right where you belong - Steve Harrington imagine.
(Steve Harrington x F!Reader)
Summary: When you slip out of the bed in the middle of the night, Steve instantly panics.
Word count: 800+
A/N: I've written stuff before like a long time ago but this is my first fic on this account so please be nice 😊 Im not the best writer but the intent is to hopefully get better over time. 🤞
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Steve never used to be like this.
Before everything. Before the Upside Down, before the kids, before learning what it meant to almost lose people, sleep had come easy. He’d crash face-first into his pillow and be out in seconds.
But now?
He clung to you in his sleep like his life depended on it. Sometimes he felt like it did. He would do anything to protect you. And having you sleep beside him eased his nerves, as long as you were there, physically, besides him, he could rest.
Tonight has been good. You were there in his bed, curled into his side, your head tucked under his chin, your hand loosely gripping his shirt like you were scared he might drift away if you didn’t anchor him to yourself. Steve had easily fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of your breathing, the soft warmth of you pressed against him.
He felt safe. That was until the warmth disappeared.
Steve’s eyes immediately snapped open as if his body knew something was off, his suspicions grew to be true when he turned to face you only for your side of the bed to be empty.
The room was dark, quiet, wrong.
“...Y/n?” His voice came out rough, thick with sleep.
No answer.
Steve pushed himself up immediately, heart already picking up speed. His hand swept across the sheets, searching cold. Empty.
That familiar flicker of panic crept in, fast and unwelcome.
“Hey—” he tried again, louder this time, swinging his legs off the bed.
The bathroom light clicked on.
Steve froze.
A second later, the door cracked open and you stepped out, blinking at him, confused. “Steve? What are you doing, why are you up?”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for minutes, shoulders dropping all at once. “Jesus, don’t do that.”
You frowned, stepping closer. “Do what, baby? I just went to the bathroom.”
“I woke up and you were gone,” he said, like that explained everything. Like it should explain everything.
You studied him then really looked into the pits of his deep brown eyes. His hair was a mess, his eyes still hazy with sleep but wide, alert. There was something else there too. Something softer. Something a little scared.
“Oh,” you said quietly when you realized.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious about the whole situation. “It’s stupid, I just…my brain goes, like, immediately to the worst-case scenario now. It’s a whole thing.” he confessed, now looking down at his feet in embarrassment rather than looking at you.
“It’s not stupid,” you said gently, tilting his head to look at you instead.
He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, well, tell that to me at three in the morning when I’m ready to fight a demogorgon or something because you took a two-minute bathroom break.” he scoffs at himself. He felt silly now for being so dramatic about this.
That got a small smile out of you.
You stepped between his knees where he sat on the edge of the bed, your hands resting on his shoulders. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” he said, softer now. His hands found your waist automatically, like muscle memory. “Just—next time, maybe wake me up?”
Your eyebrows lifted. “You want me to wake you up… so I can go to the bathroom?”
“Yeah,” he said, completely serious. Steve never wanted you to leave his side, that was how important you were to him.
You laughed, but it wasn’t mocking, it was warm, fond. “Steve.” you teased.
“I’m serious,” he insisted, pulling you a little closer. “Or at least leave, like, a note. Or…something. I don’t know.”
“A note?” you smiled at the boy’s words. “You think I’m gonna sit there and write, ‘Dear Steve, went to pee, be back soon’?”
“…I mean, yeah, that’d be great, actually.” he confessed, still dead serious about the situation.
You shook your head, smiling as you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, but his grip on you tightened just slightly. “But you came back, so it worked out.”
Something in your chest softened at that.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said quietly. “You know that, right?”
Steve looked up at you then, really looked like he was memorizing the way you said it, filing it away for the next time his mind tried to betray him.
“Yeah,” he said again, this time more certain.
You nudged him back onto the bed. “Come on. Let’s go back to sleep.”
He didn’t argue. Just pulled you down with him, arms wrapping around you immediately, tucking you right back into your spot against his chest like you belonged there. Which, to him, you did.
“Hey,” he mumbled after a second, already half-asleep again.
“Hmm?”
“If you get up again…”
You sighed, amused. “I’ll wake you.”
“Okay. Good.”
Within moments, his breathing evened out, his hold on you still firm but relaxed now like he could finally rest again. And this time, when you shifted slightly, his arm tightened instinctively, pulling you closer without waking. Just making sure you were still there.
A Deal With the Harrington's. Part 4 - Steve Harrington imagine.
(Rich Steve Harrington x fem!reader)
part 1. part 2. part 3
Summary: When you and your mother are on the verge of losing everything, the Harringtons offer you a deal you can’t refuse: marry their son, Steve, in exchange for clearing her debts and saving your home. It leaves you with no real choice but to agree.
word count: 7,072
Warnings: arranged marriage/forced engagement. Harmless bickering like an old married couple. mentions of having kids. slight arguing.
When you woke up the next morning, a familiar sense of unease had already settled in your stomach. It seemed to be becoming a routine in the Harrington house. For some reason, today felt different. Heavier. Like something was waiting around the corner, ready to go wrong. Though, considering everything that had happened so far, maybe "wrong" wasn't exactly new.
You started remembering everything that had happened with Steve last night. Not that anything actually happened. It had just been... weird.
Never in a million years had you imagined you'd end up having a genuine, emotional conversation with Steve Harrington—otherwise known as your future husband, much to your eternal misery.
Yet somehow, there you were.
Maybe life really was like that quote from Forrest Gump. A box of chocolates. You never knew what you were going to get. Although if you were being honest, whoever came up with that saying had clearly never been forced into an engagement with a rich, handsome stranger and moved into his mansion against their will.
Because if life was a box of chocolates, yours seemed determined to hand you the weirdest flavors possible.
Still...
You couldn't stop thinking about the conversation.
About the way Steve had looked when he talked about feeling lonely. About how, for a few minutes, he'd stopped acting like the sarcastic, irritating guy who seemed determined to make your life difficult and had instead looked... normal.
Human even.
Somehow that bothered you more than if he'd just stayed annoying. And every time your mind tried to move on from thoughts of Steve, it only wandered somewhere worse.
Home.
You really missed your uneven dresser drawer that always got stuck halfway open. You missed the posters on your wall. You missed waking up to the sound of your mom moving around downstairs, humming to herself while the coffee maker sputtered loudly because you desperately needed a new one.
Here, everything sounded controlled and lifeless. Even the silence had manners.
And then there was Steve again, taking over any coherent thoughts you could form in your cloudy mind.
You rolled onto your side, tugging the blanket higher over your shoulder as you tried to ignore the uncomfortable weight settling in your chest.
Fragments of last night kept drifting through your mind.
Steve sitting alone by the pool.
His quiet no when you asked if he was okay. The look on his face when his father said his name at dinner. The way he'd laughed when you called his parents awful. The way, for a little while, the two of you hadn't felt like enemies. Or strangers. Or unwilling participants in a future neither of you had chosen.
You didn't know what to do with that.
You weren't naive. You knew exactly how these stories usually went. Two people thrown together. Too much tension. Too many unexpected moments that chipped away at their defenses. Then one day somebody caught feelings, and everyone called it fate instead of a series of deeply questionable emotional decisions.
That wasn't happening.
You were not going to develop a crush on Steve Harrington just because he looked heartbreakingly miserable beside a swimming pool and occasionally remembered how to act like a decent human being.
Absolutely not. If anything that was the bare minimum and you needed to get your head out of the gutter and and man up. You are not falling in love with Steve as much as your head seems convinced to think and sabotage you into it.
You threw the blanket off and sat up.
You had to start remembering the rules you enforced. No feelings. No attachment. No romanticizing forced marriage because the groom happened to have nice hair and unresolved family trauma.
By the time you got dressed and made yourself look presentable enough to survive breakfast with the Harringtons, your nerves had settled into something more manageable. Not calm exactly, but functional.
You could do breakfast. You could survive a few awkward comments. You could pretend last night hadn’t made something shift.
Then you walked into the kitchen and immediately stopped because Mrs. Harrington was sitting at the breakfast table. She had a weird smile plastered all across her face. It was deemed as weird because it wasn’t her normal smile. Not the fake polite one she used at dinner parties or the sharp one she used when Steve said something inconvenient.
This was worse. It was the kind of smile people wore when they were about to ruin your life and expect you to thank them for the privilege.
A large ivory binder sat in the center of the table. Beside it were stacks of magazines, fabric swatches, color samples, invitation designs, and several glossy brochures that looked way too expensive to touch.
Your stomach dropped. “No.”
Mrs. Harrington looked up. “Good morning.”
“No,” you repeated.
She blinked innocently. “Excuse me?”
You pointed at the table. “Whatever that is. No.”
At that exact moment, Steve shuffled into the kitchen behind you, hair still messy, one hand dragging over his face like he’d been personally betrayed by the concept of morning.
“What are we saying no to?” he muttered.
Then he saw the table.
He stopped beside you.
For one glorious second, the two of you simply stood there in silence, staring at the horror show of wedding materials like it had crawled out of the depths of hell.
Steve slowly turned around.
Mrs. Harrington didn’t even look surprised. “Steven.”
He froze. “I was leaving to get coffee.”
“There’s coffee here.”
“I was leaving to get better coffee.”
“Sit down.”
He closed his eyes briefly, like he was asking God for strength. Then he turned back around and looked at you. “You saw it too, right?”
“The binder?”
“The threat.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Harrington sighed. “It is not a threat. It is a wedding planning binder.”
“That’s worse,” you said.
Steve nodded seriously. “Much worse.”
Mrs. Harrington folded her hands together on the table. “You two are being ridiculous.”
You stared at the binder again.
It had your name written across the front in elegant gold lettering.
Your first name.
Then Steve’s.
Together.
Like a life sentence that you were bonded to forever.
A strange pressure built in your chest. You had known there would be a wedding. Obviously. That was the entire point of this nightmare. But knowing something in theory was very different from seeing it printed in gold on an ivory binder while your future mother-in-law smiled at you across the table.
It looked official. It looked real. And that was awful.
Steve dropped into the chair beside you with a dramatic sigh. “I’m going to be honest. I thought we’d get at least one full day before the wedding ambush.”
Mrs. Harrington poured herself tea calmly. “This is not an ambush.”
“You put our names on a binder.”
“Organization is important.”
“How did you even make that binder overnight?”
“I had help.”
“That makes it scarier.”
You slowly sat down beside Steve, mostly because your legs were starting to feel unreliable. The kitchen smelled like coffee, toast, and expensive perfume. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t.
Mrs. Harrington reached for the binder and opened it.
Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, then back to his mother. “What exactly are we doing?” he asked, his tone lighter than his expression.
“I thought we could start with the basics,” Mrs. Harrington said. “Possible dates, venues, guest list size, colors, general style. Nothing overwhelming.”
You looked at the table. There were at least six magazines. Two appointment cards. Three venue brochures. And what appeared to be a typed guest list already clipped into the binder.
“Nothing overwhelming,” you repeated weakly.
Steve leaned toward you slightly. “She means by Harrington standards.”
“Oh my god.”
“It means if no one cries, it’s considered casual.”
You almost laughed. Almost. But this was not a laughing matter, this was your life about to head to shambles.
