In Between | Steve Harrington
𝓶.𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽 ⋆˚࿔ s2!steve harrington x wheeler!reader | 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎.𖥔 ݁ You’ve been Steve Harrington’s best friend since middle school before the hair, the parties, and the heartbreak. But as high school changes everything and feelings you’ve buried for years refuse to stay quiet, you start to wonder if the boy you’ve always stood beside might finally see you the way you’ve always seen him.
The summer before seventh grade ended in a thunderstorm that knocked the power out across half of Hawkins, and you met Steve Harrington by the flicker of emergency lights and the smell of rain rising off hot pavement. He was sitting on the low brick wall behind the middle school, shoulders hunched, one sneaker tapping anxiously against the concrete. His lip was split, bright red against skin that would later tan golden and effortless. Back then, though, he looked young. Unfinished. All elbows and uncertainty. You hadn’t meant to approach him. You had been cutting through school grounds on your way home from the library, hugging your books to your chest while the sky threatened to split open. But he glanced up when he heard your footsteps, and something about the way he tried to straighten... tried to look like he hadn’t just been knocked down, made you stop.
“Hold still,” you said, setting your books beside you and tugging the sleeve of your denim jacket over your hand. “You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull away when you dabbed gently at his lip.
“You’re not.” You tilted your head, assessing the damage with clinical seriousness. “Tommy Hagan?”
His mouth twitched despite the sting. “How’d you know?”
“Tommy thinks he’s intimidating. He’s just loud.”
A laugh slipped out of him—small, surprised. It softened his whole face.
That was the first crack in the armor he would later build so carefully.
You became friends in the slow, ordinary way that real things tend to form. You started sitting beside each other in math class. He nudged your elbow when the teacher asked a question he didn’t understand. You rolled your eyes and whispered the answer. When the other boys made comments about you being “Wheeler’s weird older sister,” he told them to shut up. When girls started whispering about how Steve Harrington was getting cute, you rolled your eyes and told him not to let it go to his head. Once, He walked you home when it rained, pretending it was "on his way."
One afternoon in eighth grade, you find him lying flat on his back on the basketball court, staring up at the sky.
“What are you doing?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun.
He grins. “You think I could be good at something?”
“You are good at things.”
You don’t hesitate. “You’re good at listening. You’re good at making people laugh. You’re good at pretending you don’t care when you actually care a lot.”
He turns his head to look at you, and for a moment the joking slips.
“You see too much,” he says.
He doesn’t say it then, but you feel the shift. The tether forming. You become the person he calls when his parents fight. The person who knows he hates olives and loves bad horror movies and is secretly afraid he’ll never be more than the town expects him to be.
It was a habit in eighth grade. By freshman year, it was ritual.
He changed when high school found him. He grew taller over one summer, shoulders broadening, jaw sharpening into something magazine worthy. His hair developed that deliberate messiness that made girls in the hallway whisper. Tommy and Carol gravitated back to him with renewed enthusiasm, as though they’d been waiting for him to become someone worth orbiting.
You watched it happen the way one watches a storm build over distant fields—aware it’s coming, unsure whether it will pass over or settle in. He learned to laugh louder than the joke required, head tipping back just enough for the sound to carry down the hallway. Learned to clap someone on the shoulder in passing, to make it look effortless like belonging had always been this easy. He perfected the lazy half smile that made girls glance twice and boys straighten instinctively. Learned how to hold eye contact just a second longer than necessary, long enough to feel intentional.
The way he started walking a little slower down the hall so people could fall into step beside him. The way teachers softened when he turned on that practiced charm. The way Tommy and Carol flanked him like courtiers reclaiming their throne.
He wasn’t pretending, not exactly. The confidence fit him. But sometimes, when you caught him alone before class, there was a flicker in his expression that told you he was still figuring out how to wear it without it wearing him first.
But every morning, no matter how late he’d been out or how crowded the hallway became, he still leaned against your locker before first period. Like gravity pulled him there.
You’d be mid sentence in your notes, highlighter uncapped, when his shadow fell across the metal door. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him.
“Got gum?” he’d ask, casual, like he hadn’t been scanning the hall for you.
“You don’t even like gum,” you’d reply automatically.
“Yeah,” he’d shrug, pushing off the locker just enough to stand closer. “But you always have it.”
There was something deliberate in that. Not gum... the routine.
You would slide a piece into his open palm without lifting your eyes from the page, pretending not to notice how his fingers brushed yours just slightly longer than necessary. Pretending not to notice how his voice dropped when he talked to you, softer than the version he used with everyone else.
He’d grin like you’d just handed him something rare. Like it was the best part of his morning.
Sometimes he lingered. Asked about your English essay. Complained about practice. Told you something stupid Tommy said the night before, his tone shifting, less performance, more confession.
And for those few minutes, the hallway noise faded. The version of him that belonged to everyone else receded.
It was just you and the boy from the cracked basketball court.
