Im Gonna Miss You
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: You and Steve, but its in his golden retriever personality to be unable to stay mad at you
A/N: Slightly inspired by Im gonna miss you by milli vanilli if you couldn't tell from the title
It started over nothing.
Not nothing exactly, because in the moment it felt like something. It felt sharp and annoying and personal in the way small arguments sometimes do when both people are tired, when both people are saying things a little too quickly and listening a little too late.
But looking back, it was nothing.
Steve had been late. Only twenty minutes, which was not the end of the world, but you had been waiting outside the video store for him with your arms folded against the evening chill, pretending you weren’t checking your watch every few minutes and pretending even harder that you weren’t starting to feel stupid for standing there alone.
By the time his car finally pulled into the parking lot, music drifting low through the open window, you had already told yourself you weren’t going to make a thing of it. You were just going to get in, let him apologise, and move on, because it was Steve and you missed him and you didn’t want to waste the night being annoyed.
Then he leaned across the passenger seat, pushed the door open for you, and gave you a rushed little smile.
“Hey,” he said, trying for casual. “Sorry. Got held up.”
That was all.
You climbed in and shut the door harder than you meant to, the sound filling the car before you could pretend you hadn’t done it on purpose.
Steve glanced over at you, one hand still resting on the gear stick. “Okay. That sounded personal.”
“It wasn’t,” you said, looking ahead.
“It definitely was.”
“I’m fine.”
Steve stared at you for a second, and even without looking at him properly, you could feel the way his attention settled on the side of your face. “That’s not a fine face.”
You turned to him. “I don’t have a fine face.”
“Yeah, you do. It’s this little…” He gestured vaguely, as if drawing your expression in the air. “Tight mouth thing.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have a tight mouth thing if you weren’t always late.”
Steve blinked, like he hadn’t expected the conversation to turn that quickly. For a second, there was still room for him to soften, still room for you to smile and make it less serious than it sounded, but neither of you took the chance.
“I said I was sorry,” he said.
“You said you got held up.”
“Okay, and then I said sorry.”
“Barely.”
He let out a small laugh, but there was no humour in it, only frustration starting to edge into his voice. “What do you want me to do, get on my knees in the parking lot?”
“No, Steve. I want you to show up when you say you will.”
The car went quiet.
Steve looked away first, pulling out of the parking lot with his jaw set and his hand a little too tight on the steering wheel. “I’m twenty minutes late.”
“You’re always twenty minutes late.”
“That’s not true.”
“It kind of is.”
“Right,” he said, nodding once as he looked at the road. “Okay. So we’re doing this.”
You frowned. “Doing what?”
“The thing where one small thing suddenly means I’m the worst boyfriend in Hawkins.”
“I never said that.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“I’m acting like I’m annoyed because I was waiting for you.”
“And I’m acting like I’m sorry because I was late.”
“No, you’re acting like I’m dramatic for being annoyed.”
Steve glanced at you, his eyebrows lifting before he could stop himself. “You are being a little dramatic.”
The second he said it, you both felt the shift.
Your face dropped, and Steve’s expression changed too, just enough to show he knew he had said the wrong thing. But pride got there before the apology did, and instead of taking it back, he tightened his grip on the wheel and stared ahead.
“Seriously?” you said.
He exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I meant-” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if he already knew whatever came next would make it worse. “Forget it.”
You turned toward the window, watching the passing streetlights blur into soft gold lines against the glass.
Fine.
If he wanted to forget it, you would forget it.
Except neither of you did.
The silence stretched all the way to your house, but it did not make anything better. It only gave you both more time to sit in everything you had said, more time to replay the little digs, more time to feel hurt without admitting that was what you were feeling.
When Steve finally pulled up outside your house, he parked by the curb but left the engine running, one hand still on the wheel like he was already halfway to leaving.
That annoyed you even more, partly because you knew he was probably just unsure what to do, and partly because you hated that he was making you ask.
“You can come in, you know,” you said, though your tone made it sound more like a challenge than an invitation.
Steve looked at you carefully. “Do you want me to?”
“Do you want to?”
He gave a frustrated little laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you answering everything with another question?”
“Why are you acting like being here is a chore?”
“I’m not.”
