Off the Record | Steve Harrington
summary: championship games and regrets
â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘
The inside of your dorm room had been doused in a tense silence ever since you got that flight confirmation from Ethan. Trying to focus on anything else was seemingly impossible.
Your laptop screen had dimmed twice already.
Each time you absentmindedly tapped the space bar to wake it up again, staring at the blank document in front of you like it might eventually decide to write itself.
Because you couldnât stop thinking about the plane ticket.
Your phone sat face down beside your laptop, but the knowledge of it was still there. Lingering. Heavy. Pulling at your attention every few seconds like a loose thread begging to be tugged.
You flipped it over again.
The email confirmation was still open.
Departure: 1 hour, 32 minutes.
Your name sat printed neatly across the ticket, the destination city glowing beneath it.
The same city where the championship game would be played tomorrow night.
The same city where Steve Harrington was apparently waiting for you.
You dropped your phone back onto the desk like it had burned you.
Three days ago he had stood in a crowded party and told you he was glad nothing ever happened between you.
Three days ago a video of that moment had spread across the internet like wildfire.
Three days ago Colin had called and calmly informed you that you were being pulled from the story that was supposed to define your entire senior year.
And now? Steve wanted you to get on a plane.
You leaned back in your chair, dragging both hands down your face slowly.
âYouâre an idiot,â you muttered to yourself.
Because the worst part wasnât that he had asked.
The worst part was that you were actually considering it.
The Uber arrived twenty minutes later.
You hadnât even realized youâd ordered it until the notification popped up on your phone telling you the driver was outside.
Your backpack was slung over one shoulder.
And your small rolling suitcase sat beside the desk like it had been waiting there the entire time.
You stared at it for a long moment.
The newsroom lights hummed softly overhead as you reached for the handle and pulled it upright.
The wheels echoed quietly across the tile floor as you walked toward the exit.
Each step felt strangely disconnected from your body, like you were watching someone else make the decision.
Outside, the air was cold enough to make your breath visible.
The Uber idled at the curb, headlights cutting pale lines across the pavement.
The driver leaned slightly toward the passenger seat window when he saw you approaching.
Your grip tightened around the suitcase handle.
For a moment, the only sound was the low rumble of the engine.
That was where this would go.
You would get on the plane.
You would fly across the country.
You would walk into that arena tomorrow night and see Steve again.
See the same boy who had called you Paparazzi like it was your real name.
The same boy who had quietly pushed gummy Coke bottles across tables toward you like it was a secret only the two of you understood.
The same boy who had kissed you in his room in Hawkins like heâd been waiting to do it for months.
The same boy who had smirked at you while another girl was wrapped around him.
Your chest tightened sharply.
âActually,â you said slowly.
Your voice sounded distant, even to yourself.
âCancel the ride, please. Iâm sorry.â
The driver blinked in confusion.
You stepped back from the car.
The door closed with a quiet thud.
A second later the Uber pulled away, disappearing down the dark street.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
For a long moment you stood there alone on the sidewalk.
Then you pulled your phone from your pocket and opened Ethanâs message again.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Tell Steve good luck tomorrow.
You hit send before you could second guess it.
The message delivered instantly.
You stared at the screen for another few seconds.
Then you turned around and walked back toward your dorm building.
Across the country, Steve Harrington sat alone in a nearly empty arena.
The overhead lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floor.
Most of the team had already gone back to the hotel.
Coach had insisted everyone get some sleep before the game tomorrow.
But instead he had found himself drifting back toward the arena after dinner, like something in his chest needed to see the place again before everything happened.
He sat halfway up the bleachers now, elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at the court.
The championship banner hung above it.
Tomorrow night it would be packed.
But right now it was quiet.
Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket again.
The screen lit up instantly.
No sign that you had gotten on the plane.
Maybe you were already in the air.
Maybe you had turned your phone off.
His phone buzzed suddenly.
Steve sat up immediately.
Ethanâs name flashed across the screen.
He answered before the second ring.
There was a pause on the other end.
Then Ethan sighed quietly.
âShe told me to tell you good luck.â
The words hit harder than Steve expected.
For a moment he didnât say anything.
The arena felt even bigger around him suddenly.