Then Mrs. Harrington slid one of the brochures toward you. The front showed a sprawling estate with white columns, manicured gardens, and a ballroom that looked like it had hosted at least three royal scandals.
“This is one of my favorites,” she said. “Elegant, traditional, excellent reputation.”
Steve stared at the photo. “That place looks haunted.”
“It does not.”
“It absolutely does.”
You tilted your head. “No, he’s right. That’s definitely the kind of place where a woman in a nightgown appears at the top of the stairs and warns you to leave.”
Steve pointed at you. “Exactly.”
Mrs. Harrington pressed her lips together. “It is one of the most sought-after venues in the state.”
“Do the ghosts come included or do we pay extra?” Steve asked.
“Steven.”
“What? I’m asking practical questions.”
You should not have enjoyed that as much as you did. You really shouldn’t have.
Mrs. Harrington turned her attention to you, clearly deciding Steve was a lost cause. “I thought you might enjoy something classic. Soft colors. White florals. Maybe blush accents.”
You blinked. “Blush accents,” you repeated.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Steve leaned over. “It means pink, but expensive.”
You looked at him. “Why do you know that?”
“Hello? I’ve been trapped in this house my whole life.”
“Fair.”
Mrs. Harrington closed her eyes for half a second. “This is exactly why we need to start early.”
“Early?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“How early?”
Mrs. Harrington hesitated just long enough for your entire body to tense.
Steve noticed immediately. His hand shifted slightly on the table, not touching yours, but close enough that you noticed.
Mrs. Harrington turned a page in the binder. “Your father and I were thinking late summer.”
The kitchen went completely still.
Late summer. That was in like… less than 3 months away.
For a second, the words didn’t make sense. They floated there, pretty and meaningless, before dropping straight into your stomach.
Late summer was not some distant, abstract future.
Late summer was soon.
Too soon.
You were eighteen. You still felt like a child pretending to be an adult whenever you had to schedule your own appointments. And now they were talking about late summer like marriage was just another event to coordinate between vacations and charity luncheons.
Steve sat up slowly. “No.”
Mrs. Harrington looked at him. “Steven—”
“No,” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”
You looked at him. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had changed. The sleepy sarcasm was gone.
Mrs. Harrington’s smile tightened. “We are only discussing possibilities.”
“Late summer is not a possibility.”
“It gives us enough time to plan properly.”
“It gives us like five minutes.”
“Don’t exaggerate.”
“She’s eighteen,” Steve snapped.
The words hit the table harder than either of you expected.
Mrs. Harrington went quiet.
So did you.
Steve seemed to realize what he’d said a second after saying it. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t take it back. “She’s eighteen,” he said again, lower this time. “So am I. We don’t need a full wedding in three months.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully. You weren’t sure what you expected from him. Annoyance maybe. Deflection. A joke. Not that. Not him saying the thing everyone else kept ignoring.
Mrs. Harrington set her teacup down carefully. “This arrangement has already been agreed upon.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to shove us down an aisle before we can breathe.”
“Steven.”
“No, seriously.” Steve leaned back in his chair, but there was nothing relaxed about him. “What’s the rush?”
Mrs. Harrington’s gaze flickered toward the doorway.
Just once.
You followed the movement.
Mr. Harrington stood there.
You hadn’t even heard him come in. Of course you hadn’t. Men like him probably entered rooms silently on purpose. He wore a suit even though it was still morning, his tie already perfectly in place, expression calm and unreadable. He looked from Steve to you, then to the open binder.
“What’s going on?”
Steve didn’t look away from him. “We’re apparently getting married before summer ends.”
Mr. Harrington stepped farther into the kitchen. “That was one suggestion.”
“It was a bad one.”
“It is practical.”
You frowned. Practical. There was that word again. Not meaningful. Not traditional. Not exciting.
Practical. That’s all you were to this family. Like this wedding was a business expense. Because rich people don’t believe in marriage for love.
Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”
Mr. Harrington looked at him. “Why what?”
“Why is it practical?”
For a moment, nobody moved.
Mrs. Harrington suddenly looked very interested in rearranging the pages in the binder.
Mr. Harrington’s expression didn’t change, but the air did. It tightened. Sharpened. “Because dragging this out benefits no one,” he said. “Getting it over with will be the right decision.”
You swallowed.
Dragging this out.
As if your whole life was just paperwork on his desk to him.
Steve gave a humorless laugh. “Wow. Romantic.”
“This was never about romance.”
The words landed so bluntly that even Mrs. Harrington looked up.
Your face warmed, though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or anger.
Steve’s expression hardened. “No kidding,” he said.
Mr. Harrington watched him carefully. “Then you understand why there’s no reason to delay.”
A bitter taste filled your mouth. You had spent the last few days trying to make yourself accept this. Trying to tell yourself it was a transaction. A sacrifice. Something temporary in spirit, even if permanent on paper.
But hearing him say it so plainly made something inside you recoil.
This was never about romance.
You already knew that. But apparently some part of you still hated hearing it.
You had never wanted to be the kind of person who married someone for money. Yet here you were, throwing every principle you had aside, and for what? So your mom wouldn't have to come home to an empty house without you.
Maybe that made you selfish, maybe it made you weak but a part of you still believed you would have rather spent the rest of your life working yourself exhausted to pay off every debt than sign your future away like this.
This wasn't freedom. It was just a different kind of cage. A prettier one. A more comfortable one. But a cage all the same, just like Steve had said.
Steve suddenly pushed the binder away from you with two fingers. It slid a few inches across the table. “Why can’t we just do a courthouse wedding?” he asked.
Mrs. Harrington froze.
Mr. Harrington went very still.
You turned toward Steve. “Wait,” you said.
He pointed at you immediately. “See? She gets it.”
You sat up a little straighter. Actually, you did. For the first time all morning, something made sense. “Yeah,” you said. “Why can’t we?”
Steve nodded quickly. “Exactly.”
“It would be faster.”
“Way faster.”
“Less expensive.”
“Barely any planning.”
“No ballroom.”
“No seating chart.”
“No strangers staring at us play pretend.”
“No first dance.”
Steve paused. “Okay, hold on.”
You looked at him. “What?”
“No first dance?”
“Obviously.”
“You’d skip the one part where we get free food and public humiliation?”
“I don’t think you understand the point of weddings.”
“I understand free food.”
Despite everything, you almost smiled.
Then Mr. Harrington spoke interrupting the both of you. “No.”
The word cut through the room.
Steve looked back at him. “No?”
“No.”
You frowned. “Why not?”
Mrs. Harrington opened her mouth, but Mr. Harrington answered first. “Because that won’t work.”
The same strange feeling from last night’s dinner settled over you again.
You looked at Steve. He was already looking at you.
That won’t work.
Not we don’t want that.
Not it would look bad.
Not that isn’t appropriate.
That won’t work.
As if the courthouse option failed some requirement neither of you knew existed.
Steve turned back to his father slowly. “Why wouldn’t it work?”
Mr. Harrington’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “It is not the right image.”
“Image,” Steve repeated.
“Yes.”
“So it’s about appearances.”
“In part.”
“In part?” Steve laughed once, sharp and humorless. “What’s the other part?”
Steve’s expression flickered. There it was again. That exhaustion from last night. That quiet, worn-down look that made him seem suddenly younger. Not childish. Just tired. So tired of the same fight.
You hated that you noticed. You hated even more that you cared.
Mr. Harrington adjusted his cuff. “A courthouse wedding sends the wrong message.”
“To who?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
Both Harrington parents looked at you.
For a second, you regretted speaking. Then you didn’t. You straightened in your chair, gripping the edge of the table beneath your fingertips. “To who?” you repeated. “Because I don’t really understand why anyone would care this much. If the point is for us to get married, then a courthouse wedding does that. So why does it matter how many people are there?”
Mrs. Harrington’s expression softened in a way that felt entirely practiced. “Sweetheart, weddings are not only about legalities. They are about families coming together.”
You almost laughed. Families coming together? Your mother wasn’t even sitting at this table. Your family had been reduced to a problem they were solving with money and paperwork.
“Right,” you said quietly.
Steve glanced at you. He heard the shift in your voice. Of course he did. He seemed to hear everything now when it came to you, which was becoming incredibly inconvenient.
Mr. Harrington spoke before anyone else could. “There will be a wedding,” he said. “A proper one. The date can be discussed, but the event itself is not negotiable.”
Steve’s chair scraped back. “Of course it isn’t.”
“Steven.”
“No, it’s fine.” He stood, his smile sharp and empty. “Wouldn’t want your investment to embarrass you.”
The kitchen went silent.
Mrs. Harrington’s face paled slightly while Mr. Harrington’s eyes narrowed. You looked between them, heart beating faster.
Investment.
The word had come out too easily. Like Steve had thought it before. Like maybe he had heard it before.
For one awful second, no one said anything.
Then Steve looked down at you, his expression changed immediately, softening just enough to make your stomach twist. “Come on,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“We’re leaving.”
Mrs. Harrington’s voice sharpened. “You are not.”
Steve didn’t look at her. “We’re taking a drive.”
“We have plans.”
“We’re postponing them.”
“Steven! You cannot simply walk out every time you dislike a conversation.”
Steve finally looked at his mother.
The silence stretched.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Watch me.” Then he turned and walked toward the door.
You sat frozen for half a second because leaving was rude. Leaving would make things worse. Leaving would probably start another argument. But staying felt like letting the binder swallow you whole.
So you stood.
Mrs. Harrington’s gaze cut to you. “I really don’t think—”
“I need air,” you said, it wasn’t even a lie. Then you followed Steve out.
The morning air hit your face the second you stepped outside. It was warmer than you expected, bright and clean, almost offensive in how normal everything looked. Birds were chirping. The lawn was perfect. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
The world had no idea your entire future was being planned inside a kitchen binder.
Steve was already halfway to his car.
You hurried after him. “Where are we going?”
“I have no idea.”
“Oh, that’s real comforting.”
He opened the driver’s side door. “Do you want to go back in?”
You looked over your shoulder at the house. Through the kitchen window, you could see Mrs. Harrington still standing by the table. Mr. Harrington had turned away, a phone already pressed to his ear.
Your stomach tightened. “No.”
“Then get in.”
You did.
- -
For the first few minutes of the drive, neither of you spoke.
Steve kept both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road. The silence in the car was different from the silence by the pool. That silence had felt shared. This one felt like static.
You stared out the window as the Harrington house disappeared behind you. The streets of Hawkins passed in a blur of trees, lawns, mailboxes, and houses that all seemed painfully ordinary. People were living normal lives behind those windows. Making breakfast. Arguing about chores. Getting ready for work. Not discussing forced weddings over tea.
Lucky them.
Steve turned onto a quieter road.
You glanced at him. “So.”
He didn’t look over. “So.”
“That happened.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You called yourself an investment.”
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. For a second, you thought he might dodge the question. Then he exhaled. “Yeah.”
You waited.
Steve’s throat moved as he swallowed. “My dad says stuff like that sometimes.”
Your chest tightened. “To you?”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter. Which, obviously, meant it did.
“Not always directly,” he said. “But yeah. Basically.”
You looked back out the window, suddenly angry in a way that surprised you. “Well, that’s disgusting.”
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. “You really don’t like them.”
