Thank u for tagging me!! : @jinxispunk and @harringtonsdiaryxx
˙⋆✮ last song - Honeybee from Olivia’s new album,(fml, aoty)
˙⋆✮ currently watching- i’m in constant loop of rewatching stuff, but haven’t had time to watch anything lately here at the internship, so i’ll just say friends bc i’m always watching them at some point. 💔
˙⋆✮ current obsession - ice cream. The ice cream here in Malta is so good i’m gonna miss it so bad.
˙⋆✮ currently reading - i brought the hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes with me so if i’m not reading tumblr i’m reading that
˙⋆✮ currently working on - heartbreak girl songfic !! And a quick blurb inspired by the line “i love the way you’re screaming my name” from no shame
˙⋆✮ currently wearing - a black top and jeans(sue me), on my way to work at my internship rn (last day who dis)
˙⋆✮ last google search - weather for today bc i keep hoping it’ll be less than 28 degrees but it never is. I miss the rain. like actually.
˙⋆✮ favourite flower - daffodil and lillies, it’s actually one of the reasons i got a mix of both of those tattooed.
unfortunately all of my mutals have already done this so i fear i’ll leave this to anyone who wants to do it!!!
summary: Admiring Steve in the darkest nights when you can barely see anything but his love for you.
a/n: is this corny? idkk. Sorry for no updates, I'm currently in Malta for an internship so this took long to write and it's lowkey ass but hey
The lights went out at 11:47 p.m.
One second, the television was flickering in the corner of Steve's living room, Hairspray tunes still softly humming from the screen, but neither of you were really watching it.
The next, everything went dark and a surprised silence filled the room.
You looked around trying to make a sense of where Steve might be.
"Ow, shit."
There he is. There not being a certain place you can pin point, but the curse being audible enough to startle your hearing senses.
You immediately bursted out laughing while somewhere in the darkness, Steve followed with a groan.
"Don't." He warned.
"You walked into the coffee table again."
"I did not." He argued, though the truth was obvious.
"You absolutely did."
"I bumped it."
"With your entire leg?" Another groan as you heard shuffling around the dark room.
"You are supposed to be supportive."
"You've lived here for years, Steve."
"I forgot where it was."
"You always forget where it is."
A hand suddenly emerged from the darkness and grabbed your ankle. You tried bracing yourself on the couch cushions, careful of what’s to come next.
Now it was Steve who laughed. The deep, warm laugh you loved more than you would ever admit.
Before you could even think, Steve shifted, and suddenly the world seemed smaller in the best way.
He was above you now, one arm braced beside your head, the other wrapped loosely around your waist as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting you drift too far away. Touch was all you had. His presence settled over you like a warm blanket. Familiar and impossibly safe.
For a moment, all you could do was look at him.
You caught his eyes like sunlight trapped beneath amber. Tiny flecks of honey and chestnut glimmered there, and you found yourself getting lost in them the way you always did.
Steve Harrington had always been beautiful. Painfully, unfairly beautiful.
But it wasn't the kind of beauty that made your heart just race anymore. It was the kind that quieted every anxious thought rattling around in your head.
His gaze softened when he caught you staring, the corners of his mouth lifting into a familiar smile with tthe gentle weight of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
You felt cocooned beneath him, tucked safely inside a universe made up entirely of soft smiles and warm hands and eyes that looked at you as if you were something precious.
The realization bloomed quietly in your chest. You trusted him. Because whenever the world became too loud, too frightening, too much, Steve was the place you ran to.
And somehow, every single time, he made everything feel lighter. Literally.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your side. A tiny movement. But your heart reacted anyway.
Because every touch from him carried the same silent promise: I'm here.
As simple as that sounded, it was more than anything else could say. And lying beneath his gaze, wrapped in his warmth, you believed it completely.
“That’s what you get.” He breathes out.
“You’re impossible.” You shake your head, not wanting to move away from your mind or his face.
"You love me."
Unfortunately, he sounded far too confident.
You do. More than you probably should. More than was reasonable.
You’d have spent years loving Steve Harrington and you will continue to do so.
And that came with hundreds of little things.
The way he always walked closest to the road when you were walking next to him.
The way he remembered your favourite food order down to every detail.
The way he checked everyone got home safely.
The way he looked at the people he loved like losing them would destroy him.
The way he looked at you.
Especially that.
A flashlight suddenly flickered on. Steve was holding it clumsily in his hands. You could finally see more than the glint in his eyes. His hair was sticking up in every direction. You laughed immediately.
"Oh my God." You laughed, mouth wide, waiting.
"What?" He furrowed his brows.
"You look ridiculous."
"Excuse me?" The eyebrows then rose in confusion.
"You look like you got electrocuted."
Steve lifted a hand to his hair.
"You think this is funny?"
"Very." You look at him amused.
"You're lucky you're cute."
The words slipped out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them. Because Steve called you cute every day.
Beautiful too. Pretty. Gorgeous. His girl. Like it was simply a fact.
Like saying the sky was blue and like there was no possibility of disagreement.
The flashlight illuminated the room in a soft glow. Outside, rain tapped against the windows.
You shifted your palms and landed them on his arms. Brushing them with your fingers lightly, a soft plea to remove them so you could be closer.
Immediately Steve leaned into you. Not even consciously. Again, just naturally.
His hand found yours in a second. It made it's way up your forearm, desperately searching to find space in between your knuckles and squeeze. Squeeze to prove that he really is there, even if you already know it. The weight of it felt reassuring as you intertwined your fingers without looking.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. The rain only grew heavier. The entire neighbourhood appeared dark.
There were no streetlights. No television. No music. No ringing phones. No distractions.
Just quiet.
Steve looked out the window. "Huh."
"What?" You mumbled, still unable to peel your gaze from his beautiful face.
"It's kind of nice." He admitted. You smiled. "The blackout?"
"The peace." He corrected, eyes searching for yours again.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
"I kind of forgot what real silence sounds like." He said, finishing his thought with a breath that didn't need more explanation.
You understood exactly what he meant.
The last year had been chaos. It was full of hhospital visits without knowing if everything was going to be okay. Nights full of nightmares, that made sleep feel like a chore instead of rest.
People still pretending everything was normal when it wasn't.
The constant feeling that something terrible could happen at any moment.
Even now, months later, you still caught Steve checking exits in crowded rooms, waking up from bad dreams. You still saw the tension in his shoulders whenever a phone rang unexpectedly.
Trauma didn't disappear overnight and neither of you even expected it to. But nights like this helped. A lot.
Nights where nothing was happening and you could just exist together.
Steve rested his head against your shoulder, nudging it with his nose.
You took your free hand up and tangled it in his soft waves. That soothed him immediately.
"Tired?" You asked.
"A little."
"You worked all day."
"I know."
"You drove Dustin around for three hours."
"I know."
"You let Robin reorganize your entire movie collection."
Steve made a pained noise. "Don't remind me."
You laughed and Steve's smile appeared instantly.
Hearing you laugh was his favorite thing. Maybe it always had been.
He'd told you that once.
You'd been lying in bed together, fingers laced between yours just like they were now. His face was tucked against your neck, leaving absent-minded kisses along your skin as he murmured things only meant for you.
You were half asleep. It was nearly two in the morning.
And then, without any warning, Steve had said it.
"My favorite sound is your laugh."
His voice had been muffled against your skin, so casual that it almost sounded insignificant. But you hadn't asked him to repeat it. The moment felt too fragile, too perfect to disturb.
That was the thing about Steve.
Every compliment that slipped from his lips sounded effortless. Never rehearsed. Never exaggerated. Just honest. As though loving you came as naturally as breathing.
The memory still made something in your chest ache.
Because no one had ever loved you the way Steve did. Consistently. Every single day.
Steve's fingers lazily traced circles against the back of your hand. Outside, rain drummed against the roof. Inside, his heartbeat felt steady beneath your cheek.
You hadn't realized you'd leaned against him until he shifted slightly to make you more comfortable. Always doing that. Always adjusting. and always making space for you.
As though your comfort mattered as much as his own. Maybe more.
"What are you thinking about?"
His voice was soft and a little rough. It was clear sleep was close to taking over him, but he didn't give in. Because these were moments with you, he liked the most.
You looked up.
The flashlight sat on the couch floor between you, casting soft golden shadows across his face. Every so often, the beam flickered when one of you shifted, making the room seem smaller, quieter.
You loved him like this. Just Steve.
His hair was a mess from running his hands through it all evening, strands falling into his eyes every few seconds. The sleeves of his sweatshirt swallowed his hands whenever he pulled them over his knuckles, and the fabric looked far too big on him, making him seem softer somehow.
His eyes were tired.
Not the exhausted kind. The comfortable kind.
The kind that came after a long day, when there was nowhere else he needed to be and no one else he needed to talk to. No one else he wanted to talk to.
His eyelids looked heavier than usual, his movements slower, and every now and then you caught him fighting off a yawn.
And yet he stayed awake. For you.
The light caught the curve of his smile as he looked down at whatever he was doing with his free hand, completely unaware that you'd stopped paying attention minutes ago.
Because you were watching him instead.
You watched the way his brows furrowed when he was concentrating. The way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was thinking. The way his fingers absent-mindedly tapped against his knee.
Small things. Things that nobody else would notice.
Steve finally glanced up and caught you staring.
"What?" he asked, a laugh already hiding in his voice.
You shook your head immediately, smiling despite yourself.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed. "Stop looking at me weird."
"I'm not."
"You are."
The grin spreading across his face made your heart squeeze. You loved him like this most of all.
Now it was just the two of you, jopined on the couch, illuminated by a cheap flashlight, existing in the same space.
"I'm thinking about us." you admit, finally.
A smile tugged at his lips. "Good thoughts?"
"Mostly." He looked at you, offended.
"Mostly?"
"You're still annoying." You roll your eyes.
"There she is."
"What?" You blink.
"The love of my life."
It slipped through his lips, effortless. Again.
Your heart immediately stopped functioning, words caught in your throat.
"Steve." You barely make out.
"What?"
"You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?"
His smile widened.
"Because." You reason.
"Because?"
"Because then I forget how to talk."
Steve looked entirely too pleased by that. "I kind of like that."
"You're the worst."
"I'm your worst."
You rolled your eyes at your boyfriend's corny words but they stayed with you.
At some point, Steve stretched out across the couch and pulled you with him even closer if that was even possible.
Your head ended up on his chest and his arm wrapped around your waist. A blanket somehow appeared along the way.
The storm carried on outside through the summer evening. The darkness remained but the silence was full.
Full of Steve's heartbeat beneath your ear. Full of the feeling of his fingers playing with your hair.
Full of the certainty that nowhere else in the world existed right now.
Just him.
After a while, you felt Steve press a kiss against the top of your head. Then another. And another.
"What?"
"I really love you."
The words were muffled against your hair.
Your throat tightened.
Begging for attention was never something you needed to do with Steve. If you were thinking of wanting to kiss him, he’d already been reaching his hands to grab your face and give you a thousand of those.
You didn’t have to ask to be close to him, because he’s close to you all the time. Always touching you, holding you, hands grasping for any part of you he can reach no matter the situation.
You never had to ask him to just be here with you, because he was with you no matter what. Even in boring moments like this.
He left no room for overthinking or doubt in his love.
But even after all this time, hearing him say it still felt overwhelming.
You tilted your head back and his eyes met yours immediately.
He looked at you like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. No one else he'd rather love.
"I love you too." Steve smiled. The kind of smile that belonged only to you.
Steve's smile softened the moment the words left your mouth.
"I love you too."
The flashlight between the couch cushions cast a weak golden glow across his face, catching the tiredness in his eyes and the softness in his expression.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
You closed your eyes immediately.
Inside, the room felt impossibly small. Just you. Just him.
You shifted closer. The movement was instinctive and Steve responded just as naturally. One of his arms slid around your waist even tighter.
His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath your ear. The rhythm was so familiar now that you thought you could recognize it anywhere.
One of his hands moved slowly up and down your back. Just touching you because he could. Because he liked to.
You felt him press another kiss into your hair. Then another. Always two.
A quiet habit he'd developed somewhere along the way.
The blanket shifted as he pulled it higher around both of you, tucking it beneath your shoulder, making sure you were warm as you smiled against his chest.
Immediately his hand covered yours.
Steve's breathing slowed. You could feel sleep finally beginning to pull at him.
His body relaxed further into the couch, his shoulders finally losing the last bit of tension they'd been carrying all day.
You tilted your head slightly,just enough to look up at him.
His eyes were already half closed. Long lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. His hair was still sticking up and you wanted to laugh. Instead, you reached up and smoothed a piece of it back.
Steve immediately leaned into the touch. Sleepy.
But tucked against Steve's chest, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his fingers lazily tracing across your back, the darkness didn't feel dark at all.
And eventually, as his breathing evened out completely and sleep finally claimed him, you stayed exactly where you were. Wrapped in his arms.
Listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of the boy you loved.
steve wants to make you juno bad. it was no secret that steve really wanted to have kids. that he wanted a big family. he made that very obvious when you first got together. you thought it was sweet he knew exactly what he wanted but you told him you may have to compromise on the whole six kids thing. so, it came as no surprise that this man had the biggest breeding kink going. when it came to imagining getting you pregnant—his hormones are high. and outside the bedroom, steve loved to try and tempt you, telling you that one of him was cute but two of him though? even better. you’d roll your eyes but secretly agree.
the amount of times you had text your friends “we almost broke up again last night” when it came to gator tillman was…a lot. more than you care to admit. but you wouldn’t have it any other way. you fought, one of you threatened to leave and then—one of you (usually gator) would give in. you’d have sex (incredible, incredible sex) and you’d both say sorry. it was a cycle, it was probably—most definitely—unhealthy but it was you and gator.
your bed chem with teacake was well—it was fucking incredible. that man had the stamina of a damn race horse. the way he picked you up, put you down, turned you around always got you going. the way he knew exactly what your body wanted. the way he talked so fucking sweet while doing the dirtiest things to you. the way he would look at you—you were pretty fucking obsessed.
keys treated you so well that you joked a lot that it made tears run down your thighs. keys would always go red when you’d say that. he’d tell you to shush but his lips would twitch as though he was trying hard not to smile. he didn’t just treat you good but he was always so responsible. he wasn’t a manchild. you never had to baby him. you never had to remind him about an upcoming special event, he communicated so well that you began to wonder why you bothered wearing clothes around him.
you constantly had kurt talking nonsense. he couldn’t help it, it was like his tongue went numb as soon you were anywhere near him. he was in deep with you. he caught that l-o-v-e and he caught it bad. the butterflies in his stomach weren’t just fluttering around you—they were doing damn cartwheels when you were in the room. you couldn’t talk because you weren’t much better when it came to him. kurt made you forget about every ex you ever had. you had no chill about him, kurt had made you lost it. you’d find yourself wondering how on earth did he do this to you?
Summary: You and Steve Harrington were never really anything. You were just the girl who made the last hours of his parties feel like they meant something. At least, until you stopped showing up.
A/n: fuck everyone who got this as their surprise song, anyways, as opposed to the song this has a happy ending, so enjoy!!
The music is too loud for how late it is.
Or maybe it just feels that way because everything else has started to quiet down, unnoticed, until quietness is the only thing left.
It’s 5:00 a.m., or close enough. The clock on the wall has been stuck between numbers all night.
Steve Harrington is half-slouched, half-collapsed into the couch.
One arm hangs off the side, fingers barely grazing the floor, sticky from something he doesn’t remember spilling. His head tips back against the cushions, eyes open but unfocused, fixed somewhere above the ceiling like there’s something written there he has yet to figure out.
There are still people in his house.
Too many, honestly.
Someone laughs in the kitchen, loud and unfamiliar. A bottle clinks against the counter. A couple disappears down the hallway like this is normal, like this is his house but not really his space.
Everyone he’s ever known.
And somehow not a single person he’s actually looking for.
The front door creaks open.
Steve’s eyes flick toward it instantly.
Hope is quick. Reflexive. Stupid.
Stupid, because It’s not you.
Just another guy-someone from school, maybe-dragging his feet in at this ungodly hour, talking too loudly about nothing.
The door swings shut again, and with it, Steve’s brief, flickering expectation dies just as fast as it came.
He exhales through his nose, slow, reminding himself.
Right.
You don’t come anymore.
It hadn’t been like that before. You used to show up late. Always late.
The memory hits him out of nowhere, uninvited and too clear, like everything from before somehow survived the blur of everything now.
The door opening. You stepping in, already half-smiling, half-annoyed.
“You know you could not invite half of Hawkins, right?”
He remembers your voice, teasing him with a truthful smile. And Steve—God—Steve would feel it instantly. That shift. Like the night finally made sense.
He’d push himself off whatever wall he was pretending to enjoy leaning on, weaving through people just to get to you with a grin that spread across his face like a reward.
A reward to the hours he spent doing nothing but wait for you at every party, not even listening to anyone’s words because all he could think about was you.
“You came.” He’d said. Like he wasn’t sure you would. Like it mattered more than it should.
You’d roll your eyes, brushing past him. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
But you’d stay. That was the thing.
You weren’t a party person. Never had been. You hated the noise, the mess, the people who got too close, too loud. You’d hover in the kitchen, or sit on the counter with a drink watching everybody mush into one another, or disappear into quieter rooms and somehow, Steve always ended up there with you.
Not hosting. The thought that it was his party completely left his mind the moment you showed up.
Now the kitchen is full, and he doesn’t step foot in it. Now the quiet rooms stay empty. Now he doesn’t even try to look.
“Steve!”
He barely reacts when someone drops down beside him on the couch, too close, too energetic for the hour.
A girl. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Her hand lands on his arm like she’s done it before.
Maybe she has but he can’t remember, too lost in the thought of that it should’ve been you.
It shouldn’t feel wrong. But it does.
Because it should’ve been you.
You, reaching for him like that without thinking.
You, nudging him when he drifted too far into his own head.
His brain does this cruel thing.
It expects you. It always does.
You never even had to say his name.
You’d barely get the first sound out—“S—”—and he’d already be there, turning, stepping toward you like it was instinct, like he was tuned to you in a way he couldn’t explain.
“This party’s insane,” the girl says, laughing, leaning into him like they’re sharing something.
Steve glances at her, blinking slowly.
Her words take a second to land. He forces a smile. It’s automatic at this point. “Yeah.” He agrees. Not bothered.
She keeps talking about someone in the backyard, something that happened earlier, something that probably would’ve been funny hours ago.
He tries to listen. But it all blurs together.
Her voice fades into the background, mixing with the music, the outside noise of people chatting.
And all he can think about is how you would’ve reacted.
You would’ve made a face. You would’ve leaned over and whispered something sarcastic in his ear.
You would’ve pulled him away after thirty seconds because you knew he wasn’t actually listening.
His jaw tightens slightly.
The girl laughs again, nudging him. “Are you even listening right now?” Not really.
He huffs a quiet, humorless breath.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
She doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t push, either. Just shrugs, already half-distracted by something else.
That’s the thing about these people. No one looks twice. But you would. In fact, you wouldn’t look away the first time in the first place.
You would’ve kept him company all through every party.
At some point, he ends up in the bathroom. He doesn’t remember walking there. The door clicks shut behind him, muffling the noise just enough that it feels like stepping underwater.
For the first time all night, it’s quiet.
Steve grips the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. At his messy hair due to being run through one too many times, red rimmed eyes and his hollow expression.
One of the memories hits him again, sharper this time.
You, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, watching him with that look, half amused, half something deeper. He knows you’re about to say something that’s been bugging your mind.
“I think you’re trying too hard.” You say, firmly, shrugging like this wasn’t the sentence that has been washing up your mind every time you get Steve in moments like these. Away from the crowd, without anyone to impress.
“What?” He answers, obviously a little confused.
“This,” you’d said, gesturing vaguely. “The whole…King Steve thing.”
He’d frowned.
“It’s just a party.” But you both knew it was’t.
You shook your head, softer now.
“I like you better when you’re not like this.”
Not like this. Steve swallows, looking back at himself now. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Because you were right. And worse because he knows it.
He stays in there longer than he should.
Long enough that the party starts to feel distant. Long enough that the silence becomes heavier than the noise ever was.
When he finally steps back out, it hits him all over again. The mess. The people.
The version of himself he slipped back into without even realizing it.
Someone calls his name from across the room again. This time he ignores it.
Instead, his eyes drift—slow, searching—toward the front door. Like they have all night. Like they keep doing without his permission. And the door? It’s closed. Of course it is.
After everyone has left, Steve ends up back on the couch. Same position. Same spot. Like he never moved.
Except now the house actually is empty.
Cups litter the floor. Something sticky clings to his shoe when he shifts. A chair is knocked over near the kitchen. The air smells stale, heavy with everything the night dragged in and left behind as a reminder of what’s left to clean up.
He stares at the door again. One last time.
Again. It’s stupid, at this point. Really stupid.
He knows you’re not coming. You haven’t in weeks. Maybe longer.
He just… didn’t want to admit it.
His throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling in his chest. Because for the first time all night, there’s no distraction left. No noise to drown it out. No one to pretend in front of.
Just him.
And the quiet realization that’s been waiting for him to stop running long enough to catch up.
His gaze lingers on the door a second longer before finally dropping, his head tipping back against the couch.
A slow breath leaves him.
Another memory hits him.
It had never been about the parties for you.
Steve knew that.
You didn’t show up for the music, or the people, or whatever reputation came with being seen at his house. Half the time, you barely spoke to anyone else.
But you always stayed for him.
That was the part he didn’t understand at first.
Not until he started noticing the way your eyes tracked him across the room. Not in a clingy way. Not like you needed him.
More like you were making sure he didn’t lose himself in it.
There were nights you’d catch his wrist as he passed, just for a second.
Not to stop him. Just to ground him a little.
“Hey,” you’d say, softer than the rest of the room.
And that was enough.
Enough to cut through the noise. Enough to make everything else feel distant. He’d lean in without thinking, like your voice existed on a frequency meant only for him.
And you’d always notice. Always.
The second his smile stopped being real. The second his laugh went a little too loud.
You’d actually listen.
At least when you were there.
The house is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful yet—just empty. Hollow. Like something’s been taken out of it and nothing’s replaced it since.
Steve doesn’t move from the couch. He hasn’t for a while.
The clock still blinks. The floor still sticks. The air still feels too thick to breathe properly.
And the door— The door is still closed.
He lets his head fall back, eyes slipping shut for a second, exhaustion finally starting to settle into his bones now that there’s nothing left to distract him from it.
This is it. This is what’s left.
A trashed house. A quiet morning. And the realization that he spent the whole night waiting for someone who was never coming.
A knock breaks the silence. Barely there.
Steve’s eyes snap open.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
Because his brain, still stupid,hopeful and desperate—won’t let him believe it.
Not yet. The knock comes again.
Still quiet and still unsure.
He’s on his feet before he fully registers standing, crossing the room faster than he means to, heart racing something sharp and uneven in his chest.
His hand hesitates on the doorknob for half a second. Then he pulls it open.
And it’s you.
You look out of place.
Not because you don’t belong there, but because the night has already ended, and you weren’t part of it this time.
Your eyes flick past him, briefly taking in the mess behind him; the cups, the overturned chair, the remains of everything.
Then you look back to him.
There’s no smile this time.
Just something careful still settled on your face.
“Hey.”
His throat feels dry. Unsure. Like his brain is still catching up, too much happening all at once.
“Hey,” he echoes, quieter.
For a second, neither of you moves and it feels awkward in a way it’s never been before.
Like you don’t quite know where you stand anymore.
“I, uh—” you start, shifting your weight slightly. “I think I left my jacket here. A while ago.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But Steve nods anyway, stepping back to let you in.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s probably…somewhere.”
You walk past him slowly, more cautious than you used to be, like you’re not sure what version of him you’re walking into.
After all it has been weeks and you never know what to expect with Steve. Or with you. The last few weeks you’ve spent avoiding him because facing your feelings with the fact that Steve the hair Harrington could never like you.
Even if you always saw right past that persona. He didn’t.
He closes the door behind you, watching as you move through the space that used to feel familiar to you. During evening, at least.
You don’t head for the kitchen. You don’t make yourself comfortable. You just look around taking it all in.
“This is new,” you say quietly.
Steve huffs, but there’s no humor in it. He knows what you mean.
“Not really.”
He lets silence overtake everything for a quick pause, hoping that what he says next won’t mess up the moment even more.
“I didn’t think you’d come.”
You glance at him, something flickering across your face, searching for his eyes like there’s a right answer and that’s where you’ll find it.
“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not for that.”
Not for him. The words hang there, unspoken but understood.
Steve nods slowly, looking down at the floor for a second. “Yeah.”
He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet house. “Where do you think you left it?”
Another dumb excusable question you’re both aware of.
You shrug slightly, arms crossing, bracing yourself against a feeling you can’t explain yet.
“I don’t know. Your room, maybe.”
His jaw tightens a little at that. You haven’t been up there in weeks. Not since the last party you came to.
“Yeah. Okay.” He nods once, not letting another memory flood both of your minds this time, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway with a head shake. “It could be there.”
You hesitate before moving. Just for a second, deciding if this is a mistake, like you’re giving yourself the chance to turn around and leave.
Steve notices. Of course he does. He notices everything about you.
“I can check,” he rushes. “You don’t have to-“
“No.” You shake your head, cutting him off, softer this time. “It’s fine.”
You step past him before he can say anything else.
He follows, a step behind, like he used to, but it feels different now. Less certain. As if he’s not sure he’s allowed to be that close anymore.
You reach his bedroom door first, pushing it open slightly, surprised it wasn’t locked.
Even more surprised when you see how untouched it is compared to the rest of the house. He didn’t let anyone in here.
You scan the room again, slower this time, like you’re giving yourself something to do.
“It’s cleaner in here,” you say, glancing back at him. “That’s new.”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh from the doorway.
“Yeah, well. People don’t usually make it this far.”
“Wow,” you deadpan. “I feel special.”, you joke, with a laugh, but the words had more weight to it. The word joke not holding it’s meaning anymore.
He shrugs, but there’s the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are.” Like he’s not even thinking about it.
You chuckle, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way and look away first, stepping further into the room, crouching slightly to check the side of the bed still holding onto the story. “If I find it covered in something gross, I’m leaving it here.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “Honestly, I’d probably do the same.”
You glance up at him. “You would not.”
“I would,” he insists, pushing off the doorframe a little, stepping into the room. “I have standards.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You threw a party for half the town.”
“Hey,” he points at you, mock-offended, “those are unrelated issues.”
But you don’t know the parties aren’t for half the town. They’re not for his neighbours, for his classmates or anyone he ever knew.
They’re for you.
Why would he keep throwing them and pretend to thrive someplace that didn’t include you. Even if that place included you for the last few hours only.
You stand back up, brushing your hands together like you actually found something, even though you didn’t.
“Still not seeing it.”
Steve nods slowly, looking around like the jacket might magically appear if he tries hard enough. “It’s probably..uh..” he gestures vaguely toward his closet. “Check there, maybe?”
You pull the closet door open, pushing aside a few hanging shirts without much hope. “I’m not digging through your entire house for one jacket.”
“Wow,” Steve says lightly from behind you.
“Didn’t realize it meant that little to you.”
You glance back at him. “It’s a jacket, Steve.”
“Cold mornings are serious,” he shrugs, looking away from you.
There’s barely anything there—just a couple of boxes, a pair of old shoes.
And then something small, half-hidden near the corner. You reach for it without thinking.
“…wait.”
Steve shifts a little. “What?”
You pick it up, turning it over in your hand, squinting at it for a second, then your expression changes.
“…no way.”
Steve already knows that tone.
“What?” he asks, a little more cautious now.
You stand up, holding it out slightly. “You still have this?”
It’s a keychain.
Cheap. Plastic. Slightly scratched. From one of those dumb arcade prizes.
Steve freezes for half a second when he sees it. “Oh,” he says quietly.
You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Oh?”
“I mean-it’s just-” he gestures vaguely, already losing the point, “it was in there.”
“You won this for me,” you remind him, as if he needs any reminding, turning it between your fingers. “And then got mad when I said it was ugly.”
“It is ugly,” he defends, a small smile creeping in despite himself.
“You were so proud of it though.” you add.
“I worked hard for that,” he shoots back. “Those machines are rigged.”
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly. “I think I said something like, ‘Wow, I’ll treasure this forever,’” you recall.
“You were lying,” he says immediately.