âGot it,â he said finally.
Steve nodded even though Ethan couldnât see it.
The call ended a few seconds later.
Steve sat there for a long time after that, staring down at the court.
Tomorrow night he would play the biggest game of his life.
Tomorrow night scouts would be watching.
Reporters would be writing stories.
His future would be decided in forty minutes of basketball.
But right now, all he could think about was the empty seat at the edge of the court where you used to sit.
And the fact that tomorrow, you wouldnât be there.
He tried. At some point after leaving the arena he had returned to the hotel with the rest of the team, nodding through Coachâs final speech in the conference room before everyone was sent upstairs to get rest before the biggest game of their season. But sleep never really came. Instead, he lay on top of the stiff white hotel sheets staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the digital clock beside the bed slowly ticking through the early hours of the morning.
Every time he closed his eyes, the same image replayed in his head.
You standing in that doorway.
The way you had looked at him like you didnât recognize the person in front of you anymore.
By the time his alarm finally went off at seven, Steve had already been awake.
The arena felt completely different on game day.
By the time the team bus pulled up outside that afternoon, the streets were already crowded with fans in school colors, their voices echoing loudly off the concrete buildings as cameras and reporters swarmed near the entrance.
Normally Steve thrived on that kind of energy.
The noise. The attention. The pressure.
But today the sound felt strangely distant, like it was happening somewhere far away from him instead of directly outside the bus window.
He stepped down onto the pavement with the rest of the team, the familiar flashes of cameras lighting up the entrance as reporters shouted questions toward them.
âHarrington! Howâs the ankle feeling?â
âSteve! Big night tonight!â
âAny comment on the championship matchup?â
He didnât answer any of them.
He barely even registered the words as he walked past the crowd and into the arena tunnel.
Because without thinking about it, his eyes had already started scanning the stands.
You were doing everything in your power not to watch the game.
By 6PM the campus already felt different.
The basketball team had made the championship game before, but not in years, and the entire university had decided to treat it like a national holiday. Students crowded the sidewalks in school colors, groups spilling out of dorms and bars and student lounges as the night crept closer to tip-off.
It was impossible not to notice.
Which was exactly why you grabbed your jacket and left your dorm before the broadcast even started.
You told yourself it was because you needed food.
Because you had been sitting in the same chair staring at the same unfinished homework for three hours and your brain needed a break.
Not because you were trying to outrun the fact that Steve Harrington was about to play the biggest game of his life.
Not because you couldnât stand the thought of watching it happen without being there.
The cold air hit your face the second you stepped outside, sharp enough to make your eyes water as you shoved your hands into your pockets and headed toward the edge of campus.
The first restaurant you tried was packed.
Students crowded every table, jerseys and hoodies filling the room as the loud cheers from the televisions mounted above the bar echoed against the walls.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The game had already started.
On the screen above the counter, a familiar figure jogged across the court as the commentators loudly discussed the matchup.
Even from across the restaurant you could recognize the way he moved.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Someone near the bar shouted when he made the first shot of the game, the crowd erupting in applause that bounced around the room like fireworks.
You turned around immediately.
âActually,â you muttered quietly to the confused host behind the stand, ânever mind.â
The door closed behind you a second later.
The second place wasnât any better.
Every restaurant, every bar, every cafĂŠ you walked into had the same thing happening.
The same game playing on every screen.
By the time you reached the small diner just off campus, you had almost convinced yourself that this one might finally be quiet.
Half the time the television mounted in the corner wasnât even turned on.
You pushed the door open and stepped inside and immediately heard the commentatorâs voice echoing across the empty tables.
âHarrington driving down the lane againââ
The TV above the counter showed the court from a wide camera angle as Steve pushed past two defenders, his jersey sticking slightly to his back as he moved.
The waitress behind the counter glanced up at the screen just as he scored.
âWell, damn,â she said under her breath.
You didnât realize you had been staring until the waitress turned toward you.
âYou wanna sit down?â
You blinked quickly and looked away from the television.
âCan I just get something to go?â
You ordered the first thing you saw on the menu board without really reading it.
While the waitress disappeared into the kitchen, you sat at the counter with your back carefully turned toward the television.
You still heard everything.
