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Figure You Out Pt.4

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

summary: based off of the song "Figure you out" by voilà. reader is dating someone who doesn't actually care for her, and Steve hates seeing she's with someone who doesn't care for her like he does.

parts: 1, 2, 3, 4,

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1

When Steve left, you finally listened to what he had told you—do what makes you happy.

So you did.

You stayed downstairs in your room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your back against the bed frame. The record player hummed softly in the corner, spinning a familiar album, the kind that made your chest feel warm and full. The gentle crackle of the needle filled the spaces your thoughts normally occupied.

You picked up the book you’d been meaning to read for months—the one you always set aside because you never had the energy, or the quiet, or the peace of mind.

Now, for the first time in what felt like ages, you had all three.

You opened it. Began to read. And for once, the words actually sank in. Your shoulders loosened. Your breaths came easier. The ache in your chest felt a little less sharp.

You felt like you again. Not a ghost floating through your own life. Not something unseen, unheard, uncared for.

You felt whole.

Rooted.

Human.

The sun slipped lower outside your basement window, casting a soft, golden glow across the pages of your book. And instead of feeling lonely, you felt something new—something warm.

You felt alive.

A little after Steve left and you’d settled into your book, you heard the front door open—your parents finally home. Their footsteps crossed the floor above you as they talked about their day, voices drifting in and out like background noise you didn’t bother to tune into.

About twenty minutes later, the sound changed; the soft clatter of pans, the low hum of the stove, and soon enough, the smell of food began to work its way downstairs. You already knew what that meant: in about half an hour, you’d be summoned.

You kept reading anyway, sinking deeper and deeper into the pages until the world around you faded entirely. Time slipped by without you noticing—at least, not until your mom’s voice cut through it all, calling your name from upstairs.

Dinner was ready.

You set your book aside and paused your music, letting the quiet settle in. On your way out of your room, you caught your reflection in the mirror. You looked… okay. Better than you expected. At least it didn’t look like you’d been crying just a few hours earlier. Your face seemed calmer now, softer somehow—like something heavy had finally loosened its grip on your shoulders.

With a small breath, you headed upstairs. The warm smell hit you first, and when you reached the kitchen, you found your mom placing a dish of shepherd’s pie on the table. You couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at your lips—one of your favorites.

You slid into the seat to the left of your dad, who always sat at the head of the table. He glanced at you and smiled as your mom took her place on his right.

“How was your day, sweetheart?” your dad asked, already taking a bite of shepherd’s pie.

You stared down at your food for a moment, then lifted your gaze to meet his, and then your mom’s. You shrugged lightly.

“It was okay,” you said, finally taking a bite

Your dad nodded as he chewed his food, swallowing before you spoke again. “How was yours?” you asked, lifting your fork.

That was all the invitation he needed.

He let out a tired sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before speaking. “Busy,” he grumbled. “One of the new recruits messed up the paperwork on a case, so I had to stay late and fix the whole mess. And then dispatch kept calling about that break-in over on Maple Street.” He shook his head, already slipping into work mode even at the dinner table. “Some days I feel like I’m running a daycare instead of a police station.”

You nodded like you were listening, even managed a soft hum of sympathy, but his voice quickly faded into background noise. You’d grown up with stories like these—chaotic shifts, clueless rookies, situations that could go bad fast. Being the head of the station meant he was always tired, always stressed, always thinking about the next call before the current one even ended.

You wanted to care, and part of you did. But your mind kept drifting.

It kept drifting back to your ex, and everything that had fallen apart so fast it still made your chest ache.

But more than anything, you kept thinking about Steve.

How he’d answered the phone without hesitation. How he’d shown up earlier than he said he would, breathless from rushing, still smelling faintly of the cologne he’d put on. How he’d brought you flowers—your first flowers—holding them awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if it was too much or not enough.

How he’d sat with you, not rushing you or filling the silence just to fill it. How he let you talk about whatever rose to the surface, offering steady, thoughtful words when you needed them and quiet when you didn’t.

You stared down at your plate, the warmth of the food rising faintly in the air, and felt something settle in your chest. Not chaos. Not longing, exactly. Just… something warm..

Your mom called your name gently, pulling you out of the soft haze in your mind.

You blinked and looked up. She was watching you with that worried, motherly sort of tenderness that made your chest tighten.

“You okay, baby? You seem like you’ve got something on your mind,” she said.

You paused, fork still in your hand. You debated brushing it off—“I’m fine,” “just tired,” something easy. Something safe. But the weight of the day, the break, the crying, the healing—it sat too heavily to swallow back down.

So you chose honesty.

Just… not all of it.

You exhaled, the sound shaky even to your own ears, and stared down at your plate as you pushed a piece of potato from one side to the other.

“I broke up with Connor,” you said finally.

Silence settled over the table like a soft blanket. Your parents exchanged a glance—quick but full of understanding. They’d liked him. Your mom was excited when you’d first introduced him, happy to see you dating someone who seemed kind and respectful. Your dad had his fun with it, shoving chores at Connor and pretending it was an initiation ritual.

But they weren’t blind. They’d seen the slow shift—your distance, the way your smile thinned when Connor called, how your mom had ended up sitting on the edge of your bed more nights than one, gently trying to coax out what you were feeling. And your dad’s joke about “shooting him if he stepped out of line” had become less of a joke over time—because you knew he meant it. If Connor ever hurt you, really hurt you, your dad wouldn’t hesitate.

Your mom set her fork down, her face softening. “Oh, sweetheart…” she murmured.

Your dad cleared his throat quietly, his eyes fixed on you with an unexpected seriousness.

You swallowed, unsure what to say next, the air thick with the aftermath of your confession.

Your dad cleared his throat, setting his fork down with a quiet clink.

“Do I need to go to his house?” he asked, voice low but steady. “Give him a little chat?”

He wasn’t joking.

You knew that look—stern, controlled, the same expression he used with criminals who swore they didn’t know why they’d been arrested. If you so much as nodded, he’d be grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

But you shook your head softly.

