what you both always do best.

You ask.

“Tell me what you need,” you say softly.

His surprised, barked laugh breaks and cracks like a dry leaf. “I have no damn clue, Hopper. I’m trying to figure that one out.”

That makes you smile.

Because that’s Steve.

Because now he’s not hiding from you.

He doesn’t ever hide it from you when you’re both naked.

Not when his jaw is slack as you tug on his hair and let him shudder out confessions that make their way off his tongue as he swirls it with yours, or when he’s smearing it into your eardrum as he lathers and nips at your earlobe.

Not when your bare chest is beneath his hands, pressed against his own, swallowed by him.

But he’s not naked right now, and neither are you. And maybe that’s why he’s hiding behind a facade. Behind this barely concealed anger and pain and rage that’s now bubbled to the surface, and wants to provide him a mask to help conceal all that his heart wants to say. Because that’s what he does.

Because sometimes hiding is the most honest thing that Steve’s got.

“It’s just—everything’s changing.”

Oh great, he’s pacing again.

And rambling.

“The Byers are going. El’s going with them. That’s just…what the fuck, and the kids—? They’re in high school. Like actual high school. Starting next month, like I don’t even remember what I did in high school. I think I blacked out for four years.”

You laugh, quietly. “Same.”

“And now you—God, you could leave. And it makes sense. That’s what really messed me up. It made sense.” He chuckles bitterly, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head at no one. Another thought crosses his mind, pulling his hand away from where it’s gripping his locks so that he can gesture. “And what if you go next year, y’know? What if you get tired of Hawkins, of me, of this—”

“Steve.”

“—and then Robin’s gone, Nancy’s gone, some point all the kids will be gone, and I’m still here, like some dumb ghost that doesn’t know he’s dead—”

“Steve.”

He finally stops as you march up to him, eyes locked on his. You’re reaching for his belt and begin to undo it before he can even glance down.

Steve blinks. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer, just dragging the belt out from his belt loops and tossing it aside.

“Hey,” he blinks, hands raised, half questioning and half prematurely surrendering. “Hey, Hop, hey—what’re you—?”

“Giving you what you need, Steve.”

Your eyes fiercely look into his, while your fingers begin to unfasten his jeans.

Steve’s eyes dart across your face, but he doesn’t stop you.

Because as you tuck your loose hair behind your ears, he’s realizing that you’re not teasing him. You’re not trying to provoke anything.

You’re giving.

You’re handing yourself over, entirely.

No conditions. No returns.

“Just take what you need, Steve.” Ziiiip. The zipper parts. “For once, without asking. Just let me give it to you.”

Just take.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows, hard. His dark eyes flicker down for just a second, then flick right back at yours like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he looks away too long. Your fingers have continued moving with quiet precision throughout each step. Unhooking the button, undoing the zipper, slow and sure… like you’re dismantling something sacred. Not his clothes. Not his body.

His fears.

Steve jolts, slightly by sudden, as your hand slips beneath the denim. Instinctive, almost panicked, even though he doesn’t push you away. Doesn’t say no. But he does speak, because he always speaks when he doesn’t know what to do with the way he feels.

“Hey—hey, what are you—”

“Safe word is mercy.”

He gapes. Tries to speak, voice cracking.

But he doesn’t use the safe word.

He doesn’t give himself the literal mercy of its use. But you also don’t give him the safety of words. You stay close, breath on his cheek. Fingers curled around the softest, most undone part of him… even though he’s already hard.

And he’s flushed to the root and trembling, helpless to stop the way he shudders against you.

“I can’t—I don’t—fuck, baby, wait—your dad—he’s gonna kill me—”

He almost yells it, except halfway through it catches on the thick heat building inside his throat and turns into a strangled moan, a garbled half-laugh, like his own body’s betraying him even as he tries to stay upright.

“…oh yeah, he’d kill you,” you murmur against him, tears brimming behind your smile.

Steve shudders.

“Shhhh, I got you now,” you whisper. But not to quiet him. You want to hear him. All of it. So you say it like a lullaby, like you’re soothing something wild in him, something that’s not used to being cared for this gently, this fiercely. “Yeah, dad’s gonna kill you...”