“Obviously.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I knew that.”
You look at it again, “I lost it like…two days later.”
“I know.”
That makes you glance up at him. “You do?”
Steve shrugs one shoulder. “Found it in my car.”
“…and just kept it?” you ask, searching for his eyes.
He hums, then, even quieter, “Yeah.”
“You’re weird.” You rush, before you could let your mind think too much of it. This meant nothing, you and Steve were nothing.
“Getting that a lot today,” he mutters in response. But he’s smiling a little.
You step out of the closet, still holding the keychain, your fingers brushing over the scratched plastic absentmindedly.
“Still not my jacket,” you scoff, dramatically, feeling less out of place now.
“Yeah,” Steve replies. “Guess not.” With raised eyebrows and a smile spreading into a grin already. Like he knew it wasn’t there anyway as much as you did.
Neither of you moves much after that.
You’re closer now. Not on purpose, it’s just how it ended up.
You glance down at the keychain again, then back up at him. “You kept a lot of stuff like this?”
“No,” he says. “Just…some things.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Important things?”
He lets out a quiet breath, like he didn’t expect that question. “Something like that.”
Your breath catches, taken back deciding on what you’re about to do next.
You shift your grip on the keychain, and your hand brushes his, this touching him on purpose.
Steve’s gaze drops for a second, then back up to your face like he’s searching for what this really means and the answer is on your face.
He takes a deep breath.
“You still think it’s ugly?” he asks softly.
You hum, pretending to think about it. “…yeah.”
He nods. “Fair.” Then you add, just as quiet: “But I’d probably keep it now.”
You don’t move away after saying it. Neither does he. There’s barely any space left between you.
Steve lets out a small breath, deciding something again, knowing he didn’t give it a second thought. Not even a first one. “You can.”
You look at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “You can keep it.” He looks down at where your hands are still touching. “Was kinda yours anyway.”
You push harder against his hand, probing for one of his fingers, his hand, you don’t even know, just wanting to hold a part of him in some way as slick as you can be.
“yeah?” You mutter, not losing your focus.
You settle on the finger closest to yours as quickly as you can, not wanting to make this more awkward than it already might be. He reaches for the keychain, both of you holding it tightly now.
But at the same time you’re scanning his eyes, scouring for any possible hint that says he doesn’t want this, blinking as a way to cue him and let him know he can still pull away.
And instead of saying anything else, you lean your face closer, just slightly at first, giving him time to meet you there, if he wants to.
For a second, nothing happens.
Your breath mixes with his, close enough now that you can feel the hesitation in it, not unsure but like he’s not entirely sure this is real and happening.
His eyes flick between yours, searching, almost waiting for you to pull back, giving you every chance to.
You don’t. But you don’t get closer either, letting him decide what comes next.
So he closes the distance.
It’s careful, barely there at first. His lips are brushing yours so lightly it almost feels accidental.
Like a test. And you still feel his reluctance, waiting for you to make it go away and confirm that he can be resolute in this.
And instead of stopping, you lean in just a little more.
That’s all it takes for the kiss to settle, both his and your lips catching each other tentatively. Chasing the taste of one another.
Steve exhales quietly against your lips, like something in him finally gives in and his hand lifts, slow, almost unsure, before resting gently at your side, still grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.
You tilt your head slightly, deepening it just enough to feel real, not rushed.
His thumb shifts faintly against your arm, a small, absent movement, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
You try to think of how maybe this shouldn’t be happening, like your lips shouldn’t be so desperate and in seek of his the second he pulls back to breathe.
You should be bothered by sweat building on his pinky from you gripping it so tightly, but you just want more, more and more.
Because you know you’ve wanted this for weeks. Weeks spent away from him, the moment only living in your imagination.
When you finally pull back, it’s unhurried, neither of you moving far, both still hovering in it, wanting it to continue. Your breath is uneven.
Steve lets out a quiet, disbelieving exhale, his eyes still half on yours, like he’s afraid if he looks away it’ll disappear.
The keychain is still in his hands, pressed between his fingers.
Steve glances at it, then back at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth. “..definitely not here for the jacket.”
You huff softly. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay,” he murmurs, still close. “Okay.”
And he’s dropping the keychain in an instant, his hands framing for your cheeks, determined to kiss you again without any doubts.
Summary: Late at night, you comfort Steve through a spiral of restless thoughts
warnings: insomnia
A/n: Luke sang this song straight to my face. But also hii!!! first fic on here, bear with me
Your phone rings at 2:11 a.m.
You don’t even have to answer to know it’s him.
He says that sometimes, Hawkins makes makes him sick.
He loves the city itself, but he nudges the fact in his throat every time he hears people talking from outside his house.
Like the noise crawls under his skin instead of past it.
The streetlights are creeping through the shades, thin and restless, like they won’t let him have the dark.
You huff a little, even though you’re half asleep, and roll onto your side before getting up to reach the phone.
A thin coiled cord stretching across your bedroom floor. A desk cluttered with small things you haven’t bothered to put away. A half-dim lamp casting soft light over rumpled sheets. Outside your window, the night is still.
When it rings again, it cuts through everything.
Your voice is thick with sleep when you pick up. “Yeah?”
There’s a pause on the other end. Not empty, just a little delayed.
“Hey,” Steve says finally and you can practically hear the guilt settling in his throat. The guilt of thinking he's bothering you. He always thinks that when he calls.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, already more awake now.
A breath comes through the line. Soft, uneven.
“I can’t sleep again,” he says, defeated.
You shift under your blanket, pulling it closer without thinking.
“Bad night?” You ask gently.
Another pause.
“It’s just loud up here i guess,” he admits. “Even when everything’s quiet.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone. You look around your own room, so still it almost feels unfair to describe it the same way.
“I’m here,” You say after a moment, quieter than before.
You can picture him; lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, phone resting on his chest, hair messy, and eyes tired but wide open.
You’ve told him countless of times to never feel bad about texting you late, because you’ll answer. You’ll be there. No matter what. And he knows that.
“Want me to stay up with you?” You offer.
You know the answer, but you know him, too.
He carries it like it’s his fault, like he’s the reason, like every shadow under his eyes belongs to him.
But you don’t mind it-not really. How could you sleep peacefully, knowing he’s still awake somewhere, unable to rest?
This time Steve answers immediately.
“until i fall asleep?” A little hesitant.
You press the phone closer to your ear, the soft static filling the space between you before his breathing does as an answer to your hum.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough like he hasn’t used it properly in hours.
“I’m here,” you whisper back.
You hear the faint rustle of sheets on his end, like he’s shifting, trying to get comfortable in a bed that isn’t his, in a room that doesn’t know him. There’s something hollow about the quiet around him, too big, too empty, like it echoes.
You can picture him again without even trying. Flat on his back pressed against the wall, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other holding his phone loosely against his chest. The city outside never really sleeping, bleeding through the walls in distant noise that won’t quite settle.
“Still loud?” you ask gently. Not wanting to startle his brain with having to think too much.
A quiet huff of air. “Yeah.”
Then, after a second of silence: “It’s stupid, ‘cause it’s not even the city. It’s just-” he exhales, cutting himself off. “It’s up here.”
“I know.”
You don’t need him to explain it. You can hear it in the way he talks slower, like every word has to push through something heavier first. Through layers of terrible memories built and gushing to come out all at once.
There’s a soft thud on his end, like he’s letting his arm fall back down.
“Can you just… talk?” he asks, quieter now. “About anything.”
Your chest tightens, but your voice stays warm. “Yeah. Of course.”
So you do.
You tell him about your day, about little things, pointless things, the kind of details you’d normally skip. What you ate, the way the sky looked earlier, something you saw that reminded you of him. Your voice stays steady, soft, filling the silence so his mind doesn’t have to.
At first, he hums in response. Little sounds, barely there. But you know he’s listening. He always is.
Then it fades.
Not completely, but enough that you notice the small shift.
His breathing starts to slow. You don’t hear any moving anymore.
You keep talking anyway.
“…and I swear, it looked exactly like that place you showed me,” you murmur, voice dropping even softer now, like instinct. “The one you said we’d go to one day.”
There’s a long pause.
You think, for a second, he might’ve drifted off. Then immediately:
“Don’t stop,” he whispers.
Your heart twists.
“I won’t,” you promise.
You adjust slightly in your bed, curling into your pillow, phone still pressed to your ear like if you move it even a little, it might break something fragile between you.
“You’re okay,” you murmur, more to him than anything. “You can sleep.”
He exhales, shaky at first.
“I don’t-” he swallows, his voice dropping, being pulled under something heavy. “It feels like if I close my eyes, it all just starts again. Like I’m stuck in it.”
Your grip tightens around the phone, like you can hold him steadier through it.
Like you can hold his thoughts in place from spiralling all over. From wandering to the Russians. To the upside down.
You both know it’s ended, that it’s over. Still, you know he never had anybody to talk to about this.
No one was ever really there for him the way you wish they had been. Not in the moments that actually mattered, not in the quiet parts where it would have changed something.
So he learned how to handle it alone.
How to turn everything into something smaller before anyone else could see it properly. How to laugh it off before it got too close to being taken seriously. Like if he made it sound like nothing, it would eventually become nothing.
But you can hear it underneath him anyway.
And it’s not that simple. It never really was.
Because when everything gets quiet, when there’s nothing left for him to distract himself with, it’s still there. And no matter how much he tries to laugh it off, you can tell it never fully stops being real.
“You’re not,” you say softly but firmly. “You’re here. With me. Just listen to my voice, okay?”
There’s a pause. Quiet and almost a little fragile.
Then, barely there, “Okay.”
And you hear it for what it is. Not just agreement. Not just exhaustion.
It’s him wishing you were there.
You feel it too, sharp and aching, settling somewhere deep in your chest.
Not just in the obvious ways, but in all the small ones that build up until they feel unbearable. The weight of him next to you. The way he reaches for you without thinking.
He’s told you before, in moments softer than this, voice low and almost embarrassed, that when he thinks about you, it’s never complicated. It’s simple. He just wants to be close. Wants to press his face into yours, kiss you until you laugh and tell him to stop, until everything feels quiet again. Wants to pull you into him, skin to skin, just to prove you’re real and not something his tired mind made up.
And it’s never said in a way that feels rushed or messy, always just honest. Like closeness is the only thing that makes sense to him when everything else doesn’t.
You close your eyes, listening to his breathing through the phone, wishing you could reach through it.
You slow your words even more, spacing them out, giving him something steady to follow. Something simple. Something safe.
He says your name lightly. “Come over?” He whispers, barely audible.
Without even giving yourself time to think it through, you tell him you’ll be there in ten minutes.
You try to be quiet, preaching with your feet towards the stairs.
“Hey.”
You turn and spot Steve, watching from close to the couch in the living room.
And he looks… exhausted.
Not just tired. Worn down in a way that sits in his shoulders, in the way he’s barely holding himself up.
“Steve—”
You don’t even get the full sentence out before he crosses the room and pulls you into him.
It’s immediate.
Arms tight around you, face buried in your neck, like he’s been holding himself together and finally doesn’t have to.
You feel his weight settle against you, heavier than usual.
He exhales against your skin. It’s uneven at first, then deeper the longer you stay like that.
“You’re out of bed,” you whisper.
A small nod. Barely there.
“Yeah.”
Your hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers resting there, grounding.
“Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head again, this time pressing closer instead of answering right away.
“Not really.”
You tilt your head just enough so your cheek brushes his hair.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Come on.”
You don’t pull away all at once. You ease back, your hands lingering on him like you’re making sure he stays with you as you guide him to your room.
He follows without hesitation.
The second he lies down, he reaches for you again and pulls you with him like it’s automatic, like there’s no version of this where he doesn’t.
His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close until there’s no space left between you. His face tucks into the space between your shoulder and your neck, breath warm, steadying.
You feel the tension in him up close now, not sharp, just constant.
“You okay?” you whisper, your hand already finding his hair.
“…Yeah.”
But it’s softer than that. More honest.
“You’re here.”
“I told you I would be,” you murmur.
Your fingers move through his hair slowly, again and again, the same path each time.
You feel him exhale, longer this time. His body shifts just slightly, pressing into you instead of holding himself rigid.
“You can sleep,” you whisper, your lips just brushing his temple when you speak. “I’ve got you.”
His hand tightens at your side for a second.
“Don’t go anywhere.”
There’s something quieter under it this time. Not fear. He's just… asking.
“I’m not,” you say, just as soft. “I’m right here.”
A pause.
“Promise?”
You tilt your head, resting it lightly against his.
“Promise.”
Your hand slides from his hair to the back of his neck, thumb brushing slow, absent circles there.
You keep talking, your voice low, almost blending into the quiet now. Not really about anything, just enough that he doesn’t have to fall into silence alone.
And gradually, you feel it.
The way his breathing evens out. The way his grip softens, the way his weight fully settles into you.
Like he’s finally stopped bracing.
You don’t stop moving your hand.
Not when his breathing deepens. Not when it stays that way. Not when you realize he’s actually asleep.
Like he’s been waiting for it. Like he’s been waiting for you.
Your chest tightens a little at that. Something warm, something heavy.
You shift just enough to get comfortable without pulling away, your fingers still resting in his hair, your other hand spread lightly against his back.
He doesn’t stir.
And you stay exactly where you are, holding him, listening to the quiet, knowing that for the first time in a while. his mind finally let him rest.
And even though your own eyes start to burn, exhaustion creeping in slow, you don’t let yourself fall asleep.
Not yet. Because if he wakes up, even for a second,
I loved your whimsical reader as a whimsigoth girly myself and I was wondering if you could mayhaps write Steve X Whimsical reader. Like big Stevie Nicks vibes.
Probably season 1 Steve.
Maybe his friends are taking the piss out of her and he's just in awe as he watches her walk past, and they're like "you okay man?" But he just fell in love at first sight
Okay thank you bye
under your spell
steve harrington x reader
val speaks - looooove this trope and whimsy reader soooo much. hope u like what i did w this 💋 ++ the whole upside down n such isnt included in this! just a lil highschool love story (which i also kinda got carried away with lol)
word count: 6.7k (not kidding) (dont say it)
the first thing you noticed about hawkins was how small it felt.
small in that strange, suffocating kind of way. like everybody knew everybody, like secrets didn’t stay secrets for very long, like if you tripped in the hallway at school on monday morning, somehow the woman working the register at the grocery store would be asking if your knee was alright by tuesday afternoon.
it was nothing like home.
not that home had ever really felt like home, either.
your father’s work had always kept the three of you moving. city to city, house to house, one unfamiliar bedroom after another, boxes that were never fully unpacked because, eventually, there’d always be another move waiting around the corner. you’d learned early not to get attached to walls, to streets, to people. learned how to fold your life into cardboard and tape it shut.
hawkins was just another stop.
except this one had been harder.
maybe because you were older now. maybe because you were tired. maybe because for once, just once, you’d begged your parents not to uproot everything again, and for once they’d smiled those apologetic smiles parents wore when they’d already made up their minds weeks ago.
“it’ll be good for us” your mother had said brightly, stirring sugar into her coffee like she wasn’t rearranging your whole life with a sentence.
“it’s an incredible opportunity” your father had added without looking up from his papers.
as if that made it easier.
as if it meant anything at all.
so, on your first day at hawkins high, you walked through the doors alone, shoulders draped in a dark velvet shawl despite the mild weather, silver rings decorating nearly every finger, long skirts brushing your boots as you moved. moonstone hanging at your throat. bangles softly clinking at your wrist. your hair loose and wild in a way your mother called untidy and you secretly loved.
heads turned.
you didn’t notice.
or maybe you did. maybe you were simply used to it by now, used to being looked at like something odd and curious, like a painting hung crooked on an otherwise perfect wall. you’d long since stopped caring.
you were too busy trying to read the map of the school folded in your hand. too busy trying to find your locker. too busy trying not to feel like the new girl.
and that was exactly why you didn’t see steve harrington stop dead in the middle of the hallway.
one second he was laughing at something tommy hagan had said, shoulder bumped against carol’s locker, basking in the easy warmth of attention like he always did. king steve, crowned by hawkins high itself. perfect hair, perfect smile, effortless charm, the kind of boy girls watched when he walked by and boys either wanted to be or wanted to punch.
the next second, he forgot how to breathe.
it was ridiculous, honestly, he knew it was ridiculous.
but there was something about you.
something soft and untouchable and strange. like moonlight made human, like you belonged barefoot in a forest somewhere instead of walking the polished floors of hawkins high.
you moved like you heard music nobody else could.
steve stared.
actually stared.
tommy followed his line of sight, then barked out a laugh.
“you okay, dude?”
steve blinked.
“what?”
tommy smirked. “you were lookin’ at her like she descended from heaven or something.”
carol rolled her eyes. “please. harrington’s just found his next conquest.”
normally, steve would’ve laughed. thrown out some easy line. leaned into the version of himself everybody expected.
instead, he kept looking.
“who is she?”
tommy snorted. “new girl. moved here last week, apparently.”
steve barely heard him.
because you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear while squinting at your locker combination, brow pinched in quiet concentration, and for some completely insane reason, steve thought it might be the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
and that, that was a problem.
because girls usually chased him, not the other way around.
still, for the rest of the day, he found himself looking for glimpses of you.
across the cafeteria. through classroom windows. walking the halls.
always drifting somewhere just out of reach.
and then, by pure dumb luck, or fate, if steve were feeling dramatic, last period hit. and there you were. three rows over, near the window.
sunlight spilled over your desk, catching in the silver jewelry at your wrists, making you glow faintly. while everyone else half-listened, half-dozed through class, you actually paid attention. scribbling notes in messy looping handwriting, doodling stars and vines in the margins of your notebook.
steve spent more time watching you than the board.
when the bell rang, his heart did something embarrassingly weird.
because suddenly he had a choice.
walk away or do something.
and steve harrington had never exactly been known for walking away.
so he caught up to you in the hallway.
“hey-”
you turned, blinking slightly, eyes curious but cautious.
up close, somehow, you were even prettier. not in the polished, glossy way hawkins girls were pretty, not in the neat, expected way. you were wild pretty. haunting pretty.
for a second, a very stupid second, steve forgot every line he’d ever used.
“…you’re new.”
genius.
absolute genius.
your mouth twitched.
“observant.”
he laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “right. yeah. i’m steve.”
“i know.”
that threw him.
it wasn’t smug when you said it, just factual. simple. of course you knew who he was. everyone knew who he was.
“right,” he said again, because apparently that was the only word left in his vocabulary. “so, uh… hawkins. how’s that treating you?”
you tilted your head, considering.
“it’s… small.”
he grinned. “yeah. that’s fair.”
a beat passed.
then he did what came naturally.
“there’s a party friday. at my place. you should come.”
usually that worked like magic. usually girls lit up. usually they said yes before he even finished asking.
but you just looked at him for a moment like you were seeing something beneath the polished exterior everyone else bought into.
and then you laughed softly.
not mean.
not mocking.
just warm, amused.
“are you flirting with me?”
steve’s face heated instantly.
“what? no- i mean- kinda-”
your smile widened.
it made something in his chest turn over.
“that’s sweet,” you said gently, adjusting the books in your arms. “but i think i’ll pass.”
and then, just like that you walked away.
leaving steve harrington standing frozen in the middle of the hallway, thoroughly, spectacularly rejected.
tommy would’ve had a field day.
carol might’ve actually fainted.
because that never happened. ever.
but steve didn’t feel embarrassed. didn’t feel angry. if anything, he was more interested now.
watching you disappear around the corner, he smiled to himself.
a challenge. great. he liked challenges.
meanwhile, you walked home thinking very little of it.
steve harrington was charming in a rehearsed sort of way, but there’d been something almost clumsy underneath it. something earnest he clearly tried to hide behind that perfect smile and practiced confidence.
you’d heard whispers already.
king steve. popular, pretty, slightly cruel company. a little too aware of how adored he was.
but when he’d stood in front of you tripping over his own words, cheeks faintly pink, well.
he hadn’t seemed cruel.
just strangely boyish, almost soft. still, it wasn’t something you lingered on.
you had bigger things to think about.
like home.
or what passed for it.
the second you stepped through the front door, your mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“how was school?”
followed quickly by-
“did you meet anyone?”
and from the dining room, without lifting his eyes from paperwork-
“make any friends?”
you sighed quietly, dropping your bag by the stairs.
“it was fine.”
“fine?” your mother appeared, already immaculate despite the late hour, dressed for some club meeting or dinner or tennis thing. “just fine?”
“yes.”
“and friends?”
“no.”
her expression fell like this was tragic news.
“sweetheart, you have to put yourself out there.”
your father nodded absently. “connections matter.”
you nearly laughed.
connections matter.
funny, coming from a man never home long enough to know you.
“i’m okay on my own” you said simply.
your mother exchanged a look with your father, one of those quiet parental looks full of concern you never asked for.
the weird girl, their eyes seemed to say.
always alone.
always elsewhere.
but solitude had never frightened you. you’d built a whole life inside yourself years ago. music playing softly in your room, candles lit, books stacked by your bed, journals full of thoughts nobody would ever read. your own little world, untouched by anybody else’s expectations.
that night, curled near your bedroom window with fleetwood mac humming low from your record player, you barely spared steve harrington another thought.
but across town, sprawled across his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling steve thought of little else.
the sound of your laugh. the silver at your wrists. the way you looked at him like he was just another person.
not king steve, not hawkins royalty, just steve.
somehow that mattered more than he understood. he smiled helplessly into the dark, he’d see you tomorrow.
and next time, he’d do better.
-
steve, to his own surprise, did not give up.
if anything, being turned down had only made whatever strange thing had lodged itself in his chest grow stronger.
normally, steve liked easy.
easy smiles, easy girls, easy conversations he could glide through half-paying attention because he already knew exactly what to say and exactly what version of himself they wanted. he knew how to be charming. knew how to tilt his head just right, flash that grin, lean casually against lockers like he belonged there, because he did. hawkins high had made a throne for him long ago, and steve had slipped into it like it was custom made.
but you, you were impossible to read. and that made him want to keep trying.
so he did.
it started small.
a casual hello in the hallway.
then a stupid comment muttered under his breath in class that made you bite back a smile despite yourself.
then purposely “forgetting” his pencil so he could lean over and ask for one of yours.
you’d stared at him flatly.
“you have one tucked behind your ear.”
steve had reached up, touched the pencil, then grinned.
“right. forgot about that.”
your eyes had rolled so dramatically he thought they might get stuck but there’d been that little twitch in your mouth after.
that tiny almost-smile.
and steve, embarrassingly, had carried that moment around with him for the rest of the day.
then, one monday afternoon, he walked into science class and dropped into the empty seat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
you looked up from your notebook slowly.
stared at him.
then rolled your eyes.
“you have assigned seats.”
“mr. clark likes me.”
“he absolutely does not.”
“that kinda hurt my feelings.”
you sighed and turned back to your notes, but you didn’t tell him to leave.
that was enough.
after that, sitting beside you simply became a thing.
and god, steve never thought he’d say this in his life, but science class became the best part of his day.
not because of science, he still hated science, but because of you.
because somehow every conversation with you wandered into places he’d never expected.
you made sarcastic little comments under your breath that caught him so off guard he’d laugh loud enough for people to turn around and stare.
real laughs, too. the kind that bent him forward slightly, hand over his mouth, eyes watering.
not his usual practiced chuckle. not his social laugh. real ones.
and that was new.
you found yourself letting him stay.
which was new for you, too.
at first, you tolerated him. then you entertained him. then, somewhere along the way, you started waiting for him.
just a little.
it wasn’t even because he was steve harrington. if anything, that mattered less and less the more you knew him. it was because underneath all that polished confidence and occasional unbearable ego was something unexpectedly earnest.
he was curious about everything.
that was what caught you off guard.
you’d mention some old record you liked, fleetwood mac, joni mitchell, david bowie, and next day he’d come in asking questions.
“okay, so what’s rumours about?”
“everything.”
“that’s not helpful.”
“heartbreak. cocaine. cheating. being impossibly cool.”
“sounds intense.”
“it is.”
then next week he’d casually mention listening to it.
and have opinions. bad opinions, mostly. but opinions.
or he’d ask where you grew up, what your favorite place was, what made you hate hawkins less on certain days and more on others.
he listened when you answered.
and when he talked, really talked, not that polished king steve nonsense, you found yourself listening too.
because steve was smarter than people gave him credit for. much smarter.
he noticed things, understood things, sometimes he’d say something unexpectedly thoughtful, and it would catch you completely off guard.
it made you remember that high school labels were lazy things. too neat, too simple.
popular. loner.
golden boy. strange girl with too many rings and her head in the clouds.
none of it was the whole truth.
one afternoon, walking between classes with steve trailing beside you, talking animatedly about something ridiculous, tommy appeared, smirking like he always did.
his eyes swept over you.
“serious question,” he said. “are you, like… a witch?”
carol snorted.
you stopped walking, slowly turned your head, looked him dead in the eye, then rolled your eyes and kept moving.
not worth it.
but what stayed with you, what lodged under your skin, was that steve said nothing.
didn’t laugh, didn’t defend you, just stood there awkwardly. caught between worlds he apparently still didn’t know how to separate.
that disappointment sat bitter in your chest the rest of the day.
so when science came, you ignored him.
completely.
steve sat down beside you, smiling like usual.
nothing.
“hey.”
silence.
“you mad?”
nothing.
“okay, definitely mad.”
you kept writing.
“c’mon.”
nothing.
“this is brutal.”
still nothing.
finally, you glanced at him.
“your friends are assholes.”
the words were quiet but sharp.
steve blinked.
“yeah” he admitted softly.
“and you just stood there.”
that hit harder because you were right.
he rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“i know.”
you looked away.
“not exactly king behavior.”
he laughed quietly at that, because there was that sharp tongue of yours, but there was guilt sitting underneath it.
“you’re right,” he said. “i should’ve said something.”
you didn’t answer.
a beat passed.
then,
“i’m sorry.”
that made you look at him.
because steve harrington, from what little you knew, didn’t seem like someone who apologised easily.
but he looked sincere and annoyingly, your anger softened.
“fine” you muttered.
his grin broke instantly.
“fine?”
“don’t push it.”
he held up his hands.
“noted.”
truthfully steve loved moments like that. loved that you didn’t just melt because he smiled at you.
loved that you challenged him, called him out, expected better. everyone else in his life seemed content with whatever version of steve was easiest to have around.
but you made him want to be better and that terrified him slightly. because it mattered. you mattered, more than he understood.
over time, your conversations got softer.
deeper.
you told him about moving constantly as a kid, about never bothering to plant roots because life always yanked them up anyway.
he told you about big empty houses, parents who were physically there just enough to criticize but never enough to actually know him.
“my dad only talks to me if i screw something up” steve admitted one day, voice oddly flat.
you looked at him.
“my father only talks to me when he wants me to become something i’m not.”
steve stared at the desk.
“that sucks.”
“yeah.”
“for what it’s worth…” he glanced at you. “i think whoever you are is probably better.”
your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“that was almost profound, harrington.”
“almost?”
“don’t let it get to your head.”
he smiled and smiled wider when you did too.
the strange thing was, deep down, you were beginning to realise you and steve weren’t all that different beneath the surface.
lonely in different ways, misunderstood in different ways, performing different versions of yourselves for the world.
on paper, it made no sense.
hawkins’ golden boy and the weird girl who wore moonstones and velvet and looked like she belonged dancing barefoot under moonlight.
but sitting beside him one late afternoon, listening to him animatedly tell you about the time a stray dog somehow fell into his swimming pool while he was home alone-
“and i panicked,” steve said, laughing at himself, “so i made it bacon.”
you blinked.
“you cooked bacon for a random dog?”
“it looked stressed.”
you stared.
then laughed, full and bright and real, head tipping back slightly.
steve immediately forgot what he’d been saying. because he’d made you laugh like that and suddenly nothing else in the room mattered.
not labels, not hawkins, not what people expected. just you, smiling at him like he was worth smiling at.
-
over the months, something quiet and strange settled between you and steve.
something neither of you named, something that, somehow, became yours.
it stayed within the walls of school, mostly.
shared classes. hallway conversations. stolen moments by lockers that turned from five-minute chats into nearly making each other late for class. lunches where steve would ditch whatever crowd he was meant to be sitting with just to lean against your table and complain dramatically about whatever minor inconvenience had ruined his day.
usually tommy.
often carol.
sometimes his hair.