“I’m trying to be polite about it.”
“That’s you being polite?”
“Very.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly.
A moment of silent passed, the two of you seemed to take the moment all in then you said, “Thank you.”
Steve glanced over. “For what?”
“For getting me out of there.”
His expression shifted slightly, like he hadn’t expected gratitude. “Yeah,” he said. “Well. That binder was one page away from eating you alive.”
“Did you see it? It had tabs!”
“I saw.” he laughed.
“Color-coded tabs.” you repeated incredulously.
“That’s when I knew we were in danger.”
You smiled despite yourself. It was small but Steve saw it. His gaze lingered for just a second before he looked back at the road.
Your stomach did something stupid.
You ignored it immediately.
No.
Absolutely not.
The drive continued until Steve eventually pulled into the parking lot of a small diner on the edge of town. It wasn’t fancy. The sign flickered slightly. One of the letters looked like it had been replaced with tape and optimism.
Just how you liked it.
You looked at him. “This is where you take girls after emotionally devastating wedding planning?”
“Only the special ones.”
You rolled your eyes. “Gross.”
“I meant especially traumatized.”
“Mhm, that’s better.”
Inside, the diner smelled like coffee, grease, syrup, and old vinyl seats. It was the first place you’d been in days that didn’t smell like money and for some reason that made you love it immediately.
A waitress led you to a booth near the window and handed you menus without recognizing either of you, which felt like a gift from God.
Steve slid into the seat across from you.
For the first time all morning, he looked like he could breathe.
You opened the menu. “I’m ordering pancakes.”
“It’s almost lunch.”
“Your point?”
“None. Just observing.”
“Good.”
Steve looked down at his menu. “I might get pancakes too.”
“Don’t copy me!”
“You order something else, I drove us here and I was emotionally devastated first.”
“You don’t own pancakes, Steve.”
“I’m Steve Harrington. I own everything, apparently.”
You snorted.
The waitress returned, and you both ordered pancakes and coffee. When she left, the silence that settled over the table was easier than before.
Not light but easier.
Steve leaned back against the booth, eyes drifting toward the window. “My mom’s probably losing her mind right now.”
“Good.”
He looked at you, amused. “Good?”
“I just mean… She deserves a little panic after putting our names on a wedding binder before breakfast.”
“Fair.”
You wrapped your hands around the warm coffee mug the waitress had just set down. “Do you think they’ll actually listen? About not doing it late summer?”
Steve’s face changed. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Your stomach sank before he even answered.
“I don’t know.”
That was not comforting.
You looked down into your coffee. “Right.”
“I’ll try.”
The words were quiet.
You looked up.
Steve seemed almost uncomfortable after saying them, like sincerity sat badly in his mouth.
“I mean it,” he added. “I’ll try to slow it down.”
You studied him across the table.
There he was again. That version of Steve that made the entire situation harder. Not King Steve. Not the sarcastic guy who joked his way around every uncomfortable feeling.
Just Steve. Tired. Cornered. Trying anyway.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said.
His brows pulled together. “Yeah, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah,” he said again, softer this time. “I do.”
A quiet understanding settled between you, the kind that comes from recognizing the same frustration, fear, and exhaustion in someone else's eyes. A quiet, terrifying little agreement that neither of you had said out loud. You were stuck in this together and maybe, whether you liked it or not, that meant you had to protect each other.
The pancakes arrived before the moment could become unbearable and awkward.
Thank God.
You immediately focused on cutting yours into pieces like the pancakes had personally offended you.
Steve watched you for a second.
“What?” you asked, your fork already halfway to your mouth with a piece of pancake balanced on the end.
“Nothing.” he laughs.
After swallowing your pancake, you pointed your fork at him. “You're doing that weird staring thing again.”
“I don’t have a weird staring thing.”
“You absolutely do, you’re literally doing it right now. Stop! It’s weird.” a soft giggle escapes your mouth before you can process what you’re doing.”
“I was just thinking.”
“Well that’s dangerous, wouldn’t want your pretty little brain to think too hard.”
He rolled his eyes. “I was just thinking that you’re handling this better than I would.”
You paused for a second and then laughed once, humorlessly. “I’m not handling this.”
“You seem like you are.”
“That’s because I’m sitting down, shoving pancakes in my mouth.”
Steve’s expression softened.
You hated that. You hated when he looked at you like he actually saw you. It made all your defenses feel embarrassingly flimsy.
You set your fork down and leaned back. “Do you know what the worst part is?”
Steve looked at you carefully. “What?”
You stared out the window.
Outside, a woman crossed the parking lot holding a little girl’s hand. The girl was skipping, completely unaware of anything except the fact that she had somewhere to go and someone beside her.
Your throat tightened. “Everyone keeps acting like this is romantic.”
Steve didn’t say anything.
So you kept going. “Your mom talks about flowers and venues and colors like this is normal. Like I’m supposed to be excited. Like I’m supposed to sit there and pick between ivory and champagne or whatever and pretend I’m not terrified.”
Your voice wavered slightly. You hated that too.
You looked down quickly, blinking hard. “I’m eighteen,” you said, quieter now. “I don’t even know what I want my life to look like yet. And they’re talking about where we’ll live after the wedding and what kind of ceremony we’ll have and how many people should
Steve's face had gone still in a way that caught you off guard, not because he looked upset, but because he seemed to be listening to every word.
You swallowed. “And the worst part is that I know why I’m doing it. I know my mom needs the help. I know this fixes things for her. So I can’t even be fully angry without feeling selfish.”
Steve looked down at the table, a long silence stretched between you.
“You’re not selfish,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and for some reason that made it worse.
You let out a shaky breath and reached for your coffee to give your hands something to do. “I feel like I am.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough. Look… I know we haven’t really known eachother that long but I’ve gotten to know you to a degree and I know that you are not a selfish person. A selfish person would never have agreed to this in the first place.
You looked at him, and Steve met your eyes just long enough for it to matter before looking away, his jaw tightening like the words cost him something. “You’re not the only one who feels trapped,” he said.
Your chest tightened.
He stared at his plate like it had suddenly become extremely interesting. “I know it probably seems different for me because it’s my family and my money and my house. But I don’t want this either.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said quietly. “I mean, I really don’t want this.”
The honesty settled over the table.
“I don’t want to become him,” Steve added.
Your throat went dry.
He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “That probably sounds dramatic.”
“It doesn’t.”
Steve looked up then, and it was clear you meant it. His expression shifted in response. “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize my entire life was just choices he made for me,” he said. “Where I work. Who I know. Who I marry. What I become.”
His eyes flickered toward the window. “And the worst part is, sometimes I think I’m already halfway there.”
You didn’t know what to say. For once, sarcasm felt wrong, and even comfort felt like it didn’t quite fit.
So instead, you said, “I don’t think you are.”
Steve looked at you.
“You don’t know me that well,” he replied.
“No,” you admitted, “but I’ve met your dad.”
That got the smallest laugh from him.
You smiled faintly, “I’m serious,” you said. “You’re not like him.”
His expression softened in a way that made you regret every emotionally sincere word you had ever spoken.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late.”
You kicked him lightly under the table.
He kicked you back. Not hard, just enough to be annoying, and for a second it felt normal in a way that was painfully and dangerously so.
Then the bell above the diner door rang, and both of you looked over instinctively. Nobody important walked in. Just an old man in a cap.
Still, the spell broke.
You both went back to eating.
After breakfast, neither of you seemed eager to return to the Harrington house. Steve drove aimlessly through Hawkins, taking turns without explaining where he was going.
You didn’t ask.
The car windows were cracked open. Warm air moved through the car, carrying the smell of grass and asphalt and late morning.
Eventually, Steve pulled into a small park overlooking a quiet stretch of trees and water. It wasn’t much. A few benches. A walking path. A gazebo that had definitely seen better days. But it was quiet.
You got out without asking questions.
Steve followed.
The two of you walked without direction, side by side, neither close enough to touch nor far enough apart to feel distant.
After a while, you said, “So if you were planning a wedding—”
Steve groaned.
“No just hear me out.” you continue explaining despite Steve’s annoyance.
“No.”
You continued anyway. “If you were planning a wedding you actually wanted—”
“I don’t like this question.”
“—what would it be like?”
Steve glanced at you suspiciously. “Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“That’s never good.”
You shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
He gestured dramatically. “Please. Enlighten me.”
“I’d want something small,” you said.
Steve’s teasing expression faded slightly.
You looked ahead, pretending not to notice. “Not courthouse small, maybe. But small. Just people who actually care. No random business associates. No one there because they want to be seen.”
Steve was quiet.
You continued, “Maybe outside. Somewhere pretty, but not creepy rich-person pretty.”
“That eliminates half of my mother's binder.”
“Good.”
“No ballroom?”
“No ballroom.”
“No three-hundred-person guest list?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No ice sculpture?”
You stopped walking. “Was that actually an option?”
Steve looked deeply amused. “Probably.”
“I hate rich people.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are rich people.”
“I hate rich people spiritually and emotionally.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It should.”
You kept walking.“What about you?” you asked.
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know.”
“Liar.” you teased.
“I’m not lying.”
“Come on. You definitely have opinions.”
“I have opinions on many things.”
“Then have one now.”
Steve sighed dramatically. “Fine. Small too, I guess.”
You glanced at him.
He stared ahead. “I wouldn’t want my parents planning it,” he said. “That’s my main thing.”
“Reasonable.”
“And I wouldn’t want people staring at me like I’m performing.”
“Also reasonable.”
“And I’d want decent music.”
“Define decent.”
“Not whatever my mom thinks counts as elegant.”
You smiled. “So no string quartet?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You looked at him in disbelief. “Steve Harrington wants a string quartet at his wedding?”
“Hey I’m full of surprises and multitudes of fun.”
“You are so annoying.”
“You asked.”
A beat passed, the kind that didn’t feel awkward so much as suspended.
Then, out of nowhere, you asked, “Do you want kids?”
Steve blinked like the question had physically hit him. Then, surprisingly, he smiled a little to himself. “Yeah.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again, more certain this time. “I think so.”
“How many?” you asked immediately.
He didn’t even hesitate. “Six.”
You stared at him. “What.”
Steve shrugged like it was the most reasonable answer in the world. “Six little nuggets.”
“Six nuggets, really? You cannot just say that like it’s normal,” you said, laughing despite yourself.
He looked offended. “What’s wrong with six little nuggets?”
“Everything! That’s a full classroom—Steve, that’s like a whole basketball team. I can’t even…why?”
He leaned back slightly, still smiling. “So what about you?”
You paused, then sighed. “I do want kids. But not six.”
“Coward,” he said automatically.
“I feel bad for your wife,” you continued, ignoring him. “Oh—wait. That was not part of the agreement.”
Steve’s smile widened like he was trying not to laugh.
“You’re enjoying this,” you accused.
“A little,” he admitted.
You shook your head, but you were smiling again.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
Unacceptable.
The path curved toward the gazebo. You stepped inside, grateful for the shade. Steve leaned against one of the wooden posts, watching the trees beyond the park.
For a moment, you could almost imagine it.
Not the wedding.
Not really.
Just a different life.
One where choices were actually choices.
