ᯓ★ issy

The afternoon sun warmed your shoulders as you walked through the glass doors of Munson's Bikes. A small bronze bell above the door jingled and then gave way to the familiar sound of classic rock music coming from somewhere behind the store.

The shop smelled like motor oil, gasoline, and warm metal. Motorcycle parts were scattered across workbenches, helmets hung from hooks along the wall, and dusty rays of sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching tiny flecks of sawdust and grease in the air.

You stepped up to the counter, glancing around. "Hello?" you called. "I'm here to pick up my dad's custom order." no one answered. "Eddie?"

A clatter echoed from the garage before a familiar voice answered. "Hang on."

A second later, Steve Harrington emerged from the back, wiping his hands on an already ruined shop rag.

Your breath caught.

He wore a white tank top streaked with grease, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders. Dark smudges marked his forearms, and a strand of hair had fallen across his forehead from working. A piece of gum shifted lazily between his teeth as he looked up.

"Oh? Hey." Recognition flashed across his face.

"S-Steve." who owned the loudest bike in Hawkins, yet slowed down when some animals crossed the street.

He smiled, a little crooked. "Eddie's out making a delivery. Huge order." He jerked a thumb toward the garage. "Didn't trust anyone else with the shop, so... congratulations."

You laughed. "You got promoted?"

"Nah." He snorted. "More like tricked into free labor." His grin was enough to make you laugh again. "I was just fixing my bike while I waited."

Your eyes drifted past him toward the open garage.

Steve caught the look. "You...uh..." He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. "You can wait here if you want. Eddie shouldn't be too long."

"I don't mind."

There was a brief silence. Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other before blurting, "Actually... do you want to see my bike? I mean—you don't have to. It's just... already out there."

You smiled. "I'd love to."

His shoulders relaxed almost instantly. "Cool."

He led you into the garage, weaving around stacks of tires and shelves lined with tools. Near the back sat a beautifully restored vintage motorcycle, its deep black paint gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights.

Steve grabbed a folding chair tucked against the wall. He noticed the thin layer of dust covering the seat. He frowned, grabbed a clean rag from the workbench, and carefully wiped it down before draping the cloth over the chair.

"There," he said. "Didn't really think this through."

"You always prepare seats for your guests?"

He chuckled. "Only the important ones."

He cleared his throat and quickly crouched beside the motorcycle, reaching for a wrench before embarrassing himself further. "So..." He rested a hand against the fuel tank. "Found her behind an old barn a few years ago. She barely ran. Rust everywhere." He gave the bike an affectionate pat. "Everyone told me she wasn't worth fixing."

"But?"

"But I figured she deserved nother chance" His smile softened.

You watched him more than the motorcycle. As he tightened a bolt, the muscles in his forearms flexed beneath streaks of grease. A bead of sweat rolled from his temple, and without thinking, he brushed it away with the back of his wrist before returning to work.

His hands moved with quiet confidence, careful and practiced, as if he knew every bolt and every scratch by heart.

"Steve, I don't think you've looked at me once since you started explaining."

He looked up immediately. "I have."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You have?"

"I've just..." He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "been trying not to make it obvious."

Your cheeks warmed. "So you were trying?"

He stared at you for a second before laughing under his breath. "Guess I wasn't doing a very good job."

"No, not really you admitted with a grin.

Steve continued rambling about carburetors or the engine, completely unaware you weren’t listening. You took two steps forward that made him look up at you, then you kissed him. 

Silence didn’t last long when he spat the gum and crashed his lips into yours. Lips and teeth fighting for dominance, he spun you around until your ass hit the seat of his motorbike. You could feel his hard cock through his jeans pressing into you. 

“Stay right there,” his voice filled with lust. His hand slid between your legs, rubbing your pussy through your shorts. “Already wet? Dirty little thing getting wet just from kissing.” 

You moaned as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one rough pull. The cold metal of the fuel tank pressed against your bare skin. 

“Hop on, baby, and grind that pretty cunt of yours in my bike,” Steve ordered and you followed wholeheartedly. 

You started to grind on the fuel tank, your wetness made everything in smooth motion. The friction sent sparks through you, and only the man standing could give you the desire you wanted. It's so filthy you cannot imagine you're getting turned on by this, “Oh god, Stevee” 

Steve just watched you on the other end of the bike, enjoying the view. You kept grinding as your life depended on it. “Steve, baby, please touch me.” 

Steve being the man he is, obeyed, his tongue dragged straight up your slit in one long, wet stroke, licking from your clit.  You jerked and moaned, fingers curling around the handlebars.  

Steve didn't give you time to adjust. He buried his face between you and started eating your pussy like he was starving, sucking your swollen lips into his mouth before spearing his tongue deep inside yourhole.

“Fuck you taste good.” he inserted his two long thick fingers and started pumping. He curled them against your wall, rubbing that sensitive spot with every thrust of his hand. 

“Aahh shi-t, please don’t stop.” your one hand grabbed his hair to shove him deeper. 

Steve switch between licking your fold and stabbing your inside, mixing it with steady thrust of his fingers. “Don’t you dare close your legs, baby. Keep this pussy open for me.” 

All you could do was receive it all, holding the handlebars enough to keep you in place, chanting his name.  “That’s it, baby” he growled between licks, “Come on my tongue. I want to feel this cunt pulsing while I eat it.” 

"Look at you, spread out on my motorcycle," he said, voice rough. "Pussy dripping all over the seat. I'm gonna fill this cunt up." he said, unbuckling himself. 

"Steve, what if Eddie sees us?"

"Don't worry, he texted me he'll be gone long."

He flipped you onto your back across the tank, and hooked your legs over his shoulders. In one smooth motion he drove inside you, the new angle making you see stars. He fucked you deep and fast, one hand around your throat, the other rubbing your swollen clit.

Steve helped you to take off your top, you and he gently massaged your boobs, biting your lip to keep yourself quiet. 

“Be loud, pretty girl or else I’ll fucking stop fucking you.” Steve grunted while sucking the skin of your neck. 

"You like that? Getting used on my bike like a filthy slut?" he hissed in your ear. "Say it."

"Yes," you gasped. "Fuck me harder."

Your orgasm hit hard, your walls clenching around him as you moaned his name. Steve didn't stop. He flipped you again, this time sitting on the bike and pulling you onto his lap so you faced him. You sank on his cock, riding him while he gripped your hips and thrust up to meet you.

“Ride it, baby, “ he ordered. “Show me how badly you want my cum.”

"Mph! too mu-much" yet you cannot stop yourself bouncing on him.

You rode him hard, tits bouncing with every movement. He sucked one nipple into his mouth, biting down just enough to make you whimper. He reached around and slapped your ass. 

"Next time I'm taking this ass too," he promised, voice dark. "But right now I'm gonna pump this pussy full."

You came again shaking on his cock, Steve followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and flooding you with hot cum. He kept you impaled on him, breathing hard against you neck.

"Not done with you yet," he muttered, already starting to harden inside you again. "Wear my helmet and turn around. Both hands on the handlebars. I'm fucking you from behind until you can't walk straight. "

After the Starcourt battle, Hawkins tried to move on.

The mall was rubble. The news cycle shifted. Summer ended. People whispered, then stopped whispering altogether. Robin Buckley laughed a little louder than before, filled the silence with words, with music, with anything that kept her from thinking too hard.

Steve Harrington went home. He always went home like nothing happened because maybe, if he pretended hard enough, nothing really had.

