I’d Find You | Steve Harrington
Summary: Steve Harrington survives the end of the world, but his memory doesn’t [8.1k]
Warnings: memory loss, angsty, insecure reader, fluff, a sobfest really
♡
The hospital room smells like antiseptic and the ghost of his cologne.
There’s a mug of coffee gone cold on the windowsill, wilting carnations Robin brought in, and your own shampoo clinging to the collar of his gown because you leaned over him for too long and cried into his shoulder.
The beeping is steady.
So is the rise and fall of his chest.
You sit curled in the hard plastic chair they shoved into the corner, one knee up to your chest, fingers worrying the hem of your sweatshirt until the threads fray. Your eyes burn—too many sleepless nights, too much crying—and the clock above the door ticks loud enough that it feels like it’s inside your skull.
You stare at him.
You never get tired of looking at Steve Harrington. Even like this.
His hair is flattened in places from the pillow, but still curls at the ends, brushing his forehead. A bandage wraps around the side of his head, white against warm skin. Purple bruises bloom along his jaw. Scratches arc down his throat like something tried to claw him back.
You swallow around the ache in your chest and reach for his hand—careful of the IV lines, careful of everything—and lace your fingers with his.
They fit the same as always.
You squeeze gently. “Hey,” you whisper. “It’s me.”
You bring his hand toward your lips, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.
“They say your scans look better,” you tell him quietly. “So that’s… that’s good. I know you probably don’t care about medical stuff, but I thought you’d like to know you’re still uh, still fighting.”
Your throat tightens.
You lean forward, foreheads nearly touching. “And you’re not getting out of putting together that stupid bookshelf, you know,” you murmur. “I’m not doing it by myself. You promised. So. Wake up.”
Your breath shakes as you let it out.
You don’t let go of his hand.
“Robin says she’s going to read to you later,” you add, sniffing softly, “but I told her if she picks anything other than a magazine you’re gonna wake up just to tell her to shut up.”
There’s no response—not a twitch, not a sigh—but the beeping stays steady, so you count it as a victory.
The door opens softly.
Robin steps inside, rubbing at tired eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her face is drawn, but she still musters a crooked half-smile.
“Hey,” she whispers. “Any change?”
You shake your head. “Just me talking his ear off.”
“Good,” she says, pulling a chair up on the opposite side of the bed. “Someone has to. He hates being left out of conversations.”
She tries to joke, but her voice cracks on it.
A moment later, Dustin appears in the doorway—hands shoved deep into his pockets, chin trembling before he swallows hard and steels himself. He comes to stand at Steve’s other side, staring down at him with wide, glassy eyes.
“Hey, Steve,” Dustin says, voice cracking and pretending it isn’t. He clears his throat. “I brought you the new issue of that car magazine you pretend you only read for the articles. Also, if you don’t wake up before I start explaining my next campaign to you, I’ll consider it a personal insult.”
Robin huffs a tiny laugh. You manage a small one, too.
It feels like a warm hand pressing over a wound—doesn’t fix anything, but keeps you from falling apart.
Dustin sits. Robin sits. You all watch him breathe.
The beeping stays steady.
The room stays quiet.
You keep holding his hand.
You keep waiting.
–
It’s two a.m when you feel his fingers twitch.
At first you think you imagined it—your eyes sting from exhaustion, and you’ve had too many false alarms, too many times you thought the monitors jumped because of something you did.
But then his brow pinches.
And his hand moves again.
“Steve?” You sit forward so fast the chair squeaks. “Steve—hey—can you hear me?”
Robin is on her feet instantly shouting for the doctor.
Dustin scrambles backward, “I’m gonna call the others.”
Your heart leaps into your throat.
His lashes flutter, jaw clenching around a grimace.
“Steve?” you whisper, terrified and hopeful at the same time. “I’m right here—just breathe, okay? Just—”
His eyes open.
Not all the way. Barely a squint. Hazel and unfocused, pupils blown wide. He stares at the ceiling first, then the bright light the doctor swings over him, then Robin and Dustin hovering anxiously at his sides.
And then…finally at you.
His gaze lands on your face.
You expect something, a smile, a blink of recognition, a sarcastic comment about how bad your hair must look at two in the morning.
Instead, his expression shifts into confusion. Deep. Sharp. Like you’re a puzzle piece he’s holding the wrong way.
“Wh—where…” His voice rasps, raw and hoarse. “What happened?”
The doctor steps in. “Mr. Harrington, you’re at Hawkins General. You’ve been unconscious for several days. You took a hard hit during the collapse of the chemical plant at the old Creel house.”
Chemical plant. The official government line.
Steve frowns like the word doesn’t match the picture in his head. “How long?” he asks.
“Ten days,” Robin says too quickly, trying to sound encouraging. “You—you scared the crap out of us, dingus.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a muffled cough.
Dr. Patel continues gently, “Steve, I need to ask you a few questions. Just to check how your brain is doing.”
He nods stiffly.
“What’s your full name?”