Then the bell would ring. Someone would call his name. He’d straighten, grin widening, shoulders squaring as he stepped back into the role waiting for him.
“See ya,” he’d say, already halfway turned away.
You’d watch him go, the crowd parting easily to let him through.
And you told yourself the fact that he always came back to your locker first before the noise, before the attention, before the performance, meant something. You held onto that like proof.
When Nancy began lingering by the phone in the evenings, you noticed. It started small. She would hover in the hallway after dinner, pretending to flip through the mail while her eyes flicked toward the kitchen clock. If it rang, she’d move too quickly—composure slipping just enough to give her away. If it didn’t, she’d drift back to the living room with a distracted hum, fingers tucking hair behind her ear in a gesture you recognized as anticipation. You noticed because you had grown up noticing her. Nancy had always been easy to read if you knew what to look for. She loved quietly but intensely. When she wanted something, it rearranged her posture. Her breathing. The cadence of her voice.
When she started asking about parties, about Tina’s, about Carol’s, about who would be there, you noticed that too.
“Do you think Steve actually likes those things?” she asked one night, sitting cross legged at the foot of your bed.
You didn’t look up from your book. “He likes feeling like he’s supposed to.”
She frowned slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
You turned a page you hadn’t processed. “Then what did you mean?”
She hesitated, and that hesitation said everything.
“He seems different lately,” she murmured. “More… real.”
Your chest tightened at the word.
You had known the real Steve since he was twelve and bleeding behind the gym. You knew the version who hated olives and loved bad horror movies. The one who got quiet when his parents fought. The one who pretended not to care about being liked but watched carefully for signs of approval anyway.
“Yes,” you said evenly. “He is.”
She smiled faintly, like she’d been handed confirmation she was hoping for.
You noticed the new blouse she wore to school the next week. The way she straightened when she saw him at the end of the hallway. The way her laugh pitched just slightly higher when he waved.
And you noticed the way he looked at her. It wasn’t the look he gave you—familiar, unguarded, easy.
It was something sharper. Curious.
You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You did not allow yourself to interpret.
Because interpreting would mean admitting the quiet fear beginning to take root in your stomach. It would mean acknowledging that something had shifted in the air between the three of you. And you had always been the steady one. The rational one. The one who didn’t spiral over glances and possibilities. So you folded the fear neatly and tucked it away.
The first night he climbed through her window, you were awake. The house had settled into its usual nighttime rhythm, the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of cooling pipes. Your parents’ bedroom door had shut hours earlier. Nancy’s light had gone dark around eleven.
You were reading, half absorbed, when you heard it.
A dull thud against the siding.
Your heart stopped before your mind caught up.
There was a pause. Then the faint scrape of rubber soles searching for purchase against painted wood. A small grunt. The careful, deliberate slide of glass.
Your room faced the front yard. Nancy’s faced the backyard. The sound had come from behind the house.
Your body recognized it before your thoughts did. The weight of it. The pattern. You had heard him throw pebbles at your window once in eighth grade, when he’d forgotten his house key and needed somewhere to wait. You knew the cadence of his presence.
You rose from your bed and crossed the room on unsteady legs.
When you lifted your curtain just enough to peer through, the street was quiet and dim beneath the glow of the single working lamppost. And there it was.
His BMW, parked halfway down the block. Headlights off. Engine dark. Deliberately inconspicuous.
He had never parked down the block for you. He had never needed to sneak.
You stood there for a long moment, watching the stillness of the car as though it might disappear if you blinked. As though you might wake up and realize you’d imagined the sound.
Maybe he was dropping something off. Maybe he had come to talk to your dad. Mayb-
The faint click of Nancy’s window sliding shut drifted through the night air.
The hope collapsed quietly inside you.
You stepped back from the curtain as though the glass had burned you.
In the silence that followed, you became acutely aware of everything, the ticking clock on your nightstand, the way your pulse thudded too loudly in your ears, the hollow space opening slowly in your chest.
You told yourself it could still be coincidence. You told yourself you were being dramatic. You told yourself that even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter.
He was allowed to like your sister. Nancy was allowed to like him. You didn’t own him. You had no claim beyond years of shared lockers and gum wrappers and inside jokes.
But that was the problem. You had built something with him that felt foundational. Something steady and quietly sacred. You had believed foolishly, maybe—that whatever else high school rearranged, that piece would remain untouched.
Now, standing in the dark with the curtain falling back into place, you realized how fragile that belief had been. Because he hadn’t come to your window. And the part of you that had always waited for him to choose you, openly, clearly, without prompting—understood, in that still Indiana night, that he hadn’t.
The next day in the cafeteria, the truth does not arrive gently. It arranges itself in fluorescent lighting and plastic trays and the hum of a hundred overlapping conversations. It sits in plain sight, unapologetic.
You’re halfway through the lunch line when you see them.