“humidity” he’d say grimly, running a hand through it like it had personally betrayed him.
you’d deadpan, “thoughts and prayers.”
and he’d laugh, that real laugh, easy and warm and slightly too loud.
you got used to him, dangerously used to him.
used to the sight of him grinning when he spotted you in the halls. used to him dropping into the seat beside you in science like it belonged to him now. used to his shoulder brushing yours accidentally-on-purpose.
used to the way he always, somehow, seemed genuinely interested in whatever odd little thing was on your mind.
and steve got used to you, too.
used to your sharp tongue. your dry humor. the strange dreamy way you talked about music like it was religion. the way your fingers were always adorned with silver rings that caught the light when you spoke. the way you seemed detached from the world one second, then deeply present the next.
he liked learning you.
every piece.
even the quiet ones.
and for the first time since moving to hawkins you started liking it there.
not because of school. not because of people. but because one afternoon, wandering behind your house with nowhere better to be, you found a narrow dirt trail weaving through trees and tall grass.
you followed it, and followed it, until it opened up onto a hill.
just rolling fields stretching endlessly beneath a sky that somehow always seemed bigger in hawkins than anywhere else you’d lived.
wildflowers scattered in patches, wind soft through long grass, quiet. real quiet.
not lonely quiet, peaceful quiet.
you found yourself going there often.
sometimes with a book. sometimes with music humming softly through headphones. sometimes with nothing but your thoughts.
it became yours.
your place.
then one evening, your parents gone, your father buried in work somewhere, your mother at some dinner party or whatever social thing filled her endless schedule, you were alone, curled on the couch in gray sweats and an old oversized hoodie, record player spinning softly in the corner.
a knock sounded at the door.
you frowned.
late enough to be strange.
you padded over, opening it, and blinked.
“…steve?”
there he was on your porch, hair slightly windswept, chest rising a little too fast like he’d been rushing around town.
and weirdly he looked upset.
not visibly crying upset, just off.
his smile when he saw you was mostly relief.
“oh, thank god.”
you frowned deeper.
“what?”
he rubbed the back of his neck.
“i knocked on, like… five of your neighbors’ doors before i found your house.”
“…why?”
“because i knew you lived around here and-”
he stopped himself.
looked suddenly embarrassed, looked down, then back up, and beneath his usual charm there was something vulnerable there that caught you off guard.
“are you okay?”
he nodded immediately.
too quickly.
which told you enough.
“yeah,” he said, voice quieter. “yeah, i just…”
he exhaled.
“can we- i don’t know, do something? sorry, that’s weird. it was probably weird coming here, i just needed to get out and-”
you sighed softly, already slipping your shoes on by the door.
he stopped talking.
watched you.
you straightened and nodded toward the path.
“come on.”
his eyebrows lifted.
“that’s it?”
“you don’t need to explain.”
that made him go still for a second.
then smile. a real one. small at first, then bigger.
“okay.”
he stepped back so you could shut the door behind you, falling into step beside you as you walked.
after a moment, he glanced over.
then down.
then back at you.
“it’s weird not seeing you in one of your big old skirts.”
you looked down at your gray sweats.
snorted softly.
“yeah, well. witches have time off too.”
steve laughed but then his smile faded a little.
he looked at the ground.
quietly-
“i am sorry they said that.”
you glanced at him, really glanced at him, the sincerity there, the guilt he’d apparently carried longer than you realised.
you shrugged lightly.
“honestly?”
he looked up.
you smiled faintly.
“i kinda like it.”
that made him grin, really grin, and before you could think better of it, you reached for his hand and pulled him down the side path behind your house.
only for a second.
just enough to drag him forward.
then you let go.
but steve still felt the warmth of your hand long after.
“where are you taking me?” he asked.
“you’ll see.”
“your witch lair?”
he muttered it mostly to himself, squinting suspiciously at the dark trail ahead.
it made you laugh unexpectedly.
“maybe.”
“i knew it.”
by the time you reached the hill, twilight had bled into night, stars faintly peeking through the dark blue sky.
hawkins stretched dimly below, quiet little lights flickering in the distance.
wind brushing softly over the grass.
steve stopped beside you.
“…whoa.”
you smiled to yourself.
“yeah.”
the two of you sat and talked.
about nothing, about everything.
you kept the conversation light because whatever had sent him to your porch tonight was clearly heavy, and instinctively, you knew he didn’t want to carry it for a while.
so you distracted him.
talked about weird dreams. bad songs on the radio. how strange raccoons looked when they used their little hands.
whether aliens were real. whether fleetwood mac was better than the beatles.
“that’s insane” steve said.
“it’s correct.”
“deeply wrong.”
“deeply right.”
he laughed again. and again. and slowly, whatever sadness had sat on his shoulders when he arrived seemed lighter.
steve noticed what you were doing, of course.
noticed you never asked. never pushed. just gave him space to breathe.
and it made something in his chest ache softly.
because no one had ever really done that for him before.
hours later, when he walked you back to your front porch, both of you lingering awkwardly in that 'i guess this is goodnight' way, he shoved his hands in his pockets, looked at you softly and said “thanks for this.”
you shrugged.
“no problem, king.”
he scoffed immediately.
“absolutely not.”
you smiled.
he looked past you at your dark house then back at you.
“…you home alone too?”
you chuckled softly and nodded.
“yeah.”
he nodded slowly.
“same.”
and there it was again, that quiet understanding between you, that shared loneliness.
different houses, same emptiness.
you leaned against the porch railing.
“if you’re ever too lonely…”
his eyes lifted.
you gave him a small smile.
“you know where to call.”
steve immediately lifted his hand and made a dramatic little phone sign with his thumb and pinky.
“already am.”
you rolled your eyes then he paused, lowered his hand, and suddenly looked almost nervous.
“…can i actually have your number, though?”
you squinted.
“smooth.”
he flashed you that grin.
the grin.
“worth a shot.”
you laughed quietly.
then noticed the pen tucked in his jacket pocket.
without asking, you plucked it free, grabbed his wrist, and wrote your number across the inside of his forearm in messy looping ink.
steve stared at it like it was sacred text.
you capped the pen.
handed it back.
“don’t lose your arm.”
he looked up, smiling so wide it almost made your chest tight.
“no promises.”
that night, steve drove home with your number written on his skin and a feeling in his chest he couldn’t quite name.
and from that point on the strange, wonderful little thing growing between you bloomed into something deeper.
still friendship, still undefined, still oddly yours, but no longer confined to school walls.
now it stretched beyond them.
phone calls late at night. unexpected visits. inside jokes nobody else understood. small moments that quietly became important.
and somewhere in all that without either of you noticing you were becoming each other’s favorite person.
-
there were some things you learned quickly about being friends with steve harrington.
first, he was loyal in ways that surprised you. second, he was far softer than he let most people see. third, he still belonged to a world you didn’t.
and sometimes, that stung more than you cared to admit.
because while your friendship with steve grew into something strangely precious, late-night calls, random drives, walks to your hill, him showing up at your house whenever his own felt too empty, you calling him whenever the silence in yours got too loud, he still had his people.
tommy.
carol.
the crowd that orbited him like moons around a planet.
his main people.
and they hated you.
or maybe hate was dramatic.
they just didn’t understand you, and people often mocked what they didn’t understand.
it was little comments at first.
witch girl. freak. moon child.
asked if you read tarot cards in the girls bathroom. asked if you cursed people for fun. once, carol asked if your skirt was made out of curtains.
you’d looked down at it and said-
“thank you but no, vintage velvet.”
which had annoyed her more.
you usually brushed it off.
mostly because you’d spent your whole life being seen as odd. mostly because you refused to give cruel people the satisfaction.
but if you were honest it bothered you a little.
not because of them, because of steve. because he never said anything.
he’d laugh awkwardly, go quiet, look uncomfortable, but he never stopped it. and who were you to tell him how to handle his friends?
who were you to make him choose?
so you swallowed it and smiled and carried on.
then one lunchtime, it all snapped.
you were sitting alone in the cafeteria, legs tucked beneath your chair slightly, book open in your lap while absentmindedly picking at fries gone cold.
quiet. peaceful. until shadows fell over your table.
you looked up.
tommy.
carol.
two others from steve’s crowd lingering behind them.
tommy leaned forward slightly.
“where’s harrington?”
you blinked.
shrugged.
“don’t know.”
carol crossed her arms.
“really?”
“really.”
tommy laughed dryly then leaned closer.
“you should probably drop whatever weird spell you’ve got on him.”
your brow furrowed.
“…what?”
“he’s been so lame since you weaseled your way into his life.”
that made you chuckle softly.
“sounds serious.”
tommy’s face darkened.
you heard the drink before you fully registered what was happening, felt it the second later.
ice cold soda dumped straight over your head.
you gasped sharply, whole body jolting at the shock of freezing liquid soaking through your hair, dripping down your face, your shirt, your book.
the cafeteria went dead silent.
tommy tossed the empty cup aside.
“don’t be such a bitch next time.”
your breathing hitched, humiliation burned hot in your chest.
you looked up and beyond them stood steve.
frozen.
watching.
his face looked like something had cracked open inside him.
shock. then anger, real anger. his jaw tight. eyes dark.
you didn’t stay long enough to understand it, you shoved back from the table and ran. past the staring faces. past whispers. past the burning shame in your throat. straight to the girls bathroom.
you locked yourself in a stall and sat there breathing hard.
god.
you hated his friends. you hated hawkins. you hated feeling small.
after cleaning yourself up as best you could, damp hair, sticky skin, borrowed sweatshirt from lost and found because your shirt was ruined, you made one decision:
you were going home.
you weren’t staying another second.
you made it halfway down the road before you heard-
“hey!”
steve’s voice calling your name.
you kept walking. faster.
then footsteps behind you.
a hand gently caught your shoulder, turned you.
his face was flushed, breathing uneven, eyes full of worry.
“are you okay?”
you shrugged his hand off.
“i’m fine. i’m just gonna go home.”
he grabbed your wrist lightly.
“don’t give me that shit.”
your eyes snapped to his.
his voice was sharp, but only because he sounded scared.
“are you okay?”
you looked down and noticed his knuckles. bloody. raw.
then his split lip.
your eyes widened.
“…what happened to you?”
he immediately looked away.
“nothing.”
you squinted.
“steve-”
he rolled his eyes.
“answer me first.”
you folded your arms.
“…i’m good. just wet.”
his mouth twitched.
“wet?”
you smacked his arm with your free hand.
he laughed softly despite the cut on his lip.
then quieter-
“i’m fine too.”
you stared.
he added “just… sorted something out.”
your eyes narrowed, he said nothing more, just kept hold of your hand and started walking.
you stumbled slightly.
“where are we going?”
“walking you home.”
“you have a car.”
“i know.”
“why are you walking?”
he shrugged.
“you like walking.”
you blinked at him.
“you’re willingly leaving your car?”
“yeah?”
you stared harder.
“that thing is your baby.”
“shut up.”
you laughed softly despite everything.
and somehow the image of it was ridiculous enough to make your chest lighter,
you, damp and smelling faintly of cola, him bruised and bloody, walking side by side down a quiet hawkins road like it was normal.
when you got home, you invited him in.
told him to sit. changed into dry clothes. then returned with a damp towel, cotton pads, and antiseptic.
he looked deeply offended.
“i can clean myself up.”
you sat in front of him.
“you absolutely cannot.”
“rude.”
“true.”
he sighed dramatically and let you dab carefully at his split lip.
your fingers were gentle. soft.
steve watched your face the whole time.
the concentration in your eyes, the little furrow in your brow.
beautiful, god, beautiful.
finally, quietly, you asked “what happened?”
he leaned back.
“something that should’ve happened a long time ago.”
you frowned.
he rolled his eyes.
“tommy.”
your hands stopped.
your eyes widened.
“…this was because of me?”
“yeah.”
guilt immediately hit your chest.
“steve, i’m sorry-”
“don’t.”
his voice was firm.
you looked up.
his eyes were serious.
“don’t apologise for that.”
he shook his head.
“i should’ve stuck up for you the first time his big mouth said something.”
your mouth twitched.
“yeah… maybe.”
he laughed, soft and breathy.
“fair.”
later, you sat together on your back porch, night settling around you, quiet stretching comfortably between you.
then steve spoke again.
“i’m sorry.”
you looked over.
“it’s not like you did it.”
his jaw tightened.
“i let it happen.”
you were quiet.
“it’s fine.”
he shook his head.
“it’s not.”
then he looked at you. really looked at you.
hair still slightly damp, wrapped in a big sweater, silver moonstone resting at your throat, eyes soft in porchlight.
beautiful in a way that hurt.
and suddenly steve couldn’t help himself.
he leaned in and kissed you.
soft. warm. hesitant for half a second until you kissed him back.
you immediately felt him smile against your mouth. a real smile. happy, almost relieved.
when you finally pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. close enough to feel each other smiling.
after a quiet moment, you whispered “why haven’t you been going to parties recently?”
his hands stayed loosely around yours.
his answer came easy.
“got better things to do.”
your smile widened in the dark.
and somewhere inside you something quietly, finally, fell for him too.
-
he months that followed were, quite simply, golden.
not perfect, because nothing ever really is, but golden in the way memory softens around the edges and leaves only warmth behind. golden in the way summer evenings feel endless when you’re young enough to believe maybe they actually are. golden in the way two lonely people, having found one another, suddenly stop feeling quite so lonely.
somewhere along the line, it just became you and steve. a unit, a certainty.
school became the two of you orbiting each other like it was instinct. every hallway somehow led him back to you. every lunch somehow ended with his legs tangled with yours beneath cafeteria tables, stealing bites off your tray because apparently his food was never as good as yours, despite it usually being exactly the same thing. every class you shared became half-learning, half-passing notes, half-whispered conversations that made teachers glare and you both grin like idiots.
and after school, after school was yours.
always.
sometimes it was quiet nights sprawled across his bedroom floor, records spinning low while homework sat mostly ignored between the two of you.
you’d be scribbling equations in the margins of his notebook because, despite the act he liked to put on, steve was actually smart, he just lacked patience and confidence and had spent years pretending he didn’t care enough to try.
“you’re making me look stupid” he’d complain, chin in his hand, watching you write.
without looking up, you’d reply, “no, you do that yourself.”
“mean.”
“true.”
“beautiful, but cruel.”
that would make you laugh softly, and steve, every single time, would forget what he was meant to be learning because he was too busy staring at your smile like it held every answer he’d ever needed.
other nights, he’d drag you out somewhere.
always somewhere strange.
always somewhere secret.
one warm summer night he took you to the outdoor basketball court by the edge of town, the asphalt still warm from the heat of the day, cicadas humming loudly in the trees.
he bounced a ball toward you.
“tonight, i teach you greatness.”
you looked at the ball.
then at him.
“this feels deeply unlikely.”
“have faith.”
“i have none.”
you were terrible, genuinely awful.
your shots missed spectacularly. your dribbling lasted roughly three seconds before the ball rolled away from you. you once somehow threw it directly into steve’s chest.
hard.
he dramatically dropped to the ground clutching his heart.
“you’ve killed me.”
you stood over him.
“weak bloodline.”
he laughed so hard he could barely breathe.
then reached up, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down beside him on the warm concrete.
the two of you laid there shoulder-to-shoulder, staring up at the stars, sweaty and breathless and smiling stupidly.
“you know,” he said eventually, “you’re the worst basketball player i’ve ever seen.”
you turned your head.
“and yet you’re in love with me.”
steve smiled at the sky.
completely helplessly.
“yeah,” he said softly. “that’s the weird part.”
truthfully he loved everything about you.
not just the obvious things.
not just how beautiful you were, though he thought that every day with startling force, beautiful in ways he couldn’t even explain properly, but everything else, too.
the little things.
the way you hummed absentmindedly when you read. the way your rings clicked softly together when you gestured while talking. the strange little words you used for ordinary things. the way you’d stop mid-walk to admire a particularly nice leaf. the way you smelled faintly of incense and old books and lavender.
the way you made everything feel softer.
safer.
magic, almost.
steve joked often that maybe tommy had been right.
“think you did put me under a spell.”
you’d look up from your book.
“what makes you say that?”
he’d grin lazily from where his head rested in your lap.
“because i think if you asked me to rob a bank, i’d probably do it.”
“good to know.”
“only if you wore one of those big witch skirts while we did it.”
you’d laugh.
he’d smile.
and that was enough.
you became so stitched into his life that even his house changed.
his empty big house stopped feeling so empty because you were everywhere.
your books piled on his bedside table. your sweaters draped over chairs. silver jewelry forgotten by sinks. records stacked beside his stereo. candles in his room because you hated the cold sterility of it. little pressed flowers tucked into mirrors.
pieces of you everywhere.
you practically lived there now.
and because both your parents and his were so spectacularly absent, no one really noticed.
or if they did they didn’t care enough to say anything.
which was fine by both of you because it became the two of you against the world.
and strangely, that felt enough.
you learned one another completely.
not surface-level knowing, not favorite color and favorite song knowing, real knowing.
you knew steve got quiet when he was upset. that he scratched behind his ear when he was nervous. that he secretly loved praise because he’d spent most of his life starved of it.
you knew a simple “well done” after one of his basketball wins would have him smiling for days.
not because he needed approval but because it meant something coming from you.
because you saw him, really saw him, and loved what you saw.
that changed him.
he stopped chasing praise from everyone else, stopped aching for approval that never filled the emptiness anyway.
because yours did.
so simply, so honestly.
and steve, for perhaps the first time in his life, stopped feeling lonely.
he stopped feeling like he had to perform. around you, he was just steve.
messy-haired, loud-laughing, soft-hearted.
sometimes stupid. always trying. and deeply loved.
one afternoon, you noticed a silver ring on his hand.
your ring.
you blinked.
“…did you steal that?”
he looked down.
shrugged.
“borrowed.”
“steve.”
“it reminded me of you.”
you stared.
then snorted softly.
“you just think it looks cool.”
he grinned.
“that too.”
but later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you saw him absentmindedly turning it around his finger while smiling softly to himself.
and your heart nearly burst.
he kept a crystal in his pocket too, one you’d handed him jokingly, telling him it brought good luck.
he carried it everywhere.
when you teased him for it, he shrugged.
“you’re already my good luck charm. don’t really need it.”
then quieter “but it reminds me of you.”
everything reminded him of you.
songs. sunsets. flowers. silver jewelry in shop windows. lace curtains blowing in open windows.
everything soft and beautiful and strange somehow led back to you.
and hidden in notebooks, tucked between pages, slipped into jacket pockets, little notes.
his awful messy handwriting.
love ya :p
miss your face already and it’s been twelve minutes
you kept every one.
every stupid, sweet thing.
because steve loved loudly when he loved. wholeheartedly without reservation.
utterly.
truly.
and he was utterly, truly enamored by you.
sometimes he’d simply look at you and smile like he couldn’t believe you were real. like somehow, impossibly, he’d stumbled upon magic.
and maybe he had.
because on warm nights, lying together under hawkins skies, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily playing with your rings steve would think, quietly and honestly:
before you, he was lonely. before you, he was hollow in places he didn’t know could be filled. before you, he was pretending.
and now, now he was full of something warm and bright and certain.
love.
simple as that, complete as that. the kind that settles deep in your bones. the kind that feels like home.
and for two people who had spent most of their lives searching for somewhere, or someone, to belong to-
Everyone at Hawkins High thought they Steve Harrington. More often known as ‘King Steve’—the guy who held the keg stand record for three years running, the guy famous for his hair, the guy who people noticed when he walked into a room.
But Steve Harrington had a secret.
That secret being that he had been in a relationship with you for the past three months.
You saw a side of Steve Harrington no one else did. The side that made you lumpy pancakes and walked you to your door without being asked. The side that asked you to tickle his back with a pout and always needed to be touching you when you were alone.
When it was just you and Steve, there was no ‘King Steve’. It was just Steve.
Keeping it a secret had been completely unintentional at first. You were quiet and Steve didn’t want you dealing with any unwanted attention that came from dating a guy like him. And so, you had both decided to not tell anyone. Keep it a secret.
Steve carried on being King Steve and you stayed in the shadows. And for a while, it worked.
Until passing him in the hallways without him so much as glancing your way began to hurt. Until him cheerleaders fawning over him at basketball games became too real for you to pretend it was okay anymore.
Your leg bounced nervously as you waited in your usual spot in the library for Steve, a dark corner that was tucked away from prying eyes.
Those dark corners you hid in together had once felt romantic and exciting and now—they made you feel like a dirty secret.
You hear him approaching. You always knew it was Steve because he always hummed under his breath. Always the same The Police song. Always tapped his fingers along the bookshelves as he passed by.
"Hey baby," Steve greets you, ducking his head down to press a kiss your cheek in greeting.
You smile but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
And Steve notices.
Because he always notices.
"What's wrong?" He asks gently, his hands finding yours and squeezing. "Was it your Spanish test today? Was it bad? You said you were really nervous for it—"
"No," you say quickly with a small shake of your head. "It wasn't my Spanish test."
Steve blinks, a little confused. He looks a little like a lost puppy with his head titled a little as he looks back at you.
"Then what's—"
"I c—can't do this anymore, Steve," you tell him quietly.
Steve looks back at you and you can see the sheer panic in his eyes.
If Steve was honest with himself, he knew this was coming. He knew deep down that one day you would grow tired of sneaking around. He knew you deserved better than that. But Steve was scared of how people would treat you. And, though he hated himself for it, he was also worried about what people would think of him. If Tommy would laugh at him. If Carol would be cruel to you.
"This as in us or this as in—"
"As in being your dirty secret," you say quietly, not looking at him.
He says your name softly and you swallow thickly before you turn to look at him. He sees the tears in your threatening to fall. His hands are still holding yours and all you want to do is sink into his arms and never leave. But you don't.
"You're not a dirty secret," Steve tells you, hating the mere sight of your tears. Hating himself for being the cause of them. "You never have been—"
"—but I feel like one, Steve."
The reality hits him and Steve knows there's only one option he has if he wants to keep you.
"You're not," Steve insists, his hands dropping yours so he could cup your face between his large hands, thumb wiping away a tear. "You are not a dirty secret. You—you're my girl. And I—shit—I love you, okay? And I'm sorry that I've made you feel like you were something I was ashamed because I'm not. I'm not ashamed. Not at all. I'll—I’ll scream it from the rooftops. I'll get a megaphone and tell the whole prep rally. I'll tattoo your name on my forehead. I'll—"
"—okay, okay," you interrupt him, laughing at his truly ridiculous suggestions. "I get it, I—wait—you love me?"
Steve looks at you and for a beat—he truly doesn't remember saying it. It had slipped out and part of him wants to deny it. Wants to tell you no, you must have misheard him but—
"Yes," he says firmly because he had never been so sure of anything. “I do. I love you. So much. So fucking much in fact that I—I'll do it. I'll tell people. Tell everyone. We'll stop hiding. We'll walk out this library hand in hand and I'll kiss you stupid in the hallways. And I swear, baby—I swear to fucking god that I'll sock anyone who even looks at you funny. Because I'm not—I'm losing you. Absolutely not."
Your face feels hot and you can't stop yourself from smiling at Steve's declaration. Because you knew he meant every word of it.
"You don't have to sock anyone—"
"—too late. I'm going make a list."
You snort with laughter and Steve smiles gently before he leans in to kiss you. And you melt into him. Your fingers twist through his hair and his hands pull you closer by your waist. His mouth was warm and insistent and you could have stayed there with him forever. But you had History and Steve had basketball practice.
You're the one to pull away and Steve tries to chase your lips but you stop him by pressing a finger to his mouth and smiling.
"For the record, I love you too, Steve," you tell him quietly.
Something in his expression shifts—his heart hammering in his chest. Because you love him. You love him for him. Not because he was King Steve but because he was your Steve.
"Good," Steve murmurs, unable to resist a final, lasting kiss to your lips before forcing himself to pull away. "Because I need to find a megaphone—"
"—Steve—"
"—I'm kidding," Steve mutters, winking at you before he grabs your hand. "Mostly. The tattoo on the forehead though is still a reasonable option."
You laugh at his ridiculousness.
You know people were going to talk. You knew what they would say. But that didn't matter. Not when Steve Harrington loved you.
i'll leave the porch light on, heartbroken each morning when its me that turns it off.
|| desc- at what point is loving someone not enough?
steve harrington x reader
val speaks - in honour of noah kahans new album, and in honour of my love for steve harrington- i present to u porch light!
word count: 6.6k
steve harrington had once been the kind of boy everyone looked at.
not because he was kind, not because he was thoughtful, not because there was anything particularly deep about him back then, but because he was easy to notice. loud in all the ways that mattered in high school. charming when he wanted something. careless with people’s feelings when he thought he could be. the kind of boy that walked through the halls like the whole place belonged to him.
and then, somewhere along the way, he changed.
you never really asked him exactly when it happened, because in your mind, steve had always just been steve. the version of him that showed up at your side one rainy afternoon senior year with a split lip, tired eyes, and a softness to him that hadn’t been there before. quieter. humbler. still funny, still stupidly handsome, still capable of flashing that crooked grin that made your stomach flip in the most embarrassing way, but gentler. like life had knocked something loose inside him and replaced it with something better.
he always said that meeting you was what finished the job.
“you made me better” he’d told you once, half asleep, head resting in your lap while you played absently with his hair. his voice had been heavy with sleep, soft enough that you almost thought you imagined it. “seriously. i was kind of a dick before you.”
you laughed, because steve always said things so honestly that it caught you off guard.
“kind of?”
he’d opened one eye, smiling lazily.
“okay. huge dick. but now i hold doors open and care about people’s feelings, so.”
you smiled at the memory even now, because that was what loving steve had been for so long. easy. warm. full of little moments that tucked themselves into your chest and stayed there.
he loved hard, steve did.
he was soft with you in ways no one else got to see. he remembered small things. how you liked the corners of brownies more than the middle pieces, how cold your hands always got, how you couldn’t sleep unless there was some kind of noise in the room. he’d drive across town at midnight just because you casually mentioned craving fries. he kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. he held your hand like he meant it.
when it was just the two of you, everything felt simple.
which was why this hurt so much.
because somewhere along the line, you started feeling like you were sharing him with something you couldn’t see.
at first, it was easy enough to ignore.
steve would disappear for a few hours, sometimes a whole day, with some vague excuse that never really made sense when you thought about it later. helping a friend. car trouble. work stuff. family thing.
always something.
and then he’d come back.
sometimes exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days.
sometimes bruised.
once with a cut split across his ribs, wrapped poorly beneath his shirt, his face twisting when you touched him by accident.
“basketball thing” he’d said quickly, not meeting your eyes.
you stared at him.
“steve, you don’t play basketball.”
a beat of silence.
then,
“right. yeah. uh… helping dustin practice?”
the lie had been so bad it almost made you laugh.
almost.
but you didn’t.
because underneath the ridiculous excuse was something worse, fear. real fear, buried deep in his eyes, covered over quickly with that familiar easygoing smile he wore whenever he wanted you to stop asking questions.
and because you loved him, you let it go.
or at least, you pretended to.
the truth was, every time he left, your mind tortured you with possibilities.
every phone call after midnight made your stomach drop.
every siren in town made your chest tighten.
every time he came home bruised but smiling, acting like it was nothing, you smiled back and then laid awake for hours beside him, staring at the ceiling while your thoughts spiraled into places so dark they made you sick.
what if next time he doesn’t come back? what if next time it’s worse than bruises? what if next time someone calls me instead?
it ate at you quietly.
slowly.
and sometimes not so quietly.
there were fights, god, there were fights.
small ones, where irritation simmered just beneath the surface.
bigger ones, where voices got raised and tears got involved and steve stood there looking torn apart by things he refused to explain.
“just trust me,” he’d say, frustrated in that way that made his voice rough around the edges. “please. i just- i can’t tell you.”
“why not?” you’d snap back, tears burning hot in your eyes. “i’m your girlfriend, steve. i’m the one sitting here wondering if you’re alive every time you disappear.”
his whole face would crumble at that because he hated hurting you. you knew that much.
he’d pull you close afterward, forehead resting against yours, arms tight around your waist like he was scared you’d slip away if he loosened his grip even a little.