“Steven Harrington.”
“And your birthday?”
He answers.
“And the year?”
He hesitates. You see the panic begin to creep in around the edges of his expression.
“Uh… ‘86?” he guesses. “Summer? We just—we just dealt with—” His breath shakes. “Vec—” He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, correcting himself to fit the “earthquake” explanation he’s been given. “The, uh… the tremors, from the earthquake?”
Robin and Dustin trade looks.
Dr. Patel hums thoughtfully. “Steve, tell me the last thing you remember before waking up here.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes dart across the room, searching for something that isn’t there.
“I was talking to Nancy,” he finally says. “In the RV. We were… I don’t know. Catching up, I guess.” His voice softens in confusion. “She was scared. We all were. And then… then the ground started to shake. And… nothing.”
Your pulse pounds.
Because that was a year and half ago. Before he met you. Before your first apartment together and late-night confessions and soft I love yous whispered into your hair. Before everything you built with him.
The doctor finishes the test, as the door bursts open. Jonathan is first inside, breathless, eyes wide. “We came as soon as Dustin called.” Eddie and Nancy trailing behind him equally as breathless and relieved.
Eddie leans on the foot of the bed like his legs might give out. “Jesus H. Christ, dude—you scared the shit out of us.”
Steve blinks at all of them, overwhelmed.
“Could I speak with you all,” Dr. Patel says quietly, “out in the hall?”
Robin squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “We’ll be right back, okay?”
He nods, breaths coming uneven.
Dustin stays behind as Steve’s shakingly pleads, “Don’t—don’t leave me alone yet.”
Dr. Patel closes the door gently behind him. His expression is gentle, but serious. “Steve shows signs of retrograde amnesia,” he explains. “The memories leading up to his injury—months, possibly more than a year—are currently inaccessible.”
“Like… gone?” Eddie asks, eyes wide.
“Not gone,” the doctor corrects. “Think of memory as a file drawer. The files are there, but the drawer won’t open.”
“And when does it open?” Robin presses.
There’s a heavy silence.“It could be days,” the doctor says. “Or weeks. Or years. Or… never.”
Your lungs stop working.
“Can we… tell him?” Eddie asks, voice pitching higher. “Like, fill in the gaps? Show him photos, talk him through it?”
Dr. Patel shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says firmly. “Forcing memories can be damaging in cases like this. The brain is in a vulnerable state. If you bombard him with information, try to ‘make’ him remember, it can cause severe anxiety, confusion, even setbacks in his recovery.”
“And—and we’re supposed to just pretend he didn’t lose the last 18 months of his life?” Nancy whispers.
“Pretend? No. Avoid triggering details? Yes,” Dr. Patel says. “Keep him grounded in what he does remember. Familiar routines. Familiar places. Familiar people.”
Your heart splinters. Because you…you are none of those things to him anymore.
Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. “So uh… where’s he supposed to stay? ‘Cause he sure as hell can’t go back to the house he doesn’t remember living in.”
Jonathan nods toward you. “He was staying with—”
“No,” you interrupt immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “He can’t… he doesn’t know me. That would freak him out.”
Robin winces sympathetically.
Nancy adds, “And staying with me and Jonathan would confuse him even more. He doesn’t remember patching things up.”
“I’ll take him,” Eddie says without hesitation. “My place is basically a cave of familiar smells and poor hygiene. Should feel like home.”
It draws a strained, grateful laugh from the others.
You nod numbly, “Yeah. That’s… that’s good.”
The door opens again, Dustin peeking out, “He’s asking for you guys,” he says softly. “He’s… um… kinda scared.”
Steve is sitting up more, breathing hard like he’s trying not to panic.
His eyes scan each face—Dustin, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathan—landing on each with some level of recognition.
Then he looks at you. And his brows pull together in apologetic confusion.
“Um,” he says, voice hoarse, “sorry but… do I… know you?”
For a second, no one breathes. You force a small smile. Force your voice to work.
“I’m just… a friend,” you whisper. “One of the people who came to see you.”
His shoulders relax, but he still looks guilty. “Sorry. I’m just—everything’s blurry.”
You swallow the burn in your throat. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
–
The day Steve is discharged is strangely bright.
One of those Hawkins afternoons where the sun feels performative, like it’s trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. The hospital lobby hums with murmured conversations and the low squeal of wheelchairs against polished floors. Families gather with flowers and get-well balloons; nurses laugh at inside jokes you’re not part of.
You’re not there.
Instead, you stand in the middle of the apartment you once shared, drowning in the silence that used to feel comforting and now feels impossibly loud. It still smells like him—laundry detergent, cheap coffee, the cologne he always applies too generously in the morning because he insists it “fades by noon.” The couch cushions hold the shape of his favorite spot. His sneakers lie abandoned in the corner, one toe pointing toward the door like he left in a hurry. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair the same way it always does, never quite making it to the hook he installed and promptly stopped using.