Nancy is already seated at the long table near the center of the room—the one Steve usually claims with Tommy and Carol. She isn’t across from him. She isn’t perched awkwardly at the end. She’s beside him. Close enough that her shoulder brushes his arm every time she moves. Close enough that there’s no space left to question what this is.
For a moment, your brain refuses to process the image. It feels misaligned, like someone shifted the furniture in a familiar room. Then you notice his hand. Resting at the small of her back. It isn’t accidental. It isn’t uncertain. It’s settled there like it belongs. Protective. Claiming. Intimate.
Your tray suddenly feels heavier. The clatter of dishes around you grows distant, warped, like you’re underwater. You can see Tommy laughing at something across the table. Carol leaning forward eagerly. Nancy’s hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head toward Steve. And Steve—He’s smiling. Not the exaggerated grin he uses for the hallway. Not the loose, easy smirk he flashes at strangers. This one is softer. Focused.
He says something near Nancy’s ear, low enough that only she can hear it. She laughs, cheeks pink, and instinctively leans into him.
The gesture is small. It shatters something anyway.
You hadn’t prepared for the physicality of it. For how naturally they fit together in that space. For how practiced it already looks. Had it been building this whole time? Had you missed it?
You shift your weight, the line inching forward, but you can’t look away. You’re cataloging details without meaning to. The way his thumb moves absently against her side. The way she doesn’t flinch from it. The way the space he used to leave open beside him. Unspoken, saved, no longer exists. Then he looks up.
The moment stretches thin.
Recognition flashes across his face first, then something else. Hesitation. A flicker of something that might be guilt. Or maybe just awareness.
You don’t let your expression change.
He lifts his hand slightly, a half wave, casual. As though this is normal. As though nothing fundamental has shifted beneath your feet.
“Hey!” he mouths across the room.
Like yesterday didn’t exist. Like the years behind the gym and at your locker and in your bedroom watching horror movies didn’t carry weight.
You manage a smile. It feels carved into place.
You lift your own hand in return, nodding once, as if to say "Of course. This is fine. I understand."
Nancy follows his gaze and spots you.
Her expression flickers—surprise, then something guarded. She straightens slightly but doesn’t move away from him. Doesn’t remove his hand.
She offers a small wave too.
You don’t know which hurts more, that she looks apologetic, or that she doesn’t look apologetic enough.
The lunch lady calls your name, snapping you back into your body. You move forward automatically, accepting your tray without really seeing what’s on it.
There’s an empty seat at their table. You see it. Right across from them.
You could walk over. You could slide into it like nothing has changed. You could force the old dynamic into place and pretend the air isn’t charged with something new and sharp.
But the thought of sitting there, of watching his hand rest against her back from two feet away makes your throat tighten.
You turn instead. There’s a smaller table near the windows, half in shadow, occupied by two juniors you barely know. One seat is open. You walk toward it before you can reconsider.
Each step feels deliberate, measured, like you’re crossing an invisible line. You sit.
The plastic chair scrapes loudly against the tile. You focus on arranging your napkin. On unwrapping your sandwich. On anything that isn’t the pull in your chest.
Across the cafeteria, laughter erupts at Steve’s table. It’s louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just listening differently now. You don’t look up again.
Not when you feel the weight of his gaze flicker toward you once more. Not when Nancy leans closer to him.
You don’t look at them again for the rest of lunch. Not because you don’t want to but because you know, with a quiet certainty, that if you let yourself watch too long, something inside you will give way in a way you won’t be able to recover from gracefully.
So you sit at the smaller table by the windows, half in shadow, and focus on details that don’t matter. The condensation sliding down the side of your milk carton. The faint crack in the laminate of the table beneath your fingertip. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, steady and indifferent. Across the cafeteria, Steve laughs.
It slices through the noise.
Your body reacts before your mind does. Your shoulders tense. Your breath catches for half a second.
You know that laugh. You know the exact shape of it.
It starts low in his chest, almost a hum before it spills upward, bright and unguarded. When it’s real, he ducks his head slightly, like he’s surprised by how much something amuses him. When it’s practiced, it’s louder, sharper, meant to carry.
You don’t need to look to know it. Because you had spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh.
You memorized it the afternoon he missed a shot on the cracked basketball court and dramatically blamed the wind. You memorized it in your living room during terrible late night horror movies when he pretended not to be scared. You memorized it in the quiet spaces between classes when it was just the two of you leaning against your locker, sharing jokes that weren’t meant for anyone else. You knew the difference between the laugh he gave the hallway and the one he gave you. And now that laugh belongs to a table you are not sitting at.
Your fingers curl slightly around your fork. You hate that this hurts. You hate even more that it makes sense. Because you had loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.
You had loved him in small, practical ways by listening when he needed to vent, by defending him when Tommy pushed too far, by reminding him he was more than whatever reputation he was building. You had loved him in the spaces where no one else was looking.
But you had never said it. Never risked it.