“i love you,” he’d whisper, voice cracked and exhausted. “you know that, right?” and every single time, your heart betrayed you.
because it was always him.
it would always be him.
so you stayed. you stopped prying. you became what he seemed to need. steady, patient, there.
even when it hurt.
even when loneliness started settling into the corners of your relationship, quiet and cold and impossible to ignore.
and then hawkins changed.
the so-called earthquakes hit, ripping fear through the town like wildfire, leaving everyone uneasy, suspicious, grieving things no one could fully explain.
and steve got worse.
gone more often.
harder to reach.
more distracted when he was with you, like half of him was always somewhere else.
you’d be talking and catch him staring off. not bored, not uninterested, just distant. tense. like his body sat beside you, but his mind was trapped somewhere darker.
somewhere you couldn’t follow.
and loneliness turned sharp. ugly. selfish thoughts started creeping in, thoughts you hated yourself for having but couldn’t stop.
nancy.
his ex, his first love.
she was there, woven into that strange little group of his he kept so fiercely protected. always somewhere in the background whenever he disappeared. always somehow involved.
you didn’t even know how the thought rooted itself so deep in your chest, only that once it was there, it poisoned everything.
first loves mattered, didn’t they?
people always said that.
first loves stayed with you.
what if that was where his heart went when he looked so far away?
what if the distance between you wasn’t because of secrets but because part of him was finding his way back to her?
you hated yourself for thinking it. hated the jealousy. hated the bitterness. hated how small it made you feel.
but late at night, alone in your bed while steve was somewhere you weren’t allowed to know about, your mind whispered cruel things into the silence.
he used to look at you like you were everything.
when was the last time he really looked at you at all?
and for the first time since loving steve harrington had become as natural as breathing, you found yourself wondering how much longer love alone could hold something together when everything else was quietly falling apart.
-
you didn’t bring it up that morning.
there had been a time when anniversaries meant something big to steve, not in some over-the-top, flowers-and-grand-gestures kind of way, but in the way that mattered. he remembered dates. remembered little details. remembered things you’d mentioned once in passing months ago and somehow tucked away in that head of his for later.
he remembered you.
so when you woke up that morning and he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before rushing out, distracted and halfway somewhere else already, you told yourself it was fine.
he was busy, his mind was crowded, the day was long.
he’d remember.
of course he’d remember.
and truthfully, you weren’t asking for much.
you weren’t expecting some fancy dinner, or gifts wrapped in ribbons, or anything worthy of a movie scene. that had never really been the two of you anyway. your favorite moments with steve had always been the quiet ones. the ordinary ones that somehow felt extraordinary simply because they were yours.
takeout spread across the coffee table. his socked feet kicked up on the couch until you told him off. stupid conversations that somehow turned deep at two in the morning. talking about everything and absolutely nothing until one of you fell asleep against the other.
that was what you wanted.
just him.
fully, completely there for one night.
so you waited.
you ordered food later than usual so it would still be warm when he got home. set out plates. lit the candle on the table, the one that smelled like vanilla and cedarwood because steve once offhandedly said the place always smelled nice when you burned it. you changed into one of his old sweaters, soft from years of wear and faintly carrying that familiar scent that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t like thinking about.
and you waited.
six o’clock passed.
then seven.
your food got cold.
by eight, you’d finally put it in the fridge. by nine, you stopped checking the window every time headlights passed. and by the time he was three hours late, something quiet inside you had started to crack.
not loudly just a soft little fracture in the place that kept believing he’ll come through. he always comes through.
because lately, he didn’t.
you stood by the front window for a long moment, staring out at the dark street, arms wrapped around yourself against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
then, almost automatically, you flicked on the porch light, because steve hated coming home to a dark house.
said it made him feel strange. too quiet, too empty, like nobody was waiting for him.
the irony of that made something bitter settle in your throat.
still, you left it on.
because no matter how hurt you were, some part of you would always leave the light on for him.
you got into bed with a book, curling beneath the blankets with only your bedside lamp on. reading had always been your escape, an easy way to disappear into somebody else’s story when your own thoughts got too loud.
even if it only worked for a chapter at a time.
you were halfway through rereading the same paragraph for the fourth time when you finally heard the front door open downstairs.
your whole body went still.
then footsteps making their way up the stairs.
steve. home. late.
you set your book down in your lap and stared at the doorway, heart beating for reasons you didn’t want to unpack.
when he stepped into the room and saw you awake, his whole face softened instantly.
a smile spread across his mouth. that warm, crooked smile that had once made every bad thing disappear.
“hey, honey” he said quietly, voice rough with exhaustion. “you’re still up?”
like nothing was wrong. like tonight was just another night. like he hadn’t forgotten.
and in that awful, sharp little moment, you knew.
there was no excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue. no frantic apology already forming. no sheepish shit, baby, work ran late or i got caught up helping someone.
nothing.
because he simply hadn’t remembered.
he forgot.
forgot your anniversary.
forgot you sitting here waiting.
forgot the plans that were never really plans at all. just time together, which somehow hurt worse, because it was so simple. so easy. all he had to do was come home.
your chest tightened painfully.
it wasn’t anger that hit first it was heartbreak.
that quiet, sinking kind.
the kind that settles heavy in your ribs and makes you wonder if maybe one day, without meaning to, someone can slowly stop choosing you.
before he could notice the tears threatening behind your eyes, before he could ask what was wrong, you pulled the blankets tighter around yourself, offered him a small, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach your eyes, and said softly,
“happy anniversary, steve.”
it was like watching a building collapse in real time.
his smile vanished instantly.
all color drained from his face.
his expression crumpled into something horrified, completely, utterly devastated.
“oh, fuck.”
barely louder than a whisper.
then,
“baby-”
he was moving before you could blink, crossing the room in a rush and dropping onto the bed beside you hard enough to shake the mattress.
“oh my god, i’m a fucking idiot” he breathed, hands immediately reaching for yours, clutching them tight like you might disappear. “shit- shit, i’m so sorry. i’m so, so sorry.”
the apologies came spilling out of him in a frantic mess.
he kept shaking his head like he couldn’t believe himself.
“i forgot- jesus christ, i forgot- and there’s no excuse for that, there’s no fucking excuse-”
his voice cracked.
his eyes looked glassy in the dim light.
“you deserve so much better than this. than me acting like this.” he swallowed hard, squeezing your hands tighter. “i love you. you know i love you, right? more than anything. i would never- i never meant to make you feel forgotten.”
and that was what made your heart ache most because steve looked genuinely shattered.
because he’d never forgotten before. not once.
which only confirmed what you’d quietly feared for months now, something serious was happening.
something bigger than the lies, bigger than the bruises, bigger than your fights.
and for the first time, it seemed like steve was finally seeing it too. seeing how whatever held him so tightly was slowly pulling him away from you.
how it was slipping between the cracks of your relationship and making a home there.
he pulled you into him, arms wrapping around you tightly, his face buried in your hair while he whispered apology after apology against your skin. soft kisses pressed to your temple, your cheek, your forehead.
desperate little things.
like if he loved you hard enough in that moment, it might undo the hurt.
eventually, quietly, you let it go.
because what was the point in fighting?
another argument was just another brick in the wall growing between you. another step closer to losing him.
and losing steve-
you weren’t sure you could survive that yet.
he was your first love. your only love.
you didn’t have a nancy tucked somewhere in your past. a first love to fall back on, or compare him to, or use as proof that life kept moving after heartbreak.
for you, there was only steve.
always steve.
and sometimes, on your loneliest nights, you thought awful things.
like wishing there was somebody else.
just to see if it would make him nervous. just to see if he’d know what it felt like, this constant quiet ache, this gnawing insecurity, this fear that someone else had pieces of him you never would.
to wonder if he was drifting. to wonder if you were being left behind.
it made you feel cruel.
but loneliness could make ugly thoughts bloom where love used to sit untouched. or maybe that was just what your loneliness did.
so it became another night of whispered promises into the dark.
another night of steve murmuring i’m gonna make it up to you, i swear. i’ll fix this. i promise, baby.
another night of his arm draped over your waist as sleep took him quickly, too quickly, while you lay awake staring at the ceiling.
wondering what your life would look like in five years. wondering if steve would still be beside you for it. wondering if loving someone was enough to keep them.
and despite everything, despite the hurt, the distance, the fear, you still found yourself holding onto one quiet hope like it was something sacred.
you hoped he’d be there.
-
to his credit, steve did make it up to you.
or at least, he tried.
the next morning, he stayed.
no rushed kiss goodbye while his mind sat somewhere far away. no muttered excuse about needing to be somewhere. no distracted glances toward the clock like he was counting down the minutes until he had to leave again.
he stayed.
and somehow, with steve, that simple thing felt monumental.
it felt like breathing again after being underwater too long.
the two of you spent the day tangled up in each other’s company like nothing had changed. lazy, soft hours stretched out in that beautiful kind of ordinary that had once been the foundation of your relationship. he made breakfast, burnt toast and eggs that were somehow both runny and overcooked, and acted offended when you laughed at him for it. you stole bites off his plate anyway.
he complained dramatically, then kissed you with a smile still on his mouth.
you watched movies neither of you paid attention to, more focused on talking over them than whatever was happening onscreen. he laid with his head in your lap while you played with his hair, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his face looked relaxed.
really relaxed.
no tension in his jaw. no haunted distance in his eyes. just steve.
your steve.
the boy you fell in love with.
at one point, he looked up at you, sunlight spilling over his face, warming his skin gold, and gave you that crooked little smile that still made your stomach flip after all this time.
“missed this” he said quietly.
your fingers paused in his hair.
“me too.”
his eyes softened in that way that always made your chest ache.
“missed you.”
and god, that was the problem, wasn’t it?
one soft sentence from him and suddenly every wall you’d spent months carefully building around your heart crumbled like they were never there to begin with.
because loving steve had always been easy, it was waiting for him that hurt.
that day felt like being seventeen again.
like you were back at the beginning, when the world was small and simple and it was just the two of you against everything else. when loving him felt certain.
for a little while, you let yourself sink into it. let yourself believe maybe this was him coming back to you. maybe whatever had him slipping through your fingers was loosening its grip.
maybe things were finally going to be okay.
but you’d learned by now that good things in hawkins rarely lasted long.
the next morning, he was gone before you woke.
the space beside you was cold and somehow that felt worse than watching him leave.
there wasn’t even a note.
just silence.
you stared at the dent his body left in the mattress for a long time before finally dragging yourself out of bed.
and that night, because of course he came home late, if he came home at all, he returned with another cut splitting the skin high on his cheekbone, bruising already blooming purple beneath it.
you touched it gently, heart sinking.
“what happened?”
his answer came too quickly.
“walked into a shelf at work.”
you looked at him.
he looked away.
another lie. another bruise. another piece of him you couldn’t reach.
still, you waited for him. still left the porch light on. still made sure there was something in the fridge he liked. still checked the locks before bed because he always forgot.
still slept on your side, leaving room for him on the other half of the mattress even on nights he never came home.
because at least you still had him in some form.
that was what you told yourself.
some steve was better than no steve wasn’t it?
loneliness settled into routine, heartbreak made a home inside your daily life.
you stopped expecting him for dinner. stopped asking when he’d be back. stopped texting after midnight when worry started chewing holes through your chest.
you simply left the porch light on for him to switch off when he got home.
proof he’d been there. proof he came back. proof he was alive.
until one morning, you walked downstairs and found it still glowing. bright against the pale morning light filtering through the windows.
he hadn’t turned it off, he hadn’t come home.
your stomach dropped so hard it made you dizzy.
but then you told yourself not to panic.
maybe he got held up, maybe he stayed with a friend.
the next morning, it was still on again. and the morning after that.
you started dreading sunrise, because every trip downstairs became another quiet confirmation that your boyfriend wasn’t coming home.
and recently, you’d discovered there was almost no feeling worse than standing barefoot in your cold kitchen at seven in the morning, reaching over to switch off the porch light he should’ve turned off hours ago.
that had become your new least favorite thing.
worse than the lies. worse than the bruises. worse than the fights.
because this felt like absence.
real, tangible absence.
it got bad enough that you started calling the radio station just to make sure he was alive.
which was humiliating, heartbreaking, and somehow still not enough to stop you.
robin would answer sometimes, voice distracted and rushed, but kind enough.
“yeah, he’s here” she’d say.
or-
“he was here, ran out for something.”
or-
“he’s okay.”
always okay. always alive.
but frantic, always frantic.
and that word lodged itself somewhere deep in your chest.
frantic.
what kind of life was he living that frantic became a constant state?
when you did see him, it was brief.
passing kisses. half-finished conversations. a quick touch at your waist as he moved past you. sleep-heavy apologies whispered into your hair before he disappeared again.
ghosts of intimacy.
echoes of what you used to have.
sometimes he felt more like a memory than your boyfriend.
and eventually you started doing what felt necessary to survive it. you started trying to disconnect.
little things at first.
not waiting up. not checking the window. not letting your heart leap at every passing set of headlights.
trying not to build your whole day around whether or not steve harrington would come home.
trying to loosen your grip before life ripped him away from you entirely.
it hadn’t worked, not even slightly.
if anything, trying made you realise just how deeply rooted he was in every part of you.
every habit. every hope. every plan for the future.
the thought of untangling yourself from him felt like trying to tear skin from bone.
impossible.
and the fact you’d even thought about it even for a second hurt more than anything else. because you never thought it would come to this.
never once.
not when you were seventeen and kissing him in empty parking lots. not when he first whispered i love you against your lips. not when you pictured forever and every version of it had steve standing beside you.
never.
but now, lying awake in an empty bed more nights than not, staring at a ceiling that had become far too familiar you found yourself wondering something that made tears quietly slip into your hairline.
when does loving someone stop being enough?
-
one morning, it all just hit you at once.
there was no big moment, no fresh lie that finally snapped whatever thread had been keeping you tied together.
it was quieter than that.
almost cruel in how ordinary it felt.
you were standing in the kitchen, still half asleep, staring absently at the coffee pot while it brewed, when this heavy sort of clarity settled over you all at once.
you couldn’t keep doing this.
your chest tightened immediately, like even thinking it was some kind of betrayal.
but the thought stayed.
you couldn’t keep living in limbo, loving someone who felt like they were constantly halfway out the door. you couldn’t keep waking up with dread already curled in your stomach. couldn’t keep wondering every night if he was alive, if he was hurt, if he was with her, if he was simply somewhere he’d rather be.
you couldn’t keep leaving the porch light on like some sad little ritual of devotion while your own heart slowly wore itself thin.
it was too much now and admitting that to yourself made bile rise hot in your throat.
because if it was too much, what came next?
the end.
the thought was so awful you almost laughed.
the end? with steve?
ridiculous.
there had never been an ending in your mind, only steve, in every version of your future, woven so deeply into it that imagining life without him felt blank and shapeless.
but reality had started looking very different from what you imagined at seventeen.
so, quietly, you made a plan.
one final little bargain with yourself.
you’d wait, really wait. one last time.
you’d stay up as late as you could, and if he came home, if he walked through that front door at all, you’d stay. you’d hold on a little longer. keep trying. keep loving him through whatever this was.
but if he didn’t, that was it. or at least, it had to be something.
the thought made you feel sick.
still, you committed to it.
you stayed downstairs until midnight, curled up on the couch with the television humming quietly in the background, though you couldn’t have told anyone what was playing. every pair of headlights outside made your heart leap stupidly into your throat before sinking again.
twelve-thirty.
one.
one-fifteen.
by one-thirty, exhaustion finally settled heavy into your bones.
you stood, rubbed your tired eyes, and switched on the porch light.
the warm yellow glow spilled over the front garden like hope you weren’t ready to let go of.
then you went upstairs.
waited in bed.
told yourself you’d stay awake just for a little while longer.
somewhere between one thought and the next, sleep dragged you under without permission.
and when you woke the other side of the bed was untouched.
your heart sank before your feet even hit the floor.
still, some desperate little part of you rushed downstairs hoping, hoping for anything.
a jacket tossed over a chair. his boots by the door. proof he’d been there.
instead, the porch light still burned brightly in the pale morning sun.
waiting for someone who never came home.
you stood there for a long moment, staring at it then quietly switched it off. the click sounded louder than it should have.
something final about it.
you made coffee on autopilot, standing in your kitchen wrapped in silence, mug warming your hands while your mind replayed every moment from the last few months over and over again.
trying to find something hopeful buried in it.
some sign that this was temporary.
some proof that what you had was still there, untouched beneath all the distance and secrets.
some light in the situation, something that wasn’t just the damn porch light you kept leaving on for him.
but when you really looked at it, honestly looked, all you saw was yourself waiting.
waiting for explanations. waiting for him to come home. waiting for him to choose you. waiting for things to go back to how they were.
your whole life had quietly become waiting.
and that realisation hurt almost more than anything else.
so you came to a compromise. something gentler than ending it. something that still left a thread between you.
a break.
not breaking up.
god, no. even thinking those words made your stomach twist painfully.
just space.
a pause, time to breathe. time to think. time to stop waiting every second of every day for someone who wasn’t there.
it still made you feel sick.
but it felt survivable. barely.
at five that evening, you called the radio station. your hands shook the whole time. when steve answered, his voice was breathless and rushed, noise humming loudly in the background.
“family vide- uh- sorry, wsqk, steve speaking-”
“steve.”
he went quiet instantly.
the panic in his voice softened into concern.
“baby? you okay?”
your throat tightened painfully at the name.
“can you come home for a second?” you asked quietly. “it’s important. i… i need you here.”
something in your voice must have reached him, because there was no excuse.
no i’m busy. no later.
just “yeah. okay. i’m coming now.”
then silence. and waiting.
though somehow this waiting felt different.
heavier.
when steve finally got there, he looked like hell.
tired eyes. messy hair. fresh bruising dark against his jaw.
his shirt wrinkled like he’d thrown it on without thinking.
and underneath it all, that familiar frantic energy buzzing under his skin.
he looked nervous the second he saw your face. terrified, almost.
you sat him down on the couch, and before he could speak, before he could ask everything alright, baby? in that soft voice that would make your resolve crumble, you forced yourself to talk.
and once you started, it all came pouring out.
how strange it was that he disappeared constantly. how every lie felt worse than the last. how lonely you’d become while still technically being in a relationship.
how it felt like loving a ghost sometimes.
how you still loved him so much it physically hurt, but you didn’t know how much more of this version of loving him you could survive.
tears came somewhere in the middle.
then more.
quiet ones at first, then heavier.
steve looked completely shattered.
panic overtook his whole face.
“no- no, baby, please-”
his voice cracked hard.
you’d never seen him look so scared.
because for all the monsters he fought in secret losing you was what terrified him most.
he reached for your hands desperately, tears gathering in his own eyes.
“i can fix this,” he said quickly, voice breaking. “i swear to god, i can fix it. just give me time- please. i love you. you’re the best thing in my life, you know that- you know that-”
and god, he meant it.
every word.
that was the tragedy of it.
he loved you, you never doubted that. but love was starting to feel hollow when everything else around it kept breaking.
you listened. you really did.
but every promise felt empty, not because he was lying, but because he’d made them before and nothing changed.
so, through tears on both sides, shaking voices and broken hearts you settled on space. somewhat of a break. a thin, fragile line drawn where there had once only ever been certainty.
steve cried.
actually cried.
face buried against your shoulder while he held you like someone was tearing the ground out from under him.
“i’ll make it up to you,” he whispered desperately into your skin. “soon. i promise. i’ll fix this. please believe me.”
you held him.
kissed his cheek.
pretended you believed him.
maybe this was for the best.
maybe loving each other wasn’t enough right now.
maybe time apart would either save what you had or prove it was already gone.
and after that you didn’t see him.
which should have felt normal by now. but the unusual thing was, this time, you weren’t waiting for him to come back.
-
a few weeks passed in quiet.
not peaceful quiet, not healing quiet, just silence.
the kind that settled heavy over everything and made the house feel bigger than it was. emptier. colder somehow, even with summer pressing warm hands against the windows.
you kept yourself busy where you could. read more books than you could keep track of, spent evenings out when friends dragged you along, started leaving dishes in the sink overnight just because nobody was there to teasingly complain about it.
little rebellions against the life you’d built around waiting.
and still, somehow, steve was everywhere.
in the old sweatshirt hanging over the back of your bedroom chair. in the stupid mug he always used because he claimed coffee tasted better in it. in the porch light switch by the front door, the one you now passed every night without touching.
that part hurt most.
leaving it off.
because as sad as waiting had been, not waiting somehow felt worse.
like mourning something that wasn’t fully dead yet.
-
that night, when the knock came at your door, it was so late your brain barely registered it at first.
groggy and half asleep, you dragged yourself out of bed, rubbing at your eyes as you made your way downstairs. your house was dark except for moonlight spilling through the windows, silver and soft over the floorboards.
another knock, more frantic this time.
your stomach dropped.
you hurried to the door.
and when you opened it every sleepy thought vanished instantly.
steve stood there looking wrecked. absolutely wrecked.
dirty like he’d been dragged through mud and ash and hell itself. bruises blooming dark and ugly across his face, split skin high on his brow, dried blood smeared down the side of his neck disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. his clothes were torn. his hands were scraped raw.
and his eyes, god. his eyes were already spilling over with tears.
the second he saw you properly, he broke.
completely.
“baby-”
his voice cracked so hard it barely sounded like him.
then he was in your arms.
literally fell into them, wrapping himself around you like he’d collapse without something to hold onto.
“oh, baby,” he kept saying, voice broken and wet with tears. “my baby, i missed you. missed you so much. so fucking much.”
his whole body shook against yours you could feel it.
feel how exhausted he was. feel how terrified. feel something deep inside him unraveling now that he was here.
“i missed you,” he whispered again, clutching at your shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. “god, i missed you. i love you so much. so much.”
and despite everything, despite the hurt, the loneliness, the weeks of trying to pull yourself away, your heart cracked wide open for him all over again.
because this wasn’t the steve who’d been distant. this wasn’t the steve who forgot anniversaries or disappeared for nights.
this was your steve.
raw and hurting and standing at your door like coming here was the only thing keeping him upright.
eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back just enough to look at you.
his face was blotchy from crying.
eyes red. lip trembling.
he looked devastated.
then he gently guided you back inside, shut the door behind him, and all but pulled you onto the couch with him, like if he let too much space exist between you, he might lose his nerve.
his hands never left you.
one on your waist.
the other gripping your hand so tightly it almost hurt.
“i need you,” he said immediately, voice shaking. “i need you so much. every part of me needs you. every fucking part.”
you stared at him, overwhelmed.
he laughed once, small, broken, humourless.
“i got here tonight and the porch light was off.”
his voice cracked again.
“and it was the worst thing i’ve ever seen.”
your chest tightened painfully.
“steve-”
“no, let me say this- please,” he whispered desperately. “please.”
you nodded.
he swallowed hard, tears falling fresh down bruised cheeks.
“i know i hurt you. i know i left you alone. i know i made you wait and wonder and feel like shit, and i swear to god if i could take every second of that back, i would. i would in a heartbeat.”
his thumb stroked frantically over your knuckles.
“but it’s over now.”
you blinked.
“what?”
he looked you dead in the eyes.
and then he told you everything.
everything.
the upside down. eleven. demogorgons. mind flayers. vecna. the gates. dimension x.
every strange bruise. every missing night. every frantic phone call. every lie. every single thing he’d spent years carrying alone.
by the time he finished, your head was spinning so violently you genuinely thought you might pass out.
you just stared at him, mouth slightly open.
completely speechless.
because-
what. the. fuck.
there was silence for a long moment.
then the first thing that came out of your mouth was-
“…so i was sitting here being selfish because i wanted my boyfriend around while he was out fighting monsters from another dimension?”
steve’s face immediately crumpled.
“no- no, baby, no.”
he grabbed your face gently, forcing your eyes to his.
“don’t do that. don’t blame yourself. please don’t blame yourself.”
his voice broke again.
“i should’ve told you. i should’ve trusted you. i can’t even imagine how awful this must’ve looked. I disappeared, i lied, i came home bleeding half the time- jesus christ.” he shut his eyes hard. “i just… i couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me.”
you let out a long breath.
your whole world had just tilted sideways.
and suddenly every fear, every insecurity, every awful thought you’d had over the last few months-
cheating, falling out of love, not caring, felt ridiculous.
steve broke down again, burying his face into your shoulder.
“i kept going because of you,” he admitted quietly. “even when i barely got to see you… you were still it for me. the only good thing. the only light i had in all that darkness was knowing i had you to come back to.”
your eyes stung. hard. and honestly you felt a little like an ass.
so, in an attempt to lighten the crushing heaviness in the room, you muttered softly-
“well… i thought you fell out of love with me.”
steve pulled back so fast it was almost comical.
he looked genuinely offended, like you’d slapped him across the face.
“that,” he said firmly, tearfully, pointing at you, “is the dumbest, worst, most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”
you blinked.
he shook his head in disbelief.
“you are so stupid for thinking that for even one second.”
then immediately threw himself back into your arms like he physically couldn’t stay away.
“i’m obsessed with you,” he mumbled into your shoulder. “completely. stupidly. disgustingly in love with you.”
despite everything, you laughed. a real laugh. the first in a while.
the two of you talked for hours after that.
about everything. about how knowing the truth didn’t magically fix the hurt that had already happened. how trust had to be rebuilt. how space had carved wounds in both of you.
how love was there, stronger than ever, somehow, but love alone didn’t erase damage overnight.
steve listened, really listened. and for once, there were no secrets sitting between you. just truth. messy, terrifying truth.
at some point, wrinkling your nose against his shoulder, you muttered—
“you stink, by the way.”
steve actually laughed.
full and warm and surprised.
“yeah,” he sniffed at himself. “fair.”
you smiled softly.
“you smell like smoke, blood, and wet dog.”
he grinned tiredly.
“hot.”
and later, you showered together, not for anything other than closeness.
steve stood beneath the warm water with his forehead resting against yours, arms around your waist the whole time like he physically couldn’t bear distance right now.
every few minutes he’d kiss your cheek. your temple. your shoulder.
just little reminders.
i’m here. i’m here. i’m here.
that night, wrapped around you in bed, his breathing finally evening out for the first time in god knows how long, steve pressed a kiss into your hair and whispered into the dark-
“i’ll fix this.”
his arms tightened around you.
“i swear to god, i’ll fix everything.”
another kiss.
soft. reverent.
“i’ll do anything to still be able to come home to you.”
IM BEGGING FOR GATOR/STEVE FIC BASED ON HEARTBREAK GIRL BY 5SOS 😣
I FREAKING LOVE THIS SONG
`
heartbreak girl
steve harrington x reader
summary: your now ex boyfriend leaves you for someone “better” and steve comforts you - you don’t realize he’s in love with you until he finally says something.
a/n: YOY CALL ME UOPPPP ITS LIKE A BROKEN RECOOOORRRDDDD SAAAYING THAT YOUR HEART HURTTSSSSS THAT YOULL NEVER GET OVER HIM GRTTING OVER YOYYUUUUUUU 🤕🤕
you picked up the phone on the third ring, voice still thick from crying. it had only been two weeks since austin dumped you. he’d been seeing some girl from the next town over for months, someone he swore was “just a friend.” then one night he showed up at your door and told you it was over. said she made him feel alive in ways you never could. you stood there in your doorway like an idiot while he drove off. turns out she wasn’t even prettier, just new. steve had reminded you of that the first time you called him sobbing.
“you’re so much better than her,” he’d said that night, calm and steady like always. “trust me.”
now here you were again, curled up on the couch in an oversized shirt and tiny pajama shorts, pink velcro rollers still clipped in your hair even though it was almost nine. your parents had left for california that morning for a whole month. you didn’t want to go. staying home felt easier than pretending to be okay in front of them.
“hey,” steve’s voice came through the line, warm and familiar. “you okay tonight?”
“you’re not nothing,” he said softly. “you’re everything. he’s the asshole who couldn’t see it.”
you smiled even though it hurt. “steven harrington, you always know what to say, huh? what would i do without you?..you’re such a good friend.”
there was the tiniest pause on his end. you didn’t catch it.
“yeah,” he answered, a little quieter. “anytime.”
he bit his tongue after that, the way he always did. the words he wanted to say sat heavy in his chest. he wanted to tell you he’d been in love with you since junior year, that every time you cried over austin it felt like someone was twisting a knife in his ribs. but he wouldn’t push. not when you were this broken. so he stayed on the phone for almost an hour, making you laugh with dumb stories about dustin trying to ask out some girl at the arcade and failing miserably. by the time you hung up, your cheeks hurt from smiling.
he called again the next night. and the night after that.
every call ended the same. you told him he was the best friend anyone could ask for. every time, steve felt that same pang, sharp and familiar. still, he kept calling. kept checking if you’d eaten, if you’d laughed that day, if you needed him to bring over ice cream or just sit on the line in silence. you started looking forward to the sound of his voice more than you wanted to admit.
one evening you caught yourself staring at the phone before it even rang, heart doing something stupid and fluttery. you realized then, sitting there in your rollers and baggy shirt, that you were falling for your best friend. hard. the thought scared you quiet. you didn’t say anything. not yet.
three days later steve showed up at your door with a six-pack of coke and a bag of video tapes.
