KatesGapToothSmile

So instead of Steve dreaming about a big family right away, I think he goes the opposite direction for a while. Jamie is enough, WAY MORE THAN ENOUGH 😭.

There's a solid few years where you're both just trying to get stable, grow up a bit, and actually enjoy being parents instead of just surviving it. And I don't think either of you are even thinking about another baby during that time.

Like, if someone asked Steve back then, he'd probably just laugh and be like: "Can we just keep this one alive first?" 💀. BUT! he never stops loving being a dad, and that's the important part.

So eventually (probably 5-6 years later) when life is calmer and the upside down is no more and you're not in survival mode anymore, that conversation comes back slowly into your lives.

And then slowly, over time, your guys' family grows—just not all at once, and not out of some big dream, but because you both choose it each time.

So yeah, there's no way Jamie is gonna be an only child!! In my mind, I definitely picture you and Steve having four kids. As I said, maybe a 5 or 6 year age gap between Jamie and baby No.2, then 2 years later baby No.3, and 3 years after that baby No.4.

But Jamie is your whole world for a long time first—and I think that makes everything that comes after feel even more intentional and special 🥹💙

(Also pls send stuff into my inbox if you guys are interested in me going into my details because I’d be more than happy to!!!)

You'd brought the portable bassinet down so you and Jamie could be a bit more social than usual since Steve had the day off.

So there he was, Steve, stood beside the bassinet with his arms folded over the edge, staring down like he was watching something one of a kind (which to him this was one of a kind)

You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest under a blanket, watching him instead of doing stupid chores that could most definitely wait.

"You're gonna wake him up," you murmured.

Steve didn't look away.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're breathing too loud, Stevie."

He frowned. "I do not breathe loud."

"You absolutely do," you giggled quietly.

He leaned back slightly, like that solved the problem.

Jamie shifted in his sleep, making a tiny, squeaky sound.

Steve instantly froze.

You smiled into your sleeve.

Jamie's face scrunched up slightly, his lips parting as he let out a soft little puff of air. His eyelashes fluttered, tiny fingers flexing near his cheeks.

Steve whispered, "Baby, look! He's waking up."

"I can see that. Looks like he could be in a good mood."

Jamie blinked slowly, eyes unfocused at first, staring up at the ceiling like he was still deciding whether being awake was worth it.

Steve leaned down slightly.

"Hey," he whispered, softer than you'd ever heard him speak.

Jamie blinked again, then his eyes shifted.

Very slowly, landing on Steve.

Your eyes filled with the amount of love you could feel radiating off of your boyfriend.

And you loved how Jamie was getting better at that—actually tracking people, recognising voices, focusing.

Steve's entire expression softened.

"...hi," he murmured.

Jamie just stared at him.

Very serious, curious, studying him.

Steve looked back at him like this little guy hung the moon and the stars just for his dad.

"You just woke up, huh?" he whispered.

Jamie's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.

Steve sucked in a quiet breath.

"Did you see that?" he whispered in awe, turning slightly towards you.

"Yeah, I did."

"That was at me."

"You say that every time it happens."

"Well, that one was definitely for me."

You smiled. A proper, happy smile.

Steve carefully slid his hands under Jamie, lifting him slowly, still moving with that careful, slightly awkward gentleness that he had.

"Hey, buddy," Steve placed a kiss on the crown of his head, settling him against his chest. "You sleep good?"

Jamie made a soft, breathy coo.

And you watched Steve's eyes widen in surprise.

"...okay, wait a minute."

You laughed softly. "He's been doing that."

"He has?"

"Yep!”

"Hold on, since when?"

"I'm sorry, Stevie. It's just...you're not here all day and I didn't tell you because I wanted you to see it first hand and get excited."

He frowned slightly, like that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

"I don't like that," he muttered.

Jamie blinked up at him, one tiny hand resting against Steve's t-shirt.

Steve shifted him slightly, bouncing him carefully.

"What do we do?" he asked. "He's awake now."

"Play with him."

"What? I...I don't know how."

"You just...interact with him."

Steve looked down at Jamie again.

"...hi."

Jamie blinked.

Steve wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.

Jamie stared harder.

You bit back a smile.

Steve made a ridiculous face—eyes wide, lips puckered.

Jamie's brows furrowed almost like he was trying to form a thought.

Then a tiny sound. Soft, breathy, almost like a hiccup.

Steve was in complete shock now.

"...was that—"

Jamie's mouth opened, out came a giggle.

Small, new, uncertain.

But unmistakable.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Steve looked like someone had just punched him in the chest.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

Jamie kicked one tiny leg.

Steve tried the funny face he was doing, again.

This time Jamie giggled louder, and clearer.

And just like that you were getting teary eyed again.

Steve's entire face lit up like sunrise.

"Our baby just laughed for you," you whispered.

Steve shook his head slowly.

"That's the best sound I've ever heard."

He bounced him gently.

"You think I'm funny, huh? You think dada's funny? Yeah? I'm hilarious?"

Jamie let out another squeaky laugh.

Steve laughed too, completely breathless.

"I never prepared myself emotionally for this," he managed to get out past the lump in his throat.

You stood up, moving closer.

"He's only started doing it recently, but he’s never giggled that hard," you said softly, proud. "It mostly happens in the mornings."

Steve looked personally honoured.

"I got a morning laugh," he spoke happily, eyes still wide with joy.

Jamie grabbed at his t-shirt, fist bunching the fabric.

Steve looked down immediately.

"Oh, hey—careful. Mama ironed that for me yesterday."

Jamie gurgled.

Steve smiled like his heart was melting inside his chest.

"You're so cute, it's actually annoying me," he whispered.

You sat down on the arm of the couch, watching them.

Watching the way Steve instinctively swayed.

The way he kept adjusting his hold to make Jamie comfortable.

The way he couldn't stop smiling.

"I have a trick," you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable and happy silence.

Steve looked at you slightly confused.

"What trick?"

"Give him here."

He handed Jamie over reluctantly, not wanting to let him go just yet.

You settled him facing you, holding him upright, his tiny legs tucked against your stomach.

"Okay," you muttered. "Watch."

You leaned in and gently blew a soft raspberry against his cheek.

He blinked for a second, and then let out a bigger giggle that was audibly louder than the last.

And you're 99% sure that your heart physically exploded in your chest.

Steve gasped dramatically.

"NO WAY!"

You did it again, and Jamie kicked his legs, giggling harder now.

Steve clutched his chest.

"He's killing me. My own son is actually killing me."

You laughed, doing it again.

Jamie squealed—an actual squeal—his whole face lighting up.

Steve looked like he might cry.

"Show me," he demanded.

You handed Jamie back.

"Careful."

Steve leaned in seriously, like he was attempting a serious experiment.

"Like this?"

He tried, but it came out weak.

And Jamie just stared at him without a laugh to follow it.

Steve frowned with disappointment.

"Hey! He didn't laugh."

"Come on, you have to commit to it."

"I did commit!"

"No, you didn't."

Steve tried again, this time actually blowing a proper raspberry onto his right cheek.

Jamie froze, then filled the room with his perfect little giggle.

Steve lifted Jamie up over his head, looking at him with the widest eyes and biggest smile.

You could practically see the hearts forming in his eyes.

"IT WORKED!"

You laughed loudly, a proper belly laugh.

Steve realised he hadn't heard you laugh like that in months, until now.

Jamie was kicking his legs wildly now, tiny hands grabbing at Steve's chin once he brought him back down from mid-air.

"Did you like that, bubba?" Steve asked in the higher pitched baby voice he always used with the baby. "Yeah? That's so funny, isn't it?"

Steve just kept doing it again and again, enjoying every giggle that got harder and harder the more he did it.

The sound filled the entire room with so much warmth and light.

To you and Steve, it was the definition of perfect.

"I'm never going back to work," he mumbled to himself.