You had told yourself it was enough to be chosen first in the mornings. Enough to be the person he came to when things felt too heavy. Enough to be the one who saw through the performance. You had believed that meant something solid. Now you’re not sure what it meant at all.
The bell rings, shrill and abrupt, and the cafeteria erupts into motion. Chairs scrape loudly against tile. Conversations fragment mid sentence. Bodies shift and surge toward the exits.
You stand slowly, steadying your tray, keeping your eyes forward.
As you step into the flow of students, you feel it... The magnetic pull of his attention flicking toward you. You don’t know if he’s actually watching or if your body is just trained to expect him.
You don’t look. You don’t trust your face.
In the hallway, the noise multiplies. Lockers slam. Someone shouts about practice. A group of sophomores rushes past, nearly knocking into you.
You reach your locker and spin the dial with practiced precision.
You wait. Out of habit. Out of muscle memory.
You expect his shadow to fall across the metal door. Expect the familiar rhythm of his voice at your shoulder. You even slide a piece of gum halfway out of the pack in anticipation. The hallway shifts around you. No shadow. No voice.
You close your locker slowly and glance down the corridor.
He’s there halfway down the hall, walking beside Nancy.
Her hand is looped easily through his arm, fingers tucked into the fabric of his jacket like she’s testing how it fits. He leans down slightly to hear her over the noise, his expression soft in a way you’ve only ever seen up close. She says something. He laughs again.
Jealousy does not arrive dramatically, It does not crash through your chest or demand to be named. It settles, in small, insidious ways. In the way your stomach clenches every time you see them standing too close at their lockers. In the way you stop saving him a seat in class, even though you used to leave your backpack on the chair beside you without thinking.
In the way you pretend not to notice when he begins canceling plans with you for her.
“Can’t tonight,” he says one afternoon, leaning against your locker but not quite meeting your eyes. “Nancy wanted to study.”
You nod like it’s reasonable. “Yeah. Of course.”
He lingers a second, like he expects you to say more. To tease him. To make it light.
He pushes off the locker with a small nod. “Rain check?”
You go home and sit cross legged on your bedroom floor with the horror movie you’d planned to watch together queued up in the VCR. You let it play anyway, though you don’t absorb any of it. The empty space beside you on the carpet feels louder than the television. It becomes a pattern. He shows up later and leaves earlier.
Your conversations shrink. He still asks if you’re okay but it feels automatic now. A checkpoint rather than a pause. You tell yourself this is normal.
This is what happens when people date. This is what happens when someone finally reaches for something instead of waiting.
Nancy confronts you one evening in your room, you're reorganizing books you don’t need to reorganize for the third time that week, when she appears in the doorway. Her arms are crossed—not defensive exactly, but braced.
“You’re mad,” she says from the doorway.
You don’t turn around. “I’m not.”
You slide a book into place a little too precisely. “You could’ve told me.”
“I was going to,” she insists. “It just—happened.”
You close your eyes briefly.
Nothing ever just happened with Nancy. She analyzed. She calculated. She chose.
“You chose it,” you say quietly.
Her jaw tightens. “So what if I did?”
You turn then, meeting her eyes fully.
“I didn’t think you’d care,” she adds, softer now.
That lands harder than you expect.
You stare at her, trying to reconcile the version of yourself she sees with the one you actually are.
Because he was yours first, in every way that wasn’t official. Because you had been there before the hair and the parties and the version of him the school adored. Because you knew the boy underneath. Because you had loved him quietly and consistently and without asking for anything in return. Because you knew the shape of his laugh before she ever noticed it.
But you can’t say any of that.
Instead, you cross your arms and shrug lightly. “Why would I?”
Nancy studies you for a long moment, as though she’s waiting for something to crack.
When it doesn’t, she nods slowly. “Okay.”
After Nancy leaves your room, the house feels quieter than it ever has before.
You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time, staring at nothing in particular. The late afternoon light slants through your window in thin gold stripes, catching dust in the air. Down the hall, you can hear the faint sound of the television turning on. Nancy reclaiming the living room like nothing has shifted.
You chose this, you tell yourself again. You chose not to reach. But knowing that doesn’t dull the ache.
The next few days pass in a strange, suspended state. Nothing dramatic happens. No arguments. No confrontations. Just small, quiet adjustments that feel larger than they should. You stop waiting at your locker in the mornings. Not consciously, at first. You just linger less. Arrive a little later. Keep your head down a little longer when you spin the dial.
Sometimes he still shows up.
When he does, there’s a faint awkwardness to it now. A half second delay before he speaks, like he’s recalibrating the dynamic.
“Got gum?” he asks one morning, offering you a tentative smile.
You hand him a piece without meeting his eyes.
“You okay?” he adds, more softly.
He studies you like he wants to say something else. Like he’s searching for the version of you who used to fill the silence easily. But Nancy appears at the end of the hall, and his attention shifts instinctively.