“You literally haven’t turned the car off.”
Steve looked at the keys, then back at you. “Because I didn’t know if you wanted me to come in.”
“You could ask.”
“I just did.”
“No, you asked like you were hoping I’d say no.”
He leaned back in his seat, his shoulders tense and his expression caught somewhere between hurt and irritation. “I can’t win with you tonight.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You turned to him fully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m trying, and everything I say is apparently wrong.”
“You’re not trying. You’re defending yourself.”
“Because you’re acting like I did something awful.”
“I’m acting like I wanted to spend time with you and you showed up late, then made me feel stupid for caring.”
Steve’s expression changed for a second. Softer. Guilty. Like the words had actually reached him.
But then he looked away.
“I didn’t make you feel stupid.”
The softness in you closed again, because for one tiny moment you had thought he understood, and then he had gone straight back to proving his point.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding it. I’m saying that wasn’t what I meant.”
“But it is what you did.”
Steve’s fingers tapped once against the wheel. “Okay. So what do you want me to say?”
The question came out tired, but it sounded dismissive, like he was asking for the correct answer instead of actually wanting to understand you.
You stared at him. “Wow.”
“What?”
“Nothing makes a girl feel loved like her boyfriend asking what line he’s supposed to say to stop the argument.”
Steve closed his eyes briefly. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then maybe think before you say things.”
He looked at you then, and for half a second, the hurt on his face was plain before he covered it with a harder expression. “I do think.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The car went silent.
You regretted it almost immediately. Not enough to say so, not yet, but enough for your stomach to twist and for your fingers to curl slightly in your lap.
Steve looked forward, his jaw tight. “Nice.”
You swallowed. “Steve-”
“No, it’s fine.” He nodded once, eyes fixed on the road ahead even though the car was still parked. “Apparently I don’t think. I don’t try. I’m always late. Got it.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That is exactly what you said.”
“No, it’s what you’re choosing to hear.”
He laughed under his breath, bitter this time, and you hated it. You hated the way it made you feel like he had already decided you were impossible, like he had stopped seeing why you were hurt and only saw the argument itself.
“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Of course.”
“You know what?” you said, reaching for the door handle because leaving suddenly felt easier than staying there and letting the whole thing get worse. “Forget it.”
Steve turned his head. “Seriously?”
“What?”
“You’re just leaving?”
“You were clearly about to anyway.”
“I was parked outside your house.”
“With the engine still on.”
“Because we were talking.”
“No, we were arguing.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice rising slightly now, “because you’re mad at me for being late, and I’m trying to explain-”
“You’re not explaining, Steve. You’re making excuses.”
That did it.
His expression shut down.
“Fine,” he said.
The word landed between you like a door slamming.
You waited for him to say something else. To soften. To reach for your hand. To do any of the things he usually did when he realised you were both going too far.
But he didn’t.
He just stared ahead, breathing hard through his nose, and the longer he said nothing, the more impossible it felt for you to say anything either.
Your hand tightened on the door handle.
Fine.
You opened the door and got out.
The cold air hit you instantly, but you barely felt it as you shut the door, harder than you meant to, and started toward your house. Behind you, Steve didn’t drive away, and for one second you thought he might get out.
You wanted him to.
You wanted to hear his car door open. You wanted him to call your name, to come after you, to say the whole thing had been stupid and he was sorry and could you both please just stop before you said something else you couldn’t take back.
But nothing happened.
So you kept walking.
When you reached your front door, you glanced back despite yourself.
Steve was still there, hands on the wheel, head lowered slightly, and for one tiny second your anger wavered because he looked less angry than lost.
Then his headlights shifted as he pulled away from the curb.
Your chest tightened.
Fine.
If he could leave, then you could let him.
You went inside without looking back again.
Hours later, the argument felt even stupider.
That was the worst part.
It hadn’t been about anything serious, not really. It had started with Steve being late, then a comment, then a look, then him saying something sharper than he meant to and you snapping back before you could stop yourself. Within minutes, it had grown into something neither of you knew how to get out of without being the first one to back down.
Now you could barely remember who had actually started it.
All you knew was that Steve had left with his jaw tight and his hands fixed on the steering wheel, and you had let him go because you were too proud to ask him to stay.