Jamie grabbed his pinky finger and shoved it towards his mouth.

"Jesus Christ...is he trying to eat me?"

"Probably."

"Cool. I'll take that as a sign that he loves me."

Jamie's giggles began to slow down, turning into small, breathy, high pitched baby babbles.

Steve leaned forward and kissed his left cheek, and then his right cheek.

"I can't believe we made him," he said to you, almost like he was in shock.

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. Putting your chin on his shoulder to get a good view of your baby.

"Yeah...me neither."

All that was left in Jamie at this stage was soft little hiccups, still smiling, still holding Steve's pinky finger.

Steve gently rocked him, you moving with him.

"You're my favourite person in the whole wide world," he whispered to Jamie.

You closed your eyes at that, pressing a kiss to Steve's shoulder blade.

Jamie’s eyes began to lazily open and close, giving you and Steve one last sleepy giggle, clearly ready to finish his nap that Steve's staring interrupted.

Steve closed his eyes briefly like he was memorising every little noise that escaped your baby boy.

And in that quiet, sunlit room—

You both fell a little more in love.

Steve hovered nearby, running a hand through his already messy hair.

"Okay, okay, uhh...maybe he's just mad?" he offered weakly.

You stopped pacing just long enough to give him a look.

"He's a baby, Steven. Not a middle-aged man stuck in traffic."

"Hey, babies can have mood swings too," Steve defended. "I've seen it."

Jamie let out another sharp wail that made your shoulders sag.

"I hate this," you whispered. "I hate not knowing what he needs."

Steve's expression softened instantly.

"Hey," he said gently, stepping closer. "You're doing everything right, okay?"

"It doesn't feel like it."

Before he could answer there was a light knock on the door.

It was your mother, and she certainly didn't wait for a response before stepping in when all she could hear was her grandson sobbing his little heart out.

"I heard crying," she said simply.

You could've cried yourself in that moment.

"Something's wrong," you said immediately. "He won't stop and I don't—"

Your mom held out her arms.

"Let me see my little sweetie pie."

You hesitated only for a second before passing Jamie over to her.

He fussed in her arms, little fists clenched, his cute chubby cheeks red and face scrunched up.

She studied him for maybe five seconds.

Then—

"Oh, the poor baba," she said softly.

"What?" you and Steve said at the same time, panicked.

She smiled lightly.

"He's teething."

You blinked.

"...what?"

"Already?" Steve added, alarmed. "He's like...tiny."

"Babies bodies don't wait around. The four month mark hits and then boom, their gums are at them." she spoke calmly, a soft smile on her face.

Jamie whimpered again, and she gently pressed her pointer finger along his gum.

"There it is," she murmured. "Poor thing."

Your heart twisted.

"So he's in pain?" you asked.

"A little," she said. "Discomfort equals pain for their little bodies. That's why he's so upset."

Steve immediately straightened.

"Okay. Okay, we can fix that. What do we do?"

Your mom chuckled softly. "You don't fix it. You just have to help him through it."

"That sounds worse," Steve muttered.

She handed Jamie back to you, then moved towards the door.

"I'll get something for him to chew on. Cold always helps."

Steve hovered closer as you settled Jamie against your chest again.

"Hey, buddy," he murmured, brushing a hand over Jamie's tiny head. "That's what all this is about, huh?"

Jamie hiccupped through his crying, eyes watery and wide.

Steve's face melted.

"Oh, man," he whispered. "I hate this. I hate that you're so sad."

Your chest tightened at the way he said it.

So sincere and so helpless.

Your mom returned with a chilled teething ring you'd bought during your nesting phase, handing it to Steve.

"Try this," she said.

"Okay," he said softly, crouching slightly in front of you. "Hey, Jamie...look at dada, look what I got."

Jamie sniffled, still upset, but when Steve gently guided the ring towards his mouth—

There was a pause.

A confused little sound.

Then he bit down, and froze.

The crying stopped.

Just like that.

You and Steve both stared.

"...no way," Steve whispered.

Jamie blinked up at him, still chewing, tiny brows furrowed in concentration.

Then he let out the softest, most content little hum.

Steve's entire face lit up like he'd just won the lottery.

"Oh my god," he breathed. "Did you see that? Did you see that?!"

You laughed, the sound shaky but relieved.

"Yes, Steve, I saw—"

"I fixed it," he said, turning to you with wide eyes. "I fixed it."

"You did not fix it," your mom called from the doorway.

"I helped," he corrected quickly.

Jamie made another soft noise, gripping Steve's thumb with his tiny hand.

Steve stilled, then looked down.

And something in his expression shifted completely.

All the panic and all the stress was suddenly gone, and was replaced with pure softness.

"...hey," he whispered.

Jamie blinked up at him, teething ring still in his mouth, cheeks flushed and damp from crying.

He looked so small, but so perfect.

Steve carefully brushed his free thumb over Jamie's cheek.

"You're okay now, yeah?" he murmured.

Jamie let out a tiny, sleepy coo.

Steve exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for hours.

"Yeah," he said softly. "You're okay, little man."

————

That night was better, not perfect, but better.

Jamie still fussed. Still woke up. Still needed constant comfort.

But it helped that your parents were more than willing to take turns during the night too, more than happy to take care of their first and only grandchild.

At least you knew why he was so upset, although you felt like the worst mother in the world that you didn't understand or notice sooner.

It made it easier—knowing—and it made it easier to meet your sons needs as best as both you and Steve could.

At around two in the morning, you found Steve sitting on the edge of the bed, Jamie cradled awkwardly against his chest.

"...Steve?" you mumbled, half-asleep.

"Shh," he whispered immediately. "I got him."

You pushed yourself up slightly, watching.

Jamie was chewing on the teething ring again, eyes half-closed.

Steve was gently rocking him, whisper-singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star like it was the best hit since Everybody Wants to Rule the World in '85.

"You should be sleeping, Stevie," you yawned.

Steve shook his head.

"Nah, I'm okay."

"You've got work in the morning. You'll be wrecked trying to open up the shop tomorrow."

"I don't care if I'm being completely honest with you, baby."

You frowned slightly. "Steve—"

"I don't care," he repeated, quieter this time. "He was crying before you woke up. I didn't like that...didn't like it one bit."

Your chest hurt from the love you felt radiating off of your boyfriend towards your son.

"You don't like anything that makes him upset," you said.

"Yeah," Steve admitted. "That's kind of the problem."

You smiled faintly.

From where you sat, you could see Jamie's tiny hand curl against Steve's bare chest.

Trying to hold onto his dad in any way he could, even in his sleep.

And Steve, he didn't move an inch.

Didn't shift, didn't dare disturb him.

"You're really good at this," you whispered into the night.

Steve glanced back slightly to look at you.

"I am?"

"Yeah, baby. You are."

He looked down at Jamie again.

At the way he'd finally settled.

At the way his breathing had evened out.

"...I just don't want to mess this up," he admitted.

Your heart hurt.

You knew how badly he didn't want to end up like his father, and you knew it kept him him up at night as well sometimes.

"You won't, Steve." You argued softly.

He huffed quietly. "You don't know that."

"I do."

He looked at you again.

And you held his gaze.

"You've shown up every single day since the day he was born and way before that," you said simply. "That's what matters."

Steve swallowed down the obvious lump in his throat, then nodded slightly.

"Okay."

Silence filled the room for a minute before Jamie shifted slightly, a small sleepy noise that sounded like a noise of discomfort.

Steve immediately put all of his attention on his sweet baby.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he whispered. "Dada's here. I'm right here."

Jamie settled again almost instantly.

You watched that happen, and you chest felt like it might actually burst open.

"He really loves you, Stevie." You said simply.

Steve smiled faintly.

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, of course he does. He's got the best dad in the world right by his side, always."