Jealousy continues to settle, layer by layer. It shows up in the way your stomach tightens when you see them walking shoulder to shoulder, fingers brushing like magnets. It shows up in the way you choose seats at the far end of the classroom instead of beside him. It shows up in the way you pretend not to flinch when he says, “Nancy and I were thinking—” as if the two of them are a unit now.
You become careful. Careful with your expressions. Careful with your tone. Careful not to let the bitterness slip into your voice when he talks about her.
Because the last thing you want is to become the villain in your own silence.
He notices your distance eventually. Of course he does.
You’re in the parking lot after school when it happens. The late afternoon sun is harsh, reflecting off windshields and chrome. You’re digging your keys out of your bag, focused on the small, mechanical task of unlocking your car.
His voice comes from behind you, closer than you expected.
You stiffen slightly before turning.
He jogs the last few steps to catch up, hair wind tousled from practice, jacket slung over one shoulder.
The question isn’t casual this time. There’s something searching in it.
You force a small smile. “Fine.”
His brows draw together. “You’ve been weird.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Have I?”
“Yeah.” He shifts his weight, studying you like he’s trying to piece something together. “You don’t hang out as much. You don’t—” He gestures vaguely. “You just feel… far.”
The word lands heavier than it should.
You turn back to your car, sliding the key into the lock. “You’re busy.”
“With Nancy,” he says, supplying the name carefully.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. For a second, the confident hallway version of him slips, replaced by the boy who used to sit beside you on the basketball court and ask if he was good at anything.
“I didn’t want it to be… weird,” he admits.
The truth is that it is weird. It’s strange and sharp and nothing like the steady rhythm you built together over years. But you can’t say that. Because saying it would mean admitting why.
“It’s not,” you lie smoothly.
He watches you for a long moment, like he knows you’re not telling him everything.
“You can tell me if it is,” he says quietly.
The invitation hangs between you.
You could. You could tell him that every time he says her name it feels like something scraping against your ribs. That watching him hold her hand feels like losing something you never officially had. That you’ve been trying so hard to be mature about this that it’s exhausting. Instead, you shrug.
“She’s your sister,” he says after a moment, as if that explains the tension. “I just didn’t want you thinking I was, I don’t know… ditching you.”
You almost laugh at that.
As if this is about scheduling conflicts.
“I don’t think that,” you say carefully.
But you do feel replaced. Not erased entirely—he still seeks you out sometimes, still asks if you’re okay but shifted. Demoted. Moved from center to perimeter.
He steps a little closer.
“You know you’re still my best friend, right?”
The words should soothe you. Instead, they twist.
Best friend. The title feels heavier now. More limiting.
“Of course,” you reply, keeping your voice steady.
He studies your face, searching for cracks. For a second, you think he might press further. Might step past the surface and ask the question neither of you is brave enough to name.
But then a familiar voice calls his name from across the lot.
He turns instinctively toward the sound.
You watch the shift happen in real time, the subtle straightening of his posture, the softening of his expression.
He hesitates, like he wants to say more. Then he jogs backward a few steps before turning fully toward her. You stand there a moment longer, hand still resting on your car door. Across the parking lot, Nancy reaches him. She smiles up at him, slipping her hand into his like it belongs there.
And you realize that this is what it feels like to love someone quietly while they’re learning how to love someone else out loud.
You slide into your car and close the door gently, as if sudden movement might fracture something further. As you pull out of the parking space, you don’t look in the rearview mirror. You’re not sure you’re ready to see what you’re leaving behind.
The tension doesn’t explode all at once. It tightens first slowly, almost invisibly like a wire being pulled too taut.
By the time Tina’s party rolls around, you can feel it humming beneath everything. The house is already loud when you arrive. Music rattles the windows. Laughter spills out the front door in uneven bursts. The air smells like beer and something sweet burning in the kitchen. Someone has strung Christmas lights across the ceiling in a lazy attempt at atmosphere.
You hadn’t wanted to go. Nancy insisted.
“It’ll be fun,” she said, already halfway out the door.
You spend most of the night near the kitchen, plastic cup in hand, watching.
Steve is in his element at first. Laughing loudly. Tossing an arm around someone’s shoulder. Kissing Nancy’s temple like it’s instinct. But there’s something tight beneath it, something rehearsed. Nancy drinks more than she usually does.
You notice because you always notice.
Her cheeks flush deeper than normal. Her movements grow less measured. Her laughter comes a second too late, too sharp at the edges. Steve notices too. He hovers.
“Hey,” he says gently at one point, leaning close so he doesn’t have to shout. “Maybe slow down a little?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, though she sways slightly when she shifts her weight.
You see the flicker of hurt cross his face.
He tries again later, softer this time. “Nance, you don’t have to—”
“Stop,” she interrupts, frustration bleeding into her voice. “Just stop acting like I can’t handle myself.”