One where you and Steve had met normally. Maybe in school. Maybe because he asked you for help on an essay and you made fun of him until he laughed. Maybe you would’ve hated him first. Maybe he would’ve deserved it. Maybe, eventually, he would’ve won you over.
The thought of it all made your stomach turn and not because it was horrible. Because it wasn’t.
You looked away quickly.
Steve noticed like he always did. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s my line.”
“Well, I’m stealing it today.”
He tilted his head. “You okay?”
You hated how gentle he sounded.
It made the question harder to dodge.
“I just…” You exhaled. “For a second, I forgot this wasn’t normal.”
Steve’s expression changed.
The air between you shifted.
Neither of you spoke.
The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was too much. Too honest. Too close to something neither of you were ready to name.
Then Steve cleared his throat. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he said, lighter now, “I think our imaginary wedding has better taste than my mother’s real one.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Obviously.”
Steve's grin widened. “We’d have pancakes instead of cake.”
“No.”
His face fell in exaggerated offense. “Wow.”
“I draw the line at breakfast-food weddings.”
“Pancakes are not breakfast food. Pancakes are a lifestyle.”
“They are absolutely breakfast food.”
“Not when there’s whipped cream involved.”
You pointed at him. “That makes them dessert.”
“No, that makes them improved.”
“You are impossible.”
“You’re the one rejecting my visionary wedding menu.”
“Your vision is terrible.”
“People would talk about it for years.”
“Yeah, like as an example of disastrous weddings.”
Steve pressed a hand dramatically to his chest like you'd wounded him.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile stayed.
For a moment, it felt easy.
Just two people standing in the shade of an old gazebo, arguing about pancakes instead of wedding contracts and family expectations and futures neither of them had chosen.
The joke faded eventually, but the feeling didn't.
It lingered quietly between you, warm and dangerous, settling into the spaces where all the harder conversations lived. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you knew what to do with it.
So you kept walking.
- -
By the time Steve finally drove back to the house, the sun had shifted lower in the sky, bleeding warm light across the windshield. You both knew you couldn’t avoid returning forever, even if a part of you wanted to stay suspended in the quiet a little longer.
Still, when the Harrington house came into view, your stomach sank the way it always did when something felt inevitable. Steve pulled into the driveway but didn’t turn the engine off right away. Neither of you moved to get out.
Through the front windows, everything looked calm. Too calm, like the house itself was waiting.
Steve tapped his fingers once against the steering wheel. “I’ll talk to them,” he said.
You turned your head toward him. “About the wedding date?”
“About all of it.”
“You don’t have to fight them for me.”
His eyes flicked to yours, steady and a little too serious. “I’m not just doing it for you.”
Something in your chest tightened at that, unexpected and unwelcome, and you looked away before it could turn into something else. “Right.”
A beat passed, heavy but not uncomfortable, just full.
When you finally looked back at him, Steve was already watching you. Neither of you spoke.
It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t feel like the kind of moment that knew it was supposed to matter. It just happened quietly, like gravity shifting.
Steve’s gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before lifting back to your eyes. Something shifted in his expression, quiet but unmistakable.
You didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched between you as Steve leaned forward slightly, hesitant enough to stop if you wanted him to, but not enough to hide what he was doing.
Your breath caught.
He was going to kiss you.
But before either of you could close the remaining distance—
The carn horn blared all off a sudden, sharp and sudden interrupting the moment. Both of you flinched apart at the same time.
Steve let out a breath that sounded like a laugh he hadn’t meant to make. “Jesus.”
You stared forward for a second, heartbeat too loud in your ears, then cleared your throat like nothing had happened. “Your car has opinions.”
“Apparently,” he said, still not looking at you fully, “it’s very against whatever that was.”
“Helpful,” you muttered.
And just like that, the moment was gone—except for the fact that it wasn’t, not really, because neither of you got out of the car right away.
Steve turned the ignition off properly this time, like he was forcing the car to behave itself along with everything else.
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out like it might reset whatever had just happened. “We should probably go in.”
“Probably,” you echoed, even though neither of you moved right away.
The silence between you felt different now. Not heavier exactly, just more aware of itself.
Steve reached for the door handle, then paused again. “Hey.”
You looked at him.
His expression had gone back to something more familiar, but not all the way. Like whatever almost happened was still sitting somewhere behind his eyes. “That didn’t mean anything,” he said, too quickly.
It should have sounded dismissive. It didn’t.
You nodded once. “Right. Of course.”
A beat.
Inside, the house was exactly as you’d seen through the windows. Calm, polished, wrong in its perfection.
The sound of your footsteps on the floor felt too loud, like the house was listening back.
Steve closed the door behind you, not quite gently, not quite anything. He stood there for a second longer than necessary, like he didn’t know where to put himself.
Then he exhaled, short and controlled. “I’m gonna go upstairs.”
You looked at him. “Okay.”
He nodded once, already halfway gone before you even finished the word. “I just need a minute.”
And then he was moving up the stairs, taking the tension with him in uneven steps, leaving it behind in the hallway where it immediately found you instead.
The house settled again after he disappeared from view.
Too quiet now.
You drifted into the kitchen without really deciding to, like it was the only place in the house that made sense to stand without being seen. The counters were too clean, the silence too intentional, everything arranged like it had never been disrupted by anything real in its life.
You leaned against the counter and tried not to think about the car.
About the almost.
About the way he had looked at you like there was a version of this that didn’t end in pretending nothing happened.
The phone rang.
Sharp. Sudden. Out of place in a way that made your whole body react before your mind caught up.
You stared at it for a second.
A landline.
No caller ID. No warning. Just noise cutting through the house like it belonged there more than you did.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
It could’ve been for the Harringtons. It probably was. It didn’t feel like something you were supposed to touch.
It rang again.
Longer this time.
You crossed the kitchen and picked it up.
“Hello?” your voice came out steadier than you felt.
A pause on the other end. Static. Breath. Then a voice, careful and rehearsed.
“Is this—” your name.
Your grip tightened slightly on the receiver. “Yes.”
“This is St. Mary’s Hospital. We’re calling about your mother.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They came in pieces, like your brain refused to assemble them correctly.
For a second, you didn’t hear anything else. Not the house. Not the silence upstairs. Not even your own breathing.
Just the feeling that something had just shifted, and there was no way to shift it back.
A Deal With the Harrington's. Part 5 - Steve Harrington imagine.
(Rich Steve Harrington x fem!reader)
part 1. part 2. part 3. part 4.
Summary: When you and your mother are on the verge of losing everything, the Harringtons offer you a deal you can’t refuse: marry their son, Steve, in exchange for clearing her debts and saving your home. It leaves you with no real choice but to agree.
word count: 6,002
Warnings: arranged marriage/forced engagement. Angst. Emotional distress. sadness. fear of loss. car accident. mentions of grief and death.
A/N: sorry for the long wait after a cliff hanger, that's diabolical and I'm sorry. My dumbass broke my only computer charger and I had no way to write the next part 😭 but I got a new charger and so here it is and hopefully it will get better from here? idk yet...
“This is St. Mary’s Hospital. We’re calling about your mother.”
…
“Ma’am?” the voice prompted gently, like they were trying not to startle you back into your body.
You couldn’t answer because it felt like if you did, it would make this situation too real in a way you weren’t ready to survive, so you just stayed there. Completely frozen—like maybe if you didn’t respond, the moment would lose its shape and you could somehow pull yourself back to before it happened.
You swallowed, forcing yourself back to the present because the moment wasn’t going away no matter how hard you tried to snap out of it. A sharp ringing filled your ears, dulling everything else, like the world had turned distant and underwater, swallowing whatever coherent thoughts you were trying to hold onto.
“What… about my mom?”
Another pause. Papers shifting on the other end. A practiced inhale, the kind people use when they’ve said this too many times and still haven’t learned how to make it sound normal.
“There’s been an accident,” the woman finally said. “Your mother was involved in a vehicle collision. She was transported to St. Mary’s by paramedics a short while ago.”
A car accident?
Your stomach dropped. The words echoed around your head without settling anywhere.
A car accident.
Your mom.
This was the kind of thing that happened to other people. Other families. Not yours. Not now. Not when everything already felt like it was falling apart. The thought hit so hard it almost hurt.
How much more could possibly go wrong?
You had seen her just a couple days ago. She was fine then, completely normal, alive in a way that felt so certain you hadn’t even thought to question it. So why was this woman informing you about an accident?
“…Is she—” Your voice cracked halfway through the question, so you stopped and tried again. “Is she okay?”
“We’re treating her now,” the voice replied carefully. It wasn’t a yes but it wasn’t a no. She said it in such a careful manner you weren’t sure how to react to it. “She’s stable at the moment, but we need you to come in as soon as possible. Are you able to get here?”
Stable.
That word should have helped ground you, but it didn’t. It wasn’t clear enough to hold onto. It could mean too many things—someone resting, someone unconscious, someone slipping just out of reach. Stable didn’t mean okay and it didn’t mean safe. It just meant everything was still happening and you had no control whatsoever—like everything else in your life.
You nodded before you realized they couldn’t see you. “Yes. I—yeah. I can come.”
“Okay,” the voice said, softer now. “Do you have someone who can drive you?”
For a second, your mind went blank again. Like it couldn’t decide where to reach first. Upstairs. The house. Keys. Car. Someone. Steve. Anyone. “I… I can—” You looked toward the staircase where Steve was residing upstairs without seeing it. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Alright,” the lady said. “We’ll be here when you arrive. Do you understand the location?”
“Yes,” you said automatically.
Another pause, shorter this time. “We’re sorry you’re going through this.”
The line clicked, and then there was nothing but a flat dial tone. You stayed there anyway, the phone still pressed to your ear, like if you let go, the moment would become permanent in a way you couldn’t undo.
You finally lowered the phone slowly, like it might break if you moved too fast. And for the first time since the call started, your brain caught up just enough to form one clear thought:
You had to get to the hospital.
You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were already at the bottom of the stairs.
“Steve—” Your voice cracked halfway through his name, sharp and wrong in the quiet house.
“Steve!” you yelled and it came out louder this time, raw enough that it finally pulled him out of wherever he’d gone upstairs. A door opened. Fast footsteps followed, uneven at first, then quickening when he heard you properly.
“Hey—hey, what’s going on?” he called back, already on the stairs. At first, he must have thought you were going to say something about the almost-kiss the two of you had shared moments ago, but your best guess was that whatever he saw in your face the second he caught sight of you made him drop that idea immediately.
He stopped halfway down like he’d hit something invisible. Your face was pale in a way that didn’t look like shock so much as collapse, and your hands were shaking so badly you didn’t even seem to notice it yourself, like your body had started reacting before your mind could catch up. Your breathing wasn’t steady enough to feel like breathing at all, just short uneven pulls of air that didn’t seem to do anything to help.
Whatever had been between you earlier—whatever tension, whatever almost-kiss—was gone. Completely erased. There wasn’t space for it here. It didn’t matter now.
“Talk to me,” he said, softer now, moving the rest of the way down but slower, careful. “What happened?”
You tried to speak, but it came out broken. “My mom—” You swallowed hard, like it hurt. “There was—there was an accident.”