Steve looked down at him again, the little guy limply curled up against his chest, teething ring forgetting about on Steve's lap.

And this time, he smiled properly.

Soft and proud.

Awe written all over his face.

"Yeah," he whispered back. "I love him too...very, very much."

"okay, I'm just gonna say it," Dustin announced, pacing like he was presenting to a classroom. "This is easily top five craziest shit we've dealt with."

"Top five?" Mike shot back. "We have fought a literal interdimensional monster before."

"Yeah," Dustin pointed, "but Steve having a baby, and that baby is seeing things that isn't actually there? That's statistically more shocking."

"Say that again, I dare you!" Steve snapped, already halfway out of his seat beside you.

"Steve, stop." You muttered, rubbing a hand over your face.

"I'm serious! Henderson, I will throw you out of this house—"

"I'm just saying!" Dustin yelped, backing up. "You? Responsible? For a little human life? That's insane!"

From the armchair, Max smirked. "I mean, he's not wrong."

Steve groaned. "I hate all of you. You hear me? All of you!"

From the floor, Lucas squinted at him. "Wait, how old is the gremlin again?"

"Can you please stop calling him a gremlin, Sinclair?" you sighed dramatically, your head already melted. "and he's three months."

That shut them up...only briefly though.

"Three months?" Mike blinked. "You mean to tell us this has been going on three months and you're only telling all of us now?"

"Use your brain for a second, this hasn't been going on for three months. We only started noticing whatever this thing is two weeks ago," Steve shot back.

"Right...fair enough," Mike groaned out.

Across the room, by the window, Will hadn't said a thing.

He was watching Jamie.

Not casually, very carefully, and you noticed.

Jamie stirred suddenly, hit little legs kicking against your stomach while he let out a small and impatient sound.

"Okay, okay," you murmured. "I know, little man."

Steve glanced over immediately. "He okay?"

"Mhm, just hungry."

Dustin froze mid-step.

"...wait."

You didn't even look up, keeping all your focus on Jamie.

"No," he said slowly. "No, no, no—are you about to—"

"Dustin," Steve warned.

Too late.

"ARE YOU ABOUT TO FEED HIM RIGHT NOW?"

Every boy in the room went rigid.

You sighed, already adjusting Jamie.

"Yes. My baby's hungry, I'm obviously going to feed him, Dustin."

"OH MY GOD—"

Steve lunged forward. "I swear to God, Henderson—"

"WHAT?!" Dustin scrambled back. "I didn't know we were just—doing that out in the open!"

"It's called feeding our son," Steve snapped. "You absolute idiot—"

"Steve," you said, sharper. "Rein it in, please. He's only a kid at the end of the day."

He stopped, barely.

You turned slightly, giving yourself some privacy, pulling your shirt up just as enough as Jamie settled, covering yourself up as much as you could with the muslin cloth Steve handed you.

Max elbowed Lucas instantly.

"Don't even think about it."

"I'm not!"

"You definitely are."

"I am not!"

"I swear," Steve pointed without looking, "if either of you—"

"I'm literally staring at the floor!" Lucas said, voice going up an octave.

Mike had gone bright red and was very focused on the family portrait of you and your parents on the wall.

Dustin, however, whispered—

"This is insane."

Steve dragged a hand down his face. "Assholes. Every single one of yous."

You huffed out a quiet laugh despite everything, Jamie calming instantly in your arms, latched to your chest.

And just like that, the room shifted.

Less chaos and more focus.

"Okay," Steve said, pacing now. "Can we talk about the actual problem?"

"Right," Mike nodded. "The lights. The monitor."

You swallowed.

"It wasn't just that," you said quietly. "It got cold. Really cold."

Dustin's expression sharpened immediately.

"How cold are we talking here?"

"Like...wrong," you stated. "Not just temperature. It felt...empty."

Will spoke then, soft.

"That's how it felt."

Everyone turned to him, but Will didn't look away from Jamie.

"When it was close," Will added. "Not seeing it or anything. Just...knowing."

A chill settled over the room.

Steve exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. It's on track with everything we've described so far."

"And the Gate," Dustin jumped in, pacing again, "if the Russians are actually reopening it under Starcourt—"

"They are," Steve cut in. "We've seen and heard enough to know that."

"Then that means the barrier between here and the Upside Down is weakening again," Dustin continued. "Not fully open, but enough to cause...side effects."

Your stomach dropped in that moment.

"Side effects?" you repeated.

"Electrical interference. Temperature drops. Environmental instability," he listed. "We've seen all of it before."

"And Jamie?" you asked, voice quieter now, laced with a fear that only a mother could have.

Dustin hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully.

"I don't think he's some demon child causing anything," he said carefully.

Steve crossed his arms. "Good! Because he's not."

"I didn't say he was," Dustin shot back. "I think he's...reacting in some way."

Will nodded slightly.

"Like I did," he said.

You wanted to run faraway, away from anything, leave everything behind except your baby boy and Steve.

I didn't sign up for this, you thought to yourself.

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, trying not to come across as rude but his tone wasn't helping.

Will finally pulled his attention away from Jamie.

"When the Mind Flayer was back," he said, "I could feel it. When it was close. When it was getting stronger."

A pause.

"It knew where I was too."

Your breath caught.

"And now?" Mike asked.

Will glance at Jamie.

"...I think he feels it too."

"No," Steve said immediately.

Everyone looked at him.

"No," he repeated. "We're not doing that. We're not putting that on my son."

"It's not about putting anything on him," Max stated gently. "It's about trying to keep him safe."

Steve ran a hand through his hair, breathing heavily like he was brewing up to a panic attack.

"This is crazy," he muttered. "He's a baby...my baby."

"I know, Stevie," you whispered softly, voice cracking at the edges a little bit.

He stopped to look at you, look at your eyes, look at Jamie, and something in him shifted.

Not denial, just pure fear.

"Okay...so what do we do?" you asked, taking a deep breath, lifting Jamie from your chest to burp him.

Mike leaned forward. "We figure out if there's a pattern. When things happen. Where. Why."

"And we don't leave him alone," Steve added.

You nodded. "Not for a single second."

"And we connect this to the mall," Dustin said. "Because if the Gate is opening—"

"Then whatever's on the other side is getting stronger," Lucas finished.

The words sat heavy in the air.

Max spoke next.

"What about El?"

The room shifted, in a way that was mixed with hope and uncertainty.

"She can tell if something's off," Mike said. "If he's connected somehow."

Steve hesitated.

Then looked at you.

You glanced down at Jamie, now burped and sleepy and calm, completely unaware of the conversation unfolding around him.

Your heart ached just from looking at him.

"If she can help, we have to try." you spoke up.

Steve nodded. "Yeah...yeah, okay."

The conversation picked up again—faster now.

Plans, theories, too many voices.

But underneath it—something felt off.

You barely noticed at first, just a slight temperature drop, a flicker in the lights.

Jamie stirred in your arms and your breath caught immediately.

Slowly—you looked up at the ceiling, and there was nothing.

Just the light, just the same as always.

But still, you couldn't shake the feeling. Not this time.

Because now you knew it wasn't random.

It wasn't your imagination.

It wasn't just your house.

Something was truly happening.

Something was getting stronger.

And somehow—your son could feel it first.

Across the room, Will stiffened slightly.

Just for a second, his hand twitched.

Like he felt it too.

He didn't say anything, but his eyes flicked toward you and toward Jamie.

And you understood straight away that this wasn't over.

Not even close.

You stared at the baby monitor, frowning.

Now that you guys had moved Jamie into his own little room, the nursery decorated just for him down the hall, you were constantly filled to the brim with anxiety at night.

The monitor sat on your beside table, and from what you could hear, Jamie was fast asleep—finally—you could picture his little chest rising and falling in that soft, steady rhythm you'd memorised.

And underneath it—

A low, constant crackle.

Like distant radio interference.