“figured you could use some company,” he said, stepping inside like he belonged there. which he kind of did. he’d been in this house a thousand times.
you were in your usual home uniform: soft camisole, tiny pj shorts, hair half in rollers, half tumbling down. steve thought you looked pretty like this. no makeup, no trying. just you.
“you didn’t have to come over,” you said, but you were already smiling.
“i wanted to.” he kicked off his shoes and followed you to the living room.
you spent the whole afternoon like that. sprawled on the couch watching movies, legs tangled under a blanket even though it wasn’t cold. steve kept stealing glances at you every time you laughed, memorizing the way your nose scrunched up. you kept catching yourself staring at his hands, at the way his hair fell when he ran fingers through it. the ache from austin felt smaller with every passing hour. almost forgettable.
when the sun went down you ordered pizza and ate it straight from the box on the floor. steve told you about the new family moving in down the street and how the kid reminded him of a tiny version of himself. you laughed so hard coke almost came out your nose. he grinned at you like you hung the moon.
later you both ended up back on the couch, lights low, some dumb comedy playing that neither of you were really watching anymore. your head rested against his shoulder. his arm had found its way around you somewhere between the second and third movie. it felt natural. safe.
steve shifted a little. you felt his heartbeat pick up.
“hey,” he said, voice low. “i need to tell you something.”
you sat up enough to look at him. “what’s up?”
he opened his mouth, then closed it. looked away. mumbled something.
you blinked. “what?? can you repeat that-”
he said it again, faster this time, almost tripping over the words. “i’minlovewithyou!”
the room went still. your heart slammed against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it. all those phone calls, all those nights he stayed on the line just to make sure you were okay. the way he looked at you right now, nervous and hopeful and so steve.
“steve..-” you whispered.
“you don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly, sitting up straighter. “i know you’re still hurting over that dickhead austin and i’m not trying to push. i just couldn’t keep it in anymore. every time you called me your good friend it felt like--”
he was rambling.
so you cut him off by leaning in and kissing him.
it was soft at first, tentative. then steve made this little surprised sound and kissed you back like he’d been waiting years for permission. his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently over your skin. you tasted the cherry coke on his lips and something sweeter that was just him. your fingers found his hair, messing it up the way you’d secretly wanted to for months.
when you finally pulled back for air, both of you breathing a little heavier, you rested your forehead against his.
“i’m in love with you too,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “i realized it the other night on the phone. i just..i didn’t know how to say it.”
steve let out a shaky laugh, eyes bright. “yeah?”
“yeah” you smiled, shy and real. “austin doesn’t even matter anymore. not when you’re here.”
he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. you melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck. the rollers in your hair probably looked ridiculous but steve didn’t care. he pulled back just enough to look at you, really look.
“you’re so fucking pretty,” he murmured, thumb tracing your bottom lip.
you smiled and hid your face in his neck. he just held you tighter, chuckling softly.
..
austin felt like a distant memory. just some boy who didn’t know what he lost. steve was here, solid and warm and in love with you. and for the first time in weeks, your heart didn’t hurt. it felt full.
“stay the night?” you asked quietly, tracing patterns on his shirt.
“only if you want me to,” he answered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“i want you to.”
he smiled against your hair. “then i’m not going anywhere.”
This is my first time writing this man, hopefully I did it well
🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍
“You ever have like, fantasies that are kind of embarrassing or some shit? Like, you know you probably shouldn’t be into that kind of shit but that’s almost what makes it appealing to begin with?” Teacake asks you, his face contorted like he’s confused about what he’s asking.
You giggle, turning to him as you kick your feet up over his lap. His hands reach for your ankles instinctively, wrapping around them as he pretends he’s still watching TV. His eyes give him away, pensive and bouncing back and forth.
“What kind of weird porn you been watching, Travie?” you ask with a snort, watching as his lips quirk up and his cheeks redden.
The nickname seems to make him melt a little but he continues, “Nah, it’s not like— okay, it ain’t my fault. It’s them algorithms, pushing you to watch weird shit because you been scrolling too damn long and really, it’s mostly out of boredom and you ain’t even that horny anymore. But that’s how they reel you back in. Boom, crazy shit. Gets you curious and so you click and down the fucking rabbit hole you go.”
“I can’t say I’ve had that experience,” you hum but encourage him to go on, “but that’s okay. Tell me what you were looking at.”
He gets real shy then, “I’m not like, a pervert or anything, ‘kay? I don’t make it a habit of looking at fucked up shit, alright.”
“I believe you,” you say and you mean it. The sex you two have is great, wonderful and the best you’ve had but it isn’t exactly pushing boundaries or tiptoeing the line of kink. Maybe this conversation can lead it that way, however.
“It’s like, alright, shit, okay, it’s technically piss stuff but not like that golden showers, in the mouth weird stuff,” he blurts out, eyes getting wide.
“Wow,” you breathe because that is shocking, definitely not something you’ve ever even thought of. “What kind is it then?”
Teacake sighs, shakes his head a bit like he’s attempting to think before he speaks but really, he isn’t good at that, “Like bladder control stuff. Girls holding it in and squirming around and…” he swallows hard, “making these sounds and shit.”
That’s intriguing, but you have a ton of questions. You purse your lips as you think but he doesn’t wait, can’t have the air empty like that.
“It was weird at first, like, I wasn’t immediately like oh fuck yeah, super into this,” he rants, “I was like yo, what the fuck is this and it has this Japanese name for it but I didn’t even find that out ‘til later. Anyways, I was like what the fuck but I watched a little longer and it got more appealing and my dick got like, really fucking hard.”
You have to stop him so you can ask some questions, so you put your finger to his lips. Make those eyes you make at him when he just won’t shut up and he takes the hint. Nods softly at you as he waits.
“What do you mean by control?” you ask, eyebrow raised.
“Like the girl drinks a ton of water and holds in her pee,” he explains, “which believe me, I know this shit sounds nuts but I just, I don’t know, man, I liked it.”
You hum, happy that he doesn’t continue rambling so that you can inquire further. “And what, the videos are just like the girl alone trying not to pee?”
“Yeah, some of them, a lot of them end up pissing themselves but there’s like other ones where the girls are getting fucked and they have to pee so bad so they’re like squirming and whimpering and shit and…”
You can feel him getting aroused under your calf which makes you laugh, you don’t mean to and it’s not in a cruel way but him just recalling this stuff has him sporting a semi.
“Don’t laugh, jeez!” he groans, tilting his head back.
“I’m not judging you! I promise,” you assure him, “It’s just cute is all. We can explore it, some other time. I’m just really tired today and I don’t have to pee.”
“We can?” he asks, smile returning to his face all bright and wide.
“Sure, Travie,” you lean over to kiss the corner of his lips, “I’ll try anything once for ya. Well… not anything, but lots.”
It gets forgotten for a while. You for sure thought about it for the days following the conversation but Travis didn’t bring it up again and eventually, you did forget about it.
That is until one day.
You woke up and as you were filling your water bottle, he made a comment about making sure you drink all of that. To which you responded that you always do. You’ve been making sure you stayed hydrated, unrelated to his confession.
You did drink it all while you were at work, but when Travis got home, he refilled it for you and brought it to you. Said again, “Make sure you drink all that, sugar.”
“What is up with you today?” you ask, totally oblivious to his true intentions.
“What’cha talking about? Ain’t nothing up with me,” he feigns innocence with his hands up, “just making sure you’re drinking enough.”
You narrow your eyes at him, wondering what he’s up to. But again it gets forgotten as the pair of you cook dinner, yet he’s insistent you keep drinking from the bottle. You feel like you’ve definitely gotten close to finishing it but every time you pick it up, there’s more water. But Teacake is real good at distracting you with his ranting and rambling.
Tells you all about his day and maybe every thought he had while you plate up for dinner. Continues through it and doing the dishes. It’s then you realize you’ve had a lot of water, because the running faucet has you wiggling a little in discomfort. So you say, “Excuse me, gotta pee. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait!” he calls, hand wrapped around your wrist as he looks at you with those big hazel eyes. His blonde hair bobs with the quick movement of him turning to catch you. “Can you hold it for me?”
“Why the fuck do you want me to hold my—“ it hits you then. The realization that Travis has been giving you water all day for this purpose sets in and you giggle as the memory of that conversation floods in. “Oh… that’s why… alright. I’ll uh, try.”
This is going to be harder than you thought. Your bladder is absolutely full, not to a point of pain but slight discomfort. You have to wiggle your leg to find a bit of relief. “I’ll uh, finish up the dishes then.”
Travis groans lowly, puts his hands on your waist as he crowds you from behind. He presses his hips against your ass and kisses against the shell of your ear, “You gotta go real bad, huh? I bet it’s buggin’ you so bad, with the water running, just making you think about how bad you gotta go.”
“Mhm,” you manage out, pressing your thighs together as you struggle to scrub the pots and pans. You were so close to being done with the dishes. You could do it, but you were really wondering how you were going to manage holding it in. And wetting yourself was just not an option, not while you were in the kitchen. “It’s so bad, Travis. Like, genuinely, I don’t know if I can hold it.”
“Baby, babygirl, you can,” he growls against your ear, “I know you can do it for me.”
And you really want to, but it’s proving difficult. He seems to have done his research, his hand dips into the waistband of your pants and his middle finger finds your clit, with some adjustment. But he finds it, kisses against your ear as he rubs slowly against your clit before asking, “That helping at all? Reading about it, some say it helps but some of them say it can make it worse. If it’s making it worse, I’ll stop.”
The thought of him being so into this that he’s online reading about it makes your stomach flip. You love your boyfriend, you want to be able to fulfill any fantasy he has and you might be into this one. You’ll just have to wait and see.
“It’s helping,” you gasp out, squirming between his strong body and the counter. “Fuck, okay… yeah, that helps a lot.”
Travis exhales against you, you can hear the smile in it and even better, you can feel his growing erection against your ass. Which really, makes all of this so worth it.
“Good god, that’s fucking hot,” he mumbles out, “feeling you squirm like that, fuck.”
His voice sends shivers down your spine, always does but this context is a little different. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound so desperate, so needy and it’s doing something to you. Makes you squeeze your thighs together for a whole different reason. You trap his hand between your legs and drop the sponge. “Bedroom, Travis, now.”
“Shit, fuck, yes! Okay,” he pulls his hand out from your waistband and rushes towards the bedroom.
You shake your head, waddling your way towards the bedroom and when you get there, Teacake is pulling his shirt over his head and making quick work of his pants. And god, does he look excited. So you let it slide that he practically abandoned you in the kitchen.
“Okay, how do you like want me? I feel like anything but on my back, I’m gonna immediately pee on you and I don’t know if that’s what you’re looking for or—“
“On your back is good, sugar. Want you to hold it ‘til you can’t no more,” he says, rushed, as he begins undressing you. He’s quick to undress you, throwing your clothes on the floor before spinning you and laying you back on the bed. You’re nervous to spread your legs, but he’s pushing the open and getting himself between them. Slaps the head of his cock against your swollen lips like he always does.
You inhale sharply, “Travis, I don’t wanna make a mess on the bed. That’s—“
“Shh, we’ll worry about that later, I gotta be in you like right fucking now, dear god. My dick is so fucking hard, baby. This is so fucking hot,” he rasps out, pushing the tip of his cock through your folds.
Your back arches from the sensation, the uncomfortable feeling in your bladder starts to dissipate momentarily. Travis circles the head of his cock around your entrance, inhaling sharply as he sees proof of how much this is actually turning you on. As he slips into you, the pressure on your bladder makes itself known again and you squeal, squirming a bit as he gets about half way inside.
“What?! What? Not good? Am I hurt in’ ya? I don’t wanna hurt ya, nobody said anything about that part hurting. I guess it makes sense,” he starts, so concerned as he looks down at you with those eyes.
You shake your head, rubbing at his side, “No, didn't hurt. Just hard to hold it.”
He likes that. He must, because he leans down and connects your lips in a feverish kiss. Then he smoothes his hands down your sides, sliding the rest of the way in. He huffs, “Fuck, you feel so good, sugar. That’s so fucking hot, tell me how you feel, wanna know what it’s like. Please.”
That manages to pull a giggle from you, “It’s… different. Uncomfortable but not that bad, kinda makes… well.” It’s your turn to get embarrassed.
“Well, what? Tell me, sugar.”
“It’s almost like, how it feels before I cum. Like the pressure is so intense,” you offer.
“That’s so good, fucking hell. Oh, yeah,” he moans out, working his hips in a slow but steady rhythm. And that does a lot to quell the pressure in your bladder, or maybe it’s just masked as a pressure you’re used to during sex.
Then Travis puts his hand over your bladder, pushes down on it as he fucks you slowly. Your eyes snap shut as you wiggle beneath him, whimpering from the feeling. It’s not pain, not really at all. It’s pretty euphoric even though it’s tortuous. Though, it’s sure taking a lot to not empty your bladder.
“S’that good, baby? Feel good?” he asks, voice in a tone that’s somewhat familiar but way more wrecked than you’re used to. You sure as hell would like to hear it some more.
You squirm some more, which makes Travis speed up his strokes, thrusts even harder.
You’re at a loss for words so you don’t answer him, not verbally. You try to nod but it goes unnoticed because you’re squirming so much. He keeps pressing on your bladder, watching you intensely with his lips parted as you whine, whimper and thrash beneath him. You have to focus, though. You can’t cut his fantasy short. So you look at him, distract yourself as you admire everything physically you love about Teacake.
First, his eyes. Big and round, full of expression at any given moment. Next up, his strong brows, furrowed in pleasure. Your eyes jump up to the grown out roots of his wild, bleached hair. Then down to his neck, where HOWDY is tattooed in likely, ballpoint pen ink. You swipe your finger down it, before resting your hands on his broad shoulders. Feeling them flex as he thrusts in and out. He opens his mouth to speak, and you don’t quite hear it but your eyes follow. Watching them move around the words. That gorgeous mouth, straight square teeth under those pink, plump lips that never stop running. His nostrils flare and that’s where you’re eyes come to next, skating that sharp slope. God, he’s really something else, you think. And it’s worked, you’re thoroughly distracted from the urge to pee.
Until Travis squeezes your side, where your bladder is at while his hips work relentlessly against your core. Reality hits you hard, the sound of your skin meeting fills your ears, along with Teacake’s horny rambling.
“Fuck, you’re squirming so much, shit— that’s, fuck that’s hot, oh God. You’re so good, just holding it in for me, fuck, god, shit, oh my god,” he rambles, voice wavering with how absolutely turned on he is.
And you can’t hold it much longer, really, you try to tell him so but he licks his fingers before pressing them to your clit and works them in circles, exactly how he knows you like. His other hand presses down on your bladder and you’re squealing, head thrown back as your spine arches. It happens, then. You actually piss on him. While he’s fucking you. And it’s timed so perfectly that you reach your climax at the same time. Perhaps from the relief. But it rushes through you like a giant wave crashing against the shore. Your hands find Teacake’s blonde hair, tugging on the tendrils as you seize beneath him.
“Oh, fuuuuck, oh, shit!” you hear him moan out, working you through your orgasm but he quickly moves his hands to grab onto your hips. Works quickly, pumping his cock in and out of you. Chasing an orgasm you’re sure isn’t too far behind.
Teacake pulls out, jerks over your stomach twice before he’s spilling out over it. Cums a lot. You watch in awe, chest heaving from how intense the orgasm you had was. And you’re happy you explored this with him.
He leans down to kiss you, deep and appreciative. You kiss back, though quickly you start to feel very gross and wet. So you push him back a little.
“How’s about we throw these sheets in the wash and hop in the shower?”
“That uncomfortable, huh?” he asks with an exhausted smile.
You laugh and shake your head, “That was amazing, but yeah, starting to feel gross. Hurry up, if you're lucky, I’ll tell you all about the fantasies I’ve been hiding.”
Summary: When Steve wakes up, the truth finally surfaces. Is this the end of you… or a new beginning?
Warnings: angst, established relationship, married couple, arguments, marriage issues, pregnancy, infertility issues, maternity, motherhood, emotional distress, accident, injuries, alleged cheating, presumption of infidelity, divorce mentions
English isn't my first language, so be understandable and gentle, thanks!
Word count: +15k
Author's note: I hope you’re ready, because all your questions will finally be answered and everything will be revealed. Are you ready to find out? I definitely can’t wait to read your reactions and what you think. I really hope you love this chapter as much as the previous ones… if not more. Let me know what you think with a comment, your feedbacks are really important for me. And if you want to support me even more, reblog it. I'd really appreciate it. Now enjoy it and thanks for reading!
Two days after your conversation with Kirsten, the doctors told you the coma was no longer necessary and that they could begin reducing the sedatives.
They explained everything in careful, clinical terms — what it meant, how his body would respond, what to expect over the next few hours, the next few days. You listened, nodding when it felt appropriate, your eyes fixed on them as if you were following every word.
But you weren’t.
Because the only thing that truly registered, the only thing that stayed with you, was one simple fact.
Steve was going to wake up soon.
Aside from that news, your days didn’t change much. You still followed the same routine you had built for yourself since the accident.
You waited.
You sat by his bed, watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, listened to the steady rhythm of the machines. You spoke to him, quietly, filling the silence when it became too much. Other times, you just stayed there, your hand wrapped around his.
Somewhere along the way, everything had started to feel… suspended. Like time had paused, caught between what had been and what was supposed to happen next. The separation, your argument, the diagnosis — it all felt distant, almost unreal. There were moments when it barely seemed like it had happened at all.
And something almost ironic about it — cruelly so.
Just two weeks before, you had left him, walked out of your home and spent an entire week avoiding him, refusing to see him, to hear him out.
And now…
Now you spent every single day at his bedside, watching him breathe, sitting beside him for hours just to be close to him, taking care of him like nothing had ever happened. Like you had never left.
You had slipped back into your place so naturally it almost felt strange.
You were his wife again.
In a strange, unsettling way, the accident had restored something that had broken between you, forcing everything back into place.
But none of that was real. You knew it wasn’t. Because the moment Steve opened his eyes, reality would come rushing back in and everything you had been avoiding would still be there, waiting for you.
And that scared you.
The moment he woke up, there would be no more hiding from what came next.
It was a kind of contradiction. You couldn’t wait for Steve to regain consciousness but at the same time, a quiet fear lingered beneath it all — tight, persistent, suffocating.
At some point, you decided it was finally time to prepare a bag for him — clothes, basic things he would need when he woke up. Which meant going home. Your home. The same one you had left almost two weeks ago. The thought alone made your chest tighten.
When you parked in front of the house, your hands stayed on the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary. Your eyes lifted slowly to the front door.
The memory came back so vividly it almost felt real. Steve standing just a few steps away from the car the day you had left, His chest rising and falling too fast, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. You could still see the confusion in his eyes and hear the pain in his voice as he begged you not to go. To stay.
You swallowed hard and blinked, forcing the image away. Then you exhaled, steadying yourself, and stepped out of the car. You unlocked the door and stepped inside.
For a split second, you expected to hear Steve’s voice calling your name from another room. The faint sound of movement upstairs. Or to feel his arms wrapping around you, welcoming you home after a long day.
Instead, there was nothing.
Just silence, settling around you immediately, heavy in a way that felt unfamiliar in a place that had never been quiet before.
You took a few steps forward, your gaze moving slowly around the living room. Everything looked exactly as you had left it.
Almost.
Your eyes caught on the coffee table — on the empty beer bottles scattered across it, a few more near the edge like they had been set down carelessly and forgotten.
Your chest tightened.
Steve wasn’t like that. He drank, sure, but occasionally. Never too much. Never like this.
It was the only real sign he had been there at all. Otherwise, the house felt untouched. As if he had simply been passing through it, existing in it without really living in it.
Your throat tightened slightly.
That place didn’t feel like home.
Not without him.
Because it had never really been about the walls.
It had always been him.
Now you felt out of place in it. Like an intruder.
You swallowed the thought down before it could settle too deeply and turned toward the stairs, taking them quickly, almost on instinct, until you reached the bedroom.
The door was still slightly open as if someone had left in a hurry, without bothering to close it first. You pushed it wider and stepped in, stopping almost immediately on the doorway.
Steve’s side of the bed was still unmade, the sheets wrinkled and half-pulled loose like they had been left in the middle of something. The books he had found were still scattered across the floor. On his nightstand, Eddie’s stash and a lighter sat exactly where he had left them.
Your side of the room was untouched. Your things — the one you hadn’t taken with you — were still there just as you had left it. Your chest tightened as the realization settled in. Steve hadn’t moved or packed anything away. He had left it all there. Like everything had been waiting for you to come back and press play again.
You swallowed and forced yourself to move. You bent down, picking up the books from the floor, stacking them one by one. You smoothed the sheets absentmindedly, straightening the bed just enough to make it look less abandoned. When you finished, you walked to the closet and pulled out one of Steve’s duffel bags, setting it on the bed.
For a moment, you just stood there, staring at it. Then you started packing — a few changes of clothes, toiletries. You folded each piece of clothing with care, placing it inside one by one, slowly.
Your mind pulled you back to two weeks earlier. When you had done the same thing — only faster, messier. Throwing your things into a suitcase, without stopping, too focused on leaving before he came back. Before he could stop you.
Your hand stopped for a second, your fingers tightening slightly around the fabric you were holding.
Coward, a little voice whispered into your mind.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, sore.
It was true. You had chosen the easy way out by not giving him a chance to speak and decide.
Your grip softened.
And in doing so, you had hurt him anyway. Maybe more.
You brought the shirt to your chest, holding it there for a moment, your eyes closing briefly as you breathed him in. You lowered it slowly, smoothing it out before placing it in the bag with the rest.
If you had just talked to him from the beginning… Maybe things would have been different. And now maybe you wouldn't be in an empty house, silently packing a bag to take to your unconscious husband in the hospital.
You zipped the bag shut, the sound cutting through the silence of the room. You stood there for a second, your hand resting on top of it. Then you picked up the bag and walked out of the room, down the stairs, and toward the front door. Your hand lingered on the handle for just a moment before you opened it. As you stepped outside, you wondered if you would come back one day.
Or if that was another goodbye again.
—
The next day, the doctors stopped the last of the sedatives.
Now it was up to Steve.
They told you it could take hours. Maybe a couple of days.
The moment they said it, a silent countdown started in your mind. You found yourself checking the clock constantly, watching the minutes pass and counting the hours. It had become like a hobby by now. A boring, slow one.
Every time you looked at him, you wondered if that would be the moment in which his fingers would twitch. Or if his eyes would finally open. And as the hours passed, the anxiety that had been sitting quietly in your chest began to grow.
You needed him to wake up. To hear his voice. To see his big, brown eyes open and look at you. You needed to be sure that he was really okay. That he was still… him.
Even though the doctors had been reassuring, the bleeding had resolved and the fractures were healing well, they had also mentioned possible complications due to the head trauma. Cognitive ones as memory loss or speech issues.
You didn’t know which one scared you more.
And you hoped you would never have to find out.
—
As hours passed and you waited for Steve to wake up, you began to prepare yourself on what to say. How to say it. Because you knew that the moment he woke up, reality would follow. And everything you had left unfinished would still be there, waiting. You had a conversation to resume. Many things to discuss.
And Kirsten, of course.
Your jaw tightened slightly at the thought.
Despite everything, you hadn’t forgotten. You couldn’t. Even if part of you wanted to push it aside, just for a little longer.
Your mind had shifted from imagining them together — filling in the blanks with your worst assumptions — to replaying every single word Kirsten had said to you. Over and over again. Like a broken record. Since that conversation, you had gone through it countless times in your head, picking it apart, analyzing every detail, every pause, every expression.
Trying to understand what was real.
Trying to figure out what had been left unsaid.
Robin’s words echoed faintly in your mind.
Let him explain.
You exhaled quietly. Even though you had already spoken to her and knew what had happened that night, you would listen to Steve. To his version. He was the only one who could remove all doubts and clarify everything.
What if she had lied?
In the end, you didn’t know her and maybe that night something else had happened. Something she might not have told you. Something she might have left out. But you knew Steve. You knew him well enough to know when he was lying or not. So you would let him explain and you would listen. Really listen. All the way through. Without interruptions. Without shutting him out. Or walking away.
You owed him that. To yourself, too. And to your marriage.
Your gaze dropped to your joined hands, swallowing hard.
There were things you needed to say as well.
In the days you had spent there, sitting beside him, watching him fight through something you couldn’t see, something had shifted. You had had time to think and to replay everything. You had questioned your own choices. And some of them didn’t sit right anymore.
You had things to admit. Mistakes to own. And you had made decisions — new ones— that would change everything. Again.
Your grip on his hand tightened slightly.
“Wake up, Steve,” you murmured, your voice low, almost lost in the quiet of the room.
Because no matter what waited for you on the other side of that moment, you needed him there for it.
-
By the time evening settled outside the hospital windows, the room had dimmed into that quiet, bluish half-light that made everything feel suspended.
You were sitting beside Steve, a sheet of paper resting on your lap, a pencil moving slowly between your fingers as you worked on a sketch, trying to keep yourself busy.
You hadn’t left his side all day, refusing to go home. The doctors had warned you he would likely be confused, agitated and you didn't want to risk Steve waking up alone, while you weren't there. You wanted to be there for him — to soften that moment as much as possible.
Your gaze lifted toward him again, almost automatically. It had become a reflex at this point—checking, even when you didn’t realize you were doing it.
You sighed quietly.
He was the same as he had been all day — still, quiet. No changes yet.
Your eyes began to drop back to the paper when you saw it, freezing instantly.
His fingers had moved. Just slightly. So faint you weren’t even sure it had happened. Maybe you had imagined it, you thought.
You blinked, your breath catching. Your eyes quickly flicked to his.
They were closed.
Your gaze snapped back to his hand.
The fingers were still. Immobile.
Your heart started to beat faster, your grip tightening slightly around the pencil as doubt crept in. You had imagined it, you told yourself. You had to have. After all, you were exhausted. You hadn’t slept properly in days. And it wouldn’t have been the first time your mind played tricks on you.
You swallowed, forcing yourself to look again, and waited.
One.
Two.
Ten seconds.
Then you saw again.
A small, uncoordinated twitch of his fingers.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
His fingers kept moving.
It was real.
Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you stood up too quickly, the sound barely registering. The paper and pencil slipped from your hands and fell onto the seat behind you as you moved closer to the bed, your eyes locked on him.
“Steve…” The name left your lips before you could stop it, barely more than a breath.
His eyelids fluttered. Slowly. Uncertainly. Like even that small movement required effort.
Your heart stuttered in your chest as you reached for his hand, wrapping your fingers around his, tightly, holding on. “Steve,” you repeated, your voice trembling now.
His eyes opened — just a fraction at first — then closed again almost immediately, like the light was too much. His brow furrowed faintly.
A second later, he tried again. This time they stayed open a little longer, unfocused. He blinked, slow and heavy, his gaze drifting across the room without really seeing it. Then his eyes widened and his breathing turned uneven, shallow, like his body was trying to catch up with something it didn’t understand yet.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice breaking despite your attempt to steady it. “It’s me. I’m here, Steve.”
Your hand tightened around his, careful not to hurt him, as your other one moved to his hair, brushing it back gently from his forehead, your touch careful, delicate.
His eyes finally found you, tilting his head slightly toward you and the tension in his features eased, just a little. He swallowed slowly.
You felt your chest tighten.
“You’re in the hospital,” you continued softly, forcing the words out through the emotion building in your throat. “You had an accident, but you’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
You forced a small smile.
He didn’t respond. He just kept looking at you, his gaze fixed, almost searching. Like he was holding onto the only thing in the room that made any sense. Like if he looked away, even for a second, you might disappear. You couldn't even imagine how scared and confused he must feel.
A flicker of panic rose in your chest.
“Steve?” you said again, slower this time. “Can you hear me?”
No answer.
Your stomach dropped.
What if he didn’t recognize you?