On the fridge, the Polaroids watch you as you move. You, in his old Scoops hat, smiling like an idiot, while he flips off Eddie behind the camera. And the one Eddie took where Steve isn’t looking at the lens—just at you. Eyes crinkled. Mouth mid-laugh. A moment caught in the exact shape of adoration.
He doesn’t remember any of it.
You walk through the apartment like you’re trespassing in your own life, touching objects that feel suddenly foreign. You kneel beside the bed and pull out a duffel bag, spreading it open like a wound you’re trying not to look directly at.
T-shirts first. Sweatpants. Socks—even though he never matches them, insisting that the washing machine “eats the good pairs out of spite.”
Robin kneels beside an open duffel bag on the bed, her expression tight with concentration as you hand her his favorite mug with the stupid cartoon shark on it, wrapped carefully in an old sweatshirt you stole from him months ago. “This sucks,” she says conversationally, yanking a hanger free. “Like, in case you were wondering, this sucks. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.”
The cassette box sits by the stereo, full of tapes you made together—his messy handwriting, your neat labels. You pick it up gently, thumb brushing over the one marked simply: YOUR STUFF.
You snort weakly, “You don’t say.”
“You sure you don’t want to come to the discharge? We could go with Joyce and Hopper, then straight to the trailer. Like a whole welcome-home parade. Balloons, confetti, you bursting dramatically out of the cake.”
You make a face, “Absolutely not.”
She sobers, “Okay, but for real. You don’t have to hide.”
“I’m not hiding,” you lie. “I’m just… doing this instead. If he woke up and they told him he had to move back to a house he doesn’t remember packing for, that’s weird. At least this way when he gets there, he has his stuff. That’s… useful.”
“And you?” she presses softly. “What’s useful for you?”
You shrug one shoulder, eyes on the socks you’re shoving into the side pocket of the bag. “I’ll be fine.”
“You don’t have to be. Not with me.”
You blow out a shaky breath. “If I go,” you say quietly, “if I stand there and watch him walk out of that hospital and into… not our home… I’m gonna fall apart. And I really… really don’t want to do that in front of him.”
“Okay,” she accepts. “Then I’ll go. I’ll take this—” She gestures to the duffel. “I’ll say it’s from his parents’ place, or something. But now he’ll probably think I raided his underwear drawer.”
Meanwhile, Eddie guides Steve out of the hospital, one hand hovering near his elbow like he expects Steve to topple over at any moment. Steve insists he’s fine—“For the fifteenth time, Munson, I can walk”—but the stiffness in his movements betrays how exhausted he really is. “My parents aren’t here?” he asks, tone attempting casual but landing closer to wounded curiosity.
Eddie adjusts his grip on Steve's arm and shakes his head. “Business trip. Overseas. They got the messages, though. Said to tell you they’ll call once they’re back in the country.”
Steve nods in a way that tells Eddie he expected nothing else.
Eddie jogs ahead, swinging the van door open with an exaggerated bow “Your ride, sir.”
Steve rolls his eyes but can’t quite smother the smile. “Did the royal chariot break down?”
“This is the royal chariot,” Eddie retorts. “She’s got character.”
“She smells like Cheetos,” Steve says, hoisting himself up into the passenger seat, “And maybe… weed.”
When they pull up outside the trailer, Steve goes quiet. The place is the same and not. The cracks in the ground nearby have been filled, the damage patched badly. There are still scorch marks on the grass where things fell from the sky that “didn’t happen.”
The trailer is cluttered but clean. There’s a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink. A stack of tapes by the TV—some horror, some metal concerts, some romcoms Robin smuggled in “for balance.”
“That’s your room,” Eddie says, gesturing toward the small door off the hallway. “I mean, technically it’s my room and that’s technically my bed, but I’m feeling generous.”
Steve steps inside like he’s expecting the floor to shift under his feet. There are posters on the wall he half-remembers. A pile of laundry in the corner. The bat—the bat—leans against the wall, grip worn. He runs his fingers over the bedspread, the edge of the nightstand, the window frame. His head hurts. He sinks onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face.
Eddie watches him carefully. “You alright? You look like you swallowed a brick.”
“Just… trying to make it all match up,” Steve mutters. “Doc says about ‘one year,’ but it feels like someone ripped pages out of a book and kept the ending. I’m assuming we won. And that Vecna’s… gone. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what we did. Are the gates closed? I don’t know when Max…” He trails off, swallowing hard. “When did she wake up? How bad did it get? What did I… do?” There’s a jagged frustration under the questions. A helpless anger at his own brain.
Eddie sees it. Hears the edge in his voice. “That’s a story for another time, pal,” he says gently. “All you need to know is that Vecna is gone for good, Hawkins is still miserable, and all you need to worry about is your flat hair.”
Steve huffs out a startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. “That’s, like, three things.”
“I believe in your ability to multitask,” Eddie says.
Robin appears in the doorway, hair windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold. The duffel bag you packed hangs from her shoulder, heavier now with everything you folded so carefully. “Special delivery!” she announces, stepping inside with exaggerated flourish. “Straight from Casa Harrington.”