Steve’s expression shifted immediately. The teasing, the awkwardness, everything dropped away. “Oh—okay. Okay,” he said quickly, already moving before he finished processing it. “Where is she? Is she—”
“I don’t know,” you blurted, words spilling too fast now that they’d started. “Hospital. St. Mary’s. They called. I need—I need to get there. Please—can you just—can you drive me?” Your voice cracked again on the last word, and it was like whatever hesitation he might’ve had never even existed.
“Yeah,” Steve said immediately.
No pause. No question.
“Yeah, of course. Come on.”
Steve didn’t waste time asking questions. Before the silence could settle between you again, he was already grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair and shrugging it on. “We’ll go right now.”
He pulled open the front door, and a rush of cold air swept inside. It didn’t calm you, but it gave you something to focus on—something other than the panic threatening to take over.
You stepped outside almost automatically, and Steve followed close behind, locking the door as he went. The walk down the driveway felt strangely unreal, your thoughts moving too fast for the rest of you to keep up.
Steve reached the car first and opened the passenger door.
When you hesitated, his expression softened. “Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” he said quietly. “Just get in, okay?”
You nodded and climbed into the car.
Steve shut your door, circled around, and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over with a rough hum, real and ordinary in a way that felt wrong.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he pulled out of the driveway, one hand tight on the wheel. “You’re gonna get there,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “We’re going right now.”
And the streetlights blurred past as the house disappeared behind you.
- -
The hospital doors slid open too slowly. Or maybe you were moving too fast.
The automatic glass parted with a soft mechanical sigh, and the smell hit you first. Cleaning chemicals, stale air, something faintly metallic underneath it all. Bright lights buzzed overhead, too white, too awake for the time of night.
Steve was right behind you the whole way in, close enough that you could feel him there without needing to look.
“St. Mary’s—my mom—there was a call—” you started at the front desk, words tumbling out before you could shape them properly.
The nurse looked up immediately, expression shifting into something alert and practiced. “Name?”
You said it.
She typed quickly, eyes scanning a screen you couldn’t see.
“She was brought in earlier this evening,” the nurse said. “Car accident. She’s in the emergency room. They’ve been stabilizing her.”
Stable.
The word hit differently here. Worse, somehow. Maybe because it wasn't coming through a phone anymore. Now it was surrounded by fluorescent lights, rushing nurses, and closed doors you couldn't get through. Everyone kept saying it like it was supposed to mean something reassuring, but all it did was remind you that nobody was saying she was okay.
“Can I see her?” you asked, voice breaking halfway through.
“Not yet,” the nurse said gently but firmly. “They’re still working with her. The doctor will come speak with you as soon as they can.”
Your stomach dropped like it had missed a step.
Steve shifted slightly beside you, like he was ready to catch you if you fell without making it obvious.
“How bad is it?” you asked, quieter now.
The nurse hesitated just long enough for you to feel it. “We need the physician to update you,” she said carefully. “She’s alive. That’s what I can tell you right now.”
Hearing the word “alive” should’ve been a relief to you. Instead it felt like you didn’t know what to do with your hands and what to do with yourself. How were you supposed to just sit here and wait while your mom could be dying?
“Waiting area is just down the hall,” she added, softer now. “Someone will come get you soon.”
You turned without really deciding to, legs moving because there was nowhere else for them to go.
The hallway stretched longer than it should’ve, chairs lining the walls like they were placed there for people who didn’t know what to do with time. Steve followed you in silence until you found a seat—and even then, he didn’t leave.
You sat down like your body finally gave up pretending it was in control.
Steve stayed standing for a second, then slowly lowered himself into the chair beside you.
Neither of you spoke.
Because there wasn’t anything that fit inside that room yet.
A few minutes passed in a way that didn’t feel like minutes at all.
The waiting room stayed the same—too bright, too still, too full of other people trying not to look like they were waiting for bad news. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang and kept ringing until someone finally answered it.
You couldn’t tell how long you’d been sitting there. Your hands stayed clenched in your lap, like letting go would make everything spill out of you.
Steve hadn’t moved.
Every so often, he glanced toward the hallway, then back at you, like he was checking you were still here.
Finally, footsteps.
Not rushed. Not casual either. Controlled.
A man in a white coat appeared at the end of the hall, eyes scanning the room once before settling on you. The way he looked immediately made your stomach tighten.
“Are you here for—” he checked a chart, then said your mother’s name.
You stood up so fast the chair scraped back.
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Is she okay? Can I see her?”
The doctor paused just long enough that your heart started doing something painful.
“She’s alive,” he said first, like he knew that was the only thing holding you up. “But she sustained significant injuries in the collision. Internal bleeding and trauma that required immediate intervention.”
Your ears rang again.
“And she’s—” your voice caught. “She’s stable, right?”
He nodded once. “She’s in surgery right now.”
That word landed harder than the others.
Surgery.
Not waiting. Not observation. Not just a room you could stand outside of and pretend proximity meant something.
Actual hands inside her body trying to fix what had been broken.
Your knees almost gave out.
Steve shifted instantly closer, his hand hovering near your elbow but not grabbing you unless you needed it.
The doctor kept speaking, careful and steady. “The surgical team is doing everything they can. We won’t know more until they’re finished, but she was brought in quickly, which was important.”
You tried to process it, but everything kept slipping. “In surgery,” you repeated under your breath, like saying it differently might change it.
“Yes,” he said gently. “We’ll update you as soon as we have more information.”
Then, softer: “You can stay here. We’ll come get you the moment there’s news.”
And just like that, he was gone again down the hall, leaving the words behind like something you had to carry now.
Surgery.
Steve finally sat closer, his shoulder almost touching yours.
“You heard him,” he said quietly, like he was trying not to shake you more than you already were. “They’re with her. Okay? She’s not alone.”
But all you could see was the word that wouldn’t leave your head.
In surgery.
The words kept echoing long after the doctor disappeared down the hall.
You stared at the empty space he'd left behind, waiting for something else to happen. Another explanation. Another sentence. Something that would make the first one less terrifying.
Nothing came.
Just the waiting room.
Just the lights.
Just the horrible silence.
Your chest tightened.
Steve was still talking, saying something quiet beside you, but the words weren't reaching you anymore.
Surgery.
Internal bleeding.
Trauma.
Alive.
The pieces kept crashing into each other in your head.
You saw your mother standing in the kitchen a few days ago.
You saw her laughing at something stupid.
You saw her telling you to call more often.
You saw her driving away.
And suddenly all you could think was:
What if that was the last normal conversation you ever had with her?
The thought hit so hard it felt physical. A sharp, painful crack somewhere deep inside your chest. Your breath caught. Then another. And another.
Steve stopped talking immediately. "Hey."
You couldn't answer.
Your vision blurred.
"Hey."
The first tear slipped down before you even realized you were crying.
Then another.
Then everything broke.
A sob tore out of you so suddenly it almost hurt. You folded forward, hands flying to your face as the sound escaped your throat.
"No—"
Your shoulders shook violently.
"No, no, no..."
It wasn't even words anymore.
Just pure panic.
Pure fear.
Grief even, trying to arrive before it had permission.
Steve's face drained of color. "Hey, hey—"
Another sob cut through you. "What if she dies?" you choked out.
The question hung between you.
Awful and terrifying.
"What if she dies and I didn't—I didn't get to—"
Your voice shattered completely. You couldn't finish.
Steve moved instantly. One second he was beside you. The next he was kneeling in front of your chair.
"Look at me."
You couldn't.
Fresh tears spilled down your face.
"Hey."
His voice was firm this time. Gentle, but firm.
"Look at me."
Somehow you managed it.
His eyes were already fixed on yours.
It was something steady and focused to look at like he was trying to carry some of the panic for you..
"You don't know that's going to happen."
You shook your head violently.
"They wouldn't tell me anything."
"I know."
"They said surgery."
"I know."
Your breathing hitched again.
Steve swallowed hard.
You could tell he was scared too.
Not just of your mother. But of this. Of watching you fall apart and not knowing how to stop it.
But he stayed anyway.
"They said she's alive."
Your face crumpled. "Barely."
The word slipped out before you could stop it, sounding distant even to your own ears.
"You don't know that," Steve pleaded, his deep brown eyes fixed on yours as though he could somehow convince you to believe him if he looked hard enough.
Maybe under different circumstances, you would've gotten lost in those eyes. Maybe they would've made your pulse skip for reasons that had nothing to do with panic. But Steve wasn't a saint, and no amount of wishing was going to change the fact that your mom was in the hospital.
"They wouldn't let me see her." you cry out.
"Because they're operating on her."
Another sob escaped you.
Steve glanced around the waiting room before looking back.
Then, very carefully, he reached for your hands. His fingers wrapped around them despite how badly they were shaking. "Listen to me."
You couldn't stop crying.
"I need you to listen."
You nodded weakly.
"They got her here." His grip tightened slightly. "They found the bleeding."
Another breath.
"They got her into surgery."
He paused. "Everything the doctor told us means they're fighting for her."
Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. “But what if—”
“No.” Steve shook his head, cutting you off before the thought could even finish. In his mind, your mom was still going to pull through, still going to come out of this alive. And somehow, that blind certainty felt like the only thing holding the room together. Holding you together.
His eyes locked onto yours. "We're not doing that."
Your breathing hitched.
"Not yet."
The firmness in his voice surprised even you. Steve had always been sarcastic. Playful. The last person who seemed built for moments like this. But right now there wasn't a trace of that. Just someone trying desperately to hold you together.
"We don't know what's going to happen."
His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "So we're not saying goodbye to her in our heads before she's even out of surgery."
That finally made something inside you crack wider. Because it sounded so much like hope. And hope hurt.
You started crying harder.
Steve immediately stood and pulled you toward him.
For a second you resisted.
Then you gave up.
The moment his arms wrapped around you, whatever control you had left just slipped away. You buried your face into his shoulder and fell apart.
The sobs hit in waves—one after another, heavy and unrelenting. Weeks of stress, months of fear, everything that had built up since moving in, everything you’d refused to let yourself feel. It all came crashing out at once, like your body had finally decided it couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Steve held on tightly with one hand against the back of your head. The other around your shoulders. And every time your breathing became uneven enough to scare him, he just held you a little closer.
"It's okay," he whispered softly.
His voice was quiet.
"I'm here."
Another sob shook through you.
"I'm not going anywhere."
You clung to his jacket. The fabric bunching in your fists. And for the first time since the phone call, you stopped trying to hold yourself together.
Steve stayed exactly where he was. Holding you in the middle of the waiting room. Like he could somehow keep the whole world from collapsing if he just didn't let go.
Steve stayed there until the worst of it passed.
Not because the crying stopped.
It didn't.
But eventually the sobs became quieter. Less violent. The kind that left your chest aching every time you inhaled.
The waiting room around you slowly came back into focus.
The lights.
The distant voices.
The sound of someone rolling a cart somewhere down the hall.
You were still holding onto Steve's jacket.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
His hand remained on your back, moving in slow circles.
Not trying to fix anything.
Just there.
- -
The clock on the wall ticked forward.
Another ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Every time a doctor appeared, your heart jumped into your throat. Every time they walked past without stopping, it dropped again.
Steve never left.
Not for food. Not for water. Not even when a nearby nurse watching offered directions to the cafeteria.
Eventually you noticed.