"...Steve?" you whispered.

Beside you, he groaned slightly, half-asleep.

"Mm?"

"Did that thing always make that noise?"

He cracked one eye open, squinting at the monitor like he was trying really hard to concentrate on finding the noise.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then—

"No," he said, voice rough. "No, it didn't."

The static fizzled.

Cut out completely.

The silence that followed felt... wrong.

Too clean.

You reach out and whacked the monitor against the palm of your hand lightly.

Nothing.

Steve pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Probably just—bad signal or something."

"From where though?" you asked quietly. "He's only down the hall."

He didn't answer that.

Instead, he leaned over and pressed a soft but wet kiss to the side of your neck, then another one on your shoulder.

"Go to sleep, baby." he murmured. "He's fine, I promise."

You nodded.

But you barely slept a wink for the rest of the night. Something nasty and telling swirling in your gut.

————

The next day, Jamie wouldn't stop staring.

Not at you.

Not at the ceiling fan.

Not even at the light.

Just at the corner of his room.

You shifted him slightly in your arms while you rocked back and forth on the padded rocking chair you had beside his cot, trying to redirect his attention.

"Hey," you said softly. "Hey, bug—look at mama."

He didn't.

His tiny hand lifted instead, fingers flexing slowly.

Reaching.

Toward nothing.

A chill crept up your spine.

"Jamie?"

He let out a small, happy sound.

Like he was responding to something.

Your grip tightened just a little around him.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That's definitely new."

————

By the third night, you stopped telling yourself it was nothing.

Steve was late, again.

You tried not to think too much about it—he'd said something about staying after closing to help clean, something about weird customers and Robin laughing at him for messing up orders—

You bounced Jamie gently, pacing the living room.

"It's fine," you murmured, more to yourself than to your baby. "He's just working hard for us. Isn't he, bubba?"

Jamie fussed softly against your chest.

"I know," you whispered, kissing the top of his head. "I know. I miss him too, my angel."

The lights flickered.

And you completely froze.

It happened just once, quickly, and easy to ignore. Except, Jamie went completely still.

Zero fussing, zero movement.

Just quiet.

Way too quiet for your liking.

Your heart started to pound hard and fast.

"Okay," you whispered. "It's all okay, that's—just the wiring. Nana and grandad's house is old. That happens."

The lights flickered again.

Longer this time.

And the monitor—even though it was sitting on the coffee table, turned off—crackled.

Your breath caught.

"No," you said to yourself, shaking your head. "No, no, no, that's not—"

The static grew louder, and Jamie's head turned slowly. Not toward you, but toward the door.

You followed his gaze.

The hallway leading to the front door was dark, and empty. Your parents weren't even home, they were out at their usual Friday night dinner date at Enzo's.

Somehow though, the hallway didn't feel empty.

And then the static cut out.

Jamie smiled.

A soft, wide, delighted smile that made your blood run cold.

Your baby was a very happy baby, and smiled quite often, especially when he saw his daddy. But this, the context of it didn't feel right to you.

"Stop it," you whispered, voice shaking as you started backing up slightly. "That's not funny. That's not..."

The temperature dropped.

You could feel it all over your body.

It almost felt like stepping into a freezer.

"Steve," you said under your breath, even though he wasn't there. "Steve, please—"

Something moved, but it wasn't directly in front of you, it felt like it was above you.

A faint, almost imperceptible shift—

Like a shadow stretching across the ceiling.

Your eyes snapped upwards, and although you had convinced yourself otherwise, there was nothing there. Just the ceiling, just the light bulb inside that ugly lampshade you were constantly disgusted by.

You brought Jamie closer to your face, breathing in his baby scent while trying to calm yourself down, when the light flickered again.

And for a split second, something else flickered with it.

A shape, a shadow that resembled a person that was too long and too wrong, but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

You sucked in a sharp breath, clutching Jamie tighter.

"Please, god no, I can't deal with this alone... please." your voice shook, a quiet sob following your quiet words to whatever universe was trying to hurt you and your son.

You felt your soul leave your body when a small baby giggle left Jamie.

When you slowly looked down at him his attention was entirely on the ceiling, still smiling softly, almost like he was in awe, and reaching.

"Jamie," you whispered, panic rising sharp and fast. "Jamie, no. Cmon bubba—"

The lights completely snapped off, darkness swallowing the room around you whole.

The static returned. Loud and overwhelming now.

And somewhere in it, you could hear something that sounded fairly close to the noise of someone or something breathing.

You couldn't think.

Couldn't move.

You stood there frozen in time for a second, then it was two seconds, then the front door slammed open.

"Hey! I'm home, sweetheart!"

The lights came back instantly, and the static died.

The room was normal again, nice and toasty, looking completely safe.

You staggered back, nearly dropping Jamie as your knees went weak.

"Hey!...hey, whoa—"

Steve was there in seconds, arms tightly around your waist without hurting Jamie in the process, steadying you.

"Sweetheart, what happened?" he asked, eyes scanning your face, the room, the ceiling. "It's only me, yeah? You can tell me what's going on."

You couldn't speak.

You just shook your head, clutching Jamie to your chest like he might disappear if you loosened your grip.

"Please, baby. Just look at me." Steve spoke softer now, but you could hear the tension and fear in his own voice.

When you did pluck up the courage to look at him like he asked, it all came out at once.

"The monitor—it turned on, but I didn't touch it and it was turned off and the lights, oh my god the lights! And then Jamie was smiling at nothing and there was something on the ceiling and I swear I saw it, Steve, I saw it—"

"O-Okay," he said quickly. "It's alright, just slow down—"

"I'm not making it up," you rushed to interrupt him, voice breaking. "I'm not, I'm not—"

"I know," he said immediately.

Your face froze straight away.

"What?"

"I know," he repeated, more firmly. "I believe you."

Your breath caught with relief.

"You... you do?"

He nodded once, jaw tight.

"Something's happening again...me, Robin, Dustin...we've been noticing it, in the shop. Happened with the lights a few days ago all over the mall, and we think there's some underground thing going on with ru—actually no, you don't need that on top of everything else. But yeah, I believe you."

A cold dread settled in your stomach.

When everything had gone on the last time revolving around the gang and the upside down you were pregnant, scared shitless daily when it felt like Steve was missing for days on end.

But, when all was said and done, you had hope deep in your bones that the darkness and harm of the upside down would move somewhere else. Would leave Hawkins and your friends and new little family alone.

"Steve..."

He glanced down at Jamie, and his sweet baby boy blinked up at him in return.

And then, he smiled. That same smile from earlier, soft and delighted.

Like he was recognising something that was a bit further away from Steve.

You could see Steve's expression shift, fear washing over him. The funny brave ego you loved was gone. Nowhere to be seen anymore.

"Whatever that smile is, I don't like it. It's not his usual smile. I swear to god, it's different." he whispered to himself more than to you.

Your grip tightened.

"Steve, what do we do? If anything was to happen to our baby..."

Steve didn't answer right away.

He just reached out, cupping Jamie's tiny head gently.

The he looked at you.

And for the first time since this mess started, he didn't try to brush it off. He didn't try to explain it away like he was used to doing.

"We don't leave him alone," he said.

You felt like your heart stopped beating.

"Not even for a second."

You nodded quickly. "Yeah, okay, we can do that."

"And tomorrow," he added, already thinking ahead. "I'm talking to Dustin. And maybe Hopper. Someone's gonna know what the hell we need to do to keep Jamie as safe as we possibly can."

You swallowed hard, eyes becoming glassy.

"Baby..."

"Yeah?"

"What if it's not about El or Will this time? What if it's not just something scary like it always is?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He held your gaze.

"What if it's...about Jamie? What are we gonna do if they want him and nothing else? Whatever this thing is, I don't even know Steve I'm so fucking confused!"

Steve looked down at Jamie again.