Weeks passed. Then months. The days blurred together, the nights stretching long and unforgiving. Steve learned how to function on exhaustion, how to smile just enough when someone asked if he was okay, how to nod when people said “It’s over now.”

It wasn’t over.

Even his parents noticed, eventually.

First, Steve startled too easily. The clatter of a spoon dropped into the sink made him flinch so hard his chest hurt, breath punching out of him like he’d been struck.

Second, sharp things made his skin crawl. Knives left out on the counter. Scissors. Broken glass. His palms would sweat, his heart racing, his thoughts spiraling somewhere dark and cold. He avoided the kitchen when he could.

Third, sleep became impossible. Either he couldn’t fall asleep at all, lying awake with his eyes burning, staring at the ceiling until dawn bled through the curtains, or he slept and paid for it. When he did sleep, the past dragged him under with it.

The chair. The restraints. The way his body had stopped feeling like it belonged to him.

He’d wake up gasping, heart slamming against his ribs, the echo of foreign voices still ringing in his ears. His sheets twisted tight in his fists, sweat soaking through his shirt, throat raw from screams he didn’t remember making. 

It was too much, too much for anyone especially a seventeen-year-old who’d been expected to handle everything with a grin and a bat.

The night it finally broke through the Harrington household was quiet, too quiet, always quiet.

Mr. and Mrs. Harrington had just returned from another business trip, suitcases still sitting unopened by the front door, when the silence shattered.

“No no no, wait stop...please !” Steve’s scream tore through the house.

His parents were out of their room in seconds, feet pounding down the hallway, panic sharp and sudden in their chests. They threw open Steve’s bedroom door to find him upright in bed, tangled in his sheets, eyes wide and unfocused.

He was shaking. His breathing came in short, uneven bursts, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead, his hands clawing at the mattress like he was bracing himself against something invisible.

“Steve,” his father said, too stiff, too unsure.

“Steven, honey,” his mother rushed forward, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Steve blinked at her. His eyes were glassy, distant, he wasn’t really seeing her at all. “Where...” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. “Where am I?”

“You’re home,” his mom said softly, her voice trembling now. “You’re safe. You’re home.”

Her hands hovered before finally settling on his arms. He flinched at the touch, just barely, but she noticed. Her breath hitched.

“What’s happening to you?” she asked, tears pooling in her eyes. “Steve baby, please talk to me.”

He laughed, but it came out wrong. Thin. Broken. “If I tell you,” he said quietly, “you’re not gonna believe me.”

“That’s not true,” she insisted, too quickly. Steve’s jaw tightened. His chest started to ache, pressure building until it hurt to breathe.

“You don’t even know me,” he whispered. His eyes burned, tears finally spilling over. “You and Dad are never here. You’re always gone, both of you. It’s just… this house.”

His voice rose, cracking under the weight of it. “This big house,” he said, gesturing weakly around him, “with no parents in it. No one. Just me.”

A sob tore out of his chest before he could stop it. “Mom, I’m so lonely,” Steve choked.

His mother covered her mouth, tears spilling freely now. His father stood frozen by the door, face pale, the realization hitting him far too late.

Steve curled inward, arms wrapping around himself, shaking as the weight of everything he’d been carrying finally broke him open. And for the first time since Starcourt, he didn’t pretend he was fine.

Steve stopped talking to them after that night.

Not slammed doors, not shouting. Only silence that hollowed the house out even more than their absence ever had. He answered questions with shrugs. With nods. With a flat “I’m fine.” He stopped coming down for breakfast. He stopped meeting his mother’s eyes. When his father tried to sit beside him in the living room, Steve stood up and left without a word.

His parents noticed everything now too late, but desperately.

They stopped traveling for a while. His mom lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, pretending to clean just to be near him. His dad knocked before entering Steve’s room, stood awkwardly in the doorway, like a guest in his own son’s life.

“Steve,” his mother tried one morning, voice careful, measured. “We just want to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Steve replied, not looking up from the floor.

His father cleared his throat. “That night...you scared us.”

“It was just a nightmare,” Steve said quickly. Too quickly. “People have nightmares.”

But nightmares didn’t leave dark circles under his eyes that never faded. They didn’t make his hands shake when keys jingled. They didn’t make him flinch when someone raised their voice just a little too suddenly.

Steve insisted he was fine. He repeated it until it sounded rehearsed, until even he almost believed it.

Almost.

The truth sat heavy in his chest, unspoken and unbearable. The deaths. The guilt. The way his body still remembered pain even when there was none. The realization that when everything fell apart, he’d been alone—again. He was just a kid. He didn’t have words big enough for any of it.

So his parents made the decision for him.

They sat him down at the dining table, sunlight streaming through the tall windows like nothing was wrong. His mom’s hands trembled around her coffee cup. His dad didn’t touch his.

“We’re going to admit you to a private psychiatric facility,” his father said, stiff, rehearsed. “Just for a while.”

Steve laughed. A sharp, disbelieving sound. “What?”

“It’s not a punishment,” his mother rushed to say. “It’s help. You need professional help.”

“I don’t need a hospital,” Steve snapped, finally looking at them. “I’m not crazy.”

“No one said you were,” she said, tears already in her eyes.

“You’re locking me up,” Steve said, standing so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. His heart started racing. “Because I had one nightmare?”

“This isn’t about one night,” his father said, voice breaking despite himself. “This is about months. About you disappearing right in front of us.”

Steve shook his head, backing away like they were the ones threatening him now. “I told you,” he said, voice shaking. “I told you nothing’s wrong with me.”

But something was wrong.

It lived in his chest, in his bones, in the way his breath stuttered when he thought too hard. It was the weight of everything hitting him all at once—Barb, Billy, Nancy, the Russians, the empty house, the years of being forgotten.

He couldn’t carry it anymore.

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The day they admitted him, Steve didn’t say goodbye to the party.

The car ride was silent except for the hum of the engine. The building was too clean, too white, too calm. The receptionist smiled like this was normal, llike this happened every day.

Steve’s parents filled out paperwork with shaking hands. When they took his jacket, his watch, his keys, something in him cracked.

“This is temporary,” his mom whispered, squeezing his hand. “We’ll visit everyweek. We promise.”

He nodded, numb.

When they finally walked away, Steve stood alone in the hallway, arms wrapped around himself, feeling smaller than he ever had before.

He wasn’t dangerous. He wasn’t broken. He was just a seventeen-year-old boy who had survived too much and no one noticed until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

The psychiatric nurse showed Steve to his room with practiced efficiency, clipboard tucked under her arm like she’d done this a hundred times before.

“This will be your room,” she said gently, pushing the door open. Steve stepped inside and stopped. It was… small.

One narrow bed bolted to the floor. A tiny wooden table. One chair. No posters. No trophies. No memories. The walls were a soft, lifeless beige, the kind meant to calm people down but somehow only made him feel more exposed.

It looked like something out of a movie. The kind where the main character wasn’t allowed to leave.

“This is temporary,” the nurse added, like she could read his thoughts. “You can personalize it a little. Photos, books. Nothing sharp.”

Steve nodded, jaw tight.

She handed him a folded piece of paper. “This is your schedule.”

Breakfast under supervision. Medication check. Individual therapy with Dr. Sweets twice a week. Group sessions. Recreational therapy. Free time.

Everything timed. Everything monitored.

“Lights out is at ten,” she said. “If you need anything during the night, press the call button.” He nodded again.