Steve brightens a little. “My parents’ place?”
“Yup,” Robin lies smoothly. “They, uh… left the key taped under the mat. Super secure. Very responsible.”
“Thanks,” he says, soft. “Really.”
Robin’s smile falters for a second—just a second—before she recovers. “Yeah, dingus. That’s what friends do.”
Eddie catches her eye. She gives the smallest shake of her head. Steve doesn’t see that either.
They spend the next twenty minutes unpacking shirts and socks and the hoodie he doesn’t remember buying. Robin chatters about mundane things—Joyce’s attempt at making bread that could double as a weapon, Lucas’s new videogame obsession, Dustin’s twelve-step plan to introduce Steve to every campaign he missed. Steve tries to laugh in the right places. He tries to feel grounded in the little stories of a life he doesn’t remember living. Still, every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the door.
To the empty space beyond it. To the missed presence he can’t name.
He doesn’t know who’s missing. He doesn’t know why.
He only knows that something important isn’t here— and that the absence feels wrong.
–
Movie nights, dinners, and game nights stop being weekly and start happening every other day, now. Not just for Steve, but for everyone. Staying alone feels worse than crowding into too-small spaces, so they choose noise.
You skip the first movie night because you’re scheduled for a late shift at work. The second because you tell yourself you’re tired. By the third, you don’t even bother coming up with an excuse.
But the invites never stop.
Robin calls you while you’re sitting cross-legged on the bed, a half-unpacked box of Steve’s things open in front of you—things you didn’t have the heart to finish putting away. His sweatshirt is folded on top, soft from too many washes, still faintly smelling like him.
“We miss you,” she says into the receiver, voice light but tired. “He misses you.”
Your chest tightens.
“He doesn’t know me,” you reply quietly.
There’s a pause on the other end. You can hear the low hum of voices behind her, the sound of a life continuing just out of reach.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It does,” you interrupt gently. “It does mean something, Robin. He doesn’t need… complications. He needs to feel normal.”
You hang up before she can argue, the silence feeling louder than the conversations you’re avoiding.
At the next get-together, Steve volunteers for the snack run.
He comes back with grocery bags filled with a specific brand of chips none of them remember him liking, a box of cookies no one else reaches for, and a candy bar that makes Eddie wrinkle his nose.
“Since when do you eat those?” Robin asks, watching him unload everything onto the counter.
Steve shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t know. Just… grabbed them.”
“For who?” Dustin presses, crouched on a chair to see over the counter.
Steve pauses. He feels it — that moment when his brain stalls out mid-thought. A faint pressure builds behind his eyes, like trying to remember how a dream ends after you’ve already woken up.
“No idea,” he laughs, the shrug coming a second too late. “Must’ve looked good.”
It’s a few gatherings later when he finally brings it up.
It’s late. The kids are swallowed by a board game, voices raised in mock outrage. Eddie stands at the sink, washing dishes. Jonathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching soap bubbles drift down the drain.
“Can I ask you something?” Steve says.
Jonathan glances over and nods. “Sure.”
“The girl from the hospital,” Steve continues carefully. “She said she was a friend.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “She is.” He hesitates, then adds, “She doesn’t come around much anymore.”
Steve frowns. “Why not?”
Jonathan exhales slowly. “She’s trying to deal with all of this on her own. Everything that happened. Losing people. Almost losing people.” His gaze flicks briefly toward the living room. “Being around all of this can feel like reopening a wound.”
Steve absorbs that, jaw tightening. “That seems backwards,” he mutters. “Wouldn’t it help? Being around people who actually get it?”
Jonathan looks at him — really looks.
“Sometimes,” he says quietly, “people think staying away is easier. That it hurts less in the long run.”
Steve frowns deeper. “That still doesn’t make sense.”
Jonathan gives him a small, sad smile. “No. It usually doesn’t.” After a beat, he adds, “Next time you see her, you should invite her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
–
The grocery store smells like overripe fruit and burned coffee.
You’ve been standing in the cereal aisle for too long, staring down two different boxes like one of them might solve something bigger than breakfast. Your cart has the basics — bread, milk, eggs — and the coffee you swore you wouldn’t keep buying anymore because it still feels like buying it for him.
You tell yourself this is normal. That it’s fine. That you’re doing fine.
You reach for the box on the left.
At the exact same time, someone else reaches for the one on the right.
“Sorry—”
The voice stops you cold.
You don’t look up right away. Your fingers stay curled around cardboard. Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, the sound of it loud enough that you’re convinced he must hear it.
You already know.
Steve Harrington stands in front of you in a worn Tigers hoodie and faded jeans, hair doing that familiar floppy thing that makes your chest ache. He looks healthier now — less pale, steadier on his feet — but there’s a faint scar at his temple that your eyes go to automatically.
His eyes widen.
“Oh,” he exhales. “It’s— it’s you.”