At the way your guys' beautiful son watched the space over his shoulder.

At the way his tiny hand lifted like he was trying to touch something only he could see.

You could hear Steve's breathing starting to speed up.

He pulled you both closer to his chest, protective and unyielding.

"Then it picked the wrong kid," he said quietly.

And there wasn't a hint of hesitation in his voice.

————

That night, neither of you slept.

All that you guys could do was stare at your son fast asleep in his cot, hoping and praying to some god that your family would be left alone...especially Jamie.

Your whole body perked up instantly.

"Hey—hey, I'm home!" Steve's voice called, a little too loud, a little too tired.

You didn't realise how much you'd missed it until it filled the house.

"In here," you called softly.

He appeared in the doorway a second later, still in that ridiculous Scoops Ahoy uniform—sailor hat slightly crooked, hair flattened in weird places, cheeks pink from the summer heat.

And he looked completely exhausted.

But the second he saw you—and Jamie—his whole face softened.

"Hey, buddy," he whispered, stepping closer. "Miss me?"

Jamie made a tiny sound, blinking up at him.

Steve grinned like he'd just been handed the world.

"Oh yeah, I'll take that as a yes."

You watched him carefully as he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Jamie's forehead, and then a gentle kiss to your lips.

It lingered.

"Long day?" you asked as he pulled away.

"Eight hours of children screaming about ice cream and one kid who tried to eat a napkin," he said. "So, you know. Living the dream."

You huffed out a quiet laugh, but something tight stayed in your chest.

Steve noticed, and you weren't surprised by that one bit.

"Hey," he said softly, nudging your chin up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you said too quickly.

He gave you that look.

The one that meant don't do that.

You sighed, shifting Jamie slightly. "It's just... you get to go out. Talk to people. Do something."

Steve blinked.

"And I just... stay here," you continued, quieter now. "Feeding him, changing him, feeding him again. I don't even feel like a person half the time, Steve. I just feel like—"

You hesitated, then forced it out.

"—like I'm just... his food source more than I am his mother."

The words hung there.

Steve's expression changed instantly—hurt, not at you, but for you.

"Hey, baby. No," he said gently, crouching in front of you. "Don't—don't say that."

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging. "It's true."

"It's absolutely not," he said firmly. "You're—" He stopped, exhaling, searching for the right words. "You're everything, okay? To him, to me... this whole thing falls apart without you."

You looked away. "Yeah, well. You're the one actually doing something about it. Getting money. Trying to fix things."

"Fix things?" Steve echoed. "You think this is me fixing things?"

He let out a small, incredulous laugh, running a hand through his hair.

"I got kicked out, remember? I couldn't even—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "I couldn't even get two words out before my dad shut the door on me, and there was zero chance of my mom ever making him change his mind."

Your chest twisted.

"Steve—"

"And your parents—" he continued, softer now, glancing around the house. "They didn't have to take me in. They shouldn't have to."

"They love you," you said quietly.

"They tolerate me," he corrected, but there was no bitterness in it. Just honesty. "Big difference, baby."

Jamie whimpered softly, and you instinctively shifted him again, rocking.

Steve watched you for a moment.

Then, very gently, he reached out.

"Can I?"

You hesitated—just for a second—before handing Jamie over.

Steve held him carefully, like something fragile and sacred. Three months in and he still hadn't fully gotten used to this.

"Hey, my little man," he murmured. "Gonna give your mama a break, okay?"

Your arms felt weirdly empty, the only physical heaviness you could feel was the weight of your chest that had doubled in size over the last few months.

You rubbed your arms without thinking.

Steve noticed.

"Come here," he said.

You frowned slightly. "You're holding—"

"Come here," he repeated, softer.

You stepped closer.

He leaned forward just enough to press his forehead against yours, Jamie tucked safely against his chest.

"You think I don't see you?" he whispered to you. "All day, every day, doing this? You think that's not... everything?"

Your throat tightened.

"I just feel stuck," you admitted.

"Yeah," he said gently. "Me too."

You blinked.

"What?"

He let out a quiet breath. "You think scooping ice cream is some big, exciting future? I'm doing it because it's all I can do right now."

"But you're trying," you said.

"So are you," he shot back immediately.

The words hit harder than you expected.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Jamie made a small, unhappy noise.

Steve froze.

"Uh—okay, I think that's my cue to panic."

Despite everything, you laughed.

"Give him here before you drop him."

"I am not going to drop my son—okay, maybe I'm going to drop my son."

You took Jamie back, settling him against you.

Steve watched you again.

And then, softer now—

"You're really good at that, you know?"

You glanced up. "At what? Feeding him?"

"No, silly. At being his mom," Steve said like it was the most obvious thing in the whole world.

Your chest tightened all over again—but this time, it felt warmer.

————

That night, the house was quiet in a way it rarely was these days.

Jamie had finally fallen asleep after what felt like hours of fussing, and your parents had long since kissed you goodnight and gone to bed.

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at your hands.

Steve leaned in the doorway, watching you.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded yes, took a second to really think about it, then shook your head no.

"I don't feel like me anymore," you admitted sadly.

He stepped closer.

"Then who do you feel like, sweetheart?"

You hesitated.

"The sad thing is, Steve, is that I don't know."

Steve crouched in front of you again, just like earlier.

"Hey," he said gently. "Look at me."

You looked at him with those big sad eyes he hated but also loved deep in his heart.

"You're still you," he said. "You're just... more now."

You let out a shaky breath. "That doesn't feel like a good thing most days."

"Oh baby, it is!" he insisted. "It's just hard right now. But you'll get there, and I'll help you through whatever, you know that."

Silence stretched between you.

Then, quieter—

"Do you regret it?" you asked with a massive sickening knot in your stomach.

Steve didn't even hesitate.

"No."

Your eyes snapped up.

"Not even for a second."

"Even now?" you pressed.

He smiled a little. "Especially now?"

Your chest tightened.

"Even the night it happened?" you asked softly.

Something flickered in his expression—something softer, warmer.

He leaned in slightly.

"Oh, you mean the night you had a late shift at the laundromat and you were certain you just wanted to go straight to sleep...but I ended up fucking you from behind anyways?"

Heat crept up your neck instantly. Your body hot all over.

"Steve—"

"I remember how tired we both were." he said, voice quiet but teasing now. "I remember how whiny you were, and how good you said it felt...and fuck, those tits—"

"Oh my god! Shut the fuck up, Harrington!" You interrupted, feeling completely shy in front of the man you loved and had a full blown baby with.

You loved that he could still make you feel that way. That at the end of the day you were still just 19 years old with needs and a whole lot of love for each other.

"What? I mean, you know I've always loved that rack of yours, but now? Fuck me, baby."

Your breath caught.

"Steven, that's enough!" you huffed out a small laugh, smacking his shoulder playfully.

"Sorry, should've kept it more PG," he said, grinning cheekily.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter.

He reached for your hand.

"Best mistake I ever made," he added.

Your fingers tightened around his.

"Jamie's not a mistake," you got out quickly, panic running through your body at the thought of Steve thinking your son was a mistake.

"I know," Steve said. "I just said it to try and catch you out." He tried to joke, but truth be told it didn't really land.

Classic Steve.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

It lingered.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just completely steady.

Familiar and safe.

"You're still you," he murmured against your mouth. "You're still my number one girl... just our little boy's now, too."

Your chest ached in the best way.

"Yeah?" you whispered.

"Oh yeah. I'd never lie to my girl."

He kissed you again, and for the first time in a while you didn't feel stuck, you just felt held.

In the bassinet beside Steve's side of the bed, Jamie started crying.

You both froze.

Then Steve groaned.

"Alright, little man, you've had your dramatic pause, what now?"

You laughed softly, already standing to go take care of your baby.

"I've got him—"

"Nah ah," Steve said, standing too. "You don't always have to be the one."