The occasional cheer from the couple sitting in the corner booth who had clearly come here for the same reason everyone else on campus had gone somewhere tonight.
Your fingers tapped nervously against the counter.
You hated how easy it was to picture what was happening without even looking.
The way Steve would rub the back of his neck during timeouts.
The way he paced slightly near the sideline when the team was down.
The way his eyes always drifted toward press row between plays.
You wondered if he was looking tonight.
By the time your food was ready, the game had reached halftime.
You paid quickly and grabbed the bag from the counter.
As you turned toward the door, the television behind you showed a close-up shot of Steve standing near the bench, breathing hard as one of the trainers wrapped something around his ankle.
The commentatorsâ voices filled the diner.
âHarrington has been battling through that ankle injury all weekâŚâ
Then you forced yourself to keep walking.
The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped back into the cold night air.
For a moment you just stood there on the sidewalk, the warm paper bag clutched in your hands.
The sounds of cheering drifted faintly from the dorm buildings across campus.
Your chest felt tight again.
You looked down at the food in your hands.
And suddenly realized you werenât hungry anymore.
You didnât walk straight back to your dorm.
Instead you wandered toward the small courtyard behind the library, the one with the old wooden benches that were usually empty after dark. The campus had quieted slightly as the game went on, most students either packed into common rooms or crowded around televisions in bars off campus.
The courtyard lights cast soft yellow circles across the pavement as you lowered yourself onto one of the benches and set the takeout bag beside you.
For a moment you just sat there.
The cold air brushed against your cheeks, carrying distant bursts of cheering from somewhere across campus. Someone must have left a window open in one of the dorms because every so often the roar of a crowd spilled faintly into the night before fading again.
You pulled the container of food from the bag and peeled the lid open slowly.
The smell hit you immediately.
You realized you hadnât actually eaten anything all day.
Your fork scraped quietly against the container as you took a bite, chewing mechanically while staring out across the dark courtyard.
Your mind drifted without your permission.
To a kitchen in Hawkins where Steve had leaned against the counter with that lazy smile, sliding a bag of Coke gummies across the surface toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
To the way he had looked at you that night.
Like he was finally letting himself.
You swallowed hard and forced another bite down.
The food tasted like nothing.
Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of cheering erupted again.
You imagined the arena thousands of miles away. The packed stands. The bright lights reflecting off the polished court. The sound of sneakers squeaking across the floor.
Steve pacing near the sideline.
Rubbing the back of his neck.
Looking toward the press row without realizing he was doing it.
You pressed your lips together.
After a while you gave up trying to eat.
The container went back into the bag, barely touched.
Your hands felt colder now as you stood from the bench and slung the bag over your arm.
The walk back to your dorm felt longer than usual.
The closer you got to the residential buildings, the more you noticed something strange.
Earlier that evening the sidewalks had been crowded with students in school colors, voices loud and excited as they talked about the championship game like it was already theirs.
Now most of them walked with their heads down.
Small groups moved slowly across the quad, their conversations muted and heavy in a way that made your stomach begin to twist before your brain fully caught up.
One guy wearing a team hoodie kicked a loose pebble across the sidewalk as he passed.
ââŚwe shouldâve had that,â he muttered to the friend beside him.
Another group walked past you near the dorm entrance.
ââŚHarringtonâs ankle was clearly screwed upâŚâ
ââŚlast five minutes were brutalâŚâ
Your chest tightened painfully.
You didnât need to hear anything else.
Still, your heart started beating faster as you climbed the stairs to your floor.
The hallway felt strangely subdued too. Doors that had been wide open earlier in the night were now closed, the usual bursts of cheering replaced by quiet conversations and the occasional disappointed groan drifting through the walls.
Your room felt colder than usual when you stepped inside.
You set the bag of uneaten food on your desk and closed the door behind you.
For a long moment you just stood there.
Then slowly, almost reluctantly, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone.
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
You already knew what you were going to see.
But somehow that didnât stop the dread from pooling heavily in your stomach as you opened your browser.
The score appeared immediately.
Your schoolâs logo sat by the 68.
You stared at the screen.
Your chest tightened sharply as the reality settled into place.
Which meant the season was over.
Which meant Steveâs last game as captain had ended with confetti falling for the other team.