“No, it’s okay, Dad. Just… wasn’t working out anymore.” You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, trying to make the whole thing feel smaller than it was.

Your dad exhaled through his nose, humming in understanding, though his jaw was still tight. He didn’t like seeing you hurt. Not ever.

Dinner after that was lighter. The three of you eased into safer topics—work stories from your mom, a funny situation at the station from your dad, and a few comments about the movie they’d watched last night. It was familiar and comforting, the soft clatter of cutlery and low hum of family chatter wrapping around you like a blanket.

When the plates were clean, your mom stood and stretched. “Alright, sweetheart. Dishes.” You nodded automatically. There was no universe in which you could avoid dish duty, breakup or not.

You stacked plates into the sink and started the warm water. The kitchen felt softer now, lit only by the overhead light and the faint glow from the living room. You were halfway through scrubbing a casserole dish when you heard footsteps, and your dad came to lean against the counter beside you.

“I got some Nanaimo bars,” he said casually, like he hadn’t been watching you all dinner. “We could have a couple. Put on a movie.”

You paused, glancing up at him. He was trying—trying to pull you out of your own head, trying to give you something to look forward to, trying to make sure today didn’t end with you alone in your room replaying every painful detail. He wasn’t perfect, but he cared. Deeply.

A genuine smile tugged at your mouth.

“Yeah… that’d be nice, Dad.”

His face softened. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, warm and familiar. “Alright,” he murmured, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze before straightening. “I’ll set it up.”

You watched him walk out of the kitchen—pausing only long enough to snag the box of Nanaimo bars off the counter like a kid stealing cookies.

You gave a small smile before turning back to the dishes, finishing them with careful, methodical movements. Once the last plate was rinsed and set on the drying rack, you pushed your sleeves down and wiped your hands on a dish towel.

Heading into the living room, you found your dad already settled in his chair, a box of Nanaimo bars resting on his stomach. He glanced up as you entered and offered the box with a small, knowing smile.

“Want one?” he asked.

You returned his smile, reaching out to take a bar before settling onto the couch between your parents. The movie played softly on the screen, and for the first time in hours, you felt a quiet sort of peace. Warmth from the room, the soft laughter of the film, and the comfort of being with your family wrapped around you like a blanket.

For a little while, the heartbreak, the stress, and even the memory of your ex’s words faded into the background. You could just… be.

2

Steve stepped inside his house, expecting the usual chaos of his parents moving around, but the place was silent—too silent. He frowned, taking his shoes off by the door. This was becoming a pattern, and he hated it. They were never home anymore, leaving him alone with nothing but the hum of the empty house.

He trudged into the kitchen, his socks gliding slightly against the floor, and noticed the blinking light on the phone. Picking it up, he pressed play on the message. His parents cheerful voices filled the room, telling him they’d gone out for supper and left some money on the counter for pizza.

Steve let out a frustrated sigh, tossing his head back. Of course. They were never around. He jabbed a finger at the cash left neatly on the counter and muttered under his breath.

Steve stood in the quiet kitchen, arms crossed as he stared at the money on the counter. He thought about calling you over, sharing a pizza, just hanging out—but he knew your parents were probably home, already had dinner planned. His chest tightened, a mix of frustration and disappointment settling in. With a heavy sigh, he shook his head and muttered, “Guess it’s just me tonight.” He grabbed the phone and ordered a pizza for himself, feeling the empty weight of the house pressing in around him.

3

The next morning, you woke up earlier than usual, the soft light of dawn spilling through your window. You moved through your morning routine on autopilot—quick shower, brushing your teeth, getting dressed. Today, you decided to leave your hair natural, letting it fall around your shoulders.

Stepping out of the bathroom and into your room, you paused for a moment, letting your eyes scan the wardrobe as if it held the answer to the day. After a moment’s thought, you settled on black bell-bottom jeans paired with a simple black tank top, layered with a green flannel for a touch of color. You kept your makeup light, just enough to highlight your features, and added your usual jewelry and a spritz of perfume. With your bag slung over your shoulder, you took a final glance at yourself in the mirror before heading upstairs.

You found your dad sitting at the dining table in his cop uniform, eyes scanning a paper with a Diet Pepsi resting beside him. You chuckled softly as you made your way into the kitchen. “Really, Dad? Pop at seven in the morning?” you teased.

He let out a soft laugh. “You know I don’t like coffee, baby,” he said, and you nodded in agreement.

Grabbing an apple, you took a bite, enjoying the crisp sweetness. Your dad placed his car keys on the table without looking up from his paper. “Take my car today,” he said.

You froze. Your dad never let you take his car. Hesitantly, you reached for the keys. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Hopper and I are going for breakfast, and he said he’d pick me up. Be careful with her, okay?”

“I will. Yes, I’ll be careful,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Okay, good. Now go to school, or you’ll be late,” he said.

You finished the apple quickly, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head before heading to the front door. “Love you!” you called out, your heart fluttering with excitement at the thought of driving your dad’s car for the first time.

You slid into the driver’s seat of your dad’s 1967 Chevy Impala, running your fingers over the worn leather of the steering wheel. It was a beautiful car, one he treated like it was his own child, cared for meticulously. It felt almost wrong to be behind the wheel, yet the excitement bubbling in your chest was impossible to ignore. You popped one of your dad’s cassettes into the player—A-ha, one of his favorites, and somehow one of yours too from all the hours you’d spent listening together. As the opening notes filled the car, you eased out of the driveway, a grin spreading across your face. There was something undeniably cool about driving your dad’s car to school, the morning sunlight glinting off the polished chrome as you cruised down the street.

4

The drive to school felt almost surreal. The crisp morning air filled the car as A-ha’s familiar synth lines floated through the cassette player, and for a moment, the world outside seemed quieter, slower. The events of yesterday still weighed heavily on your chest, but the sharp sting had softened just enough that it no longer felt unbearable. You traced your fingers over the steering wheel, letting the hum of the engine and the music lull your thoughts, though your mind kept drifting back to Steve.