The nurse smiled, small and polite, before leaving him alone. The door clicked shut behind her. Steve sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

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Two weeks passed.

Two weeks of beige walls and bland food and people speaking softly to him like he might break if they didn’t. Two weeks of group sessions where no one ever said what they were really thinking. And meeting Dr. Sweets every week, he said enough to prescribe him, but he still refuses to talk about everything. Two weeks of medication that made his head feel heavy, like his thoughts were wrapped in cotton. 

He didn’t feel better. He felt… detached. Like he was floating slightly outside his own body, watching himself go through the motions.

That night, sleep refused to come. Steve lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the paint. The hallway light spilled through the small window in his door, casting long shadows across the floor.

That’s when he saw it. A darker shape, blocking the light. Someone was standing outside his door. Steve’s body tensed immediately, heart jumping into his throat. He sat up slowly, every muscle alert.

“Hello?” he called, keeping his voice low. No answer.

The shadow shifted. Steve swallowed. “Who’s there?”

A knock sounded soft, quick. His pulse spiked. “I said, who is there?”

Another knock. Louder this time. Steve swung his legs off the bed, fists clenching. “This isn’t funny.”

“Jesus, just open the fucking door.”

Steve froze. That was… not a nurse.

He opened the door. A girl slipped inside immediately, closing it behind her with practiced ease. She pressed a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” you whispered urgently. Steve stared at you, completely stunned.

Down the hallway, footsteps echoed. Voices. Nurses calling out a name your name. You waited until the sounds faded before relaxing, grinning as if you’d just won something.

Then you turned to Steve. “Hi!” you said brightly. “I’m Y/N.”

Steve blinked

“You” His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “You’re… not supposed to be in here.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, neither are they,” you said, jerking your thumb toward the hallway. “They get really dramatic about it.” Steve just stared.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You’re the new one.”

“I...” He paused. “How did you—”

You interrupted him by reaching into your bra.

Steve’s eyes widened immediately. “Whoaa”

“Relax,” you said, pulling out a slightly crumpled pack of gum. “I’m not flashing you, yet.”

You popped a piece into your mouth and held the pack out to him. “Want one?”

Steve looked at the gum. Then at you. Then back at the gum.

“I… is this allowed?” he asked weakly.

You snorted. “Absolutely not.” And, that was the funniest thing Steve had heard in weeks. He took the gum even though he didn’t remember seeing you before.

“Steve,” he said after a beat. “I’m Steve.”

“I know,” you replied casually.

That made him choke on the gum a little. “You do?”

You shrugged, completely unfazed. “It’s not exactly classified information. Also, I sneak out of the office sometimes.”

“The office?” Steve repeated, eyebrows knitting together.

You nodded, grinning. “Yeah. Boredom makes people resourceful.”

He stared at you, then laughed again “So you just… what, read my file?”

You raised your hands defensively. “Relax. I didn’t memorize it or anything. Just enough to know you’re that Steve.” You tilted your head. “King Steve, right?”

He shook his head, still smiling, the title landing softer than it ever had before. “God, I hate that name.”

“Well,” you said, pushing off the wall, “it beats ‘guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in five days.’”

He huffed. “Barely.”

You smiled at him normally, like he wasn’t something fragile that needed to be handled gently, and for the first time since he arrived, the room didn’t feel so empty.

You didn’t wait for an invitation. You scanned the room once, then walked in like it already belonged to you, footsteps soft but purposeful. Steve watched, mildly alarmed, as you took in the beige walls, the too-neat bed, the single chair like you were assessing a crime scene.

“Wow,” you said. “This is… aggressively boring.”

“It grows on you,” Steve replied dryly. “Like mold.”

You hummed, already moving toward the small table. Your eyes flicked down, sharp and curious, landing on the plastic cup of water, the neatly arranged medication tray. You leaned closer, squinting.

“Hey,” Steve said, sitting up straighter. “Don’t touch that.”

Too late, you crouched, peering under the table, then reached toward the windowsill where a tiny cactus sat in a chipped ceramic pot one of the only things in the room that looked remotely personal.

You tipped it slightly.

Pills rattled softly inside.

You froze. Then you looked up at him slowly, eyes wide. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “Steve.”

He sighed, already knowing where this was going. “What.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said, scandalized. “You’re hiding pills in a cactus. That’s..” you waved a hand, searching for the word, “criminal behavior.”

“It’s efficient,” he muttered. “And I’m not dirty.”

“You are absolutely dirty,” you said, standing up. “This is like… an old-man trick. Do the nurses know you’re committing botanical fraud?”

“I don’t need them,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. He leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed like that was the end of the conversation. “They just make me feel weird.”

You didn’t argue right away.

Instead, you wandered again, fingers trailing over the edge of the table, the chair, the neatly folded blanket. Then without breaking stride you scooped up one lonely sock from the floor and slipped it into your pocket. Steve didn’t notice.

You turned back to him. “You know,” you said casually, “they usually catch that.”

“What?”

“The hiding,” you shrugged. “They’re really good at pretending they don’t see things until they really, really see them.”

Steve swallowed but said nothing.

You tilted your head, studying him. Not judging. Just looking. “You don’t have to like the meds,” you added lightly. “But you do kinda have to take them if you wanna get out of here.”

He scoffed. “I’m not staying.”

“No one is,” you said. “That’s kind of the point.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Steve exhaled and asked, quieter, “So… when are you gonna tell me why they were looking for you?”

You blinked. “Oh,” you said. “That.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. That.”

You shrugged, suddenly very interested in the blank wall behind him. “It’s nothing.”

Steve snorted. “That’s what people say when it’s definitely something.”

You smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time. “Guess we have that in common.” You peek your head out the door, and when the coast is clear, you say goodbye to Steve. 

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The next afternoon, recreational therapy smelled like plastic beads and muffins.

Steve sat stiffly at one of the long tables, sleeves pushed up, fingers awkward around a thin string. Around him, patients worked quietly, some focused, some distant, some humming to themselves. The room buzzed with soft conversation and the faint clatter of beads spilling from little plastic trays.

You dropped into the chair beside him like you’d been assigned there. “Hey,” you said, already reaching for a handful of beads. “If you make it too neat, it doesn’t count.”

Steve glanced at you. “That’s… not how bracelets work.”

“Wrong,” you replied. “The uglier it is, the more personality it has.”

He snorted despite himself.

As you threaded beads, you leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Okay, so last night? I caught one of the nurses and a security guard making out near the supply closet.”

Steve’s head snapped toward you. “No way.”

“I swear,” you said, eyes wide. “Like, full-on soap opera vibes. I almost applauded.”

He laughed, sharp and sudden, the sound bouncing louder than he expected. A couple of patients nearby turned to look. One of them stared a little too long. Steve felt the laughter die in his throat.

He cleared it quickly, eyes dropping back to the table. You noticed immediately. You stopped laughing, too, like someone had flipped a switch.

The room settled again. “Anyway,” you said lightly, as if nothing had happened. “This one’s yours.”

You slid your bracelet toward him. It was… bad. Blue and red clashed. The string was tied unevenly. One bead was clearly upside down.

Steve looked at his own. Just as uneven. Just as wrong. “They’re kind of terrible,” he said.

“Yeah,” you agreed. “But now we get free time. Worth it.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “C’mon. I’ll show you something.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

You led him through hallways with the confidence of someone who’d mapped every blind spot. You waited for footsteps, slipped past open doors, ducked behind corners. Steve followed, heart pounding—not with fear, but with something lighter. Something almost fun.