You sank slowly onto the edge of your bed, the phone still clutched loosely in your hand.
For a moment you pictured him standing on the court when the buzzer sounded.
The celebration happening around him.
The way he probably looked toward the stands without thinking.
Toward the place where you used to sit.
You swallowed hard, pressing the heel of your hand against your eyes as the sick feeling in your stomach deepened.
Because the worst part wasnât the loss.
The worst part was knowing that somewhere across the country, Steve Harrington had probably spent the entire night looking for you in a crowd where you were never going to be.
And you werenât sure which one of you that hurt more.
After the final buzzer, after the confetti fell for the other team and the arena filled with the deafening sound of celebration that had nothing to do with them, he stood frozen near the sideline for longer than anyone else.
His teammates eventually disappeared down the tunnel one by one, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion and disappointment.
Coach had clapped him on the shoulder at some point, saying something about being proud of the season.
Steve didnât remember what he said back.
All he remembered was looking toward the stands.
It was stupid. He knew that.
But part of him had still hoped youâd changed your mind.
The hotel room was dark when he got back.
The team had gathered in one of the conference rooms downstairs for a short meeting after the game, the mood quiet and heavy as Coach talked about the season and the future and how proud he was of the work theyâd done.
Steve barely heard any of it.
By the time he reached the hallway outside his room, the adrenaline from the game had worn off completely, leaving behind a dull ache in his ankle and an even heavier pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.
The key card clicked softly in the door.
The room was silent when he stepped inside.
For a moment he just stood there in the darkness, staring at nothing.
Then the door shut behind him with a quiet thud and something inside him snapped.
âYeah,â he muttered bitterly to the empty room. âNice job, Harrington.â
He dropped his gym bag onto the floor harder than necessary, the sound echoing against the hotel walls.
âCaptain of the fucking year.â
His hands dragged through his hair roughly as he paced once across the small room.
The words came out harsher now.
He stopped near the window, staring down at the dark city streets far below.
âYou just had to show up and play the game.â
His reflection stared back at him in the glass.
A bruise already forming along his jaw where someone had caught him with an elbow in the second half.
Steve let out a humorless laugh.
âCouldnât even do that right.â
His gaze dropped slowly toward the floor.
Toward the small folded piece of paper sticking out of his bag.
He had brought it with him to the game.
Like somehow carrying it around in his pocket would magically undo everything he had done.
Steve dragged a hand down his face.
âYou deserved to lose,â he muttered quietly.
The words landed heavily in the silent room.
His jaw tightened as the anger turned inward.
âYou humiliated her in front the damn country.â
His voice rose again, sharper now.
âYou let Courtney crawl all over you just to prove a point.â
His chest tightened painfully.
He shook his head slowly.
A stupid misunderstanding.
A stupid, selfish decision that had blown up everything.
Steve turned away from the window, pacing again as the frustration boiled over.
âYou really thought she was using you?â he scoffed to himself.
âYouâre not that important, Harrington.â
His hands clenched at his sides.
âShe wrote you a fucking love letter.â
The words echoed loudly in the room.
âAnd you slept with someone else.â
Steve let out a shaky breath as he sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.
âYeah,â he whispered hoarsely.
âYou deserved that loss.â
His phone buzzed suddenly on the nightstand.
Steve barely glanced at it at first.
But when the screen lit up, the name made his stomach drop.
For a second he considered ignoring it.
But something bitter twisted in his chest and he grabbed the phone anyway.
There wasnât even a greeting on the other end.
âWhat the hell happened tonight?â
âGood to hear from you too,â he muttered.
His father ignored the comment.
âI put too much into this program for you to screw it up now.â
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
âWe lost a game,â he said flatly.
âYou lost the championship.â
His fatherâs voice carried that same sharp edge it always had.
âThatâs not just a game.â
Steve stared down at the carpet.
âI made calls for you, Steve.â
The words came slower now.
âYou think those scouts just magically show up?â
Steve felt something ugly twist in his chest.
âYou think that coach built this whole offense around you because he felt like it?â
His father exhaled sharply.
âEven with my help you still managed to screw this up.â
The silence that followed stretched long and painful.