Would he notice you today? Would he smile, maybe even say something, or would he pretend like nothing had happened, like yesterday never occurred? Your ex had a way of ignoring you even in the same room, making you feel invisible, like your presence didn’t matter at all. And somehow, the idea that Steve might do the same made your stomach twist. But he wouldn’t, would he? He had stayed last night, listened to you, comforted you without ever making you feel like a burden.

You caught yourself hoping he’d notice you today, hoping he’d meet your gaze in the crowded hallways, and a small, almost shy smile tugged at your lips. Why did it matter so much? You weren’t sure. Maybe it was because he’d shown you that someone could see you—really see you—and it felt like a warmth you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Glancing at the rearview mirror, you took a deep breath. You had survived yesterday. You had survived the fight, the humiliation, and the heartbreak, and now you were heading into a day that felt… lighter, somehow. Not completely free of worry or sadness, but lighter. Stronger.

The familiar streets of Hawkins slowly came into view, the sun casting a soft glow across the houses and trees. You slowed down at a stop sign, watching a few students shuffle to school, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Your heart gave a little flip at the thought of seeing Steve walk through those halls. Would he be with Robin or Dustin? Or maybe he’d notice you first.

Your hands tightened on the wheel for just a second before you shook them loose. You had to stop overthinking. One thing was certain—you couldn’t go back. You wouldn’t go back. And the thought of seeing someone who had truly cared for you, someone who had made you feel like more than just a ghost, made your chest ache in a good way, like anticipation mixed with a touch of fear.

The school loomed ahead, a familiar, looming building buzzing with the energy of students. You pulled into the lot, heart still thudding, and parked the Impala with a careful precision your dad would have approved of. As you stepped out, the morning sunlight hit your face, and you closed your eyes for a moment, taking it in. You were alive. You were here. You were free.

A sharp honk pulled you out of your thoughts, and you turned just in time to see Steve’s Beamer glide up beside your dad’s Impala. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight, and then you caught sight of Robin in the passenger side, grinning. You waved enthusiastically, feeling a small rush of warmth seeing her.

Steve parked smoothly beside you, and Robin practically bounced out of the car, her eyes immediately roaming over the Impala. “Ooo, you have your dad’s Impala today? I’m surprised he actually let you take it,” she said, admiration dripping from every word.

You crossed your arms over your chest, a little pride swelling in your chest. “Yeah, me too,” you said with a small smile. “He said him and Hopper were getting breakfast, so he let me take it.”

Before you could add anything else, Steve stepped out of his car and let out a low whistle, eyes flicking over the sleek lines of your dad’s car. You glanced over your shoulder and caught him staring, his expression one of genuine awe. “Jeez… she’s a beauty,” he said, voice low and amused, his gaze lingering just a little longer than necessary.

When you glanced over at Steve, your heart skipped a beat for a moment. He was wearing simple Levi jeans and a blue crew neck, nothing fancy, yet he somehow looked effortlessly good. His hair was perfect, as it usually was—well, except for yesterday—but even slightly messy, it suited him, and you found yourself smiling at the sight. When he stood beside you, you caught a faint whiff of his cologne, and you couldn’t help but melt at the scent. It was warm and intriguing—spicy, woodsy, with a hint of something floral. You couldn’t quite place it, but all you knew was that it smelled good, like him, and it made your chest flutter in a way that surprised you.

You felt a faint heat rise to your cheeks, and a small, soft chuckle escaped you. You weren’t entirely sure why you were blushing—maybe it was the attention, or maybe it was Steve’s words and the way he looked at the Impala, like it was something more than just a car.

You nodded in agreement as you opened the car door and grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. Locking the Impala, you tucked the keys into your pocket with a small smile.

“How fast does she go?” Steve asked, grabbing his bag from the trunk along with Robin’s and handing hers to her.

Robin raised an eyebrow, curiosity lighting her face. “Yeah, I’m wondering too—how fast can baby go?”

You shrugged, letting out a small laugh. “I… I’m not really sure,” you admitted as the three of you started walking toward the school.

“The fastest I’ve gone in the Beamer is 147 km/h,” Steve said matter-of-factly, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. You rolled your eyes playfully, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Yeah, that’s because it’s a new car, Harrington,” you giggled.

Steve pretended to clutch his side, staggering back a little as you gave him a playful elbow. “Hey! I’m sure your dad added some crazy mods onto the Impala to make it go faster,” he said with a smirk, leaning down just enough to meet your gaze.

You rolled your eyes, about to fire back a teasing comment, when Robin cut in before you could answer

“Yeah, I remember that! We almost ended up in a ditch!” Robin exclaimed, throwing her hands up for emphasis.

Steve rolled his eyes, trying to keep a straight face. “No, we weren’t, Robin. No!”

“I swear, we were going too fast! The whole damn car started shaking and veered toward the ditch!” Robin insisted, her hands flailing dramatically.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and carefree. “I believe you, Robin,” you said between giggles.

Steve let out a groan, but it wasn’t an annoyed one—more playful, like he couldn’t help but indulge the story.

As the three of you continued walking into the school, the laughter lingered, the teasing bouncing between you all.

“See! Even she believes me, and she wasn’t there!” Robin said, glancing at you with a triumphant smirk.

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay, fine, yeah, we almost went into the ditch. Keyword: almost.”

All three of you continued talking as you made your way to your lockers. Yours was right beside Robin’s, which made things easy as you unlocked it and began gathering your books for class. Steve leaned casually against the locker beside you, watching you with that familiar smirk playing on his lips.

“Let’s race after school,” Steve said, his smirk widening as his eyes met yours.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Race? Are you trying to get my ass grounded?” you laughed, thinking he couldn’t possibly be serious.

“I know a good place where we can race. No cops,” Steve said, trying to persuade you.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. He actually was serious. You closed your locker, books in hand, and Steve raised an eyebrow. “So… what do you say?”

You bit your lip, thinking it over. Shaking your head, you finally said, “Nope. Doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

Steve’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh, come on! What could I do to make you race me?”