You’re standing near the kitchen doorway now, plastic cup warm in your hand, heart beating a little too fast. You can feel it building. People start watching. Tommy is watching from across the room, smirk barely concealed. Carol whispers something to the girl beside her. You feel heat crawl up your neck.
Steve straightens slightly, jaw tightening.
“I’m not saying you can’t,” he says, trying to keep his tone even. “I just—”
“You just what?” Nancy demands, louder now. “You just want me to be perfect?”
The music feels too loud. The room too small. You step closer without meaning to.
“That’s not what I—” Steve begins.
“You think I don’t see it?” she continues, words tumbling over each other. “The way you look at me like I’m some kind of trophy?”
The accusation hangs in the air. His face goes pale.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
Nancy laughs, but it’s brittle. “Fair? You want to talk about fair?”
The argument spills into the kitchen, voices rising over the music. A small crowd gathers at a careful distance, pretending not to stare. You follow. Not close enough to intervene. Close enough to hear.
“I thought you cared about me,” Steve says, and there’s no performance left in his voice now. Just confusion. “I thought this was—”
“It is,” she cuts in, then falters. “It’s just—”
“Just what?” he presses, desperation creeping in.
She shakes her head, pushing hair out of her face with unsteady hands.
“This is bullshit,” she mutters.
“Nancy.” He says her name like a plea. And then it happens.
The words land hard and sharp, cutting through the music, through the murmurs, through everything. Silence follows.
Not total silence, the party doesn’t actually stop but the space around them feels vacuum sealed. Steve doesn’t move at first. It’s like the words haven’t registered. Or maybe they have, and he’s just trying to stay upright under the weight of them.
“What?” he asks finally, voice barely audible.
Nancy’s breathing is uneven. Her eyes are glassy not just from alcohol.
“were bullshit” she repeats, softer now but no less devastating.
You watch his face change. The confidence drains first. Then the defensiveness. Then whatever fragile hope he’d been clinging to. He looks younger suddenly. Smaller.
You’ve seen Steve perform a hundred emotions, charm, indifference, amusement but you’ve never seen this. Raw. Unshielded. The boy from behind the gym resurfaces in an instant.
He swallows hard. “You don’t mean that.” But there’s no conviction in it.
Nancy looks away. The silence stretches.
“I thought—” he starts, then stops. His throat works like he’s forcing down something sharp. “I thought we were… good.”
Her shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining out of her as quickly as it flared.
“I don’t know what we are,” she admits.
The crowd begins to disperse, discomfort outweighing curiosity. You remain rooted in place.
Steve nods once, stiffly. It’s the smallest movement, but it feels monumental.
Just that. Okay. As if he’s accepting something inevitable. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t lash out. He just steps back.
For a brief second, his eyes flicker across the room and land on you.
It’s not intentional, maybe. Or maybe it is. But in that glance, you see it all.
Shock. Humiliation. Heartbreak.
He looks like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. You’d never seen Steve look small until that night.
He leaves without another word. The front door slams.
Nancy sinks down against the kitchen counter, sliding to the floor like her bones can’t hold her up anymore. The party noise resumes around you, distorted and distant.
You stand there, heart pounding, caught between them. Between the sister who just detonated her relationship. And the boy you’ve loved quietly for years walking out into the dark alone.
It was past midnight when you heard the familiar tap against your window.
Not Nancy’s. Yours. You had not been sleeping. You had been lying on your back staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like constellations, replaying the party over and over in your head. The way Nancy’s voice had cut through the music. The way Steve had stood there, stunned and silent. The way he had looked at you before he walked out. The tap comes again. Softer this time. Hesitant. Your heart stumbles.
You already know who it is. There has only ever been one person in Hawkins who uses your window like a front door. You sit up slowly, pulse loud in your ears, and cross the room. When you lift the pane, cold air rushes in, biting at your cheeks. He’s standing there in the dark, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His hair... usually so carefully styled is wind-tossed, flattened on one side. His eyes look darker than usual. Not angry. Empty.
It’s the same word he used at the party. It sounds different now. Smaller.
You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t ask if he’s okay. You just step back and let him climb in. He moves slower than usual, less graceful. When his shoes hit your bedroom floor, he lingers by the window like he isn’t sure what he’s allowed to do next. You close the pane carefully. The room feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Charged.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The only light comes from the streetlamp outside, filtering through your curtains in pale strips that cut across his face. You can see the tightness in his jaw. The faint redness around his eyes.
He doesn’t look at you. Instead, he studies the floor.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits finally.
The confession lands gently between you.
You nod. “You don’t have to explain.”
His mouth twitches like he might try to smile, but it falters before it fully forms.
“she doesn’t love me,” he says.
There’s no dramatics in his tone. No bitterness. Just disbelief.
You lean back against your desk, arms folding loosely, not defensively, just to keep yourself steady.
“She was drunk,” you offer carefully.
“No.” His voice cracks slightly. “She meant it.”
You don’t rush to fill it. You’ve learned over the years that Steve talks more when he doesn’t feel cornered.