Steveâs grip tightened around the phone.
âYou done?â he asked quietly.
Steve lowered the phone slowly.
For a long moment he just sat there.
Then he let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a broken exhale.
âYeah,â he muttered to himself.
âGuess thatâs what I do. Screw shit up.â
His eyes drifted back toward the letter on the bedside table.
Toward the careful handwriting that ended with two words he had read a hundred times in the past two days.
Then he leaned back against the wall behind the bed and stared at the ceiling.
The one person who had actually believed in him had chosen not to come tonight.
And for the first time in a long time Steve Harrington finally understood exactly why.
A week that dragged across every hour of every day like something heavy stuck to the bottom of your shoes.
Campus had slowly returned to normal after the championship loss. The first few days had been filled with loud debates in dining halls and disappointed conversations outside classrooms, but by the end of the week even that had faded into something quieter.
Because the one thing that hadnât returned to normal was Steve.
At first you hadnât noticed.
Why would you? You had been avoiding the athletic buildings entirely since coming back from the tournament, sticking mostly to the journalism wing and the library and your dorm like those were the only safe corners of campus left.
But by the third day the rumors started slipping into conversations you couldnât avoid.
Someone mentioned the basketball team had resumed workouts.
Someone else mentioned the captain hadnât been there.
Then Ethan had walked into the newsroom that afternoon and tossed his bag onto the table with a frustrated sigh.
âHe still hasnât come back.â
You looked up immediately.
âThe team got back last Sunday.â
The buses had pulled into campus late that night. Videos of disappointed players stepping off the bus had circulated around social media for half a day before people eventually got bored and moved on to the next thing.
But Ethan shook his head.
âHarrington wasnât on it.â
âHe probably just stayed with family or something,â you said quickly.
The explanation came out almost automatically.
It wasnât unusual for players to go home for a few days after the season ended.
He didnât sound convinced.
âAnd nobody from the team has heard from him either.â
Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table.
That part didnât sound like Steve.
He might disappear for a day or two after a loss. He might sulk or avoid reporters or hole up in his apartment for a weekend.
But he wouldnât vanish.
By the end of the week you had checked your phone more times than you were willing to admit.
That part hadnât changed.
But something restless had started growing in the back of your mind.
A quiet uneasiness that you couldnât quite shake.
You told yourself it wasnât your problem anymore.
You told yourself a dozen reasonable explanations every time the thought crept in.
But none of them stopped the knot tightening slowly in your stomach.
The call came just after midnight.
Your phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand beside your bed, dragging you abruptly out of sleep.
For a second you just blinked up at the dark ceiling, disoriented.
You groaned softly and reached for the phone, squinting at the bright screen, an unknown number flashing in your face.
For a moment you considered letting it go to voicemail.
But something about the late hour made your chest tighten uneasily as you swiped to decline the call.
The phone went quiet again.
You set it back down on the nightstand and rolled over.
Ten seconds later it started ringing again.
You stared at the screen.
Your stomach twisted slightly.
Slowly, you tapped the small information icon beside the number.
Then opened your browser.
The area code appeared instantly.
Your heart started beating faster as the phone continued ringing in your hand.
You answered on the fourth ring.
There was a second of static on the other end of the line.
Then a familiar voice rushed out quickly.
You blinked, sitting up slightly in your bed.
âYeah,â she said immediately, sounding both relieved and slightly breathless. âHi. Sorry. I know itâs like insanely late.â
âHow did you even get this number?â
âSteve gave it to me.â
Your stomach tightened instantly.
Before you could respond, a muffled voice echoed somewhere in the background of the call.
Your chest tightened sharply.
Another muffled voice behind her.
âRobin, seriouslyââ
There was the sound of something bumping against the phone like someone trying to grab it.
âI just wanna talk to her.â
The words were thick and unsteady.
Robin covered the receiver for a second, but his voice still carried through faintly.
âYou said youâd call her.â
âThen why isnât she answering?â
âShe is answering, you idiot.â
Then his voice again, closer now.
Your heart started beating faster.
Robin exhaled slowly into the phone again.
âOkay,â she said quietly. âSo. Hereâs the situation.â
You rubbed your eyes tiredly.