A smile crept across your face as an idea struck. “We go to McDonald’s after, and you pay for me. Whatever I want,” you said, looking up at him, fully expecting him to say no.

But he didn’t hesitate. “Deal!” he said, and you rolled your eyes playfully.

The bell rang just then, and Robin breezed past you, waving over her shoulder. “See you lovebirds later!” she called, disappearing into the halls.

You and Steve both flushed at her words but didn’t respond. Instead, you glanced at him as you started walking toward your first class.

“If I get in trouble, Steve Harrington, I’m throwing you under the bus. You’ll deal with my dad,” you laughed, shaking your head.

“Fine by me!” Steve called after you, grinning as he followed along.

You looked back at him and giggled. “Go get your stuff for class, silly. You don’t have chemistry,” you said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, still smiling, and wandered off down a different hallway—but not before taking one last glance back at you.

5

When Steve walked into the other hallway, he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. The image of you climbing out of your dad’s Impala kept replaying in his head—God, you looked good behind the wheel of that car. He kept imagining how badass you’d look racing him later, how effortlessly cool… how hot.

He hadn’t meant to stare when he stepped out of his Beamer, but the sight of you had caught him off guard. The black bell-bottom jeans that fit you just right, the simple tank top under your flannel—casual, but somehow perfect on you. And your hair, falling loose over your shoulders, catching the morning light as if it were something out of a movie. Even your perfume lingered in his senses, soft and warm, the kind of scent that stuck in his head long after you walked away.

He tried not to overthink it, but there was something about you—something magnetic, something he couldn’t pull himself away from even if he wanted to. Everything you did, every little detail about you, felt… entrancing.

Steve shoved his bag into his locker and grabbed the binder he needed for English, though he already knew he was late. The bell had rung a full minute ago, and Mrs. McCall would definitely tear into him for it, but… honestly? He couldn’t bring himself to care. Not today.

He clicked his locker shut and started down the hallway at a lazy pace, hand tucked into the pockets of his jeans as his mind drifted right back to you—because lately, it always seemed to drift to you.

He replayed the morning over and over. The way you smiled when you saw Robin. The way you laughed when he bragged about his Beamer. The way you bit your lip when he asked you to race him—like you knew you should say no, but he could see the thrill in your eyes.

And God, he hoped you’d hang out with him at lunch.

His chest tightened at the thought—stupid, teenage hope twisting itself into a knot. Maybe you’d eat with him and Robin in the cafeteria. Or maybe you’d sit outside if it was nice out. Maybe he’d get the chance to make you laugh again, to watch that scrunch of your nose when you tried not to smile too hard.

He didn’t know why it mattered so much. It just did.

Lost in his daydream, Steve slowed even more, dragging his fingers through his hair as he imagined what he’d say—something cool, or funny, or at least not completely embarrassing. Anything to keep that spark in your eyes when you looked at him.

Late for English or not, he couldn’t stop the grin forming on his face.

He really, really hoped you’d say yes.

6

Chemistry dragged.

It wasn’t usually this bad—most days you actually liked the class—but today, every minute felt painfull slow. You kept sneaking glances at the clock, hoping the hands might jump ahead out of mercy, but every time you checked, it looked like they’d barely moved at all. Torture.

You slumped deeper into your seat, twirling your pen as you doodled aimlessly along the margin of your worksheet. Shapes, little spirals, a half-finished flower—anything to keep your mind from melting into boredom. But it didn’t stay on the paper for long. It drifted, circling back to the only thing that had really been sitting in your chest all morning.

Steve.

The way his eyes lit up when you agreed to race him. The stupid, smug grin he wore like he’d just won the lottery. The way he leaned against your locker like he belonged there, talking you into something that should’ve been a terrible idea.

And it was a terrible idea.

Your first time driving your dad’s Impala by yourself, and you agreed to race in it. If you dented it—hell, even scratched it—you could already imagine the lecture… and the funeral arrangements. For yourself.

But that wasn’t the part that stuck with you.

It was the thrill.

The wrongness of it. The rush curling low in your stomach every time you pictured the stretch of empty road Steve claimed had “no cops.” Your dad would kill you—but something about the whole thing made you want to do it even more.

Maybe it was rebellion. Maybe it was adrenaline.

Or maybe it was the way Steve Harrington couldn’t stop smiling at you this morning, like the idea of racing you was the best thing to happen to him all week.

You tapped your pen against the page, heart fluttering as you tried to focus on the formula written on the board. No use. Your brain was already out in the parking lot, engine revving, Steve smirking at you through his open window.

You couldn’t wait.

Finally—mercifully—chemistry ended. You packed your things faster than the rest of the class and slipped into the hallway, swallowed instantly by the usual break time chaos.

You’d barely taken ten steps when you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You turned, half-expecting Robin… but instead found Eddie Munson grinning at you like a gremlin caught doing something he very much planned. Your childhood best friend—older than you, yet somehow still a grade behind—leaned his elbow dramatically against a locker.

“Hey, Eds,” you said, unable to hide your smile.

His eyes immediately dropped to your pocket where he knew the Impala keys were. He wiggled his eyebrows. “I see you’ve got Baby today.”

You snorted. “Yes, I do. I don’t know what possessed my dad to hand over his car but… here we are.”

Eddie nodded solemnly, because he knew firsthand how your dads entire soul lived inside that Impala.

“So…” Eddie began, drawing the word out like he was about to propose something outrageous. You groaned instantly, spinning on your heel and marching down the hall. “Nope. Whatever it is—no. Absolutely not.”

You heard him jog after you. “Please—just hear me out. I swear this is the last time.”

You stopped in front of your locker and leveled him with a look. Eddie stood there, all hopeful eyes and pressing his hands together, fully aware you almost never told him no.

“I forgot a few things at the trailer,” he confessed, “and I’ve got band practice after lunch. If I show up without my stuff, the guys will actually murder me. Like—physically end my existence.” You exhaled sharply as you switched out your textbooks. “Eddie, you need to keep track of your crap better. You can’t rely on me to rescue you every time.”