When you finally pushed open the door to the rooftop, cool air rushed in like a secret. Steve sucked in a breath. The sky stretched wide above them, pale blue and endless. The hospital roof was bare and quiet, the world beyond it distant and muted.

“We’re totally not allowed here,” Steve said, though he didn’t move back.

You grinned. “Relax. It’s not like we’re committing a felony.”

You stepped forward, arms thrown wide like you were trying to hug the sky. “Feel that?” you said. “Fresh air. It’s different up here.”

Steve watched you, the way your hair lifted slightly in the breeze, the way you looked… free. Like rules didn’t cling to you the way they clung to him.

Then a voice shouted behind you.

“Hey!”

You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed Steve’s wrist and ran.

Both of you sprinted down the stairs, laughter spilling out of both of you, breathless and reckless. Steve hadn’t run like that in months—not away from something, but with someone.

Later, you lingered by the door to the common room.

“Visiting hours,” you said, rocking back on your heels. “My sister’s coming.”

Steve nodded. “Oh.”

You smiled at him. “I’ll see you later, Harrington.”

He watched you leave, the space beside him suddenly louder without you in it.

His parents arrived right on time. They brought Boppers—his favorite. and his chest tightened at the sight of them. His mom handed him a book with folded letter. “From Dustin,” she said. His dad passed over a rolled-up poster of a BMW.

“Robin sent that,” his dad added. “She said it reminded her of you.”

Steve smiled, small but real. They sat together, his parents asking careful questions.

“How are you feeling here?” “Are the doctors nice?” “Are you taking your medication?” “Any more nightmares?”

He answered politely. Casually. Flat.

“I’m okay.” “It’s fine.” “Yeah.” “No, not really.”

They told him Dustin and Robin would visit next week. That did something to his chest—something warm.

When it was time to go, his dad pulled him into a hug. Awkward. Tight. His mom kissed his forehead, lingering like she was afraid he’d disappear again.

Steve stood there long after they left, bracelet still looped loosely around his wrist. It was ugly and it meant more to him than he wanted to admit.

Later that night, there’s a knock on his door—soft at first, then more certain. “Stevie,” your voice comes through the thin wood. “Open up.”

Steve blinks awake, sits up, rubs a hand over his face. When he opens the door, you’re standing there barefoot, cardigan hanging loose around your shoulders like you didn’t bother fixing it.

“You want gum?” you ask immediately, like it’s the most natural opening line in the world.

Before he can answer, you’re already pulling a stick out from your bra. Steve pauses, brow furrowing—still confused every single time about where you keep getting things from—but he takes it anyway.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

You hesitate then, just for a second. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight?” you ask, louder than necessary at first, then softer. “The light in my room blew again. It’s… really dark. And I don’t feel great being alone right now.”

Steve notices the shift. The way your shoulders curl in slightly. The way your eyes don’t quite meet his. “Yeah,” he says easily, stepping aside. “Sure. Make yourself at home.”

You snort. “Oh, don’t tempt me.”

You sit on the edge of his bed like you’ve done it before, like you belong there. Steve shuts the door, the latch clicking softly, and suddenly the room feels smaller—but not in a bad way.

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. “Is that The Hobbit?”

Steve follows your gaze. “Yeah.”

“You read?” you ask, clearly amused.

“Not really,” he admits. “It’s from my best friend. He made me promise I’d read at least one chapter a night.”

“And do you?”

He shrugs. “Most nights. Sometimes I fall asleep halfway through.”

You smile at that. “That’s very heroic of you. Falling asleep mid-quest.”

He rolls his eyes. “Wow. Encouraging.”

“You should do the voices,” you say, stretching out on your side. “C’mon. I’m bored.”

Steve groans, but he picks up the book anyway. He reads awkwardly at first, stumbling over names, but you keep interrupting—correcting pronunciations you’re not even sure about, whispering commentary, asking questions you already know the answer to.

Somewhere between a chapter and another argument about whether hobbits are brave or just lucky, your breathing evens out.

Steve notices when you stop talking. He glances over. You’re asleep, curled slightly toward him, cardigan slipping off one shoulder. He carefully lowers the book, afraid even the sound of it closing might wake you. For the first time in weeks, he lies back and lets his eyes close without bracing himself for nightmares.

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Morning comes quietly. Steve wakes up rested—actually rested, and for a moment, he forgets where he is. Then he turns his head. The spot beside him is empty.

He blinks, sits up. The door’s still closed. No sign of you. He figures you went back to your room early—meeting with Dr. Sweets, schedules, routines. People here are always being pulled away by something. Still, the room feels a little colder.

After breakfast and his meds, Steve heads to his appointment. Dr. Sweets sits across from him, clipboard balanced on his knee.

“How are you feeling today, Steve?”

“I’m good,” Steve says.

“And your sleep?”

Steve pauses. “Actually… yeah. I slept.”

Dr. Sweets’ pen stills, then starts moving again. “That’s progress.”

Steve nods, staring at the carpet. “I think so.”

“Anything you want to talk about today?” Dr. Sweets asks gently. “Anything you feel ready to talk about?”

Steve hesitates. His fingers fidget with the edge of the couch.

“I made a friend,” he says finally.

Dr. Sweets looks up. “That’s good.”

“She’s—uh—she’s funny,” Steve continues. “Kind of wild. She stole my muffins once.”

Dr. Sweets’ pen moves again, slower this time.

“And how does she make you feel?” he asks, carefully.

Steve shrugs. “Less… stuck, I guess.”

“That’s important,” Dr. Sweets says. There’s a pause. “Anything else?”

Steve shakes his head.

After the session, Steve heads straight for the garden. You’re already there, sitting on the low wall, swinging your legs.

“Hey, Stevie,” you say. “How were the chitchats with Dr. Sweets?”

Steve groans. “Fine. I just hate when I say something and he writes it down.”

You nod seriously. “Yeah. Feels like he’s stealing your jokes.” He laughs before he can stop himself.

“Anyway,” you say, hopping down. “I got you something.” You hand him a Bopper.

Steve stares at it. “Did you—”

“Kitchen,” you say quickly.

He accepts it, smiling. “Thanks.” and he doesn’t question it.

The garden is loud in its usual, harmless way—murmured conversations, the scrape of chairs, someone laughing too hard at nothing.

Then it isn’t. The sound cuts through first: shouting. Shoes slamming against concrete. A sharp, metallic clatter that doesn’t belong.

You look up just in time to see a patient sprinting toward the lawn, his grip tight around something silver. Scissors, too big to be from arts and crafts.

Behind him, a nurse is yelling his name. Guards are already running, radios crackling.

“Steve,” you say sharply. He doesn’t answer.

You glance at him—and your stomach drops.

Steve is frozen. Not stiff. Not bracing. Just… still. His shoulders are locked, his hands loose at his sides, eyes wide and unfocused like he’s not seeing what’s in front of him at all.

“Steve,” you say again, louder. “Move.”

The patient is closer now. Way too close to your direction.

You don’t think. You just grab Steve by the arm and pull. Both of you go down hard, grass scratching against your palms as you hit the ground. Steve lets out a startled sound, more breath than voice.

The world explodes into motion again.

Guards tackle the patient a few feet away. The scissors skitter across the path. Someone yells for backup. A nurse drops to her knees, checking the patient’s hands, his wrists.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” someone keeps saying. “We’ve got him.”

You push yourself up first, heart hammering.