You swallow. “Hi.”
You don’t mean to smile. It happens anyway, small and brittle, like your face remembers before the rest of you can stop it.
He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. One of them rests on the red plastic handle of his cart; the other hovers, then drops awkwardly at his side.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” he says, then winces immediately. “That sounded weird. Not like— I mean—”
“It’s okay,” you say quickly, because it always used to be your job to make things less hard for him. You almost laugh at that thought. “I just… yeah. Hi.”
He nods, once, then twice, like he’s confirming something invisible. “Hi.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. The store hums around you — carts rattling, a kid crying somewhere near produce, the muffled sound of a radio playing something forgettable overhead.
Steve clears his throat. “Jonathan said you might… might be doing this whole ‘handling everything by yourself’ thing.”
Your mouth tilts faintly. “That sounds like him.”
“Yeah,” he huffs. “He’s annoyingly perceptive.”
He glances down at your cart without thinking and freezes.
Coffee.
The exact one.
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh.”
“What?” you ask, too quickly.
“Nothing,” he says, then pauses. “I just— I keep buying that.” He gestures vaguely. “And I don’t even like it. It tastes burnt.”
Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the cart. “Then why do you buy it?”
His eyes go distant for half a second, frustration tightening his jaw. “No idea,” he admits. “I just… felt like I needed to.”
Silence stretches between you, fragile and heavy.
He breaks it first. “So,” he says, forcing casual into his tone. “Uh. There’s… there’s stuff happening. Movie nights. Dinner. Game nights. A lot of… togetherness.”
You nod. “Robin’s told me.”
“Yeah, well,” he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. “Robin tells everyone everything, so.”
You smile despite yourself. There’s a pause. Long enough for the hum of the lights to fill the space between you.
Steve clears his throat. “So, uh—” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. “There’s another movie night coming up. Dinner too, probably. People crammed onto couches. A lot of noise.”
You wait.
He gestures vaguely. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. Or talk about anything. Or— you know— do anything, really.” He winces, clearly aware he’s rambling. “This sounded smoother in my head.”
“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll… come. Next time.”
His face lights up so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Great,” he says, then catches himself. “I mean— cool. No pressure. Totally casual.”
You smile, real this time. “You’re terrible at casual.”
“You should see me try flirting,” he replies before thinking.
You both freeze.
He flushes immediately. “Not— not flirting with you! I mean— not that I—” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Wow. I’m just gonna shut up now.”
You laugh.
It slips out unexpectedly, warm and sharp and painfully familiar.
His eyes soften when he hears it.
“Guess I’ll see you,” he says, backing toward his cart.
“Guess you will,” you answer.
He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I’m really glad I ran into you.”
“So am I,” you say, and you mean it — even though it scares you.
–
The next movie night is at Hopper’s cabin.
You stand in the driveway for a long second before you knock, keys cool and solid in your palm like an anchor. The windows glow warm against the dark, voices overlapping inside—too loud, too alive. Laughter punches through the wood of the door, Dustin’s unmistakable cackle cutting loudest.
You almost leave.
Almost.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, the door swings open.
“Hey!” Robin says, already grinning—and then she’s hugging you. Tight. Arms locked around your shoulders like she’s afraid if she lets go you’ll disappear. “You actually came.”
“Careful,” you mutter into her shoulder. “You’re gonna break a rib.”
She ignores that and squeezes once more before pulling back. “Worth it.”
The cabin smells like popcorn and woodsmoke and something questionable Eddie brought in a foil tray. The couch is already half-full—Lucas and Max twisted together at one end, Dustin sprawled on the floor with a blanket, Eddie perched on the armrest like furniture is more of a suggestion than a rule. Nancy looks up from where she’s setting drinks on the table and offers you a soft, relieved smile.
You step farther inside, shrugging off your jacket, trying to remember how to occupy space like this again.
And Steve—
Steve is in the kitchen.
He’s got his back to you, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild like he forgot the mirror existed today. He’s holding a mug beneath the coffee pot, focused in a way that suggests he’s taking the task far too seriously.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself, barely audible over the noise. “Not boiling. That’s… probably important.”
You pause. For a second, it feels like stepping into a room you used to know by heart. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just him half-awake in your apartment kitchen, hair sticking up, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple while the coffee brewed.
You shake the memory loose and move farther into the room.
When he sees you, his expression shifts—subtle but unmistakable. Like tension easing from his shoulders, like something unknots behind his eyes before he can stop it. “You came,” he says, surprised enough that it doesn’t sound casual.
“I said I would.”
“Right,” he says, nodding once, then glancing down at the mug like he’s suddenly remembered it exists. “Uh— drink? Coffee, soda, whatever. Eddie tried to make punch again but I’m pretty sure it violates some kind of health code.”
“I’ll take coffee,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Your fingers brush his when you take the mug from his hand. The contact is brief. Barely anything. But still sparks something sharp and familiar, a lightning-bolt jolt that runs straight through you.