“Yeah, yeah, responsible adult voice, I hear it.” He leaned his shoulder into the locker near yours. “But come on—you’ve basically been our unofficial band mom since we were twelve. You can’t abandon your children now.”

You paused, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “…You’re making it weird,” you deadpanned, though a reluctant laugh escaped.

Eddie’s grin grew, those pleading puppy-dog eyes settling on you—the ones he absolutely weaponized.

You groaned, defeated. “Fine! But this is the last time I save your ass, Munson.”

Instantly, Eddie swept you into a bone-crushing hug that made a few sophomores jump out of the way. “Thank you—god, you are the best,” he said before releasing you and backing away with dramatic flair. “Meet you at the Impala at lunch!”

And with that, he spun on his heel and strode off down the hallway, curls bouncing. You watched him go, exhaled a long suffering sigh… and found yourself smiling anyway.

7

Steve had watched most of your interaction with Eddie from across the hall on his way to your locker. He slowed down without meaning to, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Eddie Munson of all people leaning against your locker like he belonged there. Steve’s brain scrambled for a reason—any reason—why Munson was talking to you. And when Eddie pulled you into a hug, Steve felt something sharp twist in his chest.

Steve already didn’t like Eddie—he’d “stolen” Dustin from him once—and now seeing him near you only made that dislike worse.

He almost turned around right then. He should’ve. But his feet wouldn’t move, not until Eddie finally walked off, waving over his shoulder at you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Before you could even breathe, Steve stepped into Eddie’s place, leaning his shoulder against your locker and nudging it just enough so you’d notice him.

You jumped, clutching your books closer. “Jesus—Steve, you scared me.” He grinned, like that alone made showing up worth it. “Sorry.”

But the smile faded fast. “Why was freak Munson talking to you?” he asked, the word slipping out harsher than he intended.

You shot him a glare immediately.

Steve sighed and lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay—sorry. That was… yeah. My bad.”

“He’s not a freak,” you muttered as you shut your locker, balancing your books for next period. “He’s just… different.”

Steve didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either.

“He asked me for a ride at lunch,” you continued, adjusting a notebook under your arm. “He forgot something at home and needs it for after lunch.”

Steve nodded, but the disappointment hit him like a punch to the stomach. Great. Of course. Perfect. Why wouldn’t Eddie need a lunch-time chauffeur today of all days? He tried to play it cool, but it still stung.

“Why’d you ask?” you asked, brow lifting in curiosity.

“Oh, no reason,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just wondering.”

You studied him for a second, then shrugged. “And he’s not weird, you know. If you actually got to know him, you might like him.”

Steve forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, nodding once. “I’m sure I would.”

He wasn’t sure at all. But he was very sure he didn’t like the idea of Eddie Munson getting even a second of your time when he had been hoping—no, practically counting on—spending lunch with you.

“Excited for after school?” you asked, steering the conversation away from the clearly awkward moment before.

Steve blinked at you for a second, then nodded. “Oh yeah. You’re so going to lose,” he said teasingly. You rolled your eyes at him, giggling. “I’d love to hear that once you lose.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that a challenge I hear?”

You smirked back up at him, letting the words linger. “Maybe,” you said, dragging out the ‘maybe’ just enough to make him chuckle.

“Oh, trust me, honey,” Steve said, his grin widening, “your Impala is going to lose miserably to my Beamer.” You just nodded, pretending to agree. “Yeah, yeah, whatever makes you feel better, Harrington,” you teased.

Steve laughed, the tension from earlier completely forgotten, swept away by your playful banter.

You and Steve kept talking the whole way to your English class, your shoulders brushing every so often as you walked. Neither of you even noticed that Steve was still carrying the books he had from first period instead of the ones he actually needed. You were both too caught up in conversation, laughing and teasing each other like nothing else in the hallway mattered.

But the second you stopped in front of your classroom door, you glanced down—and realized.

A small giggle slipped past your lips.

“Steve… you didn’t get your stuff for class.”

Steve blinked, looking down at the wrong books in his hand, and an embarrassed flush crept up his neck. He tried to brush it off, clearing his throat as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Oh. Well— I have gym, so it doesn’t matter if I’m late.” He shrugged casually, though the pink on his cheeks betrayed him.

You shook your head, smiling as you hugged your binder to your chest. “Whatever you say, Harrington. I just don’t wanna be the reason you get in trouble.”

Steve stepped back a little, shaking his head quickly. “Oh, don’t worry. Me and the gym teacher are tight. He won’t mind.” He insisted with this confident little grin.

You raised a brow at him, dragging out your words.

“If you say soooo…”

Steve watched the way you smirked at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back.

You opened the door to your classroom, pausing in the doorway.

“See you later,” you said softly, giving him a little wave.

And Steve just… stood there for a moment, watching you disappear into the room with that same easy smile on his lips—like he didn’t even remember he was supposed to be somewhere else.

8

Steve finally made it to gym class—twenty minutes late. And just like he’d promised, the teacher didn’t bat an eye. Coach Peters just waved him in with a bored flick of the wrist, too focused on keeping a bunch of half-awake teenagers from wandering off to care about Steve’s timing.

They were doing basketball that day, something Steve normally didn’t mind. Everyone was split into four teams for warmups, and Steve ended up with Tommy, Carol, and Connor.

He didn’t mind Tommy and Carol so much. Tommy was being his usual loud self, and Carol kept complaining about how “basketball is so stupid, my hair is gonna get frizzy,” while clinging to Tommy’s arm every five minutes. But at least they were predictable, and Steve had leveled out with them enough that it wasn’t exhausting.

But Connor?

Yeah… that was a problem.

Your ex stood across from him, spinning the basketball in his hands with this bored, arrogant expression that made Steve’s jaw tighten. Every time Steve glanced his way, Connor was already glaring at him—these sharp, irritated looks that practically asked, “You got something to say, Harrington?”

Steve muttered under his breath as he passed the ball to Tommy.

“Of course the teacher puts me with him.”