You hesitated.

He smiled at you with his whole heart.

"Just sit down and watch," he spoke softly. "I got this, okay?"

You watched him shuffle quickly over to his side of the bed, the sight of his son making his whole face soften into a specific look he only had for two people in his life.

You and his firstborn son.

And then, a few seconds later—

"Okay, nope, I can smell the god awful shit he's after doing and I'm not even that up close and personal yet."

You burst out laughing.

And just like that, the weight in your chest felt non-existent now.

All because of him and that sweet miracle you both created together.

All because of your Steve and your little man.

"The light," he says. "It's like—okay, just stay there."

You hesitate. "Kurt, please—"

"Fuck, just—one second."

You don't argue. You never really do when it comes to whatever it is that Kurt does on his socials or when it comes to his obsession with taking photos of everything you to do.

You hear the shutter noise of his iPhone.

He lowers the phone slowly, staring at the picture like he's trying to memorise it.

"See?" he says, turning it toward you.

You don't want to look. Looking at yourself is basically your biggest nightmare.

But you do anyways to keep him happy.

It's just you. Standing there. Mid-motion. Sweater half-on, hair messy, posture awkward.

You immediately notice everything wrong.

Your stomach. The way the fabric pulls. The angle of your arms.

"I look—" your start, then stop.

Kurt frowns.

"You look what?"

"I just look weird," you say quickly, shrugging it off. "Delete it."

"No."

The word comes out too fast.

Too sharp.

You blink at him.

"Kurt—"

"No, I'm not deleting it." He pulls the phone back slightly, like you might try to grab it. "You look—" he struggles for the word, brows pinching together, "—you look really good."

You laugh a little, but there's no humour in it. "I don't."

His frown deepens, like you've just said something confusing instead of something normal.

"Yeah, you do. You always do."

You shake your head, turning away, tugging your sweater down properly this time. "You don't have to do that."

"Do what?"

"Lie to me, Kurt."

"But I'm not lying to you."

There's a pause.

You sit on the edge of his bed, picking at the sleeve of your sweater. "Kurt, it's fine. I know what I look like, okay?"

He doesn't answer right away.

And when you glance up, he's staring at you in that way he does sometimes—too focused, too intense, like he's trying to solve something.

"Why would you say that?" he finally asks.

You shrug again. "Because it's true."

"No, it's not."

You let out a quiet breath, getting frustrated with going around in circles with the conversation. "Okay."

"No, like—it's actually not," he insists, moving closer to you on the bed. "You're—" he gestures vaguely, frustrated. "—you're literally the most—like, I don't even—"

He cuts himself off, running a hand through his slightly greasy hair.

"You're my girlfriend," he says instead, like that explains everything.

Your chest tightens.

"That doesn't mean I'm pretty, Kurt."

"Yes, it does."

You almost smile at that. Almost.

"That's not how it works."

"It is for me."

There's something in his voice—firm, certain, unshakeable—which is rare for him.

It makes your stomach twist.

"Baby," you say softly, "you've never even—like—been with anyone else."

"But I don't need to," he shoots back immediately.

"That's kind of my point."

"No, it's not," he says, scooting even closer now. "It's not your point, because you're wrong."

You blink at him.

He looks... upset.

Not angry. Not exactly.

Just... off.

"You're the first person I've ever—" he starts, then stops, like the words are getting tangled. "You're my first everything. That means something."

"It does," you say quickly. "I didn't mean it like—"

"But you're acting like I don't know what I'm talking about," he continues, voice tightening. "Like I just picked you at random or something. Look at me! I don't have the option of choosing who I want but you do, and luckily for me you chose me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant."

Silence stretches between you.

You swallow.

"I just don't see what you see," you admit quietly.

That seems to hit him harder than anything else.

His expression falters.

For a second, he looks... lost.

Like he genuinely doesn't understand how that's possible.

"But you're—" he tries again, softer now, "—you're you."

You let out a shaky breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah," he repeats, nodding like that should settle it.

It doesn't.

You pull your knees up slightly, arms wrapping around yourself without thinking.

"I don't like how I look, Kurt."

The words feel heavier out loud.

Real.

Final.

He stares at you.

Then at your arms.

The way you're holding yourself.

Something shifts in his expression—uncertain, uneasy.

He moves closer to you again, so close that his should finally brushes yours.

"Can I—" he starts, then stops.

You glance up.

"What?"

He hesitates.

Then awkwardly puts his hand on your thigh.

"Is this—" he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly for a second. "—is this, like, a thing people say? Or do you actually—"

"I actually mean it."

"Oh."

He nods slowly.

Processing.

"That's... bad," he says finally.

You huff out a small laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"No, I mean—like, it's wrong," he clarifies quickly. "Because it's not true."

You look at him.

There it is again.

That certainty.

"Kurt, come on baby..."

"I don't get it," he admits, quieter now. "Like, I look at you and it's just—"

He pauses, pressing his lips together.

"You make sense," he says instead.

Your chest tightens again.

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know, really." he says, frustrated. "It just—does."

He glances at you, then away, then back again, like he's trying to figure out how to fix something he can't see.

"I'm not good at this," he mutters sadly.

"At what?"

"This," he says, gesturing between you. "Talking. Comforting. Whatever this is."

You soften, just a little. "I know."

"I've never had to do it before."

"I know, Kurt."

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly.

"But I want to," he adds quickly. "I just—I don't know how."

That lands somewhere deep.

You rest your chin on his shoulder, looking directly at him without thinking.

"That's okay," you say. "You don't have to fix it."

"I do, though."

You blink. "Why, hm?"

"Because it's making you feel bad."

His answer is immediate. Simple.

Like it's obvious.

You don't know what to say to that.

So you just sit there.

Close.

Quiet.

And after a moment, Kurt turns his face—hesitates—then puts his lips directly on yours.

It's clumsy. Careful. The first time he's ever initiated anything remotely like this.

You can tell he's afraid you'll pull away from his. Like you'll be disgusted for some reason.

But you don't.

He relaxes slightly when he realises.

"You're not allowed to say stuff like that about her," he says suddenly against your lips, his hot breath hitting meeting your own.

You frown in confusion. "About who?"

He pulls away fully and looks at you like the answer should be obvious.

"About you."

Your breath catches.

"That's—" but you stopped yourself, your words dying off.

He tightens his grip on your thigh, just slightly.

"Because you're mine. You're my favourite person in the world, and the most beautiful person I've ever known." he adds.

And there it is.

That edge.

Soft on the surface.

Sharp underneath.

You don't pull away.

You don't say anything.

Because part of you—

the part that hates mirrors and photos and the way clothes fit—

likes the way he says it.

Likes being something someone else sees as perfect.

Even if you don't believe it.

Even if he doesn't know how to say it right.

Even if it comes out wrong.

"I'll figure it out," he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. "How to make you see it."

You don't know if that's comforting or not.

But you let your head rest against his anyways.

And he stays very still—

Like he's afraid that if he moves, you'll disappear.

The photo of you on his phone still exists.

But neither of you bother to notice, because in that moment, the beginning of working on each other together and separately is more important.

You press your forehead against the cool taxi window.

The driver has the radio playing low — some old country song that was driving you nuts crackling through the speakers — but your mind is too foggy to focus on the words.

You weren't supposed to get this drunk.

The plan had been easy.

Two drinks with your friend Maya from work in the nice jazz bar you love in town, maybe three if the conversation got good, then you'd call a taxi out to the ranch. Gator had texted you hours ago.

My baby🥰: House is empty tonight for once.

You'd responded immediately.

You: Jesus, that's suspicious. Everything okay babe?

His reply came seconds later.

My baby🥰: Dad's in Montana for the night and most of tomorrow. Took Karen and the kids with him. Some cattle thing, I don't fucking know.