His back hits the wall, and you crowd him there. Your body lines up with his, holding him steady with one hand on his hip as your other hand works against his hardened gift below the belt. Slow, then fast, then slow again… each movement shaped around him like a prayer.

“…Guess he’ll just have to kill me, too,” you say, low and husky and raw, your eyes on him as you press your thumb to his leaking tip.

Steve groans, forehead thudding against yours, his jaw slack, breath ragged, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t do this if you—if you’re just—” His eyes clench shut, shaking his head against yours, “—fuck, it’s not fair when you look at me like that—”

But you’re not breaking eye contact. Not for anything.

You want him to see. To know. To feel everything.

Even as you look soft.

Even as tears blur your vision.

And all the while, Steve can’t stop trying to talk, like maybe if he just keeps speaking, maybe he can keep some part of himself hidden, some sliver of composure intact.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

He says it like a warning, like a promise, like he’s already ruined and still wants more.

But all you do is lean in, lips at the shell of his ear with your tongue barely grazing his skin before your teeth nip at his earlobe. Your hand inside his jeans never falters. If anything, you move even more deliberately now, every flick of your wrist perfectly attuned to him and the way that his thick cock twitches in your grasp.

“You’re. Y-you.”

He stammers, hips rolling slightly as his pelvis arches into your hold. And when you tilt your head at him with that smile? The smile that makes him feel as though he’s some sort of precious cargo being delivered to your doorstep, as if he’s some sort of gift on this earth? It’s why he can’t get any more words out. Can’t finish what’d started to say, when saying ‘you’re, y-you.’

Because that smile you give him just lets your lips soften around your words as you murmur, “…you’re beautiful, Steve Harrington.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment the tension inside him snaps.

He chokes on a sob, a laugh, a moan all at once. Eyes squeezed shut, his head thrown back against the wall. The sound he makes is wrecked and gorgeous as your hand strokes him with fervency.

Your other hand comes up to your mouth, and you slick it with spit before replacing your other hand with it. His hips jerk, stuttering against your wet palm as it slides up and down his thick girth cruelly. Sensationally.

It earns the most ugly, beautiful, primal sound from his lips before it abruptly cuts off as your tongue slips into his ear, causing him to sharply gasp, mouth wide open but unable to form a single word. Steve has to keep his eyes scrunched shut as he fists the back of your shirt between your shoulder blades, while his other hand firmly grips your ass now as he feels your arm shifting against the front of his Henley that covers his chest.

“That’s it, take it baby,” you hum into his ear, lapping your tongue around the shell. Then in a wet whisper, you add, “Jus’keep taking and taking and taking...”

“Fuck,” Steve rasps, nearly growling as his body rocks against yours. His eyes are rolled so far back into his head that having his eyes open would do him no good, and his pelvis isn’t able to stop rolling against your hand as he bucks up into your hold.

You rush nothing.

Both of you stay like this for an amount of time Steve almost never allows himself when he’s the one receiving.

The one being given versus giving.

And he lets himself sensationalize it and feel every wave of bliss that threatens to orgasm against his burning need for you to keep going.

But eventually your pace picks up speed, feeling him losing it. He’s really losing the fight to keep from bursting, and you know it. You can feel him beginning to climax as he writhes and clings to it…

And then he’s coming with a full-body tremble, chest heaving, and he attempts to silence it by tucking his face into yours, but you duck so that you're biting at his neck and making him cry out into the room with his jaw slack and mouth wide open around the sound.

Thick, hot creamy ropes of his cum splash against your hand inside of his jeans. And you hold him up when his knees go, catching him like you’ve always been meant to. Your other arm circles around him, your hand gripping the back of his neck while he just slumps forward into you, barely holding himself together.

And finally, finally, you kiss him.

Steady, firm, heavy with heart.

You kiss Steve like you’re anchoring him back to the earth, like his whole world just tilted and only you know where the ground is. He whimpers into your mouth, his arms curling around you like you’re the only thing left standing between him and complete collapse.

He tries to say something. Anything.

But all that comes out are pieces.