You retreat to the far end of the couch, heart beating a little too fast, mug warm in your hands. The taste is right. Warm. Familiar in a way you don’t examine too closely.
The movie ends sometime after midnight.
You don’t know exactly when it happens—only that at some point the room gets quieter, the sugar rush burns off, and the easy noise settles into something softer. Dustin is half-asleep on the floor, Lucas and Max murmuring to each other beneath a blanket. Eddie’s fallen into an argument with Robin about whether the movie counts as “cinema,” and Hopper has retreated to the doorway with a beer and a headache.
You stand to grab your jacket quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself, almost making it to the door.
“Hey.” Steve’s voice isn’t loud. It’s careful, like he’s testing it out before committing. He’s standing near the couch, hands shoved in his pockets, the easy sprawl he usually carries himself with dialed back into something smaller. There’s a moment where it looks like he might say something else—but then he straightens, decision made.
“Are you heading out?”
“Yeah,” you say. “It’s late.”
He nods. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”
There’s a pause. The kind that asks for something without saying what.
“Do you want me to—” He cuts himself off, clears his throat. “I mean. I can walk you out if you want. It’s dark.”
You consider it. The driveway. The woods. The quiet that will follow once the door closes behind you.
“Okay,” you say.
The word seems to surprise him.
Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, the kind that seeps under your sleeves and wakes you up a little. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step down from the porch. The cabin behind you hums faintly with muted laughter, the sound softened by walls and distance.
Steve walks beside you, not too close. Just enough to be there.
They've filled the cracks in the ground near the treeline, patched the scars as best they can. It’s obvious where things broke anyway. Hawkins wears it quietly now.
“You good?” he asks after a moment.
“Yeah,” you say. “I think so.”
He hums, not convinced but not pushing.
“Thanks for coming,” he adds. “I know it probably wasn’t… easy.”
You glance at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw set, like he’s afraid if he looks at you he’ll read too much into whatever expression he finds.
“I’m glad I did,” you say.
That earns you a quick look. Something warm flickers there before he reins it in. Steve stops a few steps back, rocking on his heels. “So. Uh. Next time—if you don’t feel like staying long, that’s okay. Or if you don’t come. Or if you—” He exhales, frustrated with himself. “I’m bad at this.”
“At what?”
He hesitates. “Inviting people without making it weird.”
You smile softly. “You’re doing okay.”
He studies that answer like he’s checking it for cracks. “Good,” he says. “Then… next time?”
You nod. “Next time.”
A beat passes. Another.
“Night,” he says.
“Night, Steve.”
You get in the car, shut the door, and don’t pull away right away. Through the windshield, you see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until your headlights come on.
And for the first time in a while, the quiet that follows doesn’t feel empty.
It feels… anticipatory.
–
You never say it out loud.
You barely admit it to yourself.
But some small, stubborn part of you still hopes that one day he’ll remember.
And on the days when that feels like tempting fate — like asking the universe for something it’s already taken — you hope instead that time will do what it always promises to do.
Soften things.
Sand the edges.
Turn this ache into something survivable.
Because loving him like this feels less like healing and more like erosion. A slow wearing-down. A thing you can’t stop without walking away completely — so, you learn how to exist in this strange in-between.
Movie nights blur into sleepovers. Dinners turn into late evenings where no one wants to be the first to leave, because empty houses feel louder now. You show up, linger, and leave early. But Steve keeps finding his way to you.
Not pointedly.
Not obviously.
Just… naturally.
He doesn’t remember you — not in the way that matters — but his attention keeps skidding in your direction all the same. Catching on little things he can’t explain.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking.
The sound of your laugh, which seems to echo oddly in his chest, like he’s heard it before in a dream.
It starts small.
At a crowded diner table, he ends up across from you, shoulder tipped just slightly in your direction. He asks what you’re getting and then orders something new from the menu. When the food comes, you trade plates without discussing why, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
At the arcade, he drifts closer as the place fills, not invading your space so much as silently claiming it. He leans in over the din of machines to say something stupid about high scores, his mouth near your ear, his voice pitched only for you. When you laugh, he smiles like he forgot what he was going to say next, eyes lingering a beat too long before he looks away. Later, when you step back to grab tokens, he follows without realizing — like you pulled him there with an invisible thread.
Sometimes it’s quieter than that.
You sit on the hood of someone’s car after a long night, the air cool and damp, everyone else talking in loose clusters behind you. Steve leans beside you, forearms braced on the metal, eyes on the stars like he’s trying to map something familiar.
“You ever think Hawkins feels… smaller?” he asks.
You hum. “Yeah.”
He smiles at that. “Good. Thought it was just me.”
He asks questions.
Small ones. Safe ones.
“What do you order at diners?”
“Have you always lived around here?”
“Were you always into that music, or did it just… happen?”
He listens when you answer. Really listens. And every time, something in you tightens — because it would be easier if he didn’t.