Then, after a minute of watching the text bubble appear and disappear:

My baby🥰: Come stay.

My baby🥰: Please.

My baby🥰: Need you real bad tonight, angel xx

At the time, the tone of his text made you press your thighs tightly together to stop the throbbing in between them while you were doing your make up, your heart also doing that stupid little flip it always does when he says things like that.

So you agreed.

But somewhere between Maya ordering tequila shots and the bartender handing you something bright blue that tasted like candy and regret, the night spiralled.

Now you're halfway to the Tillman ranch and the taxi you're sitting in won't stop tilting.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You squint at the screen.

Maya x: You almost there?

Maya x: Text when you get inside safely pls. If anything happens let me know straight away xxx

You roll your eyes, but your stomach twists anyway.

Because that’s the thing about Gator Tillman.

People make comments about safety to you when it comes to him.

About the Tillmans in general.

About the ranch.

About Roy.

Everyone in the county knows Roy Tillman isn’t a man you cross. The kind of man who speaks about “order” and “respect” like they’re laws of nature.

You’ve seen the way women go quiet around him.

You’ve seen the way he grabs his wife, Karen's, arm just a little too tight when she talks back or even disagrees.

You've also seen and heard worse in that house, but if you think about it too much you will puke in this taxi, no doubt.

And sometimes, when Gator’s angry — really angry — you see a flash of that same thing in him.

Not all the time.

But it isn't rare either.

You type back to Maya slowly. Trying to sound as sober as you possibly can over text.

You: Yea.

You: Taxi turning now xxx

The driver turns down the long gravel road after going through the ranch entrance. Two pickup trucks on either side of the entrance with one of Roy's men in each letting the taxi through once they saw you in the backseat.

Gator must've told them you were coming.

Your stomach flips.

Even drunk, you recognise the path instantly. The ranch road is long, lined with old fence posts and fields that stretch forever into darkness.

The house appears ahead, porch light glowing like a beacon.

Your chest tightens.

You've been here plenty of times.

Lazy afternoons on the porch swings writing in your journal while Gator puffed vape smoke in your face to purposely annoy you because you hated the smell.

Late nights sitting in Gator's truck with the radio low until he eventually pulled you into the back of it and fucked you dumb.

You know the way the wind moves through the grass out here. You know the sound the barn door makes when it shifts.

But tonight, something about the house feels... bigger.

Heavier.

Maybe because Roy Tillman's name hangs over everything here.

Maybe because you're drunk enough to feel every nerve in your body.

The taxi stops, and you can tell the man wants to comment about the ranch and the Tillman's, like everyone does, but decides against it.

You pay him quickly and step out into the cold air.

The door shuts behind you and the taxi pulls away as quickly as it can, gravel crunching as the red taillights disappear down the road.

Now it's just you.

The ranch.

And the quiet.

Your wrap your arms around yourself.

The porch light glows warmly, casting soft yellow across the steps.

You take a breath.

Then another.

And start walking.

Each step crunches loudly on the gravel.

Your thoughts spiral.

What if he's annoyed you're this drunk?

What if he thinks you're sloppy?

What if you saying you're too drunk for sex tonight is the last straw?

What if—

The front door opens.

You freeze.

Gator steps out onto the porch.

For a second he just stands there, framed by the warm light behind him. He's wearing a grey T-shirt and black tracksuit bottoms, hair messy like it always is without the buckets of gel he puts into it for work.

His eyes find you instantly.

"You take a taxi?"

You blink.

"...Yeah?"

He nods once.

"Good. Was worried you hitchhiked for a second."

You climb the porch steps carefully, gripping the railing as the world tilts slightly beneath you.

The moment you reach the top, he steps closer.

"Hey, watch it, baby—"

His hands catch your arms as you stumble on the last step.

His grip is strong but careful, steadying you instantly.

Up close, you can see the crease between his eyebrows.

Worry.

"You okay?" he asks.

You nod quickly.

"Yeah, obviously."

Then sway.

His eyebrows lift.

"...You sure?"

You laugh weakly.

"Maybe not."

He exhales through his nose, but there's a smile tugging at his mouth.

"How much did you drink, pretty girl?"

You try to count.

Immediately give up.

"Uhh, some."

He snorts.

"That's not a number."

Your nerves spike suddenly.

"I'm sorry."

The apology slips out before you can stop it.

He frowns.

"For what?"

"For showing up like this."

You gesture vaguely.

"Drunk. Late. I just— I didn't mean to get like this."

For a second he just stares at you.

The he shakes his head, almost amused.

"You went out with a friend."

"Yeah but—"

"You had fun."

You hesitate.

"...Yeah, I did."

"So what's the problem?"

You look down at the porch boards.

"You're a Tillman."

The words feel heavy the second they leave your mouth.

Silence stretches.

When you glance up again, his jaw has tightened slightly.

Not angry.

Just thoughtful.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I am."

Your stomach sinks.

You rush to explain.

"I just mean — I've seen how your dad—"

Your words stop.

He studies your face for a moment.

Then he sighs.

"C'mere, baby."

His hand slips gently into yours.

The warmth of it always a surprise to you.

He leads you inside.

The ranch house is quiet — deeply quiet in the way houses only are when Roy Tillman isn't there. No heavy boots in the hallway. No television blaring the news.

Just you and Gator.

He flicks on the kitchen light.

"Sit."

You collapse into one of the chairs.

He fills a glass at the sink and hands it to you.

"Drink up, pretty girl."

You gulp it down.

"Slow down."

"Hey! You literally said—"

"Like a normal person, for fuck sake."

You couldn't help but grin cheekily at him.

He leans against the counter across from you, watching.

Not annoyed.

Not angry.

Just... watching.

"You were scared to come here tonight," he says after a moment.

You think about it for a few seconds. Whether you should tell the truth or tell a sweet little lie.

"...Maybe."

"Because you thought I'd be mad?"

"...Maybe."

His shoulders drop slightly.

"Baby, I've told you before I'm not like him. Or at least I'm trying my fucking hardest not to be."

The way he spoke to you didn't have an ounce of anger laced in it. If anything, it sounded more like sadness.

You nod sadly.

"I know, babe."

But the fear lingers.

He must see it.

Because a moment later he steps forward.

His hands slide gently around your waist, pulling you against him.

Your breath catches.

Gator isn't usually this soft.

But tonight his arms wrap around you slowly, like he's making sure you're comfortable.

Your face presses into his chest.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, too comforting that you can't help but place a gentle kiss over his clothed heart.

"I can promise you on anything this world can give us that you're safe here as long as I'm around," he murmurs against the crown of your head.

Your eyes sting slightly.

His hand moves up into your hair, fingers threading through it carefully.

The touch is slow, soothing.

You melt into him.

After a minute he pulls back just enough to look at you.

"You eaten tonight?"

You shake your head.

He sighs.

"Yeah, figured."

Around 15 minutes later you're sitting at the table with a grilled cheese and a bowl of tomato and basil soup that Gator always stores in the very back of the food cupboard just for you.

You blink at it.

"You made soup too?"

"It's only from a can, baby. No trouble at all. And, you're drunk. That's just advanced drunk care."

You laugh.

It comes out soft and sleepy.

You eat slowly while he leans against the counter watching you like he's making sure your face doesn't land in the bowl.

When you finish, he takes the plate and sets it in the sink.

Then he turns back to you.

"Alright."

His hands land gently on your shoulders.

"Bed time for you, missy."

You squint up at him.

"You can be really bossy when you want to be."

"You're drunk."

"That's rude."

"You almost fell off my porch."

"Allegedly."

He chuckles quietly.

Then helps you stand.

Your legs wobble immediately.

"Okay yeah," he mutters, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Definitely bed."

The hallway feels longer than usual.

You lean into him as he walks you up the stairs and then into his room.

The ranch house creaks softly around you.

His bedroom door opens.