Bits of broken syllables and breathless hiccups.

So you kiss him again. And again. Swallowing every half-word, every ruined plea, every little echo of that final sound he made when he let himself go completely, because of you.

Because you loved him enough to give him that.

No questions. No pride. No fear.

Just love.

Right there in the palm of your hand.

Even if you don’t speak it out loud.

“Wh—wait, I… baby, I can’t…”

Steve’s mouth is still parted beneath yours.

Still breathless. Still stammering.

“…what are—what’re you—doing to me—”

Each word is a gasp caught on the back of his tongue. And you catch them before they can fully form, kissing them away like secrets. The ones he never had to say out loud.

You look deep into his eyes as your fingers lift at his shirt, peeling it upwards from the hem until it’s off.

And he's letting you.

Steve is very willingly letting you, despite the fact that his mouth is now open in shock and confusion, brain short-circuiting all over again as he still rides the last high.

He exhales brokenly against your mouth. “You—Jesus Christ, you don’t understand, I’m not gonna survive this, I—”

“Please Steve, I need this...”

“Wait, wha—hey. Need what. Hey, wait. W-what do you need—?”

“This,” you sigh.

Your lips trail down. His jaw. His throat. The soft underside of it that makes him twitch and arch, like your mouth is flame and he’s all dry leaves. You follow the line of him, down past his collarbone, past the hollow of his ribs. He tastes like sweat and summer. Poolwater and sunscreen, sweet with want and something deeper. Something hot and human and trembling under your tongue.

“…this,” you sigh the word again, intoxicated as you gaze up at him through your lashes…

His brows knit. “I meant you. Hop, you, not me, Hop—”

“I need to feel you feeling this much,” you whisper against his skin, just below his navel. “I need to know you can.”

Steve just…

God, Steve just freezes.

His mouth hangs open again, but nothing comes out except this tiny, croaked and stunned…

“...Oh.”

Like he didn’t think you could mean that.

Like no one ever has.

But you do. God, you do.

As you pull his jeans down further, as you free him completely, you want every inch of him. Not for possession, not for conquest, but for closeness. To give him back to himself in the most vulnerable, raw, exquisite, helpless way.

He’s already too sensitive, too spent, but your mouth?

God, your mouth.

It’s not just pleasure. Not even close.

It’s love.

It’s full-blown love. Unwavering, unconditional, unrelenting.

Even if neither of you says it.

Even if the word hangs unsaid, unneeded, suspended in the air like a shared hallucination.

You take his overwhelming length into your mouth like it’s instinct… reverent and hungry and impossibly gentle, all at once, and his whole body jolts like he’s short-circuiting.

“Ah—oh my fffffucking hell—” Steve grits out, hips twitching like he’s trying not to move but can’t stop it.

Your hands are on his bare thighs now, grounding him, keeping him steady as his fingers dig and fist into your hair and then flail wildly for something. Anything to hold onto. He knocks over a couch cushion, clutches at the edge of the armrest, then ends up just gripping the hem of his own damn shirt like a lifeline along with your hair.

“Shitshitshit, babe, you’re gonna—you’re actually gonna kill me,” he babbles, the words all melting together now. “You’re not—you’re not even a—a person, you’re an angel, the devil, a witch, what the fuck, Hop, what… w-what do you want from me—please, tell me—”

But you don’t answer.

You just keep going.

Keep giving.

And he’s unraveling. Whimpering, then cursing, then laughing like he doesn’t know whether to cry or scream. Steve’s head thumps back against the wall and he stares down at you like he’s afraid to blink.

“Please,” he begs, “please, just tell me what you want—fuck, what do you want from me, Hop, baby—”

He’s shaking now, violently, his breath hitching, sobs nearly breaking through as he chants the word over and over please, please, please, but your hands just hold him steady while your mouth never stops moving with him, never stops giving, never stops loving.

You moan and drool around him like it’s quenching years of thirst.

And whenever Steve finally comes again, it’s with the sort of noise that splits the air in half. Raw. Shattering. Beautiful. His thighs seize, his large hands fisting in your hair. And he watches you.