“What the hell, Harrington?” you snap, spinning back to Steve. “Are you trying to get yourself killed by a freakin’ pair of scissors?”

You offer him a hand, but he doesn’t take it. Steve’s chest is rising too fast. His breaths are shallow, uneven, like he’s forgetting what comes next.

“Oh—shit,” you mutter. You drop back down in front of him immediately.

“Hey,” you say, softer now. “Hey, you’re okay.”

Steve shakes his head, barely. His eyes dart around, not landing anywhere.

“Steve,” you say firmly. “Look at me.” Nothing.

 You take his hands. They’re cold. Slightly trembling. “Steve,” you repeat. “Look at me.”

This time, his eyes finally lock onto yours. “Good,” you say. “Okay. Just do what I do.”

You inhale slowly, exaggerated on purpose. “Breathe in.” He tries. It stutters, but it’s there.

“Hold it,” you say quietly. “One… two…”

Then you exhale. “And breathe out.” You do it again. And again. You don’t rush him. You don’t let go.

Around you, the garden is slowly returning to normal. Guards escort the patient away. A nurse explains he got the scissors from the supply room. Someone mutters about better locks.

None of it matters.

Steve’s breathing starts to even out. His shoulders lower, just a little. His grip on your hands tightens once—then loosens.

“There you go,” you murmur. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

Steve swallows hard. “I—I couldn’t move.”

“I know,” you say, like it makes perfect sense. “But you’re good now.”

He nods, eyes still on you, like if he looks away everything might come crashing back. You stay there longer than necessary just in case.

They clear the garden not long after. Staff herd everyone inside under the excuse of a schedule change, voices too cheerful, smiles too tight. The grass still looks the same, sun still warm, like nothing almost went wrong at all.

Steve walks beside you without realizing he’s doing it. not ahead. not behind. Close enough that his arm brushes yours every few steps.

Inside, the hallway smells faintly like disinfectant and coffee. Someone laughs down the corridor. A cart rattles past. Normal things. Steve keeps his eyes on the floor anyway.

“You good?” you ask, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” he says automatically.

You hum, unconvinced. “Okay.”

You don’t argue. You don’t stop him. You just slow your pace a little, and he matches it without noticing.

At the end of the hall, there’s a bench by the window. You sit first. Steve hesitates, just a second, then sits beside you, knees angled slightly toward yours. Neither of you talks.

Steve’s hands rest on his thighs, fingers flexing like he’s testing whether they still work. You watch them for a moment before gently tapping his knuckles with yours.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Wanna try something?”

He nods.

“Name five things you can see.”

He frowns, then looks around. “Uh… the plant by the door. That painting with the ugly colors. Your shoes.”

“They’re not ugly,” you say.

“They’re… loud.”

You smile. “Keep going.”

“The window. And… that clock that ticks too loud.”

“Good,” you say. “Four things you can feel.”

Steve shifts. “The bench. My shoes. The air from the vent.” He pauses. “Your sleeve.”

You don’t move it away. “That’s fine,” you say. “Three things you can hear.”

“The clock. Someone coughing. You breathing.”

That one makes you blink. “Two things you can smell.”

“Soap,” he says. “And… something sweet liike a gum.”

You grin. “Told you it’s useful.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

Steve swallows. “Mint.”

You nod, satisfied. “See? You’re here.”

He exhales slowly, like the words finally land. After a while, he says quietly, “You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug. “Yeah, I did.”

Steve glances at you. “You pulled me down.”

“Yeah,” you repeat. “I noticed.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“So could you,” you say simply.

That shuts him up. A nurse walks past, clipboard tucked under her arm, gives Steve his meds, and this time he swallowed them. She nods at Steve. “You okay now?”

“Yeah,” he answers.

She smiles briefly and keeps walking. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t ask your name. It’s the same nurse you caught making out with the guard. Weird. 

Steve doesn’t notice, but you do.

A few minutes later, you stand. “C’mon. We’ll miss rec.”

He stands too—too fast then steadies himself. You instinctively reach out, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him before he can even wobble.

He looks at your hand. You let go like it means nothing.

As you walk, Steve breaks the silence. “You didn’t yell at me.”

You glance sideways. “For what?”

“For freezing,” he says. “People usually do.”

You slow just enough for him to notice. “Well,” you say, “freezing isn’t exactly a hobby. It just… happens.”

He nods. “Yeah.” At the doorway, he hesitates again.

You stop with him this time. “You don’t have to go back out there today,” you say.

“I know.”

Another pause. “But you’re going to,” you add.

Steve looks at you, searching. “Yeah.”

You smile gently “Okay.” You open the door and step inside together.

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After that, things shift—quietly. Not in a way you can point to, not in anything dramatic. Just in the way Steve starts expecting you to be nearby, and the way you don’t have to announce yourself anymore.

Sunday comes slower than the other days.

It’s quieter in the ward, sunlight stretching long across the floors, routines running on half-speed. Visiting hours mean shuffled schedules—alone time encouraged, appointments kept. You have your meeting with your psychiatrist that morning. Steve has his own later. It’s understood, unspoken, that today you won’t be glued at the hip.

That’s okay.

Steve heads out to the garden patio where Robin and Dustin are already waiting. They’re sitting side by side on the low concrete wall, Dustin’s legs swinging, Robin fiddling with the strap of her bag like she’s been doing it for ten minutes already.

“Hey!” Robin says the moment she spots him. She’s on her feet in an instant, arms wrapping around him in a tight hug that smells like outside and familiar shampoo.

“Hey,” Steve laughs, hugging her back.

Dustin barrels in next. “Dude,” he says, squeezing Steve’s middle, “I missed you.”

Steve grins, a real one, the kind that reaches his eyes. “Missed you too.”

They sit, the three of them crowded together in the sun.

“So,” Robin says, studying him openly. “How are you doing?”

Steve shrugs, then pauses. “Actually… better.”

Dustin squints at him. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “You do look better. Less… haunted.”

“Wow,” Steve says. “Thanks.”

“I mean it as a compliment.”

Robin nods. “You seem lighter.”

Steve lets that sit for a second. “Yeah. I kinda feel it too.”

Robin leans back on her hands. “Okay, real question,” she says. “Anything weird happening here? Like, paranormal weird?”

Steve laughs. “No. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Lame, but you made friends? Someone keeping you company?” Dustin mutters.

“Yeah,” Steve adds, almost casually, “I did meet someone.”

Robin and Dustin immediately exchange a look.

“Oh,” Robin says. “You did.”

Dustin’s eyes light up. “Tell us everything.”

Steve shakes his head, smiling. “She’s just… cool. Kind of wild, but grounded. Doesn’t really care what people think of her.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Dangerous combination.”

“She’s always looking for trouble,” Steve continues. “Adventure, I guess. She steals stuff.”

“Like bad stuff?” Dustin asks.

“My socks and other things in the common room,” Steve says. “Every time she goes into my room, I lose another one.”

Dustin gasps. “Monster.”

“And,” Steve adds, lowering his voice like it’s a confession, “she hides her gum in her bra. I don’t know what that means.”

Robin snorts. “It means she’s chaotic.”

Steve laughs. “Yeah. But she’s… good. Keeps me company. Makes it feel less” He gestures vaguely. “this place is trying to swallow me whole.”

Robin’s expression softens. “That’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It is.”

Dustin grins. “Next time, you gotta introduce us.”

“She sounds fun,” Robin adds.

Steve nods. “Yeah. I think you’d like her.”

