crying in a not-so-cool way

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.”

his voice cracked on the last words.

“absolutely fucking anything.”

-

A sound that was pretty close to a whine left his lips, his arms coming under your back to get closer to you. The feeling of his body on top of yours felt like heaven. Waking up every morning to see his gorgeous face was the best start to a morning. A quiet yawn leaves his lips and your watch as his eyelashes slowly flutter open, his eyes immediately going up to look at you. A lazy grin forms on his face as he mumbles to you. "Morning, baby."

"Morning, sleepy." You chuckle, gently slipping your hands into his hair and massaging his scalp. Joe attempts to roll his eyes, but they end up fluttering instead as he falls into a relaxed state, feeling all fuzzy and warm.

"How are you this wide awake at like, 8 in the morning? Did you have caffeine last night or something?" He laughs breathlessly, tucking his lip between his teeth as he completely folds into your touch.

"Nope! Just feeling like I'm ready to start the day. Could run a marathon right now, I swear." You smile, gently bringing your hand down to brush over his slightly flushed cheek, feeling the flutter of his lashes against your thumb. You could lie here and count all of his lashes without getting bored.

As soon as you slightly shift to try to sit up, he keeps his body weight on you and shakes his head. It's very evident that he doesn't want to leave this spot for at least the next 10 minutes, and if he had the choice, for the next few days. When both of you had no plans, all he wanted to do was lie with you in his arms. "No. You're not leaving. 'm not letting you." He mutters.

"Need to get up at some point, Joe." You laugh and receive a groan from him. A huff leaves your lips. You obviously can't say no to him. "Okay. 10 more minutes, and then I'm getting up. Gonna end up eating the whole kitchen when I get in there."

His chuckle is slightly muffled as he presses his head against your chest. He relaxes himself on top of you, and you watch as his shoulders slightly rise up and down as he breathes in and out. Your finger just slightly brushes against his skin, tracing from one mole to the other, like a dot-to-dot. You absolutely adore Joe, which means appreciating every part of him. When you both met for the first time, one of the first things you noticed was his moles. They stood out to you, they reminded you of constellations. If you were really tired, sometimes you would just lie on top of him and start telling him constellations that his moles looked like as you dozed off into a slumber.

After a few moments of thinking to yourself in silence. "Hey, Joe?" You ask, gently brushing your hand up and down his bicep.

"Mmm. Yes, baby? I'm all ears, promise I'm listening even if I'm still half asleep." He whispers, chuckling to himself.

"Could I do your hair, please?" You ask politely, hoping that if you're super sweet with him, he will say yes.

"What, like brush my hair?" He asks, a quiet yawn leaving his lips.

"That, and can I do some hair styles on you too?" You ask, slightly squinting your eyes as you brace for the worst answer from him, which would be for him to deny you. If he were to deny you, of course, you had backup answers already stored at the front of your mind.

"What kind of hairstyles are we talking about?" He questions, lifting his head from your chest and raising his eyebrows at you. He props himself up on his forearms, resting them on either side of your head. Just that simple action brings a giggle out of you. "If you're trying to make me look like a clown, I'd rather you don't perform any hairstyles on me."

"Okay, I'm not a professional, but I can still do hair, baby. Please." You beg, your eyes flicking all over his face, looking for any positive sign that he will say yes.

If there was one thing you loved to do, it was have your hands all over him, and it was the same for him. He loved having his hands on you at all times. You could both be walking on the street, a hot chocolate in your hand, and his arm would either be around your shoulders or his hand would be on your waist. When you two are tangled up in bed, his hands will be in your hair, or his thumb will be rubbing up and down on your side. Joe loves having his hair touched. It sends him into such a calm state.

A long hum leaves his lips as he looks at you and really thinks about it, and this pulls a long whine out of you. He knows exactly what he is doing. "Please!" You whine, sliding your hands into his hair and twirling little sections around your finger. "You don't have to keep it in or anything. If you hate it, I give you permission to take it out and tell me to never try to do a hairstyle on you ever again." You beg, feeling like you're about to crumble.

His eyes flick over your face, admiring your lips as you talk to him. You look so desperate to do his hair. How could he deny you when you're like this? He loves you, and if you make him look like a fool, it doesn't matter. All he wants to do is make you happy, and if that means sitting down and letting you add things to his hair, he will gladly do that just to make you happy.

"Okay. In return, then, after you've finished, you stay in bed with me for an extra 30 minutes. Deal?" He says, a small grin creeping up on his face.

"Deal." You reply immediately, pushing him off you and dashing over to your dresser to take out your hair accessories. He laughs at your eagerness, resting his hands behind his head and leaning back as he admires you. His eyes flick from your head and slowly trail down your body, he was head over heels. The fact that he has agreed to potentially look like a clown shows how much he really loves you.

He settles himself back against the headboard, stretching his legs out as you come back over to him. Your legs come to settle on either side of his thighs, the biggest grin on your face that he's probably ever seen. You settle your small bag of accessories beside you, unzipping it and taking out some hair clips.

"Okay, I'm going to add some clips into your hair, yeah?" You smile with your tongue between your teeth. You gently slide one of the hair clips into his hair, just beside his ear, gently pressing it down with a soft click, and do the same thing on the other side. With a small elastic band, you gently take a small section at the top of his head and tie it. The feeling of your hands in his hair has the hairs on his arms standing up.

With his eyes still on your face, his hand pats around next to him until he finds the accessory bag that you put down. He picks up some hair clips and slides them into your hair, tucking your hair away from your face so that he can get an even better look at you. You feel your heart warming up at the sight of him being so gentle with you. Joe went from not wanting his hair done to now having it done, and now he's doing your hair. Sure, it's probably a little uneven, but the fact that he's gone all soft for you makes your heart race.

You slowly lean back and look at his hair, a soft smile forming on your face. "Perfect." You whisper.

"Do I look like Boo from Monsters Inc now?" He laughs.

"Eh..." You trail off, laughing. "You look good, even if the hairstyle isn't that good."

"I love you, baby." He chuckles, gently pressing his lips onto yours before resting his forehead against yours.

"Thank you for letting me do your hair. Should do your hair for a premier one day, y'know." You tease, biting down on your lip to hold back a laugh as he playfully rolls his eyes. "I love you." You whisper.

Joe shuffles himself down to rest his head on the pillows, and you move down with him. His head moves to your chest, letting his eyes flutter shut as he completely melts into your warmth. "Now, you're staying here for the next 30 minutes. You're not moving." He mumbles.