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“I keep replaying it,” he murmurs. “Trying to figure out when it changed. Or if it was ever… real.”
“It was real,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Your chest tightens under the weight of it.
He swallows. “But not enough.”
The words are quiet. Fractured.
You cross the room then, unable to keep the distance any longer. You stop just in front of him, close enough to see the faint freckle near his left eyebrow. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
“Hey,” you say softly, echoing his earlier greeting. “This doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”
A humorless breath leaves him. “Feels like it.”
You hesitate, then reach for his hand. It’s instinct. Familiar.
His fingers lace with yours automatically, like they’ve done a hundred times before during horror movies or thunderstorms or moments that required silent solidarity.
But this feels different. He squeezes tighter than usual.
“I tried,” he says. “I really tried to be what she wanted.”
You saw it in the way he bit back comments he would’ve once made. In the way he defended her even when it cost him socially. In the way he looked at her like she was something precious and fragile.
“I just—” He shakes his head. “I thought if I was good enough, she’d stay.”
There it is. The fear beneath the heartbreak. You step closer without thinking.
“You are good enough,” you say firmly.
His eyes flicker to yours again.
For a moment, the air changes. Something shifts.
He studies your face like he’s seeing it clearly for the first time—not as Nancy’s sister. Not as his childhood best friend. Just you.
You feel exposed under that gaze. Because you have spent years memorizing the shape of his laugh. Because you have loved him since you were thirteen and had never once believed you were brave enough to reach.
You clear your throat gently. “You can stay here tonight.”
The offer is simple. Careful.
He hesitates. “Your parents—”
Your stomach tightens at her name, but you keep your expression steady. “She won’t come in here.”
That’s enough for him. He nods once.
You sit on the edge of your bed first, kicking off your slippers. He follows more slowly, removing his jacket and draping it over your desk chair.
He looks uncertain again when he stands beside the bed.
You pat the space next to you.
“Steve,” you say softly. “It’s me.”
That does it. He lies down stiffly at first, staring up at your ceiling like it might offer answers. You turn off the lamp, plunging the room into soft darkness broken only by the streetlight’s glow.
There’s a careful space between you.
You can feel the heat of him. His breathing is uneven.
“You think I’m stupid?” he asks suddenly.
“For not seeing it sooner.”
You turn onto your side, facing him. “No.”
“I didn’t want to lose her,” he admits. “I didn’t want to fail.”
“You didn’t fail,” you say again.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he turns onto his side too.
Now you’re facing each other fully. His eyes search yours in the dim light.
“Thanks for letting me come here,” he murmurs.
“Always,” you reply without hesitation.
Something softens in his expression at that word.
He shifts slightly, and without thinking too hard about it, you close the small gap between you. Your shoulder brushes his chest. He stills. Then slowly, like he’s asking without words he lifts his arm and drapes it around you.
It is not romantic. Not overtly. It is familiar. Protective.
His hand rests between your shoulder blades, warm and steady. You can feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
It’s fast at first. Gradually, it slows.
You rest your forehead lightly against his collarbone. His chin dips until it brushes the top of your head.
Neither of you comment on it. Neither of you pull away.
Outside, a car passes. The house creaks softly as it settles into the early hours of morning.
He tightens his hold just slightly.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he mumbles, half asleep already.
“I’m right here,” you whisper.
And you stay. Wrapped up in the quiet aftermath of someone else’s ending. Listening to his breathing even out. Feeling the weight of him trust you enough to sleep.
And sometime before dawn, still tangled in each other’s warmth, you drift off too.
The Morning arrives slowly.Not with noise. Not with chaos. But with warmth.
You wake before you open your eyes. Before you fully remember where you are. There’s weight at your waist. Heat pressed firmly along your spine. A steady, even breath against the back of your neck.
For a split second, you think you’re still dreaming. Then his arm tightens instinctively around you. And you remember.
The way he folded into you like you were something safe. Steve is behind you, one arm draped securely over your middle, his chest solid and warm against your back. Your bodies fit together in a way that feels almost accidental like you’ve done this a thousand times, even though you haven’t. Not like this.
His face is half buried in your hair. His breath is warm and steady, ghosting across your shoulder. His hand rests just below your ribs, fingers curled slightly into the fabric of your sleep shirt like even in unconsciousness he’s afraid you might disappear.
You don’t move. You don’t want to break whatever this is. You can’t remember the last time you slept that deeply. No tossing. No overthinking. No replaying moments until they turned into something sharp.
He shifts slightly behind you, tightening his hold for a second before settling again. A soft exhale brushes your skin. He’s still asleep.
You study the faint morning light stretching across your room, heart beating a little too loudly in your chest.
This is dangerous, you think. Not because of him. Because of you. Because this... this quiet, unguarded version of Steve has always been yours in ways no one else ever saw.
You close your eyes again, letting yourself exist in it for one more minute.