Steve forces himself to watch you, as you swallow all of it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And then he collapses.

Just folds, slumps back against the couch, one arm flopped over his eyes, chest rising like he’s just been dragged out of a warzone.

You crawl up beside him and lie there quietly, your hand still resting on his bare stomach, against his toned abs. He twitches under it like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or morbidly beg for mercy after it’s already been done. The overstimulation ripples through him for a long time in euphorically blissed out waves, and you let it while the most surreal sort of adoration courses through your veins with lovesick satisfaction.

After a long, long moment… he barely mutters…

“…think I saw God.”

You smirk against his shoulder. “Was he impressed?”

Steve turns his head. Blinks at you.

“You’re not allowed to be funny right now,” he says hoarsely, but it’s already cracking into a grin. “Christ, Hop, you just—I just—”

“Yeah, Harrington, you did.”

You’re grinning so brightly at him, you’d think you hadn’t just lost your father for all of a few seconds. He groans, flopping his other arm over his face now.

“Knew I shouldn’t have gone off what Mike said...”

You snort. “Yeah, honestly Harrington? Not your best move.”

Steve huffs. “Well after this, we can never look at any of those shits in the face again.”

You laugh softly. “Good thing we’re out here in the woods.”

“Yeah, for now,” he mutters. “Until Mike Wheeler goes full Dracula and writes it in his damn diary and it spreads through the party like a goddamn virus. Oh wait, kidding. Already happened.”

You blink. “Wait. So everyone else already knows?”

Steve lifts his arm and glares at you.

“…You didn’t even make it a day, Hop.”

“I didn’t tell him! Or even mention my going.”

“So it really was just based on how he took what El said?” he frowns.

You nod sheepishly.

He groans loudly, hands to his face. “Oh, come on, dude. I haven’t even fully processed the whole ‘you gave me a spiritual awakening with your mouth’ thing. Now I gotta emotionally prep for Robin giving me a thumbs up next week at lunch.”

You chuckled deeply, fond and head over heels for him. “Thumbs up for what we just did, or…?”

“No, for my Freudian slip-up. I’m still processing what we just did.”

“Babe,” you snorted. “You already told Robin…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Steve pouts, grimacing at himself. “Don’t really know why. Nothing she could do about it other than whine with me.”

“You say that like you don’t love her approval.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “That’s not the point.”

You bite your lip, your eyes tracing his features.

There’s a beat. The two of you are quiet.

Then Steve turns to you. And he finds you smiling at him, warm and tender and terrifyingly open. All for him. Just for him.

…Jesus, he wonders. Have you always looked at him like that?

Your fingers trace his bicep, cheek nestled into the crook of your arm, lips ghosting over his bicep as you gently grin up at him through your lashes. Your gaze is almost timid, yet teasing.

“You ever think you could do that?” you asked, murmured against the crook of your arm, your breath fanning over his bicep. “Feel good twice, back to back, 'til you see stars?”

He sighs. Then he speaks again, and his voice is softer.

Less shaky, more him.

“I think I can do anything,” he murmurs. “If you’re near me.”

You stare at him.

And suddenly, he panics again. “I didn’t mean—fuck, that sounds so codependent—”

“No, hey. Steve.”

You stop him with a hand pressed to his chest. Right over his heart.

“It sounds real,” you murmur. “That’s real. S’alright, it’s… mutual.”

He breathes, his eyes never leaving yours. And then, so quietly you almost don’t catch it, he confesses out loud… whether it's by mistake or intentionally…

“I really don’t think I can live in a different city than you.”

Or state.

Or country.

Or lifetime.

Your eyes sparkle as you stare back at him, a smile sweeping across your face. “Good. I don’t wanna.”

He keeps staring at you, as if hoping you might say more.

So you do. “Where I go, you go.”

Steve’s big doe eyes gaze into yours, and now there’s a smile behind them. A sad one, a tragic one. But a relieved one nevertheless.

Even if this thing between you never changes into more.

Even if it never has a name or label or any orthodox definition.

Right now, you just stay there beside him, tucked inside the couch at your dad’s cabin, the shadows still warm with grief and healing and everything in between. You don’t move.