“If she makes you feel safe? Yeah. I would.” Robin smiles. 

They talk for a long while after that.

Robin fills him in on everything back home—jobs, rumors, who’s mad at who this week. Dustin rambles excitedly about a new science project, explaining it with wild hand motions. Steve listens closely, asking questions, actually invested. For the first time, the world outside doesn’t feel so far away.

Still, now and then—Steve glances toward the path that leads back inside. Just once. Just quick.

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Days passed, and closeness settled in quietly, the way routines do.

Steve started saving you a seat without asking. Sometimes you showed up late on purpose just to see if he would—and he always did. Somewhere along the way, Steve stopped looking for exits when you were in the room.

You watched television together in the common room, legs stretched out, commenting on shows neither of you actually cared about. You talked over the important parts and fell silent during the boring ones.

You walked him to Dr. Sweets’ office and waited outside, flipping through old magazines, pretending not to listen for his footsteps. He always found you there when he came out.

He learned from you which hallways were monitored less, which doors were always locked, which corners felt safe enough to linger in. And, it stopped feeling like spending time together and started feeling like default.

The ward feels quieter after visiting hours. Like the air itself has settled.

Steve walks back to his room with the faint echo of Robin’s laugh still stuck in his head, Dustin’s voice trailing behind it. For once, the goodbye didn’t feel like being abandoned. Just… a pause.

He opens his door—and stops. You’re already there. “You missed Robin and Dustin. Where were you?” You ignored him. 

Lying across his bed like you own the place, arms flung wide, one leg bent awkwardly at the knee. There’s a cigarette tucked between your lips. Steve reacts instantly.

“Hey—” He steps in and shuts the door a little too fast. “No smoking in here.”

He plucks the cigarette from your mouth, ready to lecture—then freezes.

It isn’t lit. You crack one eye open. “Relax.” 

You take it back from him easily, tucking it between your fingers instead of your mouth this time.

Steve exhales, rubbing his face. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“You love trouble,” you say, sitting up slowly. “I bring enrichment to your life.”

“That’s not what enrichment means.”

You grin—but then your expression shifts, just slightly. The joke drains out of your face like water from a sink.

“Steve?” you say, quieter.

“Yeah?” He sits down beside you without thinking. You straighten, turning to face him fully now. Your knees brush his.

“I really want to get out of here.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away. “I think everyone does,” he says finally.

You nod. “Yeah. But… I’ve been here for three years.” You stare at the wall over his shoulder. “People come and go. Friends get better. They leave. At first they visit, they promise they will.”

You swallow.

“Then the visits slow down. And then they stop. I guess the outside world is more exciting than this place.” Steve’s chest tightens.

You look back at him, eyes shining. “When you get out,” you say, voice barely steady, “don’t abandon me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy.

Steve feels tears prick before he can stop them. “I won’t,” he says immediately. “I swear. I would never.”

You sniff, trying to laugh it off. “You don’t even know when you’re getting out.”

“Then we get better together,” Steve says, surprising himself with how sure it sounds. “We heal together. And when we’re both out—” He hesitates, then pushes through. “We explore. The real world. Together.”

You stare at him.

“Promise?” you ask.

Steve lifts his hand, hooks out his pinky. “Pinky promise.”

You scoff weakly. “You’re so stupid, Stevie.” Still, you lace your pinky with his.

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You walk Steve down to Dr. Sweets' office like you always do. Same pace. Same distance between your shoulders. Same quiet. When you stop outside Dr. Sweets’ office, Steve hesitates, fingers curling into the sleeve of his sweater.

“Are you sure you’re not supposed to be doing something?” he asks, like he’s looking for an excuse. Like he wants you to tell him it’s okay to leave.

You shake your head. “I’m good. I’ll wait.”

Steve nods, once. Then again. He steps forward, pauses, and looks back at you.

“You’ll still be here, right?”

You meet his eyes. “Go.”

That’s enough. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

Dr. Sweets greets him the same way he always does—calm, neutral, steady. The room smells faintly of paper and old coffee. Safe things. They do the usual check-in.

“How are you feeling today, Steve?”

Steve shrugs. “I think… I think I’m doing okay.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Sweets says gently. “Do you feel ready to talk about it today?”

Steve swallows. His hands are shaking, just slightly.

“I guess I am.”

Dr. Sweets doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t rush. He just waits.

Steve stares at the floor. “It started with my parents,” he says finally. His voice sounds far away, like it’s echoing back at him. “They used to be around. I think. I don’t really remember when they stopped.”

He lets out a weak, humorless laugh. “I was twelve when they started leaving me alone in the house. Business trips. Meetings. Conferences. I had this huge house and it was just… quiet. All the time.”

His throat tightens.

“At first it was cool. I thought it meant I was grown and I can do whatever I want.I’m  independent.” He shakes his head. “but it was scary. I’d sit in the living room with all the lights on because the silence felt too loud. I’d wait for their car to pull in. Sometimes I’d stay up just in case.”

He presses his palms into his knees. “They didn’t notice. Months went by and they didn’t notice.”

His breathing grows uneven. “I got used to it. That’s the worst part. I learned how to act like I didn’t need them. I became… King Steve.” The words taste bitter. “I hung out with the wrong people. I stopped caring about school, I let my grades fall. I did stupid, reckless things just to feel something. To feel seen. To be heard”

His voice cracks. “I was a kid. I needed them.”

Dr. Sweets says nothing. Lets the silence hold him.

Steve drags a hand over his face. “As I got older, it messed me up. I didn’t know how to be with people. I dated girls just to feel like I was worth loving. Like someone choosing me meant I mattered.”

He laughs again, sharper this time. “I ruined every relationship. and then there was Nancy.”

His eyes finally lift.

“She was different. She was good. She saw through me. And I still messed it up because she didn’t deserve someone like me. I had too much baggage. I hurt her. I hurt Jonathan. I want to apologize so bad it feels like it’s eating me alive. Then, they date each other, and it made me feel alone. She said bullshit things, that I’m bullshit and it hurts me.”

He swallows hard.

“And then there were the monsters.” His shoulders tense. “I was terrified. I still am. But kids needed protecting. So I did it because I loved them. because someone had to.”

His voice drops. “I watched someone die. Right in front of me. And sometimes I think… it could’ve been me. It almost was. More than once.”

He presses his lips together, fighting the tremor.

“And then the Russians.” The word alone makes his breath hitch.

“They hurt me,” he says, barely audible. “They beat me and the girl I used to like until everything hurt and I…we couldn’t think straight. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t tell what was mine.”

His hands curl into fists. “They injected something into me, and everything started spinning. My head felt like it was splitting open. And then there were tools. Sharp ones.”

His voice breaks completely now.

“There was this doctor. He was smiling. He was going to pull my nail out.” Steve chokes on the words. “I was so scared. I was really—really scared.”

Tears spill freely down his face.

“After that, I can’t sleep. I barely sleep. Every time I close my eyes it feels like they’re still there. Like it’s happening again. I wake up shaking. I feel stupid for it.”

He sobs now, chest heaving.

“I blame myself for everything. For my parents. For Nancy. For the monsters. For my friends. I don’t know why they love me. I don’t know what I did to deserve them. Maybe I deserve what happened to me.”

His voice crumbles. “I’m weak. I’m weak, and that’s why I’m here.” He folds in on himself, crying the kind of cry that has been trapped for years.

Dr. Sweets finally speaks. “Steve,” he says softly, firmly. “None of this is your fault.”