You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.
You weren’t.
You were just sitting on your bed, staring at the same page of your book for the past twenty minutes because the words would not settle in your head. Every little noise outside made your eyes flick toward the window, and every time the phone stayed silent, your chest pulled a little tighter.
He was probably still mad.
Fine.
You were still mad too.
At least, you were trying to be.
You had replayed the argument so many times that the words had started to blur together. One second you remembered Steve’s face when you snapped at him, the way his expression had dropped before he covered it with irritation, and the next you remembered him looking away from you, muttering something under his breath like he didn’t trust himself to speak properly.
You hated that part most.
Not because he had left, exactly, but because you had stood there and watched him go. You had waited for him to turn around. You had wanted him to. But when he didn’t, you had folded your arms, lifted your chin, and pretended you didn’t care.
You cared.
Far too much.
Your room felt quieter without him in it. Usually, Steve had a way of filling the space even when he wasn’t doing much. He would sit at the end of your bed and flick through one of your magazines, making little comments under his breath, or he would complain that your window was impossible to open even though he still insisted on climbing through it half the time.
Now, the silence felt pointed.
Lonely.
You closed your book and threw it lightly beside you before pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.
“I’m not apologising first,” you muttered to yourself.
The sentence sounded childish out loud, which only made you more annoyed.
Then there was a knock at your window.
You froze.
For a second, you thought you had imagined it. Then another knock came, quieter this time, followed by a familiar voice through the glass.
“Don’t throw anything at me.”
Your heart betrayed you immediately.
You got up slowly, pulling the curtain back to find Steve Harrington standing outside your window, hair slightly messy and jacket zipped halfway, holding a paper bag in one hand and looking far less confident than he usually tried to.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then he gave you a small, awkward wave with the hand holding the bag.
You opened the window but didn’t move aside yet. “What are you doing here?”
Steve looked down at the bag, then back at you. “I brought you something.”
You glanced at it. “Is that supposed to fix everything?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, I know it doesn’t. I just…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes dropped from yours. “It’s your favourite snack.”
Your expression softened before you could stop it.
Of course he remembered.
Steve noticed things like that, even when he pretended he didn’t. He remembered which flavour you picked out first, how you always claimed you weren’t hungry and then stole half of his food anyway, and the small details you mentioned once and forgot about until he brought them back to you like they mattered.
“I’m still mad at you,” you said, but your voice had lost most of its edge.
“I know.”
“And you were being annoying.”
“I know.”
“And stubborn.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Okay, that one feels a little unfair coming from you.”
You gave him a look.
Steve immediately nodded. “Right. Not the time.”
For a moment, the silence sat between you both. It wasn’t heavy like before, but it was awkward and careful, like both of you were standing on opposite sides of something fragile and neither wanted to be the one to break it again.
Then Steve held the bag out a little.
“I miss you,” he said.
It was quiet, so quiet you almost thought you had imagined it.
Your throat tightened.
Steve looked embarrassed as soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes dropping to the window ledge as he let out a small breath. “I know it’s only been a few hours, and I know that sounds dramatic, but I do. I hate fighting with you. I hate walking away and pretending I’m fine when I’m just driving around like an idiot, thinking about what I should’ve said instead.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
The anger you had been holding onto felt smaller now, not gone completely, but softer around the edges.
“You were driving around?” you asked.
Steve huffed, glancing away. “Yeah.”
“Steve.”
“I know.”
“That’s very dramatic.”
He looked back at you. “I literally just said that.”
A tiny smile pulled at your mouth, and Steve’s shoulders dropped like that one small reaction had taken half the weight off him.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted. “I went past Family Video twice. Then Dustin’s house, but I didn’t stop because I knew he’d somehow make it worse. Then I ended up buying that.” He nodded toward the bag. “And then I sat in my car for ten minutes trying to decide if showing up here made me look pathetic.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. “A little.”
Steve sighed. “Great. Love that.”
“But in a sweet way.”
His eyes flicked back to yours. “Yeah?”
You nodded, softer now. “Yeah.”
Steve swallowed, his hand still resting on the window frame. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said. And for leaving like that. I shouldn’t have.”
You looked down at the bag in your hands, the paper crinkling under your fingers.