And Steve? He doesn’t ask you to.

But he lets himself need it. Just this once.

Just forever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Hanging On, Letting Go

LATE 1985

The BMW coughed once before the engine evened out. Steve Harrington was on edge, but in that restless, jittery way that wasn’t bad — not bad at all. It was the sort of nervousness you get when you’re on your way to something you wanted. Something you missed.

You.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel at the red light, checked the clock again, and cursed under his breath. He’d left early on purpose. Didn’t matter. Time was crawling. You’d been in California for the last five days, and it might as well have been five weeks. Keith hadn’t granted him the time off again, unlike last month when traveling out there with you. He’d already gotten a raise, which was honestly a big surprise. Because Keith wasn’t the giving type, plus him and Robin were barely four months into working there now. So the raise almost felt too good to be true.

Which, it was.

Because it’s exactly what Keith used against him when declining the time off.

Steve was pissed. You weren’t, though. Of course, you were disappointed, but not with Steve. He needed the money so that he could eventually get the hell out of his parent’s house and add it to his secret hush money in his savings account.

“Trust me,” you’d told him last week, while packing your duffel. “All we’re gonna be doing is whatever form of sister bonding time El’s got in mind, and I’m gonna cook all week so that Joyce can get a damn break.”

“Yeah, and I should be there helping,” Steve had moped, tossing you the travel sized bottles of toiletries that he’d now successfully packaged into a thick ziploc.

“You are helping,” you smirked at him warmly. “Literally, you’re double-ziplocking every single one of my liquids and going full blown Mr. Mom on me with this damn carry-on.”

“Umm, yeah? You’re welcome?”

“You’re also dropping me off, and picking me up.”

“That’s the bare minimum of best friendship,” he’d deadpanned.

Steve remembers the way that you’d slowly nodded at that, eyes on your duffel bag.

…friendship.

…best friendship.

You’d hummed, zipping up your duffel with mock flourish, flipping on a dime as you smugly grinned at him while leaning over the packed bag, resting on your forearms. “Don’t worry. I’ll be sure to bring you back a stupid little walk of fame souvenir, and make sure El calls you whenever she opens her gift from you and the kids.”

That finally earned a coy little smile from him.

The station never hesitated giving you a weekend off to go visit El. Or well, not El. “Jane.” That’s what she was named on paper, all thanks to your dad along with Sam Owens. No one ever hesitated to give you anything, given your dad’s passing.

Not that you ever asked for anything else. Ever.

Which only made Callahan and Powell want to help you more.

It gave Steve some peace of mind, knowing that you had them at work. Which honestly made him laugh, especially now, right as he drove past the movie theatre where he’d gone full asshole mode, back in ‘83, whenever he and Tommy H. and Carol had spray painted the display sign out front. Back when he was so miserably lonely and whipped for Nancy and bitter after finding Jonathan in her room… then chased down the alleyway by both Callahan and Powell.

He’d narrowly escaped that. And now, all he could do was be grateful that those two cops never gave him shit when seeing him hanging out with you. Like… ever.

That was likely all thanks to you.

And that thought alone made him softly smile to himself, snorting under his breath as he glanced at the rearview mirror, briefly watching the movie theatre get further away.

What a time to have been alive, Steve morbidly thinks to himself.

The gas station came up on the right, so he flicked the blinker, slid into the lot, and pulled up to the pump. Full tank. Couldn’t risk running late. He wanted to be standing right there when your flight came in, wanted to be the first face you saw when you walked out of the gate, wanted—

“God, Harrington.” He muttered it out loud, shaking his head with half a laugh. “You’re pathetic.”

Except he didn’t feel pathetic. He felt alive, given newfound purpose.

The nozzle clicked into place and he leaned against the car, watching the numbers tick higher. The spring air was sharp but sweet, carrying the faint scent of gasoline, fried food from the diner across the lot, and the steady hum of Hawkins’ nothingness. He tugged a hand through his hair, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

That’s when a faded blue Corolla pulled into the pump across from him.

And that’s when Nancy Wheeler stepped out.