Steve shakes his head, but Dr. Sweets continues.

“You were a child who was neglected. You were a teenager who survived trauma no one should ever experience. You adapted the only way you knew how. You never choose any of this.”

He leans forward slightly. “Being here is not weakness. It’s proof that you carried too much for too long, it kills you inside.”

Steve looks up, eyes red, raw.

“You opening up like this,” Dr. Sweets says, “means you’re ready to heal.”

When Steve leaves the office, the hallway feels too bright. You’re still there. Sitting exactly where you said you’d be, chewing a gum. You look up the second you see him—and you know.

“Hey,” you say gently. “What’s wrong?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He steps forward and pulls you into him. You freeze for half a second—then wrap your arms around him as he breaks. He cries into your shoulder, shaking, like the weight of everything finally found a place to fall.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” you whisper. “You’re safe. Let it out.” His grip tightens.

“I’m alone,” he sobs.

“No,” you say, holding him steady. “You’re not. You are here, you were hurt, but you are brave. And you are never alone.” And for the first time, Steve believes it might be true.

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During recreational therapy, Steve saves you a seat without thinking about it.

It’s just what he does now.

Plastic beads clatter softly against the table as he works, fingers moving on instinct. Red. Blue. Clear. He finishes one bracelet. Then another. Then starts a third, glancing up every few minutes toward the doorway.

You’re late.

By the time the nurse announces they have ten minutes left, Steve has nearly finished three bracelets. His chest tightens in that quiet, familiar way — not panic, not yet, just the dull ache of expectation stretching too thin.

Then you slide into the chair beside him like you were never gone.

“You’re late,” Steve says, relief spilling into his voice before he can stop it. “I saved you a seat.”

You grin, breathless. “The nurse caught me stealing her gum.”

Steve snorts before he can help it. A real laugh. A couple of patients glance over, eyebrows raised, the sound a little too loud in the room. Steve doesn’t care.

“Oh my,” you add, leaning over the table, “you’re improving, Harrington. These are actually beautiful.”

You pick up the bracelets, turning them over in your hands. Steve watches your fingers like he’s memorizing them.

“You think so?” he asks. “This one’s for you.”

He hands you the red-and-blue bracelet, a little crooked but sturdy. You smile, warm and easy.

“Cool,” you say. “You’re sweet.” Something twists in Steve’s chest at that. He doesn’t know why.

You stand. “I have to go. My doctor said he has news for me.” You pause, like you’re choosing your words carefully. “I’ll see you later. At your room.”

Steve nods. “Okay. I hope it’s good news.”

You smile softer this time and walk away. Steve watches until you disappear down the hall.

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The second night, Steve doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not waiting. The knock comes light, familiar  and he opens the door immediately without waiting for a second knock.

“You want gum?” you ask, voice bright, but you’re still half-hidden by the doorframe.

“What the hell?” Steve blurts. “Where have you been all day?”  Then, quieter, almost embarrassed: “You didn’t come last night. I… waited.”

The word hangs there.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

Steve exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Hey. Are you okay?” He hesitates. “That’s a dumb question. We’re here in the ward. But are you you?”

You don’t answer right away. You wander his room instead, fingers brushing the edge of the table, the chair, the windowsill.

You stop by the cactus. “Wow,” you say lightly. “No pills in the pot.”

Steve swallows. “We promised.”

You look at him then. really look at him, like youve seen him. “I’m proud of you, Steve.”

The praise lands heavier than it should. You’re quiet for a moment. Then:

“Stevie?”

“Yeah?”

“If I left… would you be okay here?” The question is barely above a whisper.

Steve frowns. “What?”

“If I leave you here,” you repeat gently, “will you be okay?”

“What are you talking about?” His voice cracks just a little. “You’re not—”

“I think,” you say softly, “I’m okay.”

Steve’s chest tightens. “No—” He shakes his head. “That’s not— This might sound selfish, but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You step forward and hug him before he can take it back. Your arms are warm, familiar, grounding.

“You’d survive, Stevie,” you murmur into his shoulder.

He clings for half a second too long. You pull back, smile sadly. “Goodnight.” And then you’re gone.

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Another week passes.

It’s Wednesday.

The ward smells faintly of disinfectant and burnt coffee, the kind that’s been sitting on a warmer too long. Sunlight slips through the narrow windows, cutting pale lines across the floor as Steve walks beside you down the hallway.

Your shoulders almost brush. Almost.

The halls are quieter than usual—midmorning lull, nurses trading shifts, patients drifting between activities. Steve notices, absently, that your footsteps don’t echo like his do.

“You’re quiet today,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “Since Monday, you haven’t even asked me for gum.”

He smiles, trying to lighten the air.

You laugh softly. “Didn’t get the chance to steal any.”

Dr. Sweets’ door comes into view.

“Do your best in there,” you say, stopping short of it. “And be honest.”

Steve hesitates. “You’ll wait here, right?”

You tilt your head. “Where else would I go?”

He exhales, relieved. “Promise?”

You smile and hook your pinky around his. “Pinky promise.”

Steve nods and opens the door.

He freezes, but confusion prevails.  His parents are already inside; this is new.

“Mom?” His voice comes out small. “Dad? What’s—what’s going on?”

Mrs. Harrington is on her feet immediately, guiding him gently to the couch between them. Her hand grips his like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she lets go. His father’s palm presses firm and steady against his back.

“Steve, honey,” his mother whispers, already crying. “Just sit. Please.”

Dr. Sweets folds his hands calmly. “Steve, you’re not in trouble.”

Steve’s heart pounds anyway.

“Based on your progress,” Dr. Sweets continues, “your engagement in therapy, your social interactions, and your consistency with medication—you’re doing remarkably well.”

Relief floods Steve’s chest. He nods. “I told you. I’m doing better.”

“You are,” Dr. Sweets agrees. “And I’m proud of you.”

Steve smiles despite himself. Then—

“But,” Dr. Sweets says gently.

The word lands heavily. Mrs. Harrington’s grip tightens.

“There’s something important we need to talk about,” Dr. Sweets continues. “Something we believe has been happening since your admission.”

Steve’s stomach twists. “Okay?”

“You’ve been experiencing trauma-related hallucinations.”

The room tilts. “No,” Steve says immediately. “That’s not—no.”

Dr. Sweets doesn’t flinch. “It’s a documented response in adolescents who experience prolonged trauma combined with isolation and emotional neglect. When reality becomes unbearable, the brain can create an alternative one to survive.”

Steve shakes his head hard. “You’re wrong.”

“The nursing staff has observed you speaking to someone who isn’t physically present,” Dr. Sweets says gently. “Laughing. Sharing space.”

Steve stands abruptly. “She is present.”

Mrs. Harrington sobs quietly. Mr. Harrington rubs her arm, jaw clenched.

“This friend you’ve mentioned before,” Dr. Sweets continues, carefully, “she isn’t real, Steve.”

“No,” Steve says, voice breaking. “You’re lying.”

“When you started taking your medication regularly,” Dr. Sweets says, “you saw her less. Didn’t you?”

Steve opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

“You didn’t imagine her from nothing,” Dr. Sweets continues. “Our best understanding is that she was built from memory. A blueprint.” He pauses. “You worked at an ice cream parlor.”

Steve’s breath stutters.

“There’s a chance you saw her once,” Dr. Sweets says. “A customer. A face. Your mind filled in the rest—gave her the qualities you needed.”

His voice softens. “She kept you company. She grounded you. She encouraged healing because, in some ways, she was you.”