He saves you a seat. Hands you his jacket without comment when the night cools. Walks you home after group dinners even though his place is in the opposite direction. He says it’s late. That it’s dark. That it’s not a big deal. He keeps pace with you anyway, close enough that your arms brush when the sidewalk narrows.
Sometimes you talk about everything.
Sometimes you don’t talk at all.
Either way, it feels dangerously close to intimacy — the kind you’re no longer sure you’re allowed to have.
That’s when you start to think of it as a slow death.
Because leaving always hurts.
And staying close somehow hurts worse.
–
Of course you notice Nancy.
You always have.
She’s impossible not to notice — all sharp edges and sharper mind, fearless in a way that feels deliberate. You respect her. You always have. That almost makes this harder to stomach.
You notice the way Steve looks at her sometimes. Like he’s lining up memory against reality and trying to see where they overlap.
You know what the last clear thing he remembers feeling is. You heard about the conversation in the back of the vehicle — whispered hopes about kids and road trips and growing old. A future shaped in the middle of chaos.
Not with you.
If his memories never circle back to you… why wouldn’t they land on her instead? Why wouldn’t that path feel safer? Simpler?
So when you step out onto the cabin porch for air and find them there, your chest sinks before either of them even speaks.
They aren’t standing close. They aren’t touching. But they’re angled toward each other, voices low and serious, framed by the soft glow spilling out from the cabin behind them. You don’t hear the words.
You don’t have to.
You see Steve lean back against the railing, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A gesture you know by heart — the one that means something matters.
Nancy’s posture is steady. Arms crossed. Expression soft but intent. Like she’s anchoring him through something delicate. Personal.
Your stomach drops.
The screen door creaks behind you before you can stop it.
Both of them turn.
“I was just—” Nancy starts.
“I’m—” you say at the same time, already stepping back. “Sorry. It’s getting late.”
Steve takes a half step forward. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, forcing a small smile that feels brittle on your face. “Really. I need to head home anyway.”
You don’t wait for a response. But by the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You don’t tell yourself not to cry, just let the thought settle, heavy and unkind in your chest:
Maybe he doesn’t remember you because he wasn’t meant to.
–
The porch is quiet, washed in the soft hum of insects and the distant noise from inside the cabin.
Steve leans back against the railing, elbows locked, gaze drifting out toward the dark tree line.
“I mean… you and Jonathan seem good,” he says, glancing over at Nancy. “Like you figured things out.”
Nancy hesitates. It’s subtle — just a slight shift of her shoulders — but it’s there.
“And how does that make you feel?” she asks carefully.
Steve lets out a breath. Not heavy. Not shaky. Thoughtful.
“I remember what I said before,” he admits. “What I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And I know that mattered. It mattered a lot.”
“But?” Nancy prompts gently.
“But it doesn’t feel like that anymore,” Steve says, frustration edging into his voice. “That’s the part that’s messing with me.”
She doesn’t interrupt.
He gestures vaguely, like he can’t quite grab onto the thought, “I remember loving you,“I remember being so sure. But when I picture my life now…” he continues, a faint frown pulling at his brow, “it doesn’t land there. I keep waiting for that feeling to come back. Like I’m supposed to want that future again. And I don’t.”
Nancy studies him for a long moment. Then she smiles — small, soft, and understanding.
“That means you’re healing,” she says quietly. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”
Steve exhales, shoulders easing just a little, then adds, “I am happy for you, though. For you and Jonathan.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m… actually glad we’re friends now. All of us. That part feels right.”
–
Eddie’s trailer is quiet in a way Steve still isn’t used to.
Not peaceful — just empty between sounds.
He lies awake on the mattress, staring up at a crack in the ceiling he’s been tracking for the past ten minutes. It vaguely resembles Indiana. Or a boot. Or nothing at all. His brain won’t settle on it.
His chest feels… off.
Not tight. Not panicked. Just restless — like something is vibrating just underneath his ribs, an irritant he can’t scratch.
He rolls onto his side. Then his other side. Then onto his back again.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his palms flat against his stomach like that might help. “You’re exhausted.”
He is. He knows he is.
But every time his eyes start to drift closed, something tugs him back.
A sense of… unfinishedness.
He exhales and lets his gaze drift, unfocused, toward the dim outline of the wall. He doesn’t fight the thought when it comes this time.
You - like a gravity point.
The way you listen. The way you pause before laughing, like you’re deciding whether to let yourself. The quiet steadiness of you, the way being around you makes his shoulders drop without him noticing until afterward.
His mouth curves slightly, fond despite himself.
He drags a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s no heat in it. “I don’t even—”
The thought stalls.
Because that’s not true.
It’s not just liking you. It hasn’t been for a while now. Not the way his chest reacts when you walk into a room. Not the way he keeps finding reasons to stand near you, talk to you, walk you home like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The realization settles, heavy and unmistakable.
I’m in love with her.
The word doesn’t scare him.
If anything, it feels like relief — like finally naming something that’s been quietly demanding his attention for weeks.
He stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.
“Okay,” he whispers to the dark. “Okay.”