And truthfully? Steve couldn’t help himself. Every time Connor’s eyes met his, Steve shot a dirty look right back. The guy didn’t deserve you. Not after everything you told Steve yesterday. And the fact that Connor was now acting pissed at him for simply existing made something inside Steve burn.

Connor passed the ball to Carol. She shrieked, fumbled it, and in her panic flung it straight at Steve. He caught it cleanly and started dribbling up the court—only to feel a shoulder slam hard into his side.

Connor.

Steve nearly lost his footing, his sneakers squeaking violently across the polished floor. He planted his feet just in time, stopping himself from flying across the court. When he steadied, he shot Connor a look—sharp, incredulous, a silent what the hell, man?

Connor only smirked.

He made a swipe for the ball, but Steve pivoted, turning his back to him and shielding it with ease. Behind him, Connor let out a low, smug chuckle—too quiet for the teacher to hear.

“You know she’ll come back to me, right?” he said.

Steve froze for a split second, eyebrows pinching in confusion. He didn’t respond. He didn’t want to give Connor the satisfaction. Instead, he tried to move around him, only for Connor to slide in front of him again, blocking him from the net with that same infuriating smirk plastered across his face. “Trying to steal my girl, Harrington?” Connor taunted. “Hasn’t even been a day.”

Steve rolled his eyes, jaw tightening. “I’m not trying to steal her,” he said, spotting Tommy open and firing the ball his way.

The ball left his hands, but Connor didn’t chase it. He didn’t even look. He just stepped closer—too close—his voice dropping low. “I’ve seen you two around school,” he murmured. “But I won’t let you take her from me.”

Steve felt something hot, coil in his chest. Anger. Disgust. Protective instinct. All of it at once.

But before he could say anything, Connor spun away, raising his voice like nothing had happened. “CAROL! Do something!” he barked across the court.

Carol jumped, Tommy yelled something about passing, and the game carried on like normal. But Steve stood there for a beat longer, heart pounding, Connor’s words echoing in his head.

I won’t let you take her from me.

Yeah. Steve didn’t like the sound of that.

Not one damn bit.

9

English finally let out, and you packed your things in a hurry. You slipped everything into your locker, shut it with a soft clang, and headed out into the crisp air. You half expected to see Steve leaning against the row of lockers like he usually did, but he wasn’t there.

You didn’t overthink it—maybe his teacher held him back, you told yourself as you pushed open the doors and stepped into the parking lot.

Eddie was already waiting, leaning casually against the Impala with his foot kicked up against the tire, curls flowing in the wind. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him.

But then you spotted someone else.

Steve—standing at the open trunk of his Beamer, one arm raised as he swiped deodorant under his crewneck like he was trying to erase the gym class off him.

There he is, you thought, a little flutter in your chest.

“Ready to rock and roll?” you asked Eddie as you unlocked the Impala.

“Always,” Eddie grinned, pushing off the car.

You rounded toward the driver’s side, and your smile widened when you caught Steve’s eye. But instantly, you noticed it—the scowl he wore like storm clouds had settled across his brow.

You slowed. “Hey… you okay, Steve?”

He looked over at you mid-swipe, deodorant still in hand. He tried for a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. Just had a rough class,” he said with a shrug. You nodded slowly. “Okay… I just wanted to make sure. You seem—” You cut yourself off. He didn’t need you prying, not here, not now.

Steve capped the deodorant and tossed it into his trunk before slamming it shut a little too hard.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m good,” he insisted, offering another forced smile. Before you could answer, Eddie poked his head up from the passenger side, hand resting on the roof.

“Hey! We gotta get going!” You sighed and shot him an exasperated look. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a sec.”

Turning back to Steve, you softened your voice. “Like I was saying… we can talk later. After you lose to Baby. About class, I mean. Okay?” This time, Steve’s smile was real—crooked, warm, the kind that softened something in your chest.

“Sounds good. And I won’t lose,” he said confidently. You pretended to agree with a nod.

“Totally.”

With that, you slid into the Impala, Eddie buckling in beside you as Steve watched—trying his best to act like everything was fine.

Steve stood there in the parking lot, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as he watched you and Eddie pull out of the space. You gave him a quick wave through the window, and he lifted his hand automatically, returning it with a small, almost shy smile.

He stayed there even after the Impala had fully rolled out onto the road—its engine rumbling low and powerful, sunlight glinting off the deep, glossy black paint. As much as it twisted something in his chest seeing Eddie in the passenger seat, he couldn’t deny it.

Damn, he thought, letting out a slow breath.

Your dad’s Impala really was a gorgeous car—classic, well taken care of. The kind of car people turned around to look at twice.

And seeing you behind the wheel?

Yeah. He’d be thinking about that for the rest of the day.

10

Black Sabbath rumbled low through the Impala’s speakers, the bass vibrating faintly through the wheel beneath your hands. The sky was a bright blue as you and Eddie cruised toward the trailer park. Windows cracked just enough to let the cool air mix with the music.

Eddie was leaning back in the passenger seat, fingers tapping along to the music as the Impala roared down the road. You’d been talking about old memories, dumb stuff from middle school, and just catching up after months of barely seeing each other.

Then Eddie said it—so casually, you almost missed it.

“So… your boyfriend not here today?”

You flicked your eyes over at him, surprised. Right. You thought. He still didn’t know. A breathy laugh slipped out of you, almost sounding like a sigh.

“I don’t really know,” you said, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel. “I broke up with him yesterday.”

Eddie’s head snapped toward you so fast that you heard the movement of his jacket.

“No way.”

“Yes way,” you repeated, watching the road. A grin broke across his face, full teeth, full Eddie energy.

“Oh my god! Finally!” he practically yelled, slapping his hand on the dashboard like he was applauding you.

You groaned. “Eddie—”

“No, no, no, you don’t get it,” he laughed. “I was this close to staging an intervention. That dude sucked.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. It was impossible not to. “Are you done praising my breakup yet?” you teased.

“Not even close,” Eddie said, turning in his seat to face you fully. “This is a celebration. This is freedom. You’re, like, unchained now.”

You shoved his arm lightly, nearly making him drop his hand. “Just— behave,” you said, laughing.