âI know things are complicated right now,â she said quickly. âTrust me. Dustin has filled me in on basically everything.â
You closed your eyes briefly.
âBut heâs really not okay,â she continued, her voice softening slightly.
Another sound in the background.
Your chest tightened painfully.
âHeâs been like this for 5 days.â
âWhat do you mean like this?â
âDrunk. Sad. Dramatic. The usual Steve Harrington spiral but like way worse.â
There was a faint thud in the background.
Then Steveâs voice again.
Silence for half a second.
Robin lowered her voice slightly.
âIâm not saying you have to forgive him tonight or anything,â she said carefully. âBut if youâd just consider talking to him for a minute⌠I think it would help.â
Your mind immediately filled with the last mental images you had of Steve.
Courtneyâs arms around his neck.
But then another thought followed.
Steve sitting alone on the court after the championship loss.
Looking up into empty stands.
Your chest tightened painfully.
âFine,â you said quietly.
Robin let out a relieved breath.
There was a rustling sound as the phone shifted hands.
âDonât yell at him too much,â Robin added quickly. âHeâs already doing that himself.â
And suddenly his voice was right there.
For a second neither of you spoke.
The nickname came out soft.
Like he wasnât sure if he was imagining you.
âYeah,â you said quietly.
Then you heard him laugh.
Except it wasnât really a laugh.
It sounded more like disbelief.
âI thought Robin was lying.â
âIâm not lying,â Robin called from somewhere behind him.
âYou lie all the time,â Steve muttered faintly.
And the sound that came out of him next was so tired it made your stomach twist.
âYou shouldnât have answered.â
âBecause I donât deserve that.â
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then Steve exhaled slowly.
âDid you watch the game?â
Another quiet laugh from him.
Then his voice dropped lower.
âI lost it for them.â
âThatâs not how basketball works.â
âIt is when the captain screws up.â
âNo, itâs fine,â he said quickly, though the words came out slurred again. âItâs fine. I deserve it.â
âI deserve a lot worse actually.â
âYou know what my dad said after the game?â
Your grip tightened around the phone.
Steve let out a hollow laugh.
âHe said he put too much into this program for me to screw it up.â
The words hung heavily in the air.
âAnd then he said even with his help I still managed to ruin it.â
Your chest tightened painfully.
âI think he hates me.â
The sentence came out casually.
Like he was stating the weather.
Then his voice softened slightly.
Because you knew there was more coming.
Your heart cracked a little at the words.
âYou wrote me a letter,â he continued quietly. âLike a whole letter.â
âAnd you said you loved me.â
Your fingers tightened around the phone.
Then his voice broke slightly.
âAnd I slept with someone else.â
Your chest tightened painfully.
âI ruined it,â he said hoarsely.
Silence stretched between you.
Then he whispered, âI ruin everything.â
âYou donât ruin everything.â
Another quiet moment passed before he spoke again.
âI needed you to be real.â
âEverything else is fake.â
His voice had dropped almost to a whisper now.
âMy dad, my teammates, the scouts. All that shit.â
âYou called me out when I was being an asshole.â
A quiet laugh escaped him.
âYou literally wrote an article about it.â
You couldnât help the small smile that flickered briefly through the pain.
âAnd then you stillââ
His voice broke slightly.
âYou still loved me anyway.â
Silence filled the space between you.
Then Steve said softly, âI needed that.â
âAnd I screwed it up.â
Then the words came out rough.
âI really need you right now.â
Your chest tightened painfully.
Not because of the words themselves.
But because of how honest they sounded.
Like he wasnât trying to manipulate you.
âI know I donât deserve that,â he added quickly. âI know that.â
Your fingers curled tighter around the phone.
âBut youâre the only person I want to talk to.â
His voice softened even more.
âPlease donât hang up.â
And suddenly you realized you hadnât even considered it.
You didnât hang up for a long time after that.
Eventually Robin reappeared somewhere in the background, gently prying the phone away from Steve after his words started slurring together more heavily. You heard faint arguing, the rustle of movement, then Robinâs quieter voice apologizing again before the call finally ended.
But the silence that followed felt louder than anything Steve had said.
You sat on the edge of your bed for a long time with the phone still pressed loosely against your ear.