She hadn’t expected to see him. Also, she was tired. She’d been tired for weeks now, with journalism deadlines stacking and Jonathan’s calls getting shorter and shorter, his voice distant even through the crackle of the line. She’d convinced herself it was fine — that distance was distance, nothing more.

But seeing Steve now?

It hit like a gut punch.

Because he looked… good. Not just good, but different. Steady. Confident in this quiet, unshowy way she didn’t remember from before. The polo was tucked, his forearms tan, his hair a little longer than it used to be, catching the sunlight. Or maybe just less styled. He was smiling to himself, like he had a secret.

A secret that wasn’t her.

Nancy hated the flare of heat that crept up her throat.

“Steve.”

His head snapped up, and then he grinned. Not the charming, sweet grin that he used to save just for her, even after things had gone bad between them. No, this was genuine, easy, warm.

…platonic.

“Nance,” he said, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Hey. Wow. Uh—hey.”

They stood there for a beat too long, both pretending not to notice the hesitation.

Nancy forced a small smile, sliding her debit card into the machine. “On your way to work?”

“Nah, off today. Airport run.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Picking up Hopper.”

Her hand froze mid-motion. She pressed her lips together before she could stop herself. “Oh.”

It was ridiculous — it wasn’t like Nancy hadn’t seen you around with him, hadn’t clocked the way his eyes followed you, how protective he got, how it was just… different. Everyone saw it. Everyone.

Still, hearing it out loud was something else.

Nancy kept her tone neutral. “That’s nice.”

Steve tilted his head. “What about you? Work?”

She nodded, gripping the pump handle. “Hawkins Post. Deadline day.”

“Right, right. Chasing down the truth, huh?” His voice was light, teasing. But there was a flicker there, a flash of something more pointed.

Her jaw tensed. “Someone has to.”

Steve nodded slowly, glancing at the gasoline meter before offering her a small, kind smile. “You always were good at that,” he said easily. “Getting to the bottom of things. Regardless of anyone else not pulling their weight, or y’know. Dragging their feet.”

That was a bigger compliment than anything Nancy has received from Jonathan ever since she’d gotten this job. Maybe even since they’d been interns together last summer. Better yet? At all. Ever since they’d met and gotten close, back in ‘82.

Nancy now shuffled her feet, feeling herself flush, despite her heart feeling blue.

“Thanks, Steve,” she said quietly, giving him a tight smile and nod.

The conversation should’ve stayed there, should’ve died a quiet death underneath the buzz of the pumps and the squawk of a crow overhead or the passing cars. But it didn’t, even as they stood at separate gasoline pumps.

Because Nancy couldn’t stop glancing at him. At the way he shifted on his heels, restless, like he couldn’t wait to get moving. At the way his smile lingered every time he said your name.

Because Steve couldn’t stop noticing how sharp her tone had gone, how her eyes narrowed just a little too much when he’d mentioned you.

“You look good, Steve,” she said suddenly, almost too quickly, like she needed to get it out before she lost her nerve.

He blinked. “Thanks.” A pause. “So do you.”

But he didn’t linger on it. Steve didn’t fold into the compliment like he used to, back when a word from her could level him and make him feel more than anyone else ever could. He just smiled politely, checked the ticking numbers on the pump, and went back to waiting.

Nancy felt her stomach twist. “Been… busy?” she asked.

“Yeah. You know. Work. The kids.” He shrugged. “Keeping Hop above water.”

You again. Always you.

Always Hopper.

The name again, so casual on his tongue, like it belonged there. Like you belonged there, carrying on the name of a man who had died for all of you and hadn’t deserved it.

Just like Barb.

Nancy’s throat tightened. “You spend a lot of time together, huh?”

Steve raised a brow, caught the edge in her voice. He squinted, just barely. “Yeah. Especially given… you know, everything.”

After your dad died.

After your sanity went out the window.

After you were left lying about the way that he’d died.

…just like how Nancy had been left having to lie about how Barb died, and now had to face on her own, without Jonathan.

Just like she’d had to do without Steve.

…unlike you.

“Glad she’s got you,” Nancy said stiffly, boring a hole into the swiftly ticking numbers of her gas pump.