“I’m sorry too,” you said quietly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“You kind of had a reason.”
“So did you.”
“Maybe,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. “But I still hated it. The second I walked away, I hated it.”
You glanced up at him.
Steve’s face had gone serious in that way it sometimes did when he was trying not to joke his way out of something. His hair was falling slightly out of place, and there was a nervous little crease between his brows.
“I don’t want us to be like that,” he said. “The whole saying things just to win thing. I don’t want to win if it means you look at me like that after.”
Your chest ached because you knew exactly what he meant. You had both been trying so hard to prove a point that neither of you had stopped to listen properly, and now that the anger had thinned out, all that was left underneath it was how much you hated being apart from him.
“I don’t either,” you said.
Another silence passed, but this one felt different.
Gentler.
You finally stepped back from the window. “Are you coming in or are you planning to stand there looking sad all night?”
Steve blinked, then pointed at himself. “I looked sad?”
“You looked very sad.”
“I was going for regretful.”
“Same thing.”
He started to climb through the window, which would have been much more graceful if his foot had not caught on the frame halfway in.
“Careful,” you said, grabbing his arm.
“I’m fine,” Steve said quickly, despite nearly falling into your room. “Totally fine. Very smooth.”
“You almost face-planted.”
“Didn’t, though.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling properly now, and Steve noticed that too.
Once he was inside, he stood in front of you, close enough that you could smell his cologne and the cold air still clinging to his jacket. For a moment, neither of you said anything, and then Steve reached out gently, his fingers brushing your sleeve like he still wasn’t completely sure he was allowed to touch you.
“I really did miss you,” he said again, softer this time.
Your chest warmed.
You leaned into him before you could overthink it, wrapping your arms around his waist, and Steve didn’t hesitate. He pulled you in immediately, one hand settling against your back while the other cradled the back of your head, holding you like he had been waiting all night to do it.
For a while, neither of you moved.
His hold was firm, almost like he was trying to apologise through it, like he wanted you to understand all the things he had been too stubborn to say earlier.
“I was waiting for you to apologise first,” you mumbled into his jacket.
Steve laughed under his breath. “Yeah, me too.”
“That was stupid.”
“Really stupid.”
“You’re still stubborn.”
“So are you.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and Steve’s mouth twitched.
“But, like, in a cute way.”
“Careful.”
“Right. Sorry.”
You shook your head, trying not to laugh as he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. It was slow and soft, lingering just long enough to make your eyes close.
When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb lightly over your sleeve.
“Next time,” he said, “we should probably not wait hours to say sorry.”
“Probably not.”
“And maybe one of us should be the bigger person.”
You looked at him.
He nodded seriously. “I vote you.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly. “Steve.”
“What? You’re very emotionally mature.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet you missed me.”
You tried to glare at him, but it came out too fond to work.
Steve smiled, warm and pleased, then reached for the paper bag still sitting between you. “So,” he said, holding it up, “am I forgiven enough to share these, or is this more of a peace offering I have to surrender completely?”
You took the bag from him. “I’ll think about it.”
“That means yes.”
“That means sit down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He kicked off his shoes and sat on the edge of your bed like he belonged there, because he did. You joined him a second later, the space between you smaller than it had been all night, and Steve watched as you opened the bag, his knee brushing yours.
“You really remembered my favourite?” you asked.
He looked almost offended. “Of course I remembered.”
“I’m just checking.”
“I remember everything.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Steve paused. “Okay, not everything. But important things.”
Your smile softened.
He nudged your knee gently with his. “You’re important.”
The words were simple, but they settled into you anyway.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, and Steve shifted at once, making room for you like it was instinct. His arm came around you a moment later, warm and familiar, and for a few minutes neither of you said much at all.
The argument wasn’t fixed all at once, not completely. There were still things to talk about, still feelings to untangle, still apologies that would mean more because of what happened after them rather than what was said in the moment. But Steve was there, holding you like he didn’t want to let go, and your favourite snack was sitting between you like a tiny peace offering.
When he pressed another kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “Still mad?”
You looked up at him, pretending to consider it.
“A little.”
Steve nodded. “Fair.”
“But less.”
His smile came back, soft and relieved. “I can work with less.”
For now, that was enough.