The thought hit fast, sharp, stealing the air from your lungs as the doctors’ warnings echoed in your mind, again and again.
Consequences. Memory loss. Speech issues.
You swallowed hard, your grip softening unconsciously around his hand.
“I— I’m going to get someone,” you said quickly, the words rushing out, stumbling over each other as panic crept into your voice. “I’ll be right back, okay? I just need to call a doctor—”
You started to pull away but his hand tightened around yours. Not strongly. He had just woken up and was still weak, but still strong enough to stop you.
Your breath caught as your eyes dropped to where your hands were joined, then snapped back to his face.
His lips parted slightly, his throat working as he tried to speak. The sound that came out was low. Rough. Like it hurt.
“…don’t…”
The word barely made it past his lips. But it was there. Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made you dizzy.
He could speak.
You leaned closer immediately to hear better, your heart pounding.
“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t have to—”
He tried again, his breathing faltering, uneven.
“…go…”
Each word seemed to cost him effort.
“…please…”
Your chest tightened painfully as your eyes filled with tears, blurring your vision.
“…don’t… leave me.”
You pulled away from him. A shaky breath left your lips, something between a sob and a laugh, relief and emotion crashing together all at once. You shook your head quickly, your fingers tightening around his as if to reassure him.
“Hey—hey, no,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your attempt to keep it steady. “I’m not leaving you. I’m right here.”
You leaned closer again, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles.
“You’re okay,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You’re okay.”
The fact that he could speak and reach for you was reassuring, easing some of the fear that had been building in your chest for days.
“I just need to tell them you’re awake, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”
His grip didn’t loosen immediately. His eyes stayed on you, wide, uncertain, like he didn’t trust your words. Not completely.
You smiled at him, forcing yourself to gently pull your hand free, slowly. Your fingers lingered for a second longer before you stepped back. “I’ll be right there,” you reassured him again.
You turned and moved quickly toward the door. “Nurse!” Your voice echoed down the hallway, sharper, urgent. “Nurse! My husband — he’s awake — I need a doctor! Can I get a doctor, please?”
Footsteps approached almost immediately. A nurse appeared at the end of the corridor, her pace quickening as you explained, words tumbling over each other. “He just woke up — he’s conscious, he’s talking—”
She nodded and turned without hesitation, hurrying off to call a doctor.
You turned back and walked quickly into the room, your eyes immediately finding him again. You crossed the space in a few quick steps and reached for his hand again, wrapping your fingers around his.
His gaze returned to you instantly.
“Hey! The doctor’s coming,” you said softly, your voice gentler now, steadier. “Everything will be okay.”
A few minutes later, the nurse returned, this time accompanied by a doctor. You instinctively stepped slightly to the side to give them space, though your hand remained wrapped around Steve’s, your fingers unwilling to let go completely.
The doctor approached calmly, offering Steve a small, reassuring smile before reaching into his coat pocket.
“Steve,” he said gently, “can you hear me?”
Steve’s eyes, heavy and slow, shifted from you to him. It took a moment, but he gave a faint nod.
“Good,” the doctor continued. He lifted a small penlight, bringing it up carefully. “I’m just going to check your eyes, okay? Follow the light for me.”
The beam moved slowly from side to side. Steve’s gaze followed, sluggish but responsive. The doctor watched closely, studying the movement, then repeated it once more before nodding to himself.
“Alright,” he said quietly, more to himself than to either of you. He lowered the light and straightened slightly. “You’re in the hospital,” he continued, voice calm and steady. “You were in an accident. You’ve been unconscious for a few days, but you’re safe now.”
Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to process the information.
The doctor watched him for a second, then reached for the chart at the foot of the bed, flipping it open.
“Do you remember what happened?” he asked. “The accident?”
Steve hesitated. You felt your breath catch in your throat without realizing it, your body going still beside him. His gaze drifted briefly, unfocused, like he was searching for something in his mind and coming up empty.
Then, slowly, he shook his head.
Your chest tightened. You forced yourself to swallow, keeping your expression steady even as something uneasy settled deep inside you.
The doctor gave a small, thoughtful nod, as if the answer didn’t surprise him, and made a quick note on the chart. Then he looked up. His gaze shifted — first to you, briefly — before returning to Steve.
“And do you recognize this woman?” he asked.
The question seemed to echo in the room as every muscle in your body went rigid, your eyes locking onto Steve’s face, searching for something — anything — that could answer that question.
Steve’s eyes found yours. His gaze lingered, quiet, intent, studying you. As if he was trying to understand something just out of reach.
You forced a small smile, encouraging, though it felt fragile, uncertain. You swallowed.
Seconds stretched as your heart pounded loudly in your ears, each beat sharper than the last.
Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he nodded.
Relief hit you so suddenly it almost made your knees weak. Air rushed back into your lungs as if you had been holding it the entire time.
“…my wife,” Steve managed, his voice rough, low, the words dragged out with effort. “She’s… my wife.”
Your breath left you in a quiet, unsteady exhale, something in your chest loosening all at once.
He remembered you. He knew who you were.
He was still your Steve.
The doctor gave a satisfied nod, jotting something down. “Good,” he said simply.
He closed the chart with a soft snap and looked back at Steve.“For today, I think that’s enough,” he continued. “We’ll run more tests tomorrow. For now, the most important thing is that you rest. Try not to tire yourself out.”
Steve gave the faintest nod, his eyelids already starting to droop again.
“You’ve been very lucky, Mr. Harrington,” the doctor added. Then he stepped back, exchanging a brief glance with you before he turned and made his way toward the door, the nurse following closely behind.
After a second, the door closed softly and the room fell quiet again.
For a moment, you didn’t move. A small part of you hesitated, suddenly aware that you were alone with him again. You weren’t sure what to do. How to act. Or what came next.
You swallowed slowly, then turned back toward him.
Steve was already looking at you.
You took a small step closer. Then another. Careful. Almost unsure.
“Hey…” you said softly, your voice quiet. “How do you feel?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes stayed on yours, steady despite the exhaustion behind them. Then they fluttered shut for a brief second — too long — before reopening abruptly, like he was checking that you were still there.
“…okay,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper, each word slow, heavy. “Just… tired.”
The effort it took him to speak was evident in the way his breathing hitched slightly afterward.
You nodded gently, your expression softening. “Yeah,” you murmured. “That makes sense. You should try to get some sleep.”
He shook his head almost immediately, though the movement was weak, unsteady. His eyes were already half-closed.
“But… Don’t… want to.” The words came out uneven, dragged between breaths.
Your hand moved instinctively, brushing lightly over his forehead, fingers threading gently through his hair. “Hey,” you said softly, almost a whisper. “It’ll help. You heard the doctor — you need to rest.”
At your touch, some of the tension in his face eased a little. His eyes opened once more, slower this time, searching for you. “Will you… be here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, fragile. He swallowed after, like even that had taken effort. “When I wake up…”
The question lingered between you.
For a second, you didn’t answer. Your chest tightened, your gaze flickering over his face — taking him in like you were trying to memorize him, or maybe reassure yourself that he was really there. Your eyes filled with tears. Then you nodded.
“Of course.”
You hesitated for just a fraction of a second before adding, softer. “I’ll be here.”
His eyes stayed on you for another moment, like he was holding onto that answer, before the weight of exhaustion finally pulled him under. His grip loosened, the eyelids drooped and his breathing evened out again, slow and steady.
You remained where you were, your hand still resting lightly against him, your thumb absentmindedly brushing against his skin.
-
Sometime in the middle of the night, a strained sound pulled you out of sleep.
You were curled on your side on the small couch, one arm tucked under your head, the thin hospital blanket barely covering you. You frowned, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, before it came again — low, uneven. A quiet groan. Your eyes snapped open when you realized where it was coming from.
You pushed yourself up immediately, the blanket slipping off as you crossed the room in a few quick steps, barefoot against the cold floor.
“Steve?”
He was exactly in the same position you had left him but something was wrong. He was restless. His eyes were still closed but his expression was tense, brows drawn together. His jaw was clenched, and his head moved faintly from side to side against the pillow, like he was trying to shake something off.
Another strained sound left his lips.
Your stomach dropped. “Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you said softly, reaching him, your hand settling on his arm. “Are you in pain? Do you need me to call someone?”
He gave you no response. The only sound in the room was his uneven breathing.
You leaned closer, your grip tightening slightly. “Steve?” you called again, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
You shook him gently, not wanting to hurt him, and then suddenly you stopped.
It wasn’t pain.
He was having a nightmare.
You moved your hand to his shoulder, about to wake him when his lips parted, a broken sound slipping out.
“…no…”
You froze.
“…wait…”
Your breath caught.
“…Kirsten…”
The name hit you like a shock. Everything in you went still. Your fingers loosened against him as you just stared, your chest tightening, your breath suddenly shallow.
For a second, you weren’t sure you had heard it right. But the name lingered in the space between you. Clear enough. Heavy.
Steve’s head shifted once more against the pillow — then stilled. His face relaxed. His breathing evened out, slow, steady, like whatever had held him had finally let go.
As if nothing had happened.
You didn’t move for a second. You swallowed, your throat dry, your chest tight as something unsettled twisted deep inside you. Then, slowly, you stepped back, your hand slipping away from him. You returned to the couch and lay down again, staring at the ceiling, your body tense, your mind completely wide awake now. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard it.
Kirsten.
Over and over again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, but it didn’t help.
What had he been dreaming about? Why her?
Your thoughts spiraled before you could stop them.
Had he been remembering the night he had spent with her? Which part?
Had it meant something?
Your stomach twisted, almost making you want to throw up. You swallowed, trying to get rid of the nausea. You felt hurt in a way you didn’t quite know how to name.
The name echoed again.
Kirsten.
Until, eventually, exhaustion pulled you under and you fell asleep.
-
Morning came quietly.
When you woke, it took you a moment to remember where you were. Your body felt stiff, your neck sore from the awkward angle you had slept in. The thin hospital light filtered through the curtains, pale and diffused, settling softly across the room. You blinked, still half-asleep, and turned onto your other side — the one facing Steve’s bed. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows to check on him.
He was still asleep.
His breathing was steady, his face relaxed, peaceful. You let yourself fall back against the couch with a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling for a few seconds before finally forcing yourself up.
You moved slowly, careful not to make noise, and reached for your bag. From it, you pulled out a change of clothes and your small toiletry pouch. Before heading to the bathroom, you glanced at him again. Only then did you slip inside and close the door softly behind you.
The cold water helped you to wake up completely. Then you brushed your teeth and changed into a pair of jeans and a white blouse, leaving the top buttons undone. You braided your hair with quick, practiced movements, your reflection staring back at you — pale, tired, like you had aged years in just a few days.
For a brief second, your mind betrayed you and Kirsten’s image appeared before you with her perfect hair and flawless make-up, put together in a way you didn’t feel right now. Your jaw tightened as Steve’s voice, whispering her name, echoed again in your mind.
Your stomach dropped.
Your gaze shifted back to your reflection. Then lower. To your body. A body that suddenly felt… wrong. Defective. While Kirsten was everything you didn’t feel like in that moment. Younger. Pretty. And probably fertile.
The thought landed sharp and heavy, tightening your throat.
Maybe Steve had seen it too that night. He must have looked at her and found her beautiful. Maybe he had seen something easier in her. Simpler. Someone who didn’t come with defects. Unlike you.
You swallowed.
Was that why he stayed?
Before you could spiral further, you reached for your makeup and started applying it with more focus than necessary. Controlled. Precise. Like it could fix something. Or at least hide it.
When you stepped back into the room, your eyes lifted instinctively to him.
Steve was awake, propped slightly against the pillows now, his posture still weak, shoulders slouched.
You froze for half a second. “Hey… you’re awake,” you said after a moment, a little too quickly, a hint of surprise slipping into your voice. You gave him a small smile.
He didn’t look away. “You’re here,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure of it. Like he needed to say it out loud to believe it.
Something in your chest shifted. You set your pouch down on the couch and moved closer, your your steps first quickly, then slower, more careful as you approached his bed.
“Yeah, of course I am. I just — I went to freshen up a bit,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom. “You know… look somewhat presentable. I haven’t exactly been at my best these —”
“You look beautiful.”
The words came without hesitation.
You blinked, caught off guard. Your mouth parted slightly, whatever you had been about to say dissolving before it could take shape. For a second, you just stood there, a little stunned — then a small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips.
There was a brief pause.
“Well…” you cleared your throat lightly, your gaze briefly dropping before lifting back to him. “You don’t look that bad yourself, all things considered.”
There was a hint of amusement in your tone, an attempt — gentle, careful — to ease the tension. But inside you the anxiety was eating you up.
You stopped beside the bed, suddenly aware of how close you were.
“How are you feeling?” you asked, softer now. “Did you sleep okay? Are you in pain?”
It felt strange standing there or talking to him after everything. Not in a bad way. Just strange as the last conversation you had shared still hovered somewhere between you, unspoken but present. Like an echo neither of you could quite shake.
And there was the distance too. Not physical. But more like you were both trying to find your footing without knowing where the ground was.
Steve hesitated. His gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he answered. “I’m… okay, I think,” he said, his voice still rough, low from disuse. “A little sore. But… I guess it could be worse.”
He shifted slightly against the pillows, the movement slow, careful. His eyes drifted briefly around the room, as if grounding himself. Then back to you.
“I—” he started, then paused, like he had to gather the energy for the question. “How long was I out?”
“A week.”
He blinked, clearly caught off guard. His lips parted slightly. “Oh.”
Then, he nodded faintly, his gaze dropping for a second as he processed it, shoulders sinking just a little deeper into the pillows.
For a moment, the room fell so quiet you could hear just your own breathing, your heartbeat loud in your ears.
You sat down on the chair beside his bed, leaving a careful distance between you.
It felt wrong. Being this close to him — in the same room, within reach — and not touching him. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap, fingers laced together as if that alone could keep you still. Because part of you wanted to move closer. To reach for him. To take his hand, feel the warmth of his skin, reassure yourself that he was real.
But you didn’t and stayed where you were.
“Do you… remember anything?” you asked after a moment, your voice quieter now, more cautious. “About the accident, I mean.”
Steve lifted his gaze to you. For a second, he just looked at you — like he was trying to read something in your expression, something you weren’t saying. Then he shook his head.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I mean… it’s all kind of blurry. Pieces, maybe. But nothing that makes sense.”
You nodded faintly, though your mind had already moved ahead.
What else didn’t he remember?
Did he forget what had happened with Kirsten or the dream he had last night?
“I think I… had too much to drink,” he continued, slower now, as if choosing each word carefully. “The last thing I can clearly recall is being in the car and—”
He stopped. His expression shifted almost instantly. His eyes flickered, unfocused for a second, his face tightening, the color draining slightly from it as if something had just clicked into place.
You leaned forward in your seat without thinking. “Hey—hey, what is it?” you asked quickly, the edge of panic slipping into your voice. “Are you okay? Does something hurt?”
Steve blinked a few times, trying to steady himself, his breathing uneven for a moment. “No, I’m okay,” he said finally, though his voice came out rougher than before. “It’s just…Was anyone else hurt?”
The question caught you off guard.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“The accident,” he clarified, his voice tense now, more awake than before. “Was there any victim? Anyone—”
“No,” you interrupted gently but firmly, shaking your head. “There were no victims.”
He went still. For a moment, he just stared at you, searching your face — making sure. Then his shoulders dropped, a quiet breath leaving him, relieved.
“Okay… okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, nodding faintly.
But you could see he was still tense. His gaze lowered briefly, his jaw tightening again as something else settled in.
“I just…” he started, then paused, swallowing. He dragged a hand over his face, slower this time. You could see it — the moment where he had to decide whether to say it or not. “I just remembered something,” he said finally, his voice lower now, heavier. “Something you should know.”
Your heart sank, even though you already knew what he was going to tell. Or at least, you thought you did.
Still, you didn’t say anything. You just nodded, giving him space to continue.
Steve dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, like he was trying to gather himself. Then his hand dropped, almost unconsciously, to his other one. His fingers closed around his ring finger, rubbing at the bare skin where his wedding band should have been. Back and forth.
“I…” His gaze slipped away from yours, fixing somewhere ahead of him, unfocused—like it was easier to look at nothing than at you. “I wasn’t alone.”
The words landed heavier coming from him, making everything more real.
“There was someone else in the car with me,” he went on, his voice uneven, low. “A woman.”
You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. Hearing it out loud from him made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Final in a way you couldn’t undo.
You stayed still, silent and let him continue.
Let him explain, Robin’s voice echoed clearly in your mind.
“After… after our argument that night,” he continued, slower now, like he was piecing it together as he spoke, “I couldn’t go home. I just —” He shook his head faintly. “I didn’t want to be there. Not without you.” His eyes flickered briefly toward you, then dropped again almost immediately. “I needed to get out. To not think for a while. I was…” He exhaled sharply. “I was a mess. Angry. Tired. Everything at once. And I didn’t —” He swallowed, dragging in a breath, like even saying it out loud cost him something. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
You lowered your eyes to your hands, your fingers curling slightly into your palms.
“So I went to the Hideout,” he continued. “Just to have a drink. But… Instead, I ended up having a few.”
A humorless breath left him.
“And that’s where I met her.”
He let his head fall forward, his hands coming up to his face as if the memory itself was too much.
“She—” he started, then faltered. “She asked if she could sit.”
A brief silence stretched between you.
“I… I knew what she was really asking for. What she really wanted,” he admitted, dropping his gaze. “And I know that it’s not really an excuse but… I felt so alone.” His voice edged with something close to shame. He swallowed, eyes briefly closing. “I thought a little company wouldn't hurt. So I let her sit next to me.” A small pause, like even saying it felt wrong. “We started talking. And she… started flirting.”
His fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheet, the fabric wrinkling beneath his grip.
“I should’ve left,” he muttered. “I know that. I should’ve gotten up and walked away.” A pause. “But I didn’t. And I didn’t stop her,” he admitted, voice lower now.
Your breath caught quietly in your chest.
“I stayed. I kept drinking and she kept—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “We kept talking. She started touching my arm, laughing at everything I said. She… she listened to me like it actually mattered.”
You stayed still while a sharp, uncomfortable heat spread through you — jealousy, immediate and instinctive. The image formed before you could stop it: her sitting next to him, leaning in, smiling, touching him like she had any right to. And this time it felt so much worse. Because it wasn’t just something your mind had made up. It was real.
Your jaw tightened.
You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the idea of another woman sitting that close to your husband, touching him, thinking she could have him. Especially knowing he was married. It irritated you more than you wanted to admit, a quiet, persistent anger settling under your skin. Who she thought she was?
But she wasn’t the first to act like that.
Steve had always been the kind of guy girls noticed. The one they looked at a little longer than necessary. Even now that he was married. Women still flirted with him like it didn’t matter. Like the ring on his finger meant nothing — or worse, like it wasn’t even there.
You had seen it before and every time you had brushed it off, not at all worried. You knew Steve wasn’t interested. That he didn’t care about them. But this was different. Because this time… he had stayed. He had let her flirting.
In any other moment, you would’ve snapped and asked him why. Why he hadn’t walked away. Why he had stayed. But the questions died before they could reach your lips. Because you already knew the answer. Or at least part of it.
Your fingers pressed harder into your palms.
You had pushed him there. With your words. Your choices. The things you had said that night. You had told him to move on. To find someone else. And maybe in the end he had listened to you.
Steve dragged a hand through the bandage covering his hair, clearly unsettled now.
“And it felt good for a minute,” he exhaled, almost bitterly, dropping his gaze.
For a second, you forgot how to breathe. The words hit deeper than anything else. Your throat went dry, your pulse quickening as something fragile inside you shifted. You swallowed, slowly, painfully. You wanted to ask him what he meant. What kind of good. And how far it had gone. But the words wouldn’t come out. They stayed lodged in your chest, tangled with everything else you were feeling — jealousy, guilt, fear.
How good Kirsten had made him feel? Better than you?
“Everything you said that night kept… echoing in my head,” he added more quietly. “About moving on. About finding someone else.” He let out a short, humorless breath. “And I don’t know if I was trying to prove something, or just —” He hesitated. “Or just stop thinking about you for five minutes.” Another pause. “Maybe I just wanted to see if I could do it,” he admitted, voice rough now. “If you were actually right and I could… move on as you had said.”
His gaze dropped, sighing.
“It’s stupid. I know, ” he muttered. “But I wasn’t really thinking. Not clearly, at least.”
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
“I should’ve left,” he repeated under his breath. “But I didn’t.”
He swallowed.
“And then…” His voice faltered, uncertainty creeping back in. “I — she — we —”
Frustration flickered across his face as the memory slipped out of reach again.
“Jesus… I… I don’t remember,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s all messed up in my head.”
He let out a small, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “I — I don’t even remember her name.” A hollow laugh slipped out, but there was no real amusement in it. “I swear, I don’t,” he added quickly, almost desperately, like he needed you to believe that. As if that detail changed anything. As if it made things better. “I don’t remember.”
He sounded wrecked.
Ashamed.
You couldn’t look at him. Your vision blurred as your eyes filled with tears, your focus dropping to your hands resting in your lap. For a second, you just sat there, breathing through the tightness in your chest. You squeezed your eyes, hard.
Then, barely above a whisper.
“Kirsten.”
Steve turned toward you, his brow furrowing. “What?”
You lifted your gaze to him, quickly brushing the tears from your cheeks with the back of your fingers. “Kirsten,” you said quietly. “The girl. That’s her name.”
A beat.
“Wait—” His confusion deepened, something sharper slipping in right after. “How… how do you know that?”
“She —” You cleared your throat and went on. “She came here. A few days ago. While you were still in a coma.” You paused, watching his reaction carefully. “She wanted to see how you were. And we… talked. She told me everything, Steve.”
Silence fell over the room.
For a second, Steve just stared at you, like he hadn’t fully understood. Then something in his expression shifted — confusion twisting into something closer to panic. He shook his head once. Then again. Faster.
“Wait—no, I— I don’t know what she told you, but I—” His voice stumbled over itself, his breathing picking up. “We didn’t— I mean—” He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair, careful around the bandage. “I swear to you, nothing happened. At least— I don’t think it did. I would remember that,” he added, almost to himself, his voice faltering.
His eyes searched yours, desperate now.
“My memories are messed up, okay? I told you, they’re not clear, but I wouldn’t—” He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. “I couldn’t. Not to you, not—” He broke off, frustrated, dragging a hand down his face. “I mean, yeah, maybe I— I might’ve flirted a little, I don’t know, I was drunk and pissed and not thinking straight, but I wouldn’t—”
He stopped, breath uneven, clearly spiraling, trying to fill in the gaps before they could turn into something worse.
You couldn’t help it.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
You tried to hide it, pressing them together, but it was there.
He was unraveling in front of you, so visibly shaken, so desperate to explain himself, to fix something he wasn’t even sure he had broken.
When you were the one who had broken everything.
It did something to you.
“Steve,” you said, a little gentler now, but still firmly.
But it seemed like he didn’t hear you.
“I didn’t do anything, I didn’t — I mean, I don’t think I did, I wouldn’t just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head again. “God, I sound like an idiot, I just— I need you to know that I would never—”
“Steve,” you repeated, louder this time.
He stopped, meeting your eyes.
“Stop,” you added. “I know everything.”
For a second, he didn’t move. Then his expression shifted — tight, uncertain, almost bracing for impact. His shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched, like he was already preparing for whatever version of the story he thought you had heard.
You could see in his face — the fear, the guilt, the way he was already punishing himself for something he wasn’t even sure he had done.
Your gaze dropped briefly, your fingers fidgeting restlessly in your lap. You drew in a slow breath, trying to keep the composure you had been holding onto since the beginning of this conversation. You glanced around briefly, your eyes unfocused as the memory of your conversation with Kirsten surfaced — clear, vivid, like it was happening all over again. You remembered every single word she had said, very detail.
You let yourself fall back into it as you told Steve everything.
-
You swallowed hard. “Sorry for what, exactly?” you asked after a moment, your voice firm, cold, already bracing yourself for the worst.
Kirsten’s gaze shifted between you and Steve, lingering on him for just a second longer. There was hesitation in her eyes, like she wasn’t sure where to begin or what to say. When she finally spoke, her voice was small, unsteady.
“The accident,” she said, her words catching in her throat. “I… I’m so, so sorry.”
You blinked, your brows furrowed.
Her composure broke almost immediately. A soft sob escaped her, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as if she could stop it. “I—I’m not very good at driving,” she went on, her voice trembling, uneven. “And it was raining… it was raining so hard. There was water everywhere. I could barely see the road and then —” She shook her head quickly, sighing, like the memory overwhelmed her. “Everything happened so fast.”
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue.
“I’m really sorry. Truly. It was my car. I was driving.” Her hand lifted slightly, gesturing toward Steve’s unconscious body on the bed. “This should’ve happened to me. Not to him.”
You frowned, confusion settling in, pushing past everything else.
Her words didn’t match the story you had been building in your head.
She let out a shaky breath, noticing your expression. “If I just… If I hadn’t offered him a ride, maybe he’d be fine right now,” she added, quieter now, guilt laced through every syllable. “It’s just that —”
You interrupted her, unable to hold it in any longer. “Wait — what?” you asked, your voice sharper than intended. “I… I don’t understand. A ride? To where?”
Kirsten blinked, startled by your reaction.
“To you,” she said, more cautiously now. “He wanted to come back to you.”
You stared at her, your heart skipping a beat. The confusion only deepened, your mind struggling to keep up.
“To me?” You repeated, almost under your breath.
“We were both at the Hideout,” she continued, trying to explain, her words still uneven but clearer now. “We were talking. Drinking. And at some point he started telling me about you.”
You held her gaze, trying to keep up. She paused, studying your face as if to make sure you were following.
“He talked about a fight you had had earlier,” she said. “I probably shouldn’t say this but… he was a mess. He kept saying it wasn’t over. That you two still needed to talk. That he wasn’t going to let it end like that.” A faint, almost sad smile flickered across her lips. “He was… very determined. Drunk, yes, but determined.”
Your heart stuttered in your chest.
“At one point, he just stood up,” she went on. “He started looking for his keys, saying he had to go. To you.”
You felt you breath catch.
“But he wasn’t in any condition to drive,” she added quickly. “He was completely wasted. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He was so set on it.” She paused, glancing down at the floor. “And I don’t know…” She started saying. “It was kind of… romantic, in a way. Maybe a little desperate, too. But… romantic. The way he talked about you. The fact that he wanted to get back to you no matter what.” Her voice softened. “He looked so heartbroken. And I don't know… I think I felt sorry for him.”
A quiet breath left her.
“So I offered to drive him,” she finished. “I figured… at least I could make sure he got there safely.” A faint, bitter exhale followed. “Besides,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “by then it was pretty clear I didn’t stand a chance anyway.”
Her gaze flickered back to Steve.
“And then… well.” She gestured lightly toward him, toward the hospital bed, the machines, the silence that surrounded him. “We — You know the rest.”
The room had fallen completely still after that, while your mind had been racing, trying to rearrange everything you thought you knew into something that made sense.
There was one thought that kept surfacing, louder than the rest.
You looked back at her. “He… Steve was coming to me?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost fragile, even though you already knew the answer. But a part of you needed yet another confirmation. To be sure.
Kirsten nodded without hesitation.
“Yes.”
That single word settled deep inside your chest, echoing in your mind. If Steve was trying to come back to you, it meant that…
He hadn’t been going somewhere else. Not to her. Not to anyone.
You dropped your gaze for a moment, your thoughts shifting, narrowing, until only one question remained. The one that had been haunting you from the very beginning.
You swallowed slowly before asking. “So… you and Steve… nothing happened?” Your voice faltered slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “At the bar. And after, in the car. It was just… a ride? That’s all?”
Kirsten nodded again, more firmly this time.
You felt like you could breathe again, as if you had been underwater until that moment and was only now resurfacing.
Kirsten let out a small sigh. “Look, I’ll be honest,” she said. “When I saw him sitting at the bar, alone, I thought…” She hesitated, a faint, embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “I thought I’d give it a shot,” she admitted.
A brief pause.
“But I never really had a chance,” she added quickly.
You lifted your eyes to her again.
“Yeah, he was… polite,” she went on. “Charming. He listened to me, answered my questions. But when he started talking… he only talked about you.” She shook her head slightly. “And he wouldn’t stop.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I think I learned more about you than I did about him,” she added. “My wife this, my wife that… and always something good.”