“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, the words coming out softer than you meant them to. Part of you meant it—at least on the surface. The idea of being alone right now made your chest tighten, but you didn’t want to feel like a weight he had to carry.
You pulled back just enough to look away, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Steve.”
Steve looked at you like you’d just said something completely absurd, almost offended that you could even think it. “First of all,” he said, firm but not unkind, “you are not a burden.”
He reached out, gently brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. The touch was so careful it made your chest tighten, a small flicker of something warm cutting through everything else—before you forced yourself back down to earth.
“And I’m not going anywhere,” he added, voice steady. “I’m staying, okay? I would never just leave you here. That’s… that’s terrible.”
You wiped at your eyes. “Steve… you really don’t have to stay.”
“I’m staying.”
“Steve—”
“I’m staying.”
You stared at him for a moment, something caught between disbelief and relief tightening in your chest. You were still trying to push him away, still trying to act like you didn’t need it—but the truth was, you were on the verge of falling apart again.
And as much as you wanted to argue, you were glad he wasn’t listening. Because you needed something solid right now. Something to keep you from completely slipping under.
"As long as you're here, I'm here."
The words landed somewhere deep inside your chest. Before you could respond, movement caught your eye.
A doctor.
The same one from before.
Walking toward you.
Fast.
Your stomach dropped instantly.
Steve was already standing. So were you.
The doctor stopped in front of you.
For the longest second of your life nobody spoke.
Your entire body felt frozen.
Then the doctor removed his surgical cap.
And smiled.
Not a huge smile.
Not celebratory.
But enough.
Enough.
"The surgery went well."
The breath left your lungs all at once.
The world tilted.
You grabbed the back of the chair because suddenly your knees didn't feel reliable.
"She's okay?" you whispered.
The doctor's expression softened.
"She's okay." he repeated. "She lost a lot of blood, and recovery is going to take time," he continued. "But she's out of surgery and stable."
For the first time all night, the word stable didn't sound terrifying.
A sound escaped you.
Half laugh.
Half sob.
Your hands flew to your mouth.
Tears immediately filled your eyes again. Only this time they weren't from fear.
Beside you, Steve actually closed his eyes for a second. Like he'd been holding his breath too.
The doctor nodded.
"She's still unconscious, but once she's moved and monitored, we'll let you see her."
You could barely hear the rest.
Because one thing kept repeating in your head.
She's alive.
She's alive.
She's alive.
And before you even realized what you were doing, you turned and threw your arms around Steve. Hard.
For one startled second he froze. Then his arms wrapped around you automatically. Neither of you said anything. Because after hours of imagining the worst, there weren't words big enough for the relief.
- -
After everything had started to settle, the doctor finally allowed you to visit your mom in her room, where she would be staying to recover.
Steve stayed close behind you the entire time.
When you stepped inside, she was already asleep. The steady rise and fall of her breathing was the only real movement in the room. She looked smaller like this—fragile in a way that made your stomach twist. Bruising marked her face and arms, evidence of how badly she’d been hurt, and it was hard to reconcile it with the person you knew. Your kind, steady mother. The one who always felt untouchable in her gentleness.
But this wasn’t something someone had done to her. It was an accident. A car crash. Just an accident.
Still, knowing that didn’t make it any easier to look at her like this. The only thing reassuring you right now was the steady sound of her heartbeat through the monitor. As long as that monitor kept beeping, you could continue to breathe.
“She’s gonna wake up, and you’ll get to tell her all about our little engagement adventures,” Steve said suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts. “And it’ll all go back to normal. You’ll see.”
His voice was softer than before, like he was trying to build a future you could hold onto, even if only for a moment.
“Yeah, I know…” you whispered softly, eyes still fixed on her. “It’s just weird seeing her like this… but she’s okay.” You said it like you were trying to make it true by repeating it, like if you held onto the words long enough they’d start to feel real.
Suddenly, you noticed your mom’s eyes begin to flutter open, and your heart skipped a beat.
She was waking up.
The room seemed to shift with it—everything narrowing down to that single moment as you instinctively leaned forward, breath catching in your throat.
Her lashes trembled, slow and heavy, like it took effort just to lift them. For a second, her gaze was unfocused—lost somewhere between sleep and pain—until it finally settled on you.
And the moment it did, something in her expression changed. Confusion first. Then recognition.
“Hey…” she whispered, her voice rough and fragile, like it hadn’t been used in a while.
Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. You took a step closer before you even realized you were moving.
Her eyes drifted slightly, noticing Steve standing just behind you, and she blinked slowly, like she was trying to piece everything together. “Am I…” she started, then stopped, swallowing carefully. “Am I in the hospital?”
Steve stayed quiet, giving you the space.
You nodded quickly, even though your throat felt tight. “Yeah,” you managed. “You’re in the hospital… you were in a car accident.”
The words sounded too sharp in the quiet room, too real.
Your mom frowned slightly, like she was trying to process it through fog. She shifted a little, then winced—immediately stopping as pain caught up with her body.
“Hey—don’t move,” you said quickly, stepping closer to the bed. Your voice softened without you meaning it to. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Just… just rest.”
Her eyes stayed on you, searching your face like she was trying to make sure you were really there. And then, barely above a whisper, she said your name. The sound of her saying your name hit you harder than you expected.
For a second, you couldn’t speak.
Steve shifted slightly behind you, still quiet, giving you space without leaving your side. The room felt smaller somehow, like everything outside this moment didn’t exist anymore.
Your mom’s hand moved a little on the blanket—slow, careful, like even that much effort took everything she had.
“You’re here,” she murmured, more like a statement than a question.
You nodded again, quickly this time, stepping closer until you were right at her bedside. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Her eyes shifted past you again, landing on Steve standing a step behind. There was a pause—brief, confused.
Then her brow lifted slightly. “What is he doing here?” she asked, voice still weak but carrying a faint edge of teasing underneath it, like she was trying to make sense of him through the fog.
“Did you bring him… all the way here?”
It wasn’t sharp. More like she was half-aware, half-amused, even in pain.
Your chest tightened, but not in the same way as before—this time it was almost grounding.
You shook your head quickly, leaning in closer to her bedside. “No, mommy—no, it’s okay,” you said softly, squeezing her hand gently. “Steve’s been helping me. He stayed with me… you scared me, you know.”
Your voice cracked slightly at the end, the truth slipping through no matter how hard you tried to keep it steady.
Behind you, Steve didn’t interrupt. He just stood there quietly, steady as ever, like he understood exactly what his place was in the room.
Your mom’s expression softened immediately at your words.
“Helping you?” she repeated slowly, as if testing it out. Then her gaze flicked back to Steve again, a little more focused now, though still dulled by exhaustion. “Well… that’s unexpected.”
There was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth, like she was trying to tease you but didn’t quite have the strength to fully pull it off.
“I leave you alone for one moment and you start collecting bodyguards,” she murmured, then winced slightly at her own attempt at humor.
Your breath caught somewhere between relief and a shaky laugh you didn’t fully manage. “Mom…” you whispered, leaning closer, your fingers still holding hers. “Don’t joke. You really scared me.”
Her eyes softened again at that, the teasing fading.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, a little more serious now. “I didn’t mean to.”
Steve stayed just behind you, still giving you space, but his presence didn’t feel distant anymore—more like something steady holding the room together while everything else felt fragile.
Her expression changed slowly—like something in her mind had shifted, a thought surfacing through the haze of medication and exhaustion.
At first it was subtle. A small crease between her brows. Her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked at you more carefully, as if she was suddenly seeing you in a different context.
Then her hand tightened around yours.
“No…” she whispered.
Your stomach dipped.
“Don’t do it.”
You blinked, confused. “Do what?”
Her gaze sharpened just a little, urgency breaking through the weakness in her voice.
“Don’t marry him,” she said, a little firmer this time. “You can’t, Y/n.”
The words landed wrong in the quiet room.
You froze. “Mom, what are you talking about?”
Her breathing quickened slightly, and she shook her head as much as she could without hurting herself.
“You’re so young,” she said, like it was suddenly obvious, like it had always been obvious and she couldn’t believe she’d ever allowed otherwise. “You shouldn’t be worrying about any of that—about houses, bills, any of it. This is all my fault.”
Her eyes searched yours, urgent now, almost pleading despite her condition.
“I shouldn’t have agreed to that,” she added quietly. “I shouldn’t have put that on you.”
You let out a slow, shaky breath, glancing down as her words hung in the air between you.
Of course you didn’t want it. You were eighteen—you weren’t ready for any of this, let alone marrying someone you barely knew just because of money or expectations. You’d never imagined your life like this, never wanted it to feel like a transaction you couldn’t step out of.
But that wasn’t the reality you were standing in.
Not anymore.
Your mom’s accident changed everything. The hospital bills alone were already a weight you could feel pressing down on you, and there was no version of the future where things suddenly got easier. No safety net waiting to catch you if you said no.
And worse than that—you’d already signed the papers with the Harringtons.
There wasn’t really a way back from that. You signed a real contract.
You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to stay steady even as your chest tightened. “I don’t want to,” you admitted quietly, almost to yourself more than her. “I never did.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around hers.
“But I already signed,” you added after a beat, softer now. “And with everything going on now… we need it, mom. I don’t see another way.”
The words tasted wrong, but they were still true.
Behind you, Steve shifted slightly, like he’d heard every word but was choosing not to interrupt—just standing there, steady, as if he was trying not to make the room any heavier than it already was.
Your mom stared at you for a long moment, like she was trying to push through the fog in her head and find a version of reality where what you were saying wasn’t true.
“No,” she said again, quieter this time, but more certain. “No, there’s always another way.”
Her grip on your hand tightened, weak but desperate in its intent.
“You don’t fix one problem by giving up your life,” she continued, voice trembling slightly with strain. “That’s not… that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”
You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it. “Mom, please—”
But she wasn’t finished.
Her eyes flicked toward Steve again, then back to you, softer now but still urgent.
“I don’t care what agreements were made,” she said. “You’re my daughter. You don’t owe anyone your future because I got hurt.”
A pause. Her breath hitched slightly, pain flashing across her face before she forced herself to continue.
“And I don’t want you trapped,” she added, almost whispering now. “Not for me. Not for bills. Not for anything.”
The room felt too small again, like everything was closing in.
You stood there for a second, caught between everything she was saying and everything you already knew.
Because none of it was wrong.
But none of it changed anything either.
Your throat tightened as you looked down at her hand still holding yours, fragile and warm despite everything she’d just said.
“I know,” you whispered finally. “I know you don’t want that for me.”
Your voice cracked a little, and you hated that it did.
“But it’s already done, mom.”
The words came out quieter this time, heavier.
“I signed it. And they… they’re helping us. With the hospital, with everything. If I back out now, I don’t even know what happens to us.”
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes again even though it hurt.
“I didn’t do it because I wanted to,” you added. “I did it because I didn’t see another choice.”
Behind you, Steve’s presence felt even quieter now—like he was trying not to shift the weight of the moment any more than it already was.
Your mom’s expression faltered, like your words had physically hit her.
For a moment, your mom didn’t say anything.
The frustration in her face didn’t disappear, but it softened—like it had nowhere left to go but into helplessness. Her eyes shone a little brighter now, not from strength, but from emotion she didn’t have the energy to fully hold back.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered.