The familiar room settles around you — the messy dresser, the jacket tossed over a chair, the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air, the blue lamp on his bedside table beside the framed picture of you playing in the snow with his little twin sisters glowing comfortingly.

He guides you to sit on the edge of the bed.

Then crouches in front of you.

"Shoes."

You blink down at him.

"Oh! Yeah, sorry."

You lift one foot clumsily and he pulls your shoe off, tossing it aside.

Then the other.

His fingers brush your ankle briefly and something warm flutters in your chest.

"You okay?" he asks again.

You nod sleepily.

"Yeah."

He stands and grabs one of his T-shirts from the dresser.

"Okay, arms up."

You lazily put your arms up, the weight of them feeling like a hundred pounds.

The feeling of his warm hands against your sides makes a shiver run down your spine, and you most definitely notice the way he stares at the emerald lace bra that you're wearing (which he knew at first glance was new and just for him) and the way he's holding back a pained groan.

Without making a single comment he took your bra off for you, gently slipping the soft cotton shirt over your head. Thankfully all you had to do was shimmy out of your tights and short leather skirt and that was you done and dusted.

You didn't care about needing to take your make up off, or having to brush your teeth. Gator has seen you in worse states and vice versa, smudged make up and alcohol breath was nothing to either of you.

When you crawl under the duvet, the mattress dips beside you as he sits down, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

Your hair is messy.

Your make up completely smudged.

You feel kind of ridiculous.

"You love me, right?" you mumble.

He rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, don't be stupid."

"Admit it."

"I literally just did. I love you very much and you know it."

You smile lazily.

He reaches over and gently brushes a piece of hair from your face.

The gesture is soft enough to make your chest ache.

"You okay now, baby?" he asks quietly, almost a whisper.

You nod, resting your hand on his thigh, palm facing upward as a sign for him to hold it, which he does.

He always does.

Your eyes are already drifting closed.

"Yeah...I'm good."

He pulls the duvet a bit more up over your chest to keep you warm.

Then presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth just before you eventually move your head slightly so he kisses your lips too.

"Get some sleep, pretty girl." he murmurs against your lips.

His hand lingers in yours for a moment longer.

And as you drift off, warm and safe in his bed with the quiet ranch house around you, you realise something.

The version of Gator Tillman the rest of the world sees—

Isn't the one you get.

Not even a bit close.

He opened one eye.

Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, casting warm gold across the bedroom walls. Somewhere downstairs, he could hear the soft scratch of you pressing a paintbrush against canvas, working hard on a new piece you were creating for the Hawkins Town Hall.

Commissions were always big money, so how could you ever say no (even though your belly was growing larger by the week and it was becoming harder and harder to paint sitting and standing)

And then—

"Daddy!"

A small body launched itself onto the bed.

Steve groaned dramatically as your two-year-old, Rose Jane Harrington, climbed onto his stomach like she had every right to be there.

"Oof," he said, squinting at her. "You trying to take your old man out this morning?"

Rose shook her head vigorously, her mousy brown curls bouncing everywhere. She looked far too pleased with herself for someone who had just used her father as a trampoline.

"Baby Grace is awake, daddy!" she announced.

Steve blinked, obvious confusion spread across his face.

"Baby Grace?" he repeated.

Rose nodded solemnly.

"Yep!"

From the doorway of your shared bedroom, you laughed softly.

Steve turned his head as soon as he heard what he believed was the sweetest sound he'd ever heard and ever will hear.

You stood there in one of his old Hawkins Tigers shirts, the fabric stretched gently over the soft curve of your five-month-pregnant belly. Your hair was tied back messily, a streak of blue paint on your wrist.

He couldn't help but smile as soon as his eyes landed on you.

God, he loved you.

"Morning, mama," he murmured, hoping the name drop would catch Rose's attention.

And that it did. Rose twisted around to point dramatically at your stomach.

"See, daddy! Grace is awake."

Steve pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Okay," he said slowly. "We've talked about this before, haven't we?"

Rose crossed her arms, squinting her eyes is faux outrage.

She most definitely learned that from you, Steve thought to himself.

Steve sighed, rolling his eyes but his lips began to curl up in a gentle smile.

Ever since Robin's last visit from New York, this had been a thing.

She'd brought records with her, like she always did, and somewhere between takeout Chinese and late-night conversations on the porch, she had played Jeff Buckley's album Grace.

Rose had been absolutely mesmerised when you were trying to put her to bed and that was all she could hear from her open window.

And now?

Now she had decided the baby was named Grace.

End of discussion.

"Petal," Steve said patiently, "we don't know if the baby is a boy or a girl yet."

Rose considered this briefly.

Then shrugged without a care in the world.

"Baby is still Grace."

You covered your mouth to hide your laughter.

Steve pointed at you accusingly.

"Don't encourage her."

"I'm not encouraging her one bit," you said, clearly encouraging her.

Rose patted his stomach.

"Daddy silly."

"Ha! No, daddy tired," Steve corrected, dramatically placing both hands over his face.

You walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

He instinctively removed both hands from his face to place his right hand against your stomach.

It had become second nature to Steve. Like breathing.

"Did Little Miss Rosie wake you up early again?" he asked, eyes softening the way they always did for you.

You nodded.

"You better believe it. Six-thirty on the dot."

Steve groaned.

"Why is our kid a morning person?"

Rose beamed proudly.

You leaned into him slightly, resting your head against his shoulder.

Through the open window, the quiet sounds of Hawkins on a Sunday morning drifted in. A distant lawn mower. A dog barking somewhere a few houses down. The soft hum of a summer morning.

It was peaceful.

Which was still something you and Steve sometimes had trouble believing after everything that'd happened.

Because this place that was so safe in Rose's world used to be chaos.

Used to be monsters and fear and trauma and the Upside Down.

Now?

Now it was finger paintings taped to the fridge and Rose insisting on naming the new baby after a Jeff Buckley album.

He squeezed your hand gently.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, letting out a quiet but happy sigh.

"Yeah. More than okay."

Your eyes drifted toward Rose, who had now begun patting your stomach very seriously.

"Hi Grace," she whispered.

Steve laughed under his breath.

You shook your head.

"She's not letting it go."

"She's stubborn," Steve stated.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really? And where do you think that came from, Harrington?"

Steve paused for a second.

"...okay, that's probably my fault."

Rose climbed between the two of you and leaned against your belly.

Steve wrapped one arm around both of you automatically.

The house wasn't massive.

The walls definitely needed repainting.

There were toys everywhere and canvases stacked against the living room wall and baseball equipment permanently living by the front door.

But it was yours.

Your little house on Maple Street.

And somehow, after everything Hawkins had thrown at you all those years ago, you still ended up here.

Still together.

Still building something good.

Rose suddenly looked up.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, kiddo?"

She pointed at your stomach again with her little pointer finger.

"How did Grace get in Mama's tummy?"

Steve rubbed the back of his neck.

"Uh..."

You grinned cheekily, gently patting his chest.

"Oh, you're handling this one, Coach."

Steve shot you a look of pure betrayal over Rose's head.

"I teach Sex Ed to high schoolers," Steve exclaimed quietly, lightly covering Rose's ears for a second.

Rose waited.

Patiently.

Steve sighed.

"Grace—or whoever this baby might be—got into mama's tummy because me and mama prayed really hard for a baby because we wanted you to have a little brother or a little sister. And in a few more months, I'll take mama to the hospital for a little while and when we come back we'll have the baby with us, petal."

Rose nodded as thoughtfully as a two-year-old could.

Then leaned down and whispered to your stomach again.

"Hi Grace, come out now."

Steve groaned.

You laughed.

And somewhere between the sunlight in the room and your daughter's tiny voice and the soft warmth of Steve's hand on your belly—

You realised something.

This life?

This quiet, ordinary life in Hawkins?

It was everything you'd ever wanted.