Something in your chest tightened.
“Once we got in the car, he fell asleep almost immediately,” she added, a small, almost fond smile appearing despite everything. “Didn’t even make it five minutes.” She shook her head slightly. “But nothing else happened,” she said, more firmly now. “He didn’t even touch me. Not once.”
Her gaze held yours.
“You’re… very lucky,” she said quietly.
For a moment, you just stared at her. Then your eyes drifted to Steve, slowly. To the man lying in that hospital bed. The man who, even at his worst, even broken and drunk and hurting, had still chosen you. Even when it would have been so easy to let go, to give in, to choose something easier. Someone else. But he hadn’t. He had still tried to come back to you.
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it, followed by a soft smile. You shook your head faintly.
“No,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.
You looked back at her.
“I’m the lucky one.”
-
A quiet settled in the room when you finished speaking.
Your eyes stayed fixed on Steve’s face, waiting for his reaction. You held your breath without even realizing it.
He didn’t speak right away. His gaze drifted slightly, watching everywhere and nothing at the same time, as he tried to process every word, to fit it somewhere inside what he remembered. His eyes flicked to you. Then, after a moment, he spoke. “So… nothing happened?” His voice low, careful as if he wasn’t still sure.
You shook your head slowly.
For a second, he just looked at you. Then his eyes closed, and a long breath left him — deep, shaky, like it had been trapped inside his chest for several minutes. His shoulders dropped as he sank back into the pillows, tension draining from his body, giving way to something softer. Relief. Pure, unfiltered relief. Like a weight had finally been lifted.
But it didn’t last.
His expression shifted again as his eyes opened, something heavier settling in their place, his gaze back on you.
“I’m sorry.”
You frowned immediately, blinking at him in confusion. “What? Steve, I just told you nothing happened—”
He shook his head, slower this time, certain. “Yes, it did.”
The firmness in his tone caught you off guard. There was no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty. Just quiet conviction. He swallowed, his eyes dropping to the blanket, fingers brushing absentmindedly against the fabric.
“I still let her sit,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I knew what she wanted and I still— I didn’t stop it. I stayed. And I let her… flirt. And I…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “I shouldn’t have. It was wrong.”
You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you could.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, softer this time.
You swallowed, your eyes dropping to your hands as they twisted together in your lap. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said after a moment, your voice gentler. “Really. You don’t have to apologize.” A small pause. “I’m not even in the position… I mean… I was the one who told you to move on. To find —”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the chair.
“Yeah, but I never wanted that.” His voice cut through yours, sharper this time, tinged with frustration.
You looked up at him, surprised by his tone.
“And I don’t want it,” he added, more firmly, like he needed you to understand.
He dragged a hand through his hair, careful around the bandage, exhaling through his nose as he tried to steady himself. “I tried,” he went on after a moment, quieter now. “I tried to listen to you. To do what you said.” His gaze drifted somewhere ahead of him, unfocused. “To imagine it. Being with someone else. Seeing if I could feel something.” A small, bitter breath left him. “If it could be that simple.”
He let out a short, bitter breath.
“That’s why I talked to her,” he admitted. “At first, I thought… maybe.” He shook his head faintly. “But it wasn’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“But I couldn’t.” His gaze lifted, finding yours and holding it this time. “I was sitting there with her and all… all I could think about was you.” His voice softened, something raw slipping through. “About us. About how wrong everything felt. All of it. Being there, talking to her… even listening to her.” A small pause. “I didn’t want to be there. Not really. I wanted to be home. With you. I wanted to fix things. To talk to you. That’s all I wanted.”
The words settled between you, heavy and real.
“Being there with her…” he continued, slower now, like he was choosing each word carefully, “it just made everything clearer.”
You held his gaze, barely breathing.
“I don’t want her,” he said. “Or anyone else.”
Something in your chest cracked open.
“I don’t need to try or imagine,” he added, his voice steady despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “Because I have you.”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“You’re the one I want,” he finished quietly. “No matter what.”
No matter if you could give him kids or not, you thought he wanted to say.
You couldn’t speak, your breath catching in your throat. You remembered Nancy and Robin’s words. When they had said exactly the same thing. But hearing Steve pronounce them was different. More real. It wasn't just the words of two friends trying to comfort you anymore.
Your throat tightened, emotions rising too fast, too overwhelming to put into words. You dropped your gaze for a second, blinking rapidly as tears blurred your vision.
“Everything I said that night at Nancy’s house…” he continued, softer now, his voice rough with emotion. “I meant it. Every word.”
You swallowed hard, looking back at him.
“I meant it when I said it wasn’t over,” he added. “Not for me. And I think —”
A soft knock interrupted him.
The door opened before either of you could react, and a nurse stepped inside, pushing a breakfast cart, her presence sudden and almost jarring against the intimacy of the moment. You both turned toward her at the same time.
“Good morning,” she said with a polite smile, her voice gentle, professional. “Time to eat.”
You straightened slightly, forcing a small smile in return, but you could feel it — that lingering weight between you, the conversation left hanging mid-air. When you looked back, Steve was already looking at you again.
“We need to talk,” he said under his breath, just for you.
You nodded quickly. “I know,” you whispered. “I need to talk to you too.”
For a second, it felt instinctive to reach for him and close the distance.
But you didn’t.
You stayed where you were, your hands still, your fingers curling slightly into your palms instead.
“Later, okay?” You added after a small pause.
His gaze lingered on yours for a second longer, searching for any trace of doubt. Then he gave a faint nod, his jaw tightening just slightly before his attention shifted back to the nurse — who had just asked him something neither of you had actually heard.
-
But later never seemed to come.
The moment you had promised each other kept slipping further away, pushed aside by one interruption after another.
Right after breakfast, they had taken Steve for a series of tests. You had watched as they wheeled him out of the room, his hand slipping from yours at the last second, his eyes lingering on you like he didn’t want to let go.
When he returned, the doctor followed with good news. Steve was responding well. The scans were clear and there were no signs of complications from the head trauma. He was officially out of danger. They would keep him a few more days, just to be sure, and then discharge him.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you had been holding your breath until that moment. It left you all at once, a quiet, shaky exhale as relief settled deep in your chest, loosening something that had been knotted there for days.
Not long after, the room had started to fill with visits — first one person, then two, then more. Word had spread and now everyone wanted to see Steve.
The energy in the room shifted completely. Where there had been tension and quiet before, there was Nancy’s calm voice, Robin’s unmistakable, relentless chatter and Dustin’s comments filling every corner of the space. Despite the bruises, the bandages, the lingering exhaustion, Steve seemed more like himself with every passing minute. He rolled his eyes at Dustin, muttered under his breath, pushed back weakly when the teasing got too much.
Dustin shook his head, arms crossed. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Can’t believe what?” Steve asked, already annoyed.
“That this is how you almost died,” Dustin said. “A car accident. Seriously, dude?”
Steve stared at him in disbelief. “I didn’t exactly plan it, Henderson.”
“Yeah, but you survived demogorgons and Vecna,” Dustin went on. “And then, boom! Seatbelt takes you out.”
“First of all, that’s not how seatbelts work! And secondly, that's not exactly how things went.”
“Still embarrassing,” Dustin muttered.
Steve let his head fall back against the pillow. “I’m not having this conversation.”
Everyone in the room burst out laughing, including you.
Anyone else, hearing words like demogorgons or Vecna, would have frowned in confusion.
But not you.
You knew exactly what they meant. Steve had told you everything about the Upside Down, not long after you had gotten together. At first, you had thought it was some elaborate story to scare you or make you laugh. But then El had shown you what she could do and suddenly, nothing had felt impossible anymore.
After that, things had started making sense — the way Steve had somehow become responsible for a group of kids, the looks they all exchanged sometimes, full of meaning you couldn’t quite grasp at the time, and their silences.
Your gaze drifted back to him. He was listening, nodding along, answering when he had to but every few seconds, his eyes found you again. Like a reflex. Like he couldn’t help it.
Sometimes your gazes locked for a second too long, something unspoken passing between you before you were the one to look away, your cheeks warming despite yourself. Other times, he was the one to break it, turning back to whoever was talking to him, forcing himself back into the conversation.
But you could tell he was waiting, watching for a moment alone with you. You had seen it more than once — him starting to say something when the room finally quieted, only for the door to open again, another voice cutting in, another interruption stealing the moment away.
Part of you was relieved for those interruptions. They gave you space and time to breathe, to think and to process everything that had already been said before adding more on top of it. Before addressing the conversation you had put on hold since before the accident.
When the room became too full and the noise too much, you slipped out quietly, using small excuses — coffee, water, fresh air. But more than once, you found yourself standing in front of the vending machines without taking anything, staring blankly at the rows of snacks as your mind replayed his words.
I want you. No matter what.
You leaned your shoulder against the cold wall, exhaling slowly, your arms crossing loosely over your chest.
Now that everything was clear — what had happened that night, what hadn’t — there was nothing left to question. No more misunderstandings to hide behind. No more reasons to put off the conversation you had left unfinished. The one you had been avoiding from the beginning.
You closed your eyes for a moment as the thought settled in your chest, quiet but undeniable.
The next conversation would matter.
And it would change everything once again.
Maybe it would be even the last.
-
The door clicked shut a few minutes past eight, and for the first time in hours, the room fell quiet.
You both exhaled almost at the same time, relieved, exhausted.
You were still sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your shoulders relaxing, when Steve’s voice broke through. “I thought they’d never leave.”
A small laugh slipped past your lips, soft, almost whispered. “What can you do? You’re basically a celebrity right now. Everyone wants to see…” You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your eyes. “What was it they used to call you? King Steve?”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head against the pillow as he remembered his “glorious days” in high school. “Yeah… well, I don’t feel much like a king right now.” He hesitated. “Don’t think I ever really was.”
There was no bitterness in his voice. Just tired honesty.
You pushed yourself up from the couch and walked toward the bed, slow. You stopped just short of it, leaving that small, careful distance between you.
“It’s been a long day,” you said gently, smiling. “You must be exhausted. Do you want—”
“I want to talk.”
The words cut through yours, firm but not harsh. You stilled. For a second, you just looked at him, as if to understand whether he truly meant it.
And he did. You could see the determination in his eyes.
You took another step closer, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the mattress, fingers pressing into the fabric as if to steady yourself.
“Now?” you asked, your voice softer, uncertain. “Are you sure? It’s late. We could —”
Steve shook his head. “No.” His voice was calm, but resolute. “I need to do this now.”
He shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing almost imperceptibly before settling again. His gaze stayed on you, steady despite the exhaustion written all over him. “I need to know that this —” his hand lifted weakly, gesturing between the two of you “— that this isn’t just… temporary.”
You swallowed.
“I need to know what happens when I get out of here,” he added, his voice dipping, rougher now, choosing each word with care. “I mean between us,” he clarified, his voice quieter. His eyes flickered over your face, studying you, trying to find an answer. “You’ve been here all day, barely leaving my side. And we —” He stopped, exhaling shakily, his gaze dropping for a second. “It feels like before. Like nothing changed. Like nothing happened.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the mattress.
“And I don’t know if it… if it is real,” he admitted. “Or if you’re acting like that just because I’m here like this.” His jaw tensed slightly, swallowing. “Because you feel like you have to.”
Your heart pulled tight in your chest. You shook your head almost immediately, a small, instinctive motion. You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him it wasn’t true — that you really wanted to be there. For him. And not just because he was your husband.
But Steve didn’t give you the time to reply and the words caught in your throat.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he went on, his gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “I don’t want to think we’re okay if we’re not.”
There was no accusation in his voice — just careful, restrained fear.
“So I need to know,” he said, more quietly now, the words slower, “if this… if you being here… means we’re not over.” His voice faltered slightly. “Not even for you.”
You swallowed.
“That you’re going to stay once I’m out of here,” he added, barely above a murmur. “Or if…” He swallowed, his throat working visibly. “If you’re just going to leave again.”
The words hung between you. Steve’s jaw tightened slightly, like even saying it out loud cost him something.
“Because I can’t do that again, I can’t lose you again,” he admitted, his voice stripped of everything but truth. “I need to know where we stand,” he finished, softer now. “Before I start hoping for something that isn’t there,” he added under his breath, almost more to himself than to you.
Your breath caught.
“Please,” he begged.
The word was barely a whisper, but it hit you harder than anything else he had said. The tears burned behind your eyes, threatening to spill. Seeing him like that — so open, so vulnerable — broke through every last defense you had left, any resistance still intact. You swallowed hard, still feeling the weight of his words pressing against your chest. Then you nodded slowly.
“Okay… let’s talk.”
You moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down and turning slightly toward him. The distance between you was smaller now, but it felt heavier than it should have.
The room fell into silence.
You lifted your eyes to him, but dropped them almost immediately, your fingers fidgeting together in your lap as you searched for the right words.
You cleared your throat softly. “There’s something you should know first,” you said, your voice low, hesitant. “Something I didn’t tell you this morning.”
Steve didn’t speak. He just watched you, waiting. His expression tightened slightly, like he already knew he wasn’t going to like what came next.
You lowered your gaze again, drawing in a slow breath. “After I talked to Kirsten… that day…” You hesitated, your lips pressing together for a second. Then, without softening it — “I called a lawyer.”
Steve’s eyes widened, his grip tightening around the bedsheets, the confusion visible in his hands.
Your fingers curled tighter together as you forced yourself to keep going, rushing on before he could say anything. Before he could think the worst.
“I had already contacted him before the accident,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, a trace of embarrassment creeping in. “To start the divorce process,” you added after a brief moment of hesitation.
You knew that confessing it wouldn't help your position. If anything, it might make things worse. But it seemed right to you that he knew. It was the least you could do, especially after he had told you the truth that morning.
You looked up at him, almost cautiously, afraid of his reaction.
He didn’t say anything right away but you saw the shift in his expression, the hurt in his eyes before he could hide it. His gaze drifted away from you, landing somewhere across the room, unfocused, nodding, like he was just processing what you had said. Then a breath left him — something close to a dry, humorless laugh.
“Right,” he muttered. “Thought of everything, didn’t you?”
The tone was light, but not enough to hide the hurt underneath. Enough to make your guilt grow.
You closed your eyes briefly, shaking your head. “No… I didn’t,” you said, quickly, more firmly this time. “That’s exactly the point.”
When you opened your eyes again, you looked straight at him. “I thought I had everything figured out,” you went on, slower, more honest. “I thought I knew what I was doing. But I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I ignored many things. I ignored you. Your opinion. Your feelings. And it wasn’t right.”
Your hands shifted slightly against your knees, restless.
“That’s why I called the lawyer again,” you added, glancing away for a second before meeting his eyes again. “I told him to stop.”
Steve turned his head toward you sharply, caught off guard.
“What?” he asked, almost under his breath. “Stop?”
His grip on the sheets loosened slightly, though not completely. His eyes searched yours carefully.
“Really?”
You nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I told him not to go through with it. Not to file anything.”
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes dropping for a moment before lifting back to his.
“I messed up, okay?” you said, your voice unsteady. “I know that. And I’m… I’m sorry.”
The words came out before you could stop them—and once they started, they didn’t stop. “I shouldn’t have done what I did,” you went on, faster now, like you needed to get it all out before you lost the nerve. “I shouldn’t have made that decision on my own. Without talking to you first. Without even… asking you what you wanted.”
Your gaze dropped again, this time longer as shame crept in, heavy and undeniable.
“I kept telling myself that I was doing the right thing,” you admitted, a faint, bitter edge slipping into your voice. “For you. For both of us.”
You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “But clearly…” you gestured weakly between the two of you, your throat tightening, “that’s not what happened.”
You pushed yourself up from the chair then, unable to sit still anymore. You started pacing slowly beside his bed, your arms wrapping around yourself for a moment before dropping again.
“And the worst part is…” you went on, your voice quieter now, more honest, “it wasn’t even really about you.” You swallowed, hard. “I told myself, I told you that it was,” you said, turning slightly toward him. “But it wasn’t. Not completely, at least.” A pause. “I was just doing what I thought was right… for me.”
Your eyes stung, your vision blurring as you blinked quickly.
“Because I was scared,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. Your hands lifted, gesturing vaguely in front of you, restless. “Terrified, actually.”
You started moving again, slower this time.
“Scared that you’d stay with me… and then one day realize it was a mistake. That I was a mistake,” you said, each word heavier than the last. “And I didn’t want to be something you’d regret.”
Your arms crossed tighter over your chest, like you were trying to hold yourself together.
Steve shifted slightly on the bed.
Your words had hurt him.
“I could never—” he started, his voice low, tired, but you shook your head immediately, cutting him off before he could finish.
“You don’t know that, Steve,” you said gently, but firmly.
You sank back down onto the chair, your energy suddenly draining out of you all at once.
“And it’s okay. Because none of us do,” you continued, softer at first. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow… or in a year… or five.” Your voice started to pick up again, less steady now. "You could leave me one day,” you said, repeating Robin’s words, faster, more anxious. “You could stop loving me.” A small pause. “Or maybe I could be the one to change. To want something different.”
You let out a slow breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment before looking at him again.
“I don’t want that,” you added quickly before he could misunderstand your words. “Obviously. That’s not what I want at all.” Your lips pressed together briefly. “But it’s possible. Everything could happen.”
Silence stretched between you again, less sharp but just as heavy.
“I spent all this time…” you went on, quieter, steadier now, “focusing only on the worst possible outcome. On the idea that you’d end up unhappy. That you’d leave.” You shook your head faintly. “I never even considered the alternative,” you admitted. “That maybe you wouldn’t. That we might actually… be okay in the end.”
Your eyes softened slightly as you looked at him.
“That you might stay,” you finished.
The room fell silent. Steve sighed — a slow breath, exhausted. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with frustration. “Why didn’t you talk to me about this?” His eyes searched yours, trying to understand. “About what you were feeling. I would’ve told you that—”
You leaned back against the chair before he could finish, exhaustion washing over you all at once. Your head had started to ache somewhere along the way, a dull pressure building behind your eyes. You pressed your fingers to your temple, rubbing slowly.
“I told you, Steve. I was…” you exhaled, your voice faltering. “I was scared and… and a part of me didn't accept it at first. The diagnosis. I couldn’t believe it.”
You hesitated, your hand dropping back into your lap, fingers curling together.
“It…” you continued, your voice trembling now, thinner, like it might break at any moment. “It felt like it wiped everything out. Every certainty I had. Everything I thought I knew about us… about the future… was gone.” Your eyes filled with tears, your gaze slipping away from him. “I think… a part of me just… convinced itself that the only way we could keep being as happy as we were… was if we had kids,” you admitted, swallowing hard.
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
“And when I found out that I might not be able to…” your voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it. “I thought that was it. Because I couldn’t give you the life we wanted anymore. And that we — I couldn’t make you happy anymore.”
More tears followed, quiet, unstoppable now.
“I thought that I wouldn’t be enough for you,” you whispered. “Not like that. Not in the long run. And that you’d get tired one day.”
“So I decided to leave you,” you went on, your lips trembling. “I thought… if I let you go first, if I stepped away… you’d still have time to realize that dream with someone else. To have what you’ve always wanted.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“I really thought I was doing the right thing,” you added, almost bitterly. “For you.” A pause. “I didn’t want you to sacrifice that life for me. But really… I was just trying to protect myself from the moment you’d realize I wasn’t enough.”
Silence settled over the room, thick and heavy. For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. Steve looked at you, like he was trying to understand how you had carried all of that alone. Then he exhaled slowly.
“I didn’t fall in love with the idea of a family or... six little nuggets,” he started, his voice softer now, more careful. “I fell in love with you.” He shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing just a little, uncomfortable, but he didn’t stop. “I mean, yeah — I'd like to have them,” he admitted, more plainly. His gaze held yours. “But I want them with you,” he went on. “Before you, I didn’t even think about that stuff.” He let out a small breath. “You’re the reason I started wanting it in the first place. And I’m with you because I love you. For a hundred reasons that have nothing to do with…” He trailed off, hesitating for a second, searching for the right words. “…with whether you may be fertile or not.” The way he said it was a little awkward, a little unsure — but completely sincere.
A small, unexpected laugh slipped out of you through your tears, shaky but real. Steve’s expression softened just slightly at the sound of it.
“And anyway…” he added, a little more tentative now, like he was thinking out loud, “there are other ways.” He shrugged faintly, one hand shifting against the blanket. “We could adopt,” he said. “Or… I don’t know, there’s that thing—” he frowned slightly, trying to remember, one hand lifting before stopping halfway as if he remembered the bandages, then awkwardly scratching just beside them instead, careful, “what’s it called? I read about a technique somewhere. When they —” He gestured vaguely, frustrated with himself.“—when they, like… help with that. Medically.”
“IVF,” you said quietly, finishing the thought for him. “I’ve already looked into it,” you went on, your fingers twisted together in your lap, nails pressing lightly into your skin. “But it’s expensive, Steve. Really expensive. And we can’t afford that right now. Not with the mortgage, and everything else…” You shook your head faintly, your gaze dropping. “And it’s not even guaranteed to work.”
“And adoption…” you added, softer now. “I thought about it. I did. But I didn’t think it was something you’d want.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, afraid of how they might sound once spoken out loud. “You always talked about having kids that looked like us. Your hair, my eyes… things like that.” A breath caught in your throat. “So I just assumed that… you wouldn’t want a child that —”
You trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Steve’s brow furrowed slightly, something almost incredulous crossing his expression. “What?” he said, not sharply, but with quiet disbelief. “That they wouldn’t have my blood?”
He shook his head immediately, like the idea itself didn’t sit right with him.
“I don’t need that,” he said, more firmly now. “I don’t need them to look like me. Or to be… biologically mine.” He hesitated for a second, like he almost didn’t want to say it. “Look at me and Dustin,” he went on, his voice softening just a little. “We’re not related, but he’s—” he let out a small breath, searching for the right word. “He’s like my little brother. That’s not… less, just because we don’t share blood.”
Your eyes lifted to him.
“And my students,” he added after a second, quieter now. “Half the time I worry about them like they’re my own kids.” A faint, almost self-aware smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Probably more than I should.”
The smile faded as he looked back at you, more serious again.
“I don’t want some perfect little version of me,” he said. “Honestly, that sounds like a nightmare.” A brief pause. “That stuff… the hair, the eyes — it’s just something people say. A fantasy.” He drew in a slow breath. “What really matters is… What I want is a kid who’s healthy. Safe. Happy.” His voice softened, warming slightly despite everything. “Someone I can take to the park. Show how to play baseball when they’re ready.” A small shrug. “Or not baseball. Could be anything.”
Something in your chest tightened at the image.
“What I’m trying to say is…” he continued, his voice quieter, steadier. “We have options. We can adopt. We can try IVF, if that’s what you want.” He glanced down briefly, then back up at you. “I don’t care how much it costs. We can save, take a loan, whatever.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself picture it again. Not the version you used to imagine — the one where everything was easy, predictable, where the child looked like the two of you, shared your features. This time it was different, blurrier in some ways, less defined… but somehow still real.
You saw yourself and Steve side by side, a child between you. You couldn’t quite make out their face, couldn’t tell whose eyes they had — if they had either of yours at all. And for the first time, it didn’t matter. Because you were happy. And that was all that mattered.
Your chest tightened, something fragile and unfamiliar unfolding inside you.
Hope.
You hadn’t let yourself go there in weeks. Not since the day you had left him. Every time that image had tried to surface, you had pushed it away, shut it down before it could take shape. Like it wasn’t yours anymore. Like you didn’t have the right to want it.
But now… it didn’t feel impossible. Not the way it had before.
It could exist.
“Or…” Steve added, softer now, “we don’t do any of that.”
Your breath hitched slightly.
“We don’t have kids,” he said simply. “And that’s okay too.” He held your gaze then, fully, no hesitation or uncertainty left. “I mean it,” he went on. “I don’t need any of that.” His fingers loosened slightly in the sheets. “Whatever our family looks like, I want it to be with you.” A small pause. “I just want you,” he added. “That’s it. That’s the only thing I’m sure about.” He exhaled softly, almost like he was letting something go. “Everything else… It’s just extra.”
Tears kept falling, unstoppable now, slipping down your cheeks as if something inside you had finally given way. This time you let them come and run free.
“Even after all this?” you asked, your voice trembling, fragile. You swallowed, your throat tight. “You still want me?”
Steve didn’t hesitate. He nodded, his gaze steady despite the emotion shining in his eyes. “I think I’ve been pretty clear about that,” he said quietly.
He had. But part of you still needed to hear it again. Needed to be sure.
Steve’s expression shifted, something more serious settling in.
“What about you?” he went on, softer but no less certain. “What do you want?” He asked, his eyes holding yours, searching. “What happens to us when I get out of here?”
You hesitated, your gaze dropping to your hands as they twisted together in your lap. You tried to steady your breathing, wiping your cheeks quickly, though the tears kept coming.
What do you want? The question echoed in your mind, louder than everything else.
“I… I don’t know if I want to adopt,” you admitted, your voice uneven. “And I don’t know if I want to try IVF. Not right now, at least.” You shook your head faintly, exhaling. “I think I need time to… to process everything first. To accept that I might not be able to have children of my own.” Your voice softened, quieter now. “I need to learn how to live with that before I can decide anything else.”
A small pause followed.
You still wanted kids. That hadn’t changed. Even when you had tried to convince yourself otherwise or told Steve the opposite. And now you knew that maybe, in some way, there was still a possibility. Not in the way you had imagined. Not the way you had planned so many times before. But still… a chance. A future. With him.
Just not yet.
First, you needed to heal.
And maybe, somewhere along the way, the two of you could find each other again.
You lifted your eyes back to him.
“But I’d like to figure it out with you,” you added, more firmly this time, even if your voice still trembled. “With you by my side. I want to see what our future looks like… together.” A faint, uncertain smile touched your lips. “At least as long as we both want one. What do you say?”
Steve’s eyes grew glassy, the emotion there no longer hidden. He let out a quiet breath, something in his shoulders easing, like he had been holding it in for too long. He nodded. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice rough, unsteady. “I’d like that a lot.”
You nodded too, almost instinctively, your chest tightening with something overwhelming and warm and disbelieving all at once. You tried to wipe your tears again, but they kept coming, slipping through your fingers.
“Hey…” Steve murmured, his voice softer now. He shifted slightly and extended his hand toward you, palm open. “Come here.”
You hesitated for a second, glancing at the bandages, the fading bruises along his skin. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you said quietly. “Your injuries—”
“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted gently, shaking his head faintly. Then, after a small pause, his voice softened even more. “It’ll hurt a lot more if you keep staying that far away. We’ve been apart long enough.” A faint hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
You knew he wasn’t just talking about the few steps between the chair and the bed. He was talking about all those days you had spent apart from each other. The distance you had created due to your stupid decisions. A distance that had almost cost you everything. A distance you weren't used to.
Since the moment you had met, you had never been this far from him for this long. Not like that. A few hours at most.
Something in your chest gave in completely, preventing you from arguing again. And you didn't even want to do it. You couldn’t. You needed him just as much.
Carefully, you stood and moved closer, climbing onto the bed with slow, cautious movements. You made sure to avoid the worst of his injuries, adjusting yourself until you could lie beside him without causing him pain. You settled on your side, resting your head against his chest, just over his heart. Your hand followed, splayed lightly against him as if to make sure he was real. His arm came around your waist almost immediately, holding you close, firm, like he was afraid you might slip away if he didn’t.
When you had both settled, you exhaled at the same time.
The warmth of his skin against yours seeped in slowly at first, then all at once. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoed beneath your ear — strong, constant. It filled your senses, drowning out everything else. And just like that, something inside you unclenched. The tension that had been coiled in your body for days melted away, leaving behind a deep, heavy exhaustion you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel until that moment.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in, letting yourself sink into him completely, into the quiet rise and fall of his chest. You let his heartbeat lulling you into something softer, calmer.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered after a while, your voice barely audible, trembling at the edges.
Steve’s hand moved slowly along your back, up and down in a soothing rhythm.
“I told you,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head, “you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
A weak breath of a laugh left you, but it broke halfway through.
“I’m sorry,” you started, but the words caught in your throat.
Your body shook before you could stop it. The tears came harder this time, deeper. Not sharp or panicked like before, but something else entirely — something that had been building for too long.
Relief.
Because he was here. Alive.
And he was okay.
Because despite everything—everything you had done, everything you had almost destroyed—he was still choosing you.