Her hand stayed wrapped around yours, weaker now but still refusing to let go.
“I hate that you felt like you had to choose that,” she added, voice rough. “I hate that I didn’t do anything to stop it.”
You shook your head immediately.
“Mom, don’t—”
But she kept going, slower this time, each word careful like it cost her something.
“You are not a solution to anything,” she said. “You’re not… something to be traded or fixed.”
A pause. Her gaze flicked up to you again, steadying just slightly.
“I don’t care what you signed,” she added, firmer now in spite of the exhaustion. “We will figure something else out. Together.”
The room went quiet after that, the words hanging there like something fragile but real.
Your mom’s hand stayed in yours, even as her strength seemed to fade a little more with every breath.
“I mean it,” she whispered, softer now. “We’ll figure it out. I don’t know how yet… but not like this.”
Your chest tightened, and for once you didn’t argue back—you couldn’t. Not because you agreed, but because hearing her say it made something in you crack in a different way.
Steve shifted slightly behind you, stepping a little closer—not interrupting, just there.
Your mom’s eyes flicked toward him, then back to you.
“And you,” she added faintly, a tired edge of humor returning for just a second, “stop carrying everything alone. I raised you better than that.”
A shaky breath left you that might’ve been a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.
You squeezed her hand. “I missed you,” you admitted quietly, the truth slipping out before you could stop it.
Her expression softened completely at that.
“I’m right here,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time since stepping into the hospital room, you let yourself believe—not that everything was okay—but that you weren’t completely alone in it.
Summary: You go into the video store and fall in love with one of the new handsome workers. You have to make him fall in love with you (of course) so you do what any sane person would do and come in everyday.
Word count: 3,975 words
Warnings: Stalker reader. Mentions of sex, wet panties? Reader is lowkey obsessed with Steve, she's weird, creepy. Cause girls can be pervs too. Hopelessly in love with Steve. Also she's lowkey delusional... umm Steve is an idiot. Idk lmk if i'm missing something.
— — — — — —
It was a normal day when you walked into the video store. You weren’t expecting anything, just wanted to grab another shitty comedy movie to make yourself feel better about your sad depressing life. At least you could admit to yourself that your life was boring.
However, it felt like your world shifted when you spotted a new, handsome face. You later learned that this brown eyed boy’s name was Steve Harrington (wow).
A strange feeling that you couldn’t quite describe grew in your underwear every time you thought of this stranger from the video store. You wanted to know him. You wanted him to know you. You wanted to fuck him.
The real question was how could you make this boy like you back. So you did what any sane person would do and started to go to the video store once every other day. Claimed to be a movie fanatic, not a creepy loser, of course. It didn’t matter how weird it sounded because Steve bought it and that was enough for you to keep coming every other day.
It became a routine. You would come into the store, flirt and then Steve would recommend some stupid typical boy movie and you would pretend to give a shit. You rarely ever actually watched the movies he recommended, because that wasn’t the point. The point was to keep a conversation with him, to hopefully someday spark up the courage to ask him out or maybe he would ask you out and then you would live happily ever after and get married and have kids and–
You knew the obsession was getting worse.
You couldn’t really explain it. You knew how bad this looked. You could only imagine how disgusted you would feel if a strange perverted man fantasized about having sex with you. But your intentions weren’t bad. Is what you convinced yourself.
— — — — — —
The bell above the door rings at exactly 7:12 p.m.
Steve doesn’t need to look up anymore. He still does. You step inside like you always do. Quiet, measured, like you’ve already been there a hundred times before your hand even touches the door. Your eyes flicker briefly to the counter, just enough to check.
He’s there. He always is. He is so cute today. You think.
Steve swallows, forcing himself to look back down at the tape he’s pretending to rewind. It whirs too loudly in the silence. He’s not even surprised anymore. He can’t tell if he feels uncomfortable being alone with you in here but there’s an unsettling feeling he can’t quite describe. It only happen when you come in.
“You’re here late,” he says, casual. Too casual.
It’s the first thing he’s said to you all week. A pause.
Then, softly, “You’re always here.” His hands stop.
That’s…Not wrong. You think. You can’t tell if Steve's tone is annoyed or thrilled but it makes you happy anyways. He notices you (aww).
Steve glances up again. You’re closer now, standing in front of the counter, holding a tape that you came in with in both hands like it’s something fragile. He recognizes it immediately.
“Didn’t you rent that yesterday?” he asks.
A beat.
“Yes.”
“…did you like it?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the case. “You said I would.”
Something about the way you say it, flat, certain makes something in his chest shift. Steve leans back a little, studying you now. Really studying you. You’re not smiling. You never really do. Not like most people. But you’re not unfriendly either. Just… focused. On him.
“Most people don’t come back this fast,” he says lightly.
“I finished it.”
“Yeah, but…like, normal people take a day or two. Or they rewind it and forget it in their car for a week." He doesn’t say this to be mean, he just doesn’t understand how someone can be that obsessed with movies, he liked movies too but jeez.
“I don’t forget things you tell me.” you confessed. You weren’t sure where this bravery was coming from but you hoped it would make a step forward to something. In your mind you couldn't understand why Steve hadn’t already asked you out already. What wasn’t there to like. You were pretty, and clearly you were super responsible and sweet. A perfect candidate for a perfect boy or man you should say.
The words land heavier than they should. Steve lets out a small breath through his nose, something almost like a laugh but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Right,” he says. “Okay.”
Silence stretches.
You don’t move.
You never do, not right away. You just stand there, like you’re waiting for something else. Like the interaction isn’t over just because the transaction is. Steve shifts, suddenly aware of that feeling again. That he’s being watched. Not in a threatening way. He’s not scared of you. He just suddenly feels…
Just… very noticed.
Every little thing.
“What are you gonna get tonight?” he asks, mostly to fill the space of hopeless awkwardness.
You tilt your head slightly, considering the shelves behind him without actually turning to look.
“What do you think I should get?”
There it is. It happens every time now. Steve hesitates. Just for a second. Because he’s started to realize something, something he’s not sure how to feel about. You don’t just take his suggestions.
You wait for them.
“I don’t know,” he says slowly. “Depends. You want something like yesterday?”
“If you think I should.” you give him a soft smile.
His fingers tap once against the counter. That tight feeling creeps in again. Somewhere between unease and something else he doesn’t want to name.
“You don’t have to just pick whatever I say, you know,” he mutters, slightly annoyed this time.
You look at him then. Your smile drops. Directly. Fully.
“I know.” you say slightly annoyed too now. What was wrong with him? Can’t he see your being polite, that’s what normal people do.
“…okay.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter this time almost thoughtful:
“I just like it better when you choose.” you smile again. That was a close one.
Steve exhales, longer this time. He turns, grabbing a tape from behind him more to have something to do than anything else. His movements are slower now, more deliberate. He places it on the counter between you.
“You’ll probably like this one,” he says.
Your gaze drops to it immediately. Not curious. Not excited. Certain. Like the decision’s already made.
“Okay.”
You don’t reach for it yet.
Steve notices that too.
“You gonna take it, or…?” he prompts.
A small pause. Then you pick it up carefully, like it matters. Like it means something.
“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” you promise as if Steve really gave a shit if you returned the movie or not.
Steve huffs a quiet breath. “Yeah. I figured.”
Your fingers linger on the edge of the counter after you set your payment down. Just for a second too long. Like you almost forget to pull away. Or don’t want to. Then you do. Only because you because you have to.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
He nods automatically. “Night.”
The bell rings again as you leave.
7:16 p.m.
The store goes quiet. Steve stands there for a second, staring at the door after it closes. Then down at the counter. Then at the empty space where you were standing. There’s that feeling again.
That something just… shifted. Not dangerous. Not exactly wrong. But not normal either. Steve runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
“…yeah,” he mutters to himself. He already knows you’ll be back tomorrow. The part he doesn’t want to think about? He’s starting to wonder if he’ll notice first…or if he’ll be waiting for it.
— — — — — —
It was a new day at the video store. You hadn’t come in for 2 whole days now. That was unusual. Steve thought. It’s not like Steve was waiting for you, he was just curious. This time Robin was with him, normally on any other occasion she would be happy to spend a shift with her best friend but Steve was quiet today, boring even.
Robin doesn’t even look up at first. She’s halfway through rewinding a tape, pencil shoved through her hair, completely focused like it’s the most important task in the world.
“So there’s this girl,” Steve says, leaning against the counter. Like he was waiting for the perfect moment to confess this as if it was some top secret matter to unleash.
Robin snorts immediately. “Wow. Starting strong today, Harrington.” It wasn't unusual for Steve to talk about girls so why was Steve being so weird about this one.
“No, I’m serious,” he says, rolling his eyes. “She comes in, like, every night.”
“Yeah,” Robin replies dryly. “That’s called a customer. We love those. They keep the store open.”
Steve shakes his head. “No, you don’t get it.”
That gets her attention. Barely. She glances up, unimpressed.
“Try me.”
He hesitates for half a second, like he’s figuring out how to explain something that doesn’t sound weird out loud. It’s almost like you are there standing next to him, he doesn’t want to say it in a way to hurt your feelings, he just needs to explain this whole situation properly.
“She’s just… always there. Same time. Same routine. And she—” he stops, frowning slightly. “She listens to everything I say.”
Robin raises an eyebrow. “Again. Customer.”
“No, like—everything.” Steve pushes off the counter, pacing a little now. “I’ll mention a movie once, and the next day she’s back with it. Finished. Already wants another one. And she doesn’t pick anything herself, she just waits for me to give her a recommendation. You know I'm not even sure if she watches the movies! I guess I should ask but-" he rants.
“Wow Steve. A customer comes in, asks for your expert opinion from the person who works here…aka the expert?” Robin gestures to him. “Shocking. Truly.”
Steve lets out a short laugh, but it fades quickly. “It’s not like that.”
Robin finally sets the tape down, giving him her full attention now, though there’s still a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Okay,” she says. “So what is it like?”
Steve runs a hand through his hair, exhaling.
“She remembers stuff,” he says. “Like… stuff people don’t usually remember. Things I said days ago. Small things.”
Robin tilts her head. “Maybe you’re just more memorable than you think, Steve.”
“Robin.”
“I’m just saying!”
He shakes his head again, more insistent now. “No, it’s the way she says it. Like everything I say matters. Like it’s important.”
Robin watches him for a second, then leans back against the counter.
“And this is a problem because…?” she asks.
Steve opens his mouth, then pauses.
Because that’s the thing.
“I don’t know,” he admits.
Robin’s smile widens just a little.
“Oh my god,” she says, pointing at him. “You think she’s obsessed with you.”
Steve huffs a laugh. “What? No.”
“Steve Harrington,” she continues, delighted now, “strikes again. King of ‘every girl who makes eye contact with me is secretly in love with me.’”
“That is not—” he stops, scoffing. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” Robin teases, grinning like a Cheshire cat now, watching Steve scramble to find the words.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he insists, though there’s less confidence behind it now.
Robin crosses her arms. “Let me get this straight. A girl comes in, rents movies you recommend, pays attention when you talk, and comes back regularly… and your conclusion is: “She has to be a weirdo.”
“When you say it like that—”
“Because that’s what it is.”