Your room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside your window. The campus had gone completely quiet hours ago, the occasional sound of a car passing in the distance the only reminder that the world outside still existed.
Your heart still hadnât settled.
Steveâs voice kept replaying in your head.
I really need you right now.
Your chest tightened painfully.
You dropped the phone onto your mattress and dragged both hands down your face.
âThis is a terrible idea,â you muttered quietly to the empty room.
Going to Hawkins would be reckless. Emotional. Completely illogical after everything that had happened between you.
You had spent weeks trying to put distance between yourself and Steve Harrington.
You had convinced yourself that walking away had been the right decision.
That it had been the only decision.
But hearing him tonight had cracked something open again.
And now the doubt was back.
You laid back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.
Instead your mind wandered through every version of the same argument over and over again.
But another voice kept pushing back.
You groaned softly and rolled onto your side, burying your face in the pillow.
âThis is stupid,â you whispered into the fabric.
But even as you said it, you already knew you werenât convincing yourself.
The sun was just beginning to rise when you finally sat up.
Your room was pale with early morning light now, soft gray shadows stretching across the floor.
But the restless feeling in your chest still hadnât faded.
Your eyes drifted toward your phone sitting on the nightstand.
For a long moment you just stared at it.
Your fingers moved to type in your browser before you could overthink it.
Directions to Hawkins Indiana.
Your heart started beating faster as the map appeared.
But it wasnât impossible either.
You stared at the screen for another few seconds.
The drive took most of the day.
Long enough for doubt to creep back in at least a dozen times.
Long enough for you to question whether this was the worst decision you had ever made.
But you didnât turn around.
Even when the roads grew smaller.
Even when the city buildings slowly gave way to long stretches of quiet highway and open farmland.
Even when the sign that read Welcome to Hawkins appeared on the side of the road.
Your stomach twisted nervously as you drove past it.
It only took one stop at a gas station and a hesitant question to a bored cashier before you had directions to the Harrington residence.
By the time you pulled onto the quiet residential street your hands had started sweating slightly against the steering wheel.
You slowed the car as you approached the house.
The last time you were here, you had thought things between you and Steve were beyond perfect.
Now, your heart pounded harder as you pulled into the driveway.
For a moment you just sat there.
The house looked completely still.
Maybe he wasnât even home.
Maybe Robin had taken him somewhere else.
You forced yourself to stop stalling and get out of the car.
The gravel crunched quietly under your shoes as you walked up the driveway.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
You stopped at the front door.
Your hand hovered over the doorbell.
For a moment your brain tried one last time to talk you out of it.
But your finger had already pressed the button.
The chime echoed faintly inside the house.
Footsteps shuffled somewhere deeper inside the house.
The sound of something bumping against a wall.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
His hair was sticking up in every direction like he had run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, and he wore an old Hawkins High t-shirt and sweatpants like he had just rolled out of bed ten seconds ago.
For a moment he didnât even look at you.
He squinted out into the sunlight like it physically hurt.
âRobin,â he muttered hoarsely, rubbing his face with one hand, âI swear to god if this is another one of yourââ
The words died in his throat instantly.
His expression shifted slowly from irritation, to confusion, and eventually to something that looked a lot like disbelief.
The word came out barely above a whisper.
Like he wasnât entirely sure you were real.
Clearly trying to process what he was seeing.
You couldnât help the small breath of laughter that escaped you.
Another long pause passed.
Then Steve ran a shaky hand through his hair.
âI think I might still be drunk. How did you know I was here?â
And the realization hit you all at once.
He didnât remember the phone call.
Because the last thing he remembered was probably still the worst version of himself.
Steve stared at you for another few seconds, waiting for a reply.
As you stared back, trying to decide how to approach this, you noticed the wetness suddenly rimming his eyes.
Something in your chest twisted as you realized he was crying.
His voice cracked as he finally broke the silence instead, hesitantly stepping closer to you.
âGod please tell me youâre real.â
Whatever invisible wall youâd been meticulously crafting for the last couple weeks suddenly crumbled and you found yourself reaching up to touch him.
Brushing his disheveled hair out of his face before cupping his jaw with your hand.
â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘â˘
a/n: imagine losing the championship and the girl, rip
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