Eddie put both hands up like he was surrendering. “Fine, fine. But when we get to the trailer, I’m telling Wayne. That man deserves the good news.”

You groaned again. “Eddie…”

“Too late,” he smirked. “He’s gonna be so proud of you.”

You just shook your head, biting back another smile, Eddie still celebrating like you’d won the lottery.

You two were halfway through a story about something dumb you did when you were twelve when Eddie shot you a look—one of those smug, knowing ones.

“So you and Steve, huh?” he teased, wiggling his brows like a cartoon character

You cut your eyes toward him, already rolling them before you looked back at the road. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

“Mmhm.” Eddie hummed dramatically, leaning back and crossing his arms like he was preparing a closing argument. “Right. Sure. Just… y’know, make sure I’m invited to the wedding.”

You snorted, covering it with a laugh as you took the next turn. “Yeah, alright. I expect a cruise as our honeymoon gift, then.”

Eddie barked out a laugh, loud enough to drown the guitar riff for a second. “Oh, absolutely. Once my band gets big? I’ll buy you two a whole damn island.”

That made you laugh harder, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah. You better put that in writing.”

“Please.” Eddie grinned, kicking his boots up on the dashboard for exactly three seconds before your glare made him drop them. “I’m practically manifesting your future for you. I should charge.”

You nudged him with your elbow, the car filled with warmth and guitar. “You really need to stop. Steve and I are just friends.”

Eddie didn’t say anything this time—just smirked, that same yeah right expression plastered all over his face as the trailer park’s gravel roads came into view.

You pulled up along the gravel shoulder in front of Eddie’s trailer, the Impala’s engine rumbling to a stop. The moment you climbed out, the warm air hit you, carrying that faint smell of pine and cigarette smoke that always clung to Forest Hills.

Eddie led the way, boots crunching on the gravel, and pushed the door open without knocking. You followed him inside, kicking off your shoes as the familiar warmth of the trailer washed over you.

Wayne was on the couch, half-watching the TV with a cup of coffee going cold beside him. His face lit up the second he saw you.

“Well hey there,” he said, rising to his feet. “Hi, Wayne,” you greeted, smiling as he pulled you into one of those steady, grounding hugs that only Wayne Munson seemed to know how to give.

“How are you, sweetheart?” he asked as he stepped back. “Not too shabby,” you said with a small shrug.

“She finally broke up with her douche of a boyfriend,” Eddie called out on his way down the hall, already halfway to his room.

“Hey!” you snapped after him, more annoyed at the phrasing than the truth. You turned back to Wayne, cheeks a little warm. Wayne’s eyebrows rose. “That so?” You sighed and nodded. “Unfortunately.”

A slow smile crept across his face as he rested a hand on your shoulder. “Good for you, kid. You were too pretty for him anyway.” Your laugh came out small and awkward. “Thanks,” you murmured.

Wayne gave your arm a gentle pat. “Go on now. Help Eddie grab his things before he forgets half of ’em.”

You huffed out a breath—because he absolutely would—and headed down the hall after Eddie, the sound of him already rummaging through a disaster of laundry and guitar cables.

“So, what do you need?” you asked, settling onto Eddie’s bed as he rummaged through his pile of stuff—cables, notebooks, an amp. He glanced over at his guitar, then motioned toward it with a nod.

“Could you grab her? My hands are full,” he said, already starting toward the door. You nodded and reached for the guitar, following close behind. “You left a lot of stuff, Eddie,” Wayne called from the couch, watching you both walk out Eddie's room.

“Yeah,” Eddie replied casually, shrugging as if it were no big deal.

You rolled your eyes. “From how you made it sound, you only forgot a notebook,” you said, slipping your shoes on. “Same old Eddie,” Wayne laughed, shaking his head.

“Bye, see you later,” Eddie called over his shoulder as he stepped out of the trailer, his hands full of stuff.

“Bye, Wayne, take care,” you said with a warm smile, giving the older man a little wave. “You too, kiddo,” Wayne replied, his eyes crinkling as he waved back.

You followed Eddie to the Impala, the afternoon sun glinting off its polished black paint. Eddie began unloading his gear into the trunk, tossing in cables, notebook, and his amp with ease. You carefully lifted his guitar, feeling the weight of it in your arms, and slid it gently into the back seat, making sure it wouldn’t tip over. Once everything was secured, you closed the trunk with a soft thud and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Thanks, you really saved my ass,” Eddie said, snapping his seatbelt into place, a relieved grin on his face. “No problem,” you replied, adjusting your grip on the steering wheel. “But this is the last time, Eddie. Seriously.”

“I hear you loud and clear,” he said, leaning back in his seat and stretching his arms out, the corners of his mouth lifting into a mischievous smile. You started the car, the engine humming smoothly under your hands as you pulled out of the trailer park onto the main road. The wind from the open windows carried the scent of fresh asphalt and the faint tang of Eddie’s cologne, and you felt a small thrill as the Impala rolled forward. With Eddie riding shotgun, the two of you headed back toward school, the afternoon sun painting long shadows across the dashboard and the road ahead.

11

School had finally ended. The last two classes had dragged on, as usual, but your mind wasn’t on homework or lectures—it was on the race with Steve. More importantly, it was on seeing him. And, well… on the free food you’d get, which, let’s be honest, mattered just as much, whether you won or lost.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and walked down the crowded hallway, Robin chatting animatedly beside you about Vicky and how “stunning” she was. You had tried to convince Robin to befriend her, just to see if Vicky would be into her as well, but Robin had flatly refused. “No way. That’d be way too embarrassing,” she had said, rolling her eyes so hard you almost felt them spin. You had simply shrugged and kept walking.

As you approached the exit, you felt an arm drape across your shoulders. You looked up to see Steve, grinning down at you like he’d just won some secret lottery. “Ready to lose?” he teased.

You rolled your eyes at him. “Stop projecting, Harrington,” you shot back, smirking.