Steve’s eyes narrowed at her more now, regardless of his shade blocking the sun. He caught it. Her tone. Her underlying bitterness towards him, for not being there for her whenever Barb died. For not being the person that she could lean on, no matter what. For not being a better boyfriend to her.

It made guilt flood through Steve’s veins. But it didn’t erase the sharp flicker of defensiveness he felt. Not towards himself, but for you.

“Someone’s gotta be there for her,” he said flatly.

He watched Nancy nod curtly at that, humming once.

But she didn’t soften. At all. Not even a little bit. Because you weren’t even his girlfriend and yet somehow got treated like one anyway. At least compared to her, who barely got Steve to join her at Barb’s parents whenever they'd go over for dinner to help support them in their grief.

Now Steve supports your grief in every single fucking way.

With airport pickups and drop-off’s.

With bringing you food at the station, and doughnuts to the officers in mourning.

With picking up the kids, including Mike – her own brother, for God’s sake.

She exhaled deeply through her nose, all but glaring at the pump before yanking it out of her car to slap back into its holster.

Steve’s posture instantly tensed another several fractions, almost statuesque still with newly boiling rage. “Sorry, is that a problem?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes flashing. “Of course not.”

But it came too fast. Too sharp.

And they both knew it.

The silence that pressed in was heavy for a moment.

Steve finally swallowed, looking away. He hadn’t thought about Nancy like this in a long time. Honestly, he barely thought about her at all anymore, and it startled him to realize it. Once, she’d been the center of his world. Once, he’d have done anything for her, even when he wasn’t good at it.

And now?

Well, now he was standing at a Shell Station, itching to get to you, and realizing that he didn’t owe Nancy Wheeler a damn thing. Even if he’d fucked up in the past. Even if he’d been a shitty boyfriend, whenever it came down to Barb and being there for the loss of her.

Because unlike Nancy Wheeler, he wasn’t shitty in the fidelity department.

He hadn’t gone and fallen in love with someone else while they were together. He hadn’t gone off to solve mysteries with another girl, like she had, then slept with them while still in the “are we breaking up or not” phase of things, pre-actual-breakup.

No, unlike Nancy? Steve had actually waited. He’d waited until he knew that she was gone, and after he’d told her that it was okay. Then, and only then, had he gone over to your house to patch up his face then ended up in a tangled mess of naked limbs and desperate sex with you. Only then had he begun to move on and pursue whatever the hell it was that he shared with you, and never seemed to find with any of the other dates he’d gone on with girls a little while after that. Barely went on now.

But it still stung, seeing the hurt flicker across Nancy’s face.

“Look,” he said finally, softer, “I should get going. Her plane lands soon.”

Nancy nodded too quickly, blinking hard. “Sure. Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

She tried to smile, but it wavered.

He almost said something more. Almost. But then the pump clicked, his tank full, and the moment ended.

“See you around, Nance.”

And just like that, he was gone — sliding into the BMW, peeling out of the lot, the sunlight flashing against his windshield as he drove toward you.

Nancy stood at the pump for a long while, even after it clicked off. Then she sat in her car a minute longer, hands gripping the wheel. She didn’t cry at first. She bit it back, dug her nails into her palms, told herself she had no right. No right to cry.

But the tears came anyway, hot and angry, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.

Because she hadn’t wanted him anymore. Not really. She loved Jonathan. She did, she does. She swears that she does.

But now, seeing Steve Harrington like that… so steady, so sure, already halfway gone to someone else? Maybe all the way gone for someone else?

It gutted her.

Because she’d broken up with the boy who didn’t know how to be there for her.

And now, years later, he finally knew how.

Just not for her.

For you.

You got the young man he was becoming, and he didn’t even owe it to you.

Nancy wiped her eyes, restarted her car and pulled out of the station, telling herself it didn’t matter. That it didn’t change anything, it wasn’t anything she should feel upset about, and it was cruel to think this way when you were left fatherless and without a sister. The one you’d grown up with, and the one that you had taken in with Jim Hopper before he passed and you had to send her off to safety and rarely ever see.

But the hollow ache in her chest said otherwise.

🤍

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