Steve Harrington ▢

Steve Harrington winced as he adjusted on the edge of his bed, shirtless, bruised and more exhausted than he’d admit. His ribs ached. His face felt like it had gone ten rounds with a brick wall. And still, somehow, he wasn’t thinking about any of that. Not when you were in his bathroom, raiding the cabinets for bandages and ice packs. He should’ve protested more when you insisted on bringing him here. Said something like “I’m fine” or “the hospital’s just overreacting.” But then you looked at him—eyebrows raised, hands on your hips, eyes full of fire and worry—and he shut up. Completely.

"Really, it’s not that bad," He called out weakly, voice hoarse, trying and failing to sound casual. "I’ve had worse. Russians hit like little league."

Silence. Then the sound of cabinets slamming a bit harder than necessary. The truth was, he liked this. Not the injuries, not the splitting headache or the bruised ego—but this. You, here. In his room. In his life. Again.

You’d been around all summer, always orbiting close because of Robin, showing up to Scoops with that easy laugh and sharp wit that made Steve's heart trip over itself every time. He didn’t get how someone like you beautiful, confident, effortlessly cool in that way that wasn’t even trying chose to hang out with two nerds and a broken ex-king of Hawkins High. But you did. And somewhere along the way, he started needing those afternoons. Started waiting for your laugh. Your sarcasm. The way your eyes always found him when you thought no one was looking. And then you followed them underground. Didn’t even hesitate. Brave, reckless, stupid in the exact way he understood. You fought for them. For him. And now here you were, patching him up like he mattered. He didn’t get it. But God, he didn’t want you to stop.

"Hey," He said softer this time, voice catching. "You don’t have to do this, y’know. I’m not used to... people sticking around after the world goes to shit."