It’s subtle at first. A small inhale. A slight tightening of his fingers at your waist. His forehead shifts against the back of your head.
Then his voice—low and thick with sleep.
You swallow softly. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. A quiet recalibration.
And then, slowly, he becomes aware of the position you’re in. Of his arm around you. Of the way you’re tucked against him.
He stills. For a second, you think he might pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, his hold adjusts, not loosening. Steadier. More intentional.
“Did I—” His voice is rough from sleep. “Did I keep you up?”
“No,” you say honestly. “You didn’t.”
“I slept,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like… actually slept.”
You can’t help the small smile that touches your lips. “Me too.”
The admission hangs there. It feels significant.
He shifts again, just enough to press closer, his nose brushing lightly against your hair as he inhales.
“You smell like that shampoo you’ve used since middle school,” he mumbles.
You huff a quiet laugh. “That’s not creepy at all.”
“It’s familiar,” he corrects softly.
The word does something to you.
He finally loosens his arm enough for you to turn carefully in his hold. It’s slow, cautious like neither of you wants to snap whatever fragile thread is holding this moment together.
When you face him, the proximity steals your breath.
Morning light softens his features, erases the sharp edges of last night’s heartbreak. His hair is a mess. His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks. He looks younger like this. Less guarded.
His eyes open fully now, meeting yours.
There’s no confusion in them. No embarrassment. Just something steady.
“You stayed,” he says quietly.
His gaze lingers on your face longer than it usually does. Not scanning. Not distracted. Seeing.
“You always do,” he murmurs.
There’s so much you could say. So much you’ve never said.
He studies you like he’s piecing something together.
“You know,” he begins slowly, “when I figured… when i figured she didn’t love me…”
“It hurt,” he continues. “But not just because of her.”
You frown slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I think I’ve been trying to make something work because I thought I was supposed to. Like if I checked all the boxes—pretty girlfriend, parties, the whole thing then that meant I was doing high school right.”
“I kept thinking if I was good enough, she’d stay,” he says. “But last night… when I left…”
“I didn’t want to go home.”
The words land carefully between you.
“Because you’re safe,” he says simply.
You nod slowly. “You don’t have to earn that.”
He swallows, something shifting behind his eyes.
“I think I’ve been blind,” he says quietly.
“To what’s been right in front of me.”
The air in your room feels thinner.
You try to keep your voice steady. “Steve…”
He lifts a hand slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. The touch is gentle. Unhurried.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” he admits. “And I don’t want to mess it up by rushing it or saying the wrong thing.”
Your pulse pounds in your ears.
“But I know,” he continues, voice steadier now, “that when everything fell apart last night… you were the only person I wanted.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t look away.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.
The vulnerability in that confession nearly undoes you.
“You won’t,” you whisper.
He searches your face like he’s waiting for something more.
You take a breath. You’ve spent years swallowing it. Years convincing yourself that loving him quietly was enough. But lying here, wrapped up in the best sleep you’ve had in months, with his hand still resting warm against your waist. You’re tired of being quiet.
“I’ve loved you,” you say softly.
The words are almost swallowed by the morning light.
He stills. Not recoiling. Not shocked. Just listening.
“Since we were thirteen,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… never thought you’d see me that way.”
It stretches long enough that doubt begins creeping in.
Then his thumb moves—absently tracing the curve of your hip like he’s grounding himself.
“You idiot,” he says gently.
Your heart drops. Then he shakes his head, a small, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips.
“Not because you loved me,” he clarifies. “Because you thought I didn’t see you.”
He leans his forehead lightly against yours.
“I just didn’t know what I was looking at.”
The admission is soft. Honest.
“I don’t want to jump from one thing into another,” he says carefully. “And I don’t want to use you as some kind of rebound. You deserve better than that.”
“But I also know,” he adds, “that whatever this is… it’s not new.”
It isn’t. It’s years of shared glances and late night phone calls. Of inside jokes and quiet loyalty. Of hands reaching for each other in the dark without thinking. It’s history.
He squeezes your waist lightly.
“Can we just… start here?” he asks. “No labels. No pressure. Just us.”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just us.”
There’s no dramatic kiss. No sweeping declaration. Just his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. Just his thumb brushing lightly beneath your eye. Just the quiet understanding that something has shifted into place.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaks. Reality inches closer.
He exhales slowly. “We’re going to have to talk to her.”
It won’t be easy. Nothing in Hawkins ever is. But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel uncertain.
He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. Not rushed. Not desperate. Intentional.
Then he pulls you back into him, arms wrapping securely around your waist again as if he’s not ready to let go of the quiet just yet. You let yourself sink into it. Into the warmth.
Into the steady rhythm of his breathing. Into the knowledge that this time, he didn’t come to you because he was broken. He stayed because he finally saw you.
And when you close your eyes again for just a few more minutes, tangled together in morning light, it doesn’t feel like the aftermath of something ending.