Steve’s hands shake violently. “She’s waiting for me outside.”

Silence.

Dr. Sweets meets his eyes.  “Then go look.”

Steve is already moving.

The room blurs as he lunges for the door, pulse roaring in his ears like he’s underwater. His lungs burn, each breath too shallow, too fast—as if his body already knows what his mind refuses to accept.

He tears the door open. 

The hallway is empty.

Not quiet-empty.

Not waiting-empty.

Gone.

No crossed arms leaning against the wall.

No crooked smile tugging at one corner of your mouth.

 No gum snapped between your teeth like punctuation.

Just a plastic chair pushed too close to the wall. Scuff marks on linoleum where people have paced and waited and left. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, cold and indifferent, flickering like they might go out at any second.

The world doesn’t crash. It hollows.

It feels like stepping onto a stair that isn’t there—like his body keeps moving forward long after the ground has disappeared. Steve’s knees buckle, not from weakness but from gravity finally catching up with him.

He folds in on himself, hands scraping uselessly at the floor, chest caving as something inside him collapses inward, over and over again.

She isn’t late.

She isn’t hiding.

She isn’t coming.

The space where she should be stretches wide and unbearable, and for the first time since he arrived, the ward feels exactly what it is—

Too big.

Too bright.

Too empty.

Steve presses his forehead to the cool floor and breaks, the sound leaving him like air rushing out of a punctured lung—silent at first, then shaking, then uncontrollable.

Not because she’s gone but because he realizes she’s been carrying him this whole time, and now he has to stand on his own.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

After the meeting, his parents stay longer than usual.

They hold his hands. His mother presses her forehead to his, crying openly now, telling him how much they love him, how they’re sorry, how they’ll never leave him again. His father’s voice is steadier, but his grip is tight — grounding, like an anchor.

Steve nods. Says he understands. Says it’s okay.

It doesn’t feel okay.

The medication dulls the edges of the world, like someone turned the volume down but left the ache intact. Everything feels heavier, slower. His body moves, but his heart lags behind, bruised and hollow.

He spends the rest of the day confirming what he already knows.

The socks he swore you stole sit forgotten under his bed, bunched together like they’d always been there.

The bracelet — red and blue, crooked and earnest — is tucked safely in the bottom drawer, never worn, never missing.

The gum you always offered him sits in his bag, his favorite brand. His father gave it to him before visiting hours ended.

Each discovery lands like a quiet blow.

There’s no anger in it. No denial.

Just loss.

By nightfall, Steve is exhausted in a way sleep won’t touch.

He sneaks out when the ward settles into its low hum — nurses at their stations, doors closed, the building breathing evenly. The rooftop door creaks when he pushes it open, and cool air rushes to meet him.

The sky stretches wide and dark above Hawkins, stars scattered thinly, like they’re keeping their distance.

Steve steps forward, arms thrown wide, the way you once did — like he might be able to hold the sky together if he tried hard enough.

For a moment, there’s nothing.

Then—“I thought you didn’t like that spot.”Your voice is behind him.

Steve turns slowly. You’re there. Not fading. Not flickering. Just you.

“Hi,” you say softly. Steve stares at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“I guess,” you add gently, “you know the truth now.” He doesn’t answer. His throat feels locked.

“You probably think you’re crazy,” you continue. “You’re not. You never were.”

You step closer, careful, like you’re approaching something fragile.

“You went through too much. More than anyone should. And when you couldn’t carry it anymore, you didn’t break — you adapted.” Your voice wavers. “You needed someone. So your mind made sure you weren’t alone.”

Steve’s hands tremble at his sides.

“I’m made of pieces of you,” you say quietly. “The parts you lost. The parts you needed. The parts that still wanted to live.” Tears spill down your face now.

“You’re an amazing person, Steve Harrington. Even when you don’t believe it.”

Steve swallows hard. “If I get better,” he whispers, “I’m going to lose you.”

Your breath hitches. “I’m not real, Stevie,” you say gently. “You don’t understand it yet — but someday you will.” You wipe at your face, laughing weakly through tears. “You have parents who are trying. You have friends who love you and are waiting for you. You have a future that’s still waiting for you.”

You look at him like you’re memorizing him. “I’m just a fragment. I was never meant to stay.”

Steve shakes his head, tears falling freely now. “The doctor said you came from my memory. I’ll find you. I’ll look for you—”

“Steve,” you interrupt, voice breaking. “Please don’t punish yourself.”

He freezes.

“If you find her,” you say softly, “she won’t be me. You might love her. You might not. But she deserves to be known for who she is — not who you needed me to be.”

You step into him then, arms wrapping around his shoulders. “I’m begging you,” you whisper. “Move forward. There’s so much more waiting for you.”

Steve clings to you like a lifeline. “I’ll remember you,” he sobs. “I won’t forget.”

You hold him tighter, just for a second longer than necessary.

“Do your best,” you murmur. “And don’t—” you sniff, trying to smile — “don’t throw yourself in front of danger like an idiot.”

Then, softer: “Goodbye, Stevie.”

You vanish.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just gone — like a breath let out and never drawn back in.

Steve stands there alone, arms still wrapped around empty air, the night closing in around him.

“Goodbye,” he whispers. The cold sky offers no answer — only space.and, Steve Harrington stays standing anyway.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Steve Harrington gets better.

Not all at once. Not easily. But steadily — in small, stubborn increments.

He starts showing up to group therapy on time. He talks more, listens better. He laughs, sometimes surprised by the sound of it. He sleeps through the night without jolting awake, heart racing, reaching for someone who isn’t there.

His parents visit twice a week. They sit closer now. Stay longer. Say less, but mean more.

Robin and Dustin visit whenever they can, bringing stories from outside — dumb arguments, half-finished plans, the normal chaos of life continuing without him. Steve lets himself believe he’ll be part of it again.

Once, during art therapy, he does something stupid. He bribes another patient.

“C’mon, Vincent,” Steve whispers, sliding a bag of contraband Boppers across the table. “Five of these. And three packs of gum.”

Vincent squints at him. “That and you’ll teach me how to make those bracelets. I suck at that.”

Steve grins. “Deal.”

Vincent sharpens his pencil. Steve sits back, hands folded, and starts to describe you. Your hair. Your posture. The way you leaned like you owned every room you stood in.

When Vincent asks about your lips, Steve pauses.

He opens his mouth to answer — then stops. He tries to picture your smile.

And realizes he can’t. All he remembers is the relief it gave him. The way his chest loosened. The way breathing felt easier when you smiled at him.

“Just… draw it gentle,” Steve says quietly. “Like it makes things hurt less.”

Vincent nods and keeps drawing.

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When Robin and Dustin visit, Steve shows them the picture. Robin studies it carefully. Dustin tilts his head.

“Steve,” Robin says carefully, “we know what happened to you. But don’t tell me you’re planning to look for her.”

Steve shakes his head. “No. I know better.”

He looks at the drawing again. “I just don’t want to forget.”

Dustin exhales. “Good. Because next week, you’re getting out.” Steve smiles. A real one.

The week passes.

Steve says goodbye to the other patients, awkward hugs and promises that feel too big for the hallway. He thanks the nurses. He shakes Dr. Sweets’ hand.

“If something triggers you,” Dr. Sweets says, “take your medication. And call me if you need help.”

Steve nods.

And just like that, he’s back in Hawkins and he keeps your picture on the paper and bracelet just to remember. 

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

END