Steve looks away, jaw tightening slightly.
“She doesn’t act like other people,” he mutters.
Robin softens, just a little, but there’s still humor in her voice when she says, “Not everyone acts like your usual fan club, Steve.”
He lets out a quiet breath, leaning back against the counter again.
“It’s not a fan club thing,” he says. “It’s just… different Robin.”
Robin studies him for a second longer. Then she shrugs.
“Okay,” she says. “So she’s a little intense. Big deal. Maybe she just likes talking to you.”
Steve doesn’t answer right away. Because yeah—maybe that’s all it is.Maybe Robin’s right.
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Robin grins, satisfied, and goes back to her tape. “There you go. Crisis averted.”
Steve nods, like that settles it. Like that explains the way you stand just a little too close.
The way you wait for him to choose. The way you say his name like it means something.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time.
But his eyes flick, almost unconsciously, to the door. The bell doesn’t ring. Not yet. Steve checks the clock.
7:10.
Two minutes.
Robin doesn’t notice the way he straightens slightly. The way his attention drifts. The way he stops listening.
Because whatever this is.
Whatever you are?
Robin doesn’t get it.
But Steve?
He’s starting to think he might not, either.
— — — — — —
Robin is reorganizing the horror section when Steve brings it up again. Which, honestly, should’ve been her first warning.
“You’re doing it again,” she says without looking at him.
“I’m not doing anything,” Steve shoots back from behind the counter.
“You’re staring at the clock like it personally offended you,” Robin replies. “It’s been, what, two days?”
Steve exhales sharply. “I’m just saying it’s weird. She comes in almost every single day and now what? She doesn’t like movies. Maybe she came in and overheard us without us realizing and now she’s pissed. Poor girl, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings”.
That gets her to glance over.
“Steve, first of all that didn’t happen. And you’re still on this?” she asks.
“She didn’t come in,” he says, like that’s the whole point. He wasn’t sure why this was bothering him so much but it was. He didn’t like that he couldn’t understand you. He normally was an expert on girls but you were different. Maybe it was defined as weird but still Steve couldn’t determine if he was flattered by your behavior or creeped out.
Robin stares at him for a second. Then—
“Okay,” she says slowly. “So let me get this straight. The girl you think is, what, secretly obsessed with you…”
“I didn’t say obsessed—”
“...disappears for two days,” Robin continues over him, “and now you’re upset about it.”
“I’m not upset,” Steve says immediately, acting defensive as if Robin just exposed his deep dark secret.
“You’re definitely upset.”
“I’m not—” he stops, then gestures vaguely. “It’s just… off. She’s always here. Same time. And then nothing.”
Robin leans against the shelf, crossing her arms.
“Wow,” she says. “It’s almost like she has a life outside of you? Wouldn’t that be crazy!” Robin remarks sarcastically.
Steve rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean, Steve?” she chuckles. She didn’t understand the big deal. If a cute girl was obsessed with her she would be flattered and gleaming with joy.
He hesitates. Because he doesn’t have a clean answer for that.
“It just—” he frowns. “It doesn’t fit.”
Robin watches him for a second, then sighs dramatically.
“Okay. Fine. You know what? I’m gonna indulge this.”
Steve narrows his eyes. “Indulge what?”
“Your… theory,” she says, waving her hand. “Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say this girl is weirdly fixated on you.”
Steve doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t disagree either.
Robin nods, like she’s building a case now.
“Why is that so bad?”
That throws him.
“What?”
“If she likes you, pays attention to you, comes in just to see you—oh no, Steve, how terrible,” Robin deadpans. “What a nightmare for you.” she chuckles like this is the funniest thing in the world, which to her it kinda is.
“That’s not—” he huffs. “You’re twisting it.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” she says. “I’m simplifying. You think she’s into you. Great. Congratulations. That’s never happened before, I’m sure.”
Steve gives her a look. “You’re hilarious.”
“I know,” she says. Then, more pointedly: “Have you even tried talking to her? Like, actually talking?”
“I talk to her every time she’s in here.”
“No, you recommend movies to her,” Robin corrects. “That’s not the same thing.”
Steve opens his mouth, then pauses.
“…okay, yeah, but—”
“But nothing,” Robin cuts in. “You don’t know anything about her, and you’ve already decided she’s weird.”
“She kinda is weird.”
“Or,” Robin counters, stepping closer, “she’s shy. Or awkward. Or just… different. And instead of being normal about it, you’ve decided she’s some kind of mystery problem.”
Steve frowns, but there’s less resistance now.
Robin sees it and presses on.
“Here’s a crazy idea,” she says. “If she’s really that into you…”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Ask her out.”
Steve blinks.
“…what?”
Robin shrugs like it’s obvious. “Ask. Her. Out.”
“That’s your solution?” he says. “To…what? Confirm your ‘she’s just a nice girl’ theory?”
“No,” Robin says, smirking slightly. “It’s to confirm your ‘she’s secretly obsessed with me’ theory.”
Steve lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m serious,” she says. “If you’re right, she’ll say yes. Immediately.”
“And if I’m wrong?”
“Then you went on a date with a girl who clearly likes you. Again such a tragedy.”
Steve shakes his head, but he’s smiling now despite himself. “You make everything sound so simple.”
“It is simple!” Robin insists. “You’re the one making it weird.”
Steve looks down at the counter, tapping his fingers against it. Ask her out. The idea sits there, heavier than it should.
Because this isn’t like other girls. This isn’t casual. This is…?
“You’re overthinking it,” Robin says, softer now, like she can see it happening in real time. “Just ask her. One date. That’s it.”
Steve exhales slowly.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Okay.”
Robin grins, victorious. “Yes! Thank you. Finally, some action.”
Steve huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“Don’t get excited. It’s just a question.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “And I cannot wait to watch this go completely normally.”
“Yeah,” Steve says again, quieter this time.
His eyes flick to the door.
Right on cue.
The bell rings. Both of them glance up. You step inside. You’re wearing a dress this time, your hair is all curled and fancy almost as if you knew. Like you were never gone at all really.
Robin leans in slightly, bumping her shoulder against Steve’s as she murmurs under her breath:
“Go on, Harrington.”
Steve swallows.
Because now. Now he has to find out if he was right. This part is never easy. Oh this is where it gets really good. the contrast between how Steve sees this as uncertain… and how, in your head, it’s everything.
Robin nudges him. Harder this time.
“Go,” she mutters under her breath.
Steve shoots her a look, but she just raises her eyebrows like well?
Right. Yeah. He can do this. It’s just a question. He kinda already has a weird feeling that you’re going to say yes. I mean he knows you’re gonna say yes.
You’re already walking toward the counter, tape in hand, different this time. Not one he suggested. Steve notices that. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he says, a little too quickly.
You stop in front of him.
“Hi.” you say in a soft voice, as if you were trying to charm him with just your voice alone.
Would it be weird to admit that it was kinda working?
He immediately looks away.
“So—uh,” he starts, then stops. Wow. Smooth.
You tilt your head slightly.
“…you didn’t come in,” he blurts.
There it is.
Not what he meant to lead with.
But it’s out now.
A pause.
“I know,” you say.
That’s it.
No explanation.
Just I know.
Steve lets out a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah, I—uh. I noticed.”
Your grip tightens just slightly on the tape. Of course he did. Of course he noticed. Something warm—sharp, bright—flares up in your chest. You keep your face neutral. You couldn’t let him see your excitement.
“I was busy,” you add after a second.
“Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”
Silence settles again. Robin makes a very pointed fake cough behind him.
Steve inhales. Okay. Now.
“Listen,” he says, a little more firmly this time. “I was wondering if—”
He pauses. You don’t move. Don’t interrupt. Don’t look away. You just wait. Like you always do. And for some reason, that makes it harder.
“If you’d maybe want to—uh—go out sometime?”
There.
For a second…you don’t respond. Not because you don’t want to. Are you kidding? You want to scream in his face “yes” and then give him a big fat kiss to say thanks but your brain is sabotaging you. Everything in your head goes quick for a moment until, thankfully, everything clicks into place.
He just asked you out.
You. The guy that you have been plotting on for weeks now has finally done the one thing you have fantasized about every night before bed. Well…that’s not the only thing but nevermind.
A sharp, electric feeling spreads through your chest, up your throat, into your thoughts. It’s fast, overwhelming, and perfect.
Of course.Of course this was going to happen. You knew it would. You just didn’t know when. Your fingers press harder into the plastic case in your hands. Don’t react too fast. Don’t ruin it. You look at him, really look this time.
“Yes,” you say.
Too quick.
You feel it immediately. Adjust. You blink once, steadying your voice. “…yeah,” you add, softer. “I’d like that.”
Steve exhales, a small smile breaking through before he can stop it.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Behind him, Robin is vibrating.
He ignores it.
“Okay,” he says, nodding once like that settles it. “Cool. Uh—there’s this place—”
“I’ll go anywhere you pick.” It slips out.
Steve pauses. Just for a second. There’s that feeling again. That slight tilt—like something’s not sitting exactly right. But it’s gone just as quickly as it came.
“Okay,” he says again. “Then…Friday. I can take you to Enzo’s and we can have a nice night alright?”
“Yes.”
Again too fast. You force yourself to breathe.
“Friday works.”
Steve nods, slower this time.
“Alright. Friday.”
— — — — — —
In your head, everything is loud.
Bright.
Perfect.
Friday.
A set time. A plan. Something real.
Not just passing moments across a counter.
Not just waiting.
Something chosen.
Your grip finally loosens on the tape.
You slide it toward him.
“I’ll bring this back tomorrow,” you say.
Of course you will.
Of course you’ll be here.
Steve takes it, watching you for a second longer than usual.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
You turn to leave.
“Bye, Steve” you say casually, as if your panties are soaked now.
The bell rings again as the door opens.
Everything feels aligned.
Behind you, Robin grabs Steve’s arm the second you’re out of earshot.
“Oh my god,” she whispers-yells. “She said yes in, like, half a second” she chuckles.
“I know,” Steve mutters, still looking at the door.
“Wow. Totally normal. Definitely not proving your point at all—”
Steve doesn’t answer. Because his focus lingers. On the way you said yes. On how certain it sounded. On how—He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“…Friday,” he says under his breath.
Outside, you don’t rush to your car. You take your sweet time because for once in your life everything feels certain. You already know where you’ll be.
When. With him. This is perfect. You think. He’s perfect.
You already know exactly what you are going to wear and everything. You’ve already had it planned in your head for the countless dates you and Steve have already gone on in your head. And for the first time…You don’t have to wait and wonder if he’s noticing you. Because now? He chose you back.
.........Can I love?......Again? - Alley Fights (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1310373706-can-i-love-again-alley-fights?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=Harringtonsslut4life&wp_originator=m1Fog7Ev5RiRtzrtgRUvZSU13Y3JoNEijWd1wr%2FLPoNRVt1Q1zVqqLo%2BZczFlJP4qPGfxpkE1afgMwIWl3QdINX7vgRN1BS3fcU%2B3OIsT5bvXP2oDD%2BpxbmC07OXFThJ Steve Harrington x Elizabeth Byers. A story of the least likely couple to be. Warning slight cussing and fighting (idk what im doing) part 2????