Tomorrow, then.
He’ll ask you out. Nothing big. Just honest — just the feeling in his chest that hasn’t been wrong yet.
The restless pull eases, finally dulling into something warm.
Sleep comes softly, catching him mid-thought.
–
He wakes with a sharp gasp.
For a disorienting second, all he knows is pain — bright and sudden behind his eyes, like someone just switched on a light inside his skull. He fumbles blindly, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock.
3:07 a.m.
He sucks in a sharp breath, hand flying to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels wrong. Too unfamiliar. Too small. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.
“Shit,” he mutters hoarsely.
He sits up too fast and the world tilts. For half a second, he doesn’t know where he is — doesn’t know whose blanket he’s holding, why the air smells like cigarettes and old flannel instead of detergent and burnt coffee.
Then it hits him.
He’s on his feet before the thought finishes forming, bare chest goosebumping in the cold air, the floor icy under his soles. He stumbles into Eddie’s chair, sends it clattering, doesn’t even slow down.
Eddie jerks awake with a startled noise. “What the—?”
Steve yanks the door open, cold air slamming into him.
“I gotta go,” he blurts over his shoulder, voice hoarse and urgent. “I—I gotta go right now.”
Eddie blinks. Then smiles, tired and knowing and soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Figured.”
The night air burns his lungs, sharp and unforgiving. Asphalt bites into his feet, each step a jolt of pain he registers distantly, like it’s happening to someone else. Streetlights streak past as he sprints, chest heaving, breath puffing white.
By the time he reaches your building, his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He takes the steps two at a time, slips at the landing, catches himself on the railing.
He pounds on the door with both fists.
Once. Twice. Again.
“Please,” he breathes, forehead pressed to the wood. “Please.”
The door opens.
You’re standing there in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, confusion still clinging to your expression.
Steve can’t speak. For a split second, he just stares — at your eyes, wide and alarmed; at the familiar hallway behind you; at the sad, wilted spider plant hanging near the keys.
“Steve?” you ask, voice thick with sleep. “What—are you okay? Why are you—”
Your gaze drops.
Bare feet. Red and scraped. His chest rising and falling too fast. No jacket. No shoes.
“Did you run here?” you start, alarm bleeding into your voice. “Steve, you’re barefoot—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
He steps forward, hands coming up to your face like muscle memory finally given permission, and kisses you.
It’s not careful.
It’s not slow.
It’s desperate and grounding all at once, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re real. His mouth crashes into yours, breath shaky, lips cold from the night, kissing you like he’s been holding this in for weeks without knowing why.
You freeze for half a heartbeat.
Then you melt into it.
Your hands fist into his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as his breath stutters against your mouth. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“I remember,” he says, voice breaking on the word.
You still.
“What?” you breathe.
“I remember everything,” he says again, softer this time. “You. Us. The apartment. The fights and the good parts and the stupid plant you kept forgetting to water.” A shaky laugh escapes him. “I fell asleep thinking about you and the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was just… there. Like my brain finally caught up.”
Your breath stutters. “Steve—”
His hands are still caressing your face when the words start to tumble out of you, messy and panicked now that he’s really here.
“Steve, I— I’m sorry,” you stammer, tears already blurring everything. “The doctor… he said we couldn’t force it. Said it could hurt you, and I— I,” Your voice breaks. “… wondered if maybe this was your chance to go back. To something easier. Someone…” You swallow hard. “Maybe Nancy. Maybe someone better than me.”
He makes a broken sound in his throat and shakes his head, eyes shining, completely undone.
“No,” he says hoarsely, shaking his head against your skin. “No, no— don’t do that.”.
You keep going anyway, breath hitching. “I thought if you never remembered me.. You could go back to-”
He cuts you off by kissing you.
Not your mouth this time, but your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your eye, where tears are still spilling over. Your cheek. Everywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to erase the words before they can carve permanent scars into you.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. You really thought forgetting you would make me want someone else?”
You meet his eyes and lose the fight to stay composed altogether, you sob, nodding helplessly.
He’s crying now too — tears slipping down unchecked, mouth trembling as he cups your face tighter, like you might break if he doesn’t hold you together.
“There is no someone better,” he says, voice rough and earnest and wrecked. “There never was. Not even when I didn’t remember. Not even then.”
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs brushing desperately over your cheeks.
“Even when I didn’t remember you,” he continues, tears falling freely now, breath uneven, “I still wanted you. And I still couldn’t stop wanting to be near you. Couldn’t stop looking for you in rooms. Couldn’t stop feeling wrong when you weren’t there. Every instinct in me knew something was missing, and it was always you.”
A sob shakes through him, “I fell asleep thinking about you, wondering how to ask you out without screwing it up. Wondering why not being near you made my chest hurt. I fell in love with you all over again,” he says shakily.
You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.
“My sweet silly girl,” he breathes, voice cracking wide open. He kisses your mouth then — soft, aching, sure. “I’d find you in every lifetime.”