And you were still there. With him.
You buried your face against him as the sobs finally broke free, quiet but uncontrollable, your fingers clutching lightly at his shirt.
You didn’t hold them back this time. You didn’t even try to. You just let go.
“I’m sorry,” you repeated, again and again, your voice muffled, uneven, like the words themselves weren’t enough to hold everything you felt.
Steve didn’t stop you. He just held you. His hand kept moving along your back, slow, steady, grounding. His other arm tightened slightly around you, anchoring you in place as you let it all out.
And for the first time in days, you stopped holding yourself together. You finally let go.
“Hey… hey,” he whispered softly, his lips brushing your hair again. “It’s okay.”
You cried into his chest, your body gradually easing with every breath, every quiet sob.
“We’re okay,” he murmured. “We’ll be fine.” His voice was firmer this time. It left no room for any doubt or uncertainty.
You clung to him a little tighter, your breathing slowly evening out, the weight inside your chest beginning to lift, little by little.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe it.
And this time — you didn’t fight it.
And here we are, almost at the end of this story! I say 'almost' because… there will be an EPILOGUE! And then that’s really it, even though I’m having a hard time letting this series go. But all good things must come to an end, right? So let’s give it the ending it deserves! I can’t wait for you to read it, and don’t get too comfortable just yet, there are still tears ahead, so keep those tissues close.
Now returning to this last chapter... Did you really think I wouldn't give them a happy ending, or better another chance? I'm a total sucker for them. I was just messing with you, guys. Steve would never cheat on her! Sorry if I made you cry or sad in the last parts, it wasn't my intention (or maybe it was), but I wanted to keep some mystery until the end. I really hope that this chapter makes up for all my sins! Let me know what you think about it :)
i love you’re writing so much, and I’m pretty sure I’ve read almost everything of yours, I’m obsessed.
ive been thinking of a Steve fic for a while now. Like its s5 Steve, but he still has that s3 Russian trauma? Kinda like headaches, or migraines if he’s in a bright room, or if it gets loud. So basically something that reminds him of the base, if that makes any sense? :,)
Anyways, thank you, write it however you like :))
WE GOT THIS
steve harrington x reader
val speaks - heyyy babe ily!!!! thanku for requesting !! i took this as he gets all that and reader finds ways to comfort him, i hope thats what u were looking for n i hope u love xo
word count: 3.4k
the first time you really notice it, it’s not dramatic. no one says anything, nothing crashes or burns. it’s just a shift, small, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t already tuned into him the way you are.
steve’s sitting across the room, half-listening to dustin go on about something, nodding in the right places, but his smile doesn’t quite land. it lingers a second too long, like he’s reminding himself to keep it there.
you watch the way his fingers press lightly into his temple, like he thinks no one can see. like it’s instinct.
you don’t call it out, not yet, you just file it away.
it happens again a few days later. and then again.
sometimes it’s when things get loud, everyone piled into one place, voices overlapping, the room buzzing in that chaotic, familiar way. sometimes it’s quieter than that. just the two of you, laying side by side, the world finally still, and even then, something in him feels distant, like he’s not fully there with you.
it’s subtle. that’s the thing.
steve doesn’t make a show of it. doesn’t complain. doesn’t even sigh about it, really. he just.. withdraws, a little. like he’s stepping back inside himself.
your not sure if anyone else notices, but you do.
you notice the way his eyes squeeze shut for half a second too long when someone drops something. the way bright lights seem to bother him more than they should, how he angles his face away or squints like it physically hurts. the way his shoulders tense when the room gets too loud, like his body’s bracing for something that isn’t there anymore.
you don’t need him to explain it for you to start understanding.
still, you ask.
you’re sitting next to him on the couch, everyone else scattered around, some movie playing that no one’s really paying attention to. your hand’s resting against his arm, thumb tracing slow circles, and you feel the tension there before you even look at him.
“hey,” you murmur, soft enough that it doesn’t pull attention. “you okay?”
he glances at you, quick. too quick.
“yeah,” he says, easy. automatic. “i’m good.”
you hold his gaze for a second longer than he expects. he smiles, like that should settle it. it doesn’t.
but you don’t push.
instead, you shift a little closer, your hand sliding down to lace your fingers with his. you squeeze, gentle, grounding. something quiet and steady.
“you wanna go sit somewhere else?” you ask after a moment, like it’s nothing. “it’s kinda loud in here.”
he hesitates.
just for a second.
then he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”
no one makes a big deal of it when you both slip out. that’s the thing about your group, people come and go, wander off, no one questions it too much.
you lead him somewhere quieter. not far, just enough. somewhere the noise fades into the background instead of pressing in on all sides.
he exhales the second you’re there.
it’s subtle, but you feel it.
you don’t say anything about it. you just sit with him, shoulder to shoulder, your presence calm and steady, like you’re giving him space without leaving him alone in it.
after a while, his head tips slightly toward yours, you lean in just enough to meet him halfway.
-
it keeps happening.
different days, different moments, same quiet pattern. and every time, he says he’s fine. and every time, you let him. not because you believe it, but because you understand something else instead.
that if he wanted to tell you, he would. and if he’s not, then maybe what he needs isn’t questions.
maybe it’s this. soft adjustments, small things.
you start noticing the signs earlier than he probably realises. the way his posture changes, the way his voice gets a little thinner around the edges, the way his attention drifts even when he’s trying to stay present.
so you meet him there.
if it’s loud, you find reasons to pull him somewhere quieter. if the lights are too bright, you suggest heading out, or closing the blinds, or moving somewhere dimmer. if it’s late and he’s off in that distant way, you brush your fingers through his hair and murmur, “we could take a nap, if you want.”
you always make it sound casual. like it’s for you, too.
sometimes he agrees right away. sometimes he hesitates, like he’s weighing whether he’s allowed to need that.
you never make it feel like something he has to justify.
“c’mon,” you’ll say softly, already standing, already holding your hand out for him. “just for a bit.”
and he always takes your hand.
-
one night, it’s just the two of you.
you’re laying in bed, facing each other, your legs tangled together, your hand resting lightly against his chest. his heartbeat is steady under your palm, but there’s something else there too. something tight, something restless.
his eyes are open, staring somewhere past you.
“steve” you say quietly.
he blinks, like he forgot you were there for a second.
“yeah?”
you study him, not in a way that feels invasive. just present, paying attention.
“you don’t seem fine” you say, just as soft.
he lets out a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh. almost.
“i told you, i’m okay.”
it’s not defensive. it’s not sharp. it’s tired.
you don’t argue with him.
instead, you shift closer, your hand sliding up to cup the side of his face. your thumb brushes lightly under his eye, slow and careful.
“okay” you say.
and you mean it.
not that it’s okay, but that you’re not going to push him into saying something he’s not ready to say.
you let your forehead rest against his.
“we can still rest, though,” you add quietly. “yeah?”
there’s a pause then his eyes close. and this time, when he exhales, it’s heavier. like something in him is letting go, just a little.
“yeah” he murmurs.
you stay like that for a second before shifting, guiding him gently to lay down properly. you follow, close, your arm wrapping around him, your hand settling at the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly through his hair.
you keep your touch soft.
it takes a while, but eventually, you feel the tension in him ease. not completely, but enough.
his breathing slows and even in his sleep, he stays close. like some part of him knows you’re there and doesn’t want to drift too far from it.
you don’t sleep right away. you just stay with him, listening to the quiet, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the faint warmth of his breath against your skin.
you don’t have all the answers. he hasn’t told you everything. but you know enough. and for now, that’s enough to be what he needs.
someone who notices, someone who stays, someone who doesn’t make him say it out loud for it to matter.
-
it’s been a few weeks since you first started noticing.
and still, nothing’s been said out loud, not really. but things have settled more into this quiet understanding between you. small adjustments, softer moments, the way you instinctively reach for him before he even realises he needs it.
today feels easy, though.
the kind of day that almost tricks you into thinking everything’s normal again.
you’re all at the squawk, clearing out one of the back rooms for… something. no one’s entirely sure what the plan is, just that it needs to be done. boxes get passed around, dust kicked up, music playing faintly from somewhere in the front. robin’s arguing with dustin about what should be thrown out, and someone keeps getting distracted every five minutes.
it’s light. familiar. good.
steve’s been okay all morning.
better than okay, actually. he’s laughing, properly laughing, shoulders loose, eyes bright in a way you haven’t seen as much lately. every now and then he brushes past you, hand grazing your back, or nudges you with his shoulder like he always does.
you let yourself relax into it.
you’re halfway through carrying a box when someone mentions another room that still needs checking.
“i’ll go” steve says easily, already heading off before anyone else can argue.
you don’t think twice about it.
-
the door sticks.
you find that out a minute later when you follow after him, mid-conversation with robin about something completely unimportant.
“-i’m just saying, if we’re throwing stuff out, that definitely-” you cut yourself off as you shove the door open with your shoulder, it resisting for a second before giving way. “shit, that door’s heavy-”
you look up.
and stop.
steve’s standing in the middle of the room.
he’s not moving.
for a second, it doesn’t register as wrong. he’s just there. facing the door, shoulders slightly tense.
then you see his face.
“baby?” you say, softer now.
his eyes flick to you, like he’s just remembering where he is. like he didn’t hear you come in at all.
there’s something off about it. distant. not fully here. you step inside, letting the door fall mostly shut behind you with a dull thud.
“hey,” you murmur, slower this time, careful. “are you okay?”
he swallows.
it’s small, but you see it. the way his throat moves, the way his jaw tightens just slightly after.
he doesn’t answer.
his breathing’s off, too. you notice that next. not loud, not panicked, but quicker than it should be.
you don’t ask anything else, you just walk toward him. slow, steady, giving him time to track you, to not feel overwhelmed by it. your hand reaches for his arm first, light, like a question.
“hey…” you say again, quieter.
up close, it’s clearer. the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself like he’s bracing for something that isn’t there.
your brows knit, confusion flickering through you, but it doesn’t stop you.
you wrap your arms around him. it’s instinct. you don’t even think about it.
for a split second, he’s still. and then he just folds.
his arms come around you, tight, tighter than usual, like he needs to anchor himself to something real. his face presses into the side of your neck, breath uneven against your skin.
you feel it change almost immediately.
his breathing starts to slow. not all at once, but enough that you notice. enough that you know you did the right thing, even if you’re not entirely sure what just happened.
“it’s okay,” you murmur softly, one hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. “i’ve got you.”
you don’t rush him, you don’t pull away, you just hold him.
as long as he needs.
when he finally does pull back, it’s slow, like he’s still coming back to himself.
his hands stay on you, though. one sliding up to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek. his eyes are a little glassy, not fully crying, but close enough that it makes something in your chest tighten.
he leans in, letting his forehead rest against yours.
you stay still, letting him.
he takes a deep breath. then another.
“thank you” he says quietly.
your expression softens immediately. “it’s okay, honey,” you whisper. “what happened?”
he shakes his head.
not dismissive, just like he doesn’t have the words, or maybe doesn’t want to find them here.
his hand slips down to yours, fingers threading through yours, holding on.
“can we talk when we get home?” he asks, voice low.
you don’t hesitate.
“yeah,” you say gently. “of course we can.”
you squeeze his hand once, grounding.
“we can go now, if you want.”
he nods.
-
you don’t mention it to anyone.
you make some excuse on the way out, something easy, something no one questions too hard. the day winds down without you, and for once, that feels like the right choice.
the drive home is quiet.
his hand stays in yours the whole time.
later, you’re both on the couch.
steve’s sitting close, knees angled toward you, your legs tucked under his. your hand rests over his, thumb brushing back and forth in that absent, soothing way you’ve picked up without realising.
he’s the one who starts talking.
“i didn’t wanna say anything before,” he admits, voice rough around the edges. “about… the headaches. the migraines. they’ve been-” he exhales, shaking his head slightly. “they’ve been happening a lot.”
you don’t interrupt, you just listen.
“i didn’t think it was a big deal,” he adds. “or… i didn’t want it to be.”
your grip on his hand tightens just slightly.
“steve…”
he glances at you, then away again, like it’s easier to say the rest without holding your gaze.
“when i was in that room today,” he continues slowly, “it just… felt wrong. the lights were too bright, and the door wouldn’t open and-”
his jaw tightens again.
“for a second, it was like i was back there.”
you understand immediately.
the base.
you shift closer without even thinking about it, your free hand coming up to rest against his arm.
“that’s normal, baby,” you say softly. “that’s… that’s ptsd.”
he lets out a quiet breath, like hearing it said out loud does something. doesn’t fix it, but maybe makes it make sense.
“yeah” he murmurs.
there’s a pause.
his shoulders start to relax, just slightly.
you guide him gently, until he’s laying back, his head settling in your lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
your fingers move to his hair instantly, brushing through it, slow and repetitive.
he exhales like he’s been holding everything in for too long.
“i love you” he says after a minute, voice quieter now, softer, halfway to sleep.
your lips curve into a small, warm smile.
you look down at him, at the way his eyes are already slipping shut, the tension in his face finally easing.
“i love you too” you whisper.
your fingers keep moving through his hair, gentle, steady, grounding.
he doesn’t say anything else. he just drifts.
and this time, when he falls asleep, it’s easier, like he’s not carrying it all on his own anymore.
-
the next few days are different. things have a name now, or at least something close to one, and that makes it easier to do something about it. you don’t treat him like he’s fragile, don’t hover or overstep, but you don’t ignore it either.
you pay attention, and steve lets you.
which might be the bigger thing.
-
it starts with something simple.
“we’re getting you something for those headaches” you say one morning, already halfway out the door grabbing your shoes.
he groans from the couch, dramatically slumping further into the cushions. “i don’t need anything.”
you give him a look.
he squints back at you, like that alone should win the argument.
“steve.”
“i’m serious,” he insists, dragging the word out. “i’m fine.”
you raise a brow. “you literally had your eyes closed for twenty minutes yesterday because the kitchen light was ‘too aggressive.’”
he points at you weakly. “it was.”
you don’t even try to hide your smile. “c’mon. shoes. now.”
he sighs like you’ve just asked him to run a marathon instead of walk to a store, but he pushes himself up anyway, muttering under his breath the whole time.
“this is so unnecessary…”
“mhm.”
“i’m perfectly capable of buying my own-”
“steve.”
“-painkillers, i don’t need supervision-”
“steve.”
he finally huffs, grabbing his jacket. “you’re enjoying this.”
“a little” you admit.
-
you don’t just grab the first thing you see.
you take your time, scanning labels, comparing options, quietly running through the bits of research you did the night before. what helps with migraines, what to avoid, what might actually make a difference instead of just masking it.
steve leans against the shelf beside you, watching with mild amusement.
“you’ve thought about this way too much” he says.
you don’t look up. “someone has to.”
he goes quiet for a second. not in a bad way, just softer.
you hand him a box. “these should help. we can try a couple different ones, see what works best for you.”
he takes it, glancing down at it like it’s more significant than it should be.
“okay” he says, quieter.
-
the doctor is harder.
he resists that one more.
“i don’t need a doctor,” he insists for the third time that day, pacing slightly like he’s trying to outwalk the conversation. “it’s just headaches.”
“steve,” you say patiently, leaning against the counter. “you said they’ve been getting worse.”
he shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “they’ll go away.”
you tilt your head, watching him.
“or,” you say gently, “they won’t. so, we should actually do something about it.”
he opens his mouth to argue again.
you don’t let him.
“please” you add, softer now.
that does it, it always does.
he exhales, shoulders dropping just slightly. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
“nope.”
he looks at you for a long second.
then he nods, once. “okay. fine.”
it’s not as bad as he expects.
the doctor asks questions, checks him over, listens properly. nothing rushed, nothing dismissed. steve’s a little stiff at first, answers short, but you stay close, your presence grounding.
eventually, he relaxes.
just enough.
they talk through the headaches, the migraines, the sensitivity to light and noise. there’s no instant fix, no magic answer, but there are suggestions. things to try. ways to manage it.
it’s something.
-
by the time you get home, you’re already talking.
“okay, so- we can keep the lights dim when you feel one coming on,” you say, pushing the door open, keys still in your hand. “and those meds, we’ll try those first, see how you do, and if they don’t work we can switch-”
you kick the door shut behind you, still going.
“-and you should probably rest more when they start, like not push through it, and we can figure out what triggers them more-”
you take a few steps in before you realise he’s not beside you anymore.
you turn.
he’s still by the door, just standing there. watching you.
“steve?” you frown slightly, taking a step back toward him. “you okay?”
he doesn’t answer right away.
he’s smiling.
not the usual one, not teasing, not playful, something softer. warmer.
you tilt your head, confused. “what?”
he shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t even know how to explain it then he crosses the space between you and pulls you into a hug.
it catches you off guard for half a second, but you wrap your arms around him instantly anyway.
“okay…” you murmur into his shoulder, a small laugh slipping out. “hi?”
he just holds you tighter.
you pull back slightly after a moment, still in his arms, brows knit. “what is it?”
he’s still grinning.
it’s ridiculous, honestly.
“nothing” he says.
“steve.”
he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head instead of answering.
which is not helpful.
“you’re being weird” you tell him.
“yeah” he agrees easily.
you narrow your eyes a little. “why are you smiling like that?”
he just shakes his head again, like he’s keeping something to himself on purpose.
what he doesn’t say, what he doesn’t quite know how to say, is that he’s been listening to you all day.
every “we can do this,” every “we’ll figure it out,” every quiet, certain way you’ve included yourself in something that’s technically his.
not you need to.
not you should.
we.
like it’s obvious, like there was never another option.
it settles somewhere deep in his chest, warm and steady, spreading out until it feels like he can finally breathe a little easier around all of it.
like he’s not carrying it alone, like he hasn’t been for longer than he realised.
he doesn’t say any of that, though.
instead, he pulls back just enough to look at you, that same stupid, soft grin still on his face.
“hey” he says.
you eye him suspiciously. “what?”
“can you bake me something?”
you blink.
“…what?”
“you know,” he shrugs, like it’s completely reasonable. “since i’m poorly.”
you stare at him for a second then you laugh, shaking your head. “oh my god.”
he grins wider.
“unbelievable” you mutter, but there’s no bite to it.
“please?” he adds, dragging the word out just slightly.
you sigh, already turning toward the kitchen. “yeah, yeah. fine.”
he follows you immediately, clearly pleased with himself.
you glance back at him, catching that same bright smile still sitting easy on his face.
and yeah, you’d do it.
you’d do a lot more than that, if it meant keeping that look there.
warnings: mentions of alcohol. angst. emotional neglect. implied cheating
includes: slow burn, hurt/comfort, mutual pining (eventually), s2 setting, jonathan byers x reader (just for the plot)
summary: things with your bf aren’t what they used to be.
somewhere in the middle of all that, steve harrington starts showing up more than he should.
a/n : hi. this is my first steve fic and the start of a series. the title is inspired by olivia’s upcoming album (you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love), which basically sums up the whole feeling of this story. hope you like it. <33
you didn’t notice when it started.
the happiness slipped away so quietly that one day you woke up and realized the innocent love you once felt for jonathan was gone, fading further and further until it felt like a memory that belonged to someone else. you didn’t understand why. after everything he’d been through last year, his little brother missing, the nightmares that followed, the way you’d been pulled into something way bigger than either of you, you told yourself things would get better. that you could make him happy.
but that didn’t happen.
he used to ask about your day. he used to take pictures of you when you weren’t looking, walk you home after your shift, hold your hand like it actually meant something. now you just felt alone. worse than before. and you didn’t have it in you to ask why he spent so much time with nancy wheeler anymore. you already knew you wouldn’t like the answer.
you took what he gave you. three nights a week, sometimes two. told yourself it was enough. at least when he was there, your head got a little quieter. the bad stuff didn’t feel so loud. but it wasn’t love. not really. it felt like obligation, like guilt, like he was sticking around because he thought he had to. and you were too tired to call him out on it.
you were tired of a lot of things. tired of hoping. tired of crying. tired of waiting for something to feel like it used to.
the only thing that still felt warm was max, and her loud, chaotic group of friends.
somehow you ended up babysitting a bunch of thirteen year olds half the time.
and lately, steve harrington had kind of inserted himself into that whole mess too.
the first time, he just pulled up in that stupid burgundy bmw, sunglasses on like he thought he was cooler than he actually was, waiting to pick them up. you stood there on the porch like, absolutely not, until all of them started talking at once and wore you down. so yeah, you let her go. because keeping max locked inside wasn’t gonna fix anything anyway.
most days steve stayed in the car, arm hanging out the window, acting like he didn’t care.
sometimes he’d wink at you, which was annoying. sometimes he’d get out and stand there like a tired babysitter, hands on his hips, waiting for everyone to get in the car without killing each other.
and yeah, you noticed him more than you probably should have.
he wasn’t the same guy you met earlier that year. not even close. you’d heard the stories, “king steve” and all that, but whatever that was, it wasn’t this. this version actually showed up, actually helped, didn’t act like he was above any of it.
and yeah, there was the whole nancy thing.
you heard about that too, dustin running his mouth like always, saying she “fumbled” him or whatever. which, honestly, made you curious in a way you didn’t love.
especially after halloween.
that night had stuck with you, more than you wanted it to.
his house, too many people, too loud.
he was drunk, like, really drunk, the kind where everything about him felt a little off. his eyes were red, like he’d been crying before anyone even showed up, and you knew why. the whole thing with nancy was still fresh, still messy.
he didn’t look like himself.
but he found you anyway.
stumbled over, a little unsteady, but focused on you in a way that didn’t feel like an accident. asked for your number like it mattered, like he actually meant it, even if the words came out a little slurred.
you didn’t know what to do with that.
before you could answer, his friends dragged him away, laughing, calling his name, turning it into something louder, easier to brush off.
and maybe it was nothing. maybe he was just drunk, sad, grabbing onto the first nice thing he saw.
you never really figured it out.
you thought he was cute. yeah. still do sometimes. but you shut that down fast, because your situation with jonathan was already a mess. you didn’t need another one.
still, steve kept showing up.
asking about school. coming inside instead of waiting in the car. sitting through their d&d games like he actually cared.
and lately, the way he looked at you wasn’t just curiosity anymore. it was quieter than that. like he was trying to figure something out.
-
now you’re on dustin’s couch, sitting close enough to steve that your shoulders almost touch. the kids yelling about some campaign like it’s life or death. and weirdly, it helps. the noise keeps everything else out.
“hey,” he says quietly, leaning in a little. “you wanna go outside? these kids are driving me insane.”
you glance at him, a little surprised.
you’re not really friends, not officially. but it sounds nice.
“yeah, okay.”
you slip out into the backyard. cool air hits your face, fireflies blinking slow between the trees. it’s quiet out here, finally.
steve shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels.
“seriously, how do you do it? i’m here like twice a week and i already feel like i need a vacation.”
you let out a small laugh, hugging your arms around yourself.
“you’re not that bad at it. kinda weird actually. former king steve voluntarily hanging out with a bunch of middle schoolers.”
he scoffs, bumping your shoulder lightly.
“hey, watch it. i have a reputation.”
“yeah,” you mutter, “pretty sure that reputation is long gone.”
“wow,” he says, putting a hand to his chest like you actually hurt him. “that’s cold.”
you shrug, but there’s a faint smile there. it fades pretty quickly though.
he notices. of course he does.
there’s a pause, a quieter one this time. he shifts a little, glancing at you instead of the ground.
“you okay?” he asks, softer now.
“you’ve been kinda… off lately.”
you look down, picking at your sleeve.
“i don’t know. things with... with jonathan are just… weird.”
steve doesn’t interrupt. just listens.
“i thought at first that he just needed time,” you say. “i mean, his whole life was readjusting again. but then… he just started acting weird. and i kept thinking maybe if i was patient, if i didn’t push, it would pass. like he’d come back to how he was before.”
you let out a breath that sounds more tired than anything else.
“but it doesn’t. it just feels like i’m the only one still trying.”
you were probably saying too much, but it feels like the first time you can really talk to someone.
steve’s jaw tightens a little, but he stays quiet.
“he’s there,” you say, quieter now, “but not really. and i don’t wanna ask why he’s always with nancy because i already know what that means.”
the words hang there for a second before you realize what you just said.
you wince immediately, looking away.
“sorry. i didn’t— i shouldn’t have brought her up.”
“hey,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “no, it’s fine. seriously.”
you glance at him, unsure.
he shrugs, but there’s something a little more careful in his voice now.
“i mean… yeah, it sucks. but i get it. it’s worse when someone’s already halfway gone and you’re just… the last one to realize it.”
you swallow, nodding a little.
“yeah.”
another pause settles in, not uncomfortable, just heavy.
“why are you still with him?” steve asks after a second, not harsh, just… honest.
you blink, caught off guard.
“i— i don’t know.”
he watches you, not pushing, just waiting.
“i guess,” you start slowly, “because it didn’t used to be like this. he used to care. like, actually care. and i keep thinking maybe if i just hold on a little longer, it’ll go back to that.”
you laugh quietly, but there’s no humor in it.
“which is stupid, right?”
“no,” steve says immediately. then softer, “it’s not stupid.”
you look at him.
“it’s just…” he hesitates, searching for the words. “it’s just not how it works. people don’t… snap back into who they used to be just because you want them to.”
you nod, eyes stinging a little.
“yeah. i know.”
“and you shouldn’t have to beg for it either,” he adds, a little firmer now. “for someone to care about you, i mean.”
you don’t answer. you just stare at the ground.
he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.
“look, i’m not great at this,” he mutters. “like, at all. i usually make things worse.”
“you’re doing fine,” you say quietly.
he huffs a small laugh.
“you deserve better than that,” he says, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
you glance at him.
“better than what?”
he gestures vaguely.
“that. feeling like you’re… second place in your own relationship. like you have to work for something that should just be there.”
you look away again, your chest tightening.
for a second, neither of you says anything. the quiet stretches, but it doesn’t feel empty.
then steve speaks again, more hesitant this time.
“he’s an idiot, you know.”
you blink, looking at him.
“what?”
he shifts, suddenly a little awkward, like he wasn’t planning on saying that part out loud.
“i mean…” he rubs the back of his neck, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “if he were smarter, he’d notice… how you feel.”
your breath catches slightly.
he shrugs, but it’s softer now, almost shy.
“and you don’t deserve that.”
before you can respond, the back door swings open.
“shall we go? i’m tired of winning against those nerds.”
max’s voice cuts through everything, loud and dramatic.
you can’t help it. you smile.
“yeah, alright.”
the ride home is quieter.
max talks at first, going on about how she carried the whole game, how the others are “completely useless,” and steve throws in the occasional comment just to annoy her.
“you literally almost died twice,” he says.
“strategically,” max fires back.
“yeah, sure. very strategic near-death experience.”
you stare out the window, watching the streetlights pass.
at some point, max quiets down. by the time you turn onto your street, she’s already half asleep against the door.
steve doesn’t turn on the radio. doesn’t try to fill the silence.
it’s not awkward.
just calm.
he pulls up in front of your house.
max is out first, mumbling something that might be a goodnight before heading inside without looking back.
you reach for the handle, but pause.
“hey,” steve says.
you turn back.
he’s looking at you now, properly this time, hands still resting on the wheel.
“thanks for coming,” he says. “i mean it.”
you nod slightly.
“thanks for asking.”
there’s a small pause.
“and… if you ever need to get out again,” he adds, a little less steady, “or just not deal with everything for a bit, you can call me. or… not call. i don’t know. whatever people do.”
you let out a quiet laugh.
“i’ll keep that in mind.”
he smiles, quick and a little crooked.
“yeah. you should.”
you step out of the car, closing the door gently.
he gives you a small wave.
“night.”
“night, steve.”
you walk up the path, the porch light flickering faintly. you don’t look back again until you hear the car pull away.
the taillights disappear slowly down the street.
and something feels different.
like something small moved out of place, and you’re only just starting to notice it.
part of you thinks maybe it was about nancy. that he was just trying to figure out where things stood with her and jonathan. checking if there was still something there.
it would make sense.
it would be easier.
but there’s another thought sitting underneath that one, quieter, harder to ignore.
that maybe it wasn’t about her at all.
that maybe the way he looked at you, the way his voice softened, the way he said you didn’t deserve that…
maybe that was real. you push the thought down anyway.
because you already know how this goes. you start hoping, and it ruins everything.
and you’re too tired to pick up the pieces again.
guys if you want to be part of the tag list for this series just comment this post or this one:)
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