Steve laughed, the sound warm and teasing, and you couldn’t help but feel your chest lift a little. “Oh, come on, guys! I just want to go home, not race with you!” Robin groaned from beside you, clearly fed up with the two of you.

Steve lifted his arm and let it drop, and you felt a pang of disappointment at the empty space where he’d been leaning. But then he stepped in front of Robin, a sly grin on his face.

“Ah, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he said, voice low and playful. “I’ll drop you off before we do that.” Robin pressed her hands together, closed her eyes, and let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Oh, thank the Lord,” she murmured.

You laughed softly, watching the playful exchange, and felt a little thrill at the thought of racing Steve later. Something about the way he moved, the way he teased—it made the afternoon feel lighter, full of promise, like anything could happen once the school doors were behind you.

You tossed your bag into the back seat and closed the door with a soft thud. Turning, you wrapped Robin in a tight hug. “See you tomorrow. Love you,” you said warmly. She smiled back, hopping into Steve’s passenger seat. “Yeah, love you too,” she called out as she settled in.

You turned your attention to Steve, who was standing by the driver’s side of his Beamer, eyes fixed on you. “Meet me at Skull Rock?” he asked, voice low and easy.

You nodded. “What time do you think you’ll be there?” you asked as you opened your door.

Steve tilted his head, thinking for a moment. “A bit after five. Is that good?”

“That’s perfect,” you said with a soft smile. Steve returned the smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “See you later,” he said.

“See you later,” you echoed, your heart giving a little flip as you watched him get into his car and drive off, the afternoon suddenly feeling electric with anticipation.

You pulled out of the school lot, the engine of the Impala rumbling beneath you, music blasting as you sang along at the top of your lungs. The wind whipped through your hair, tangling it around your face, and for a moment, you just let yourself enjoy the freedom. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect at Skull Rock—not who would win, not how the race would go—but the thrill of it made your heart race. Steve had a newer car, sure, but you were confident your dad had added a few hidden mods to make Baby even faster.

As you rounded a corner, a gas station came into view, a small red-and-white building with a payphone out front. Shit, I should probably call Dad, you thought, easing the Impala into a parking spot. You grabbed a handful of quarters and stepped out, the late afternoon sun warming your skin as you made your way to the phone. Your dad could still be at the station—or maybe already on his way home—but you figured it was better to check in.

Sliding a quarter into the slot, you dialed his work number. After a few rings, you heard his familiar voice.

“Hello, Hawkins Police Station,” he said.

“Hey, Dad,” you said, leaning against the glass of the phone booth. “I’m going to be out for a bit.”

“Okay,” he replied. “If you use a lot of my gas, please fill her back up.”

“Will do, Dad. Love you. See you later.”

“Love you too, kiddo. Be safe,” he said warmly. You hung up, sliding the receiver back into place. With a quick glance at the Impala, you grinned, climbed in, and started the engine. The roar of the car was music in itself as you pulled back onto the road, eyes set on Skull Rock, anticipation and excitement bubbling in your chest.

You pulled the Impala up to the side of the road near Skull Rock. I think this is where he meant, you thought, glancing around at the rocky outcropping ahead. Parking carefully, you leaned back in your seat and caught your reflection in the rearview mirror.

Your fingers fumbled into the backseat for your bag, and you pulled out your lipstick. Gently, you applied it, tapping the color in with your finger to soften it. Satisfied, you put it back and grabbed your perfume, giving yourself a light spritz. The familiar, sweet scent lingered, comforting.

You slid the bag onto the passenger seat and leaned back, letting out a small sigh. The wind rustled through the trees, and the distant hum of traffic reached your ears, but you tuned it all out, lowering the music so you’d hear Steve pull up.

Your eyes flicked to your wrist, checking the time: 4:56. He should be here soon, you thought, a mix of excitement and nerves settling in your chest.

You sat in the Impala, engine humming softly, hands resting on the wheel, music turned down just enough to hear Steve’s Beamer rolling up behind you. The moment he pulled up, you caught a glimpse of his smirk in the side mirror. He leaned casually towards his opem passenger window, clearly trying to look unbothered—but you could see the eagerness in his eyes.

“Ready to lose?” he called, voice teasing as he straightened up, running a hand through his perfect hair.

“Not a chance, Harrington,” you shot back, smirking, feeling your chest tighten with excitement. Baby rumbled beneath you like she understood the stakes, vibrating in anticipation.

Steve’s grin widened, and he tapped the hood of the Beamer. “Oh, we’ll see about that. You sure you’re ready to see my Beamer eat that Impala alive?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re dreaming if you think Baby’s going down without a fight.”

Steve leaned out the Beamer’s window, pointing down the stretch of road. “Alright, the finish line’s just past that bend,” he said, nodding toward a faint line of chalk scrawled across the asphalt. “I marked it earlier—should be about fifty feet from that oak tree. The first one past the chalk? Wins.”

There was a brief pause as both of you sized each other up, engines idling, the tension between you as electric as the asphalt under the tires. You could see Steve’s gaze flick to your hands on the wheel, your eyes fixed forward, and for a second, everything else faded—the world narrowed down to the two of you and the stretch of road ahead.

“Three… two… one… GO!”

And just like that, you were off, tires screeching slightly as the Impala lunged forward. The Beamer responded immediately, sleek and precise, but the torque of Baby’s V8, plus the hidden mods your dad had thrown in, gave you the edge. Steve’s laugh rang out beside you, half thrill, half mock protest.

“You’re going down!” he shouted over the sound of the engines, weaving slightly as he tried to pull ahead.

“Not today!” you yelled back, adrenaline surging as the wind whipped past, hair flying. The Impala surged forward, rumbling like a beast, and for a heartbeat, it was neck-and-neck.

Steve glanced over, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “Okay… okay, maybe your dad did something to that car,” he laughed, trying to keep pace.

You just grinned, leaning slightly into the wheel, feeling Baby respond perfectly to every turn, every push. The finish line loomed ahead—a rough chalk line scratched into the pavement—and with a final surge, the Impala edged ahead, crossing just before the Beamer.

You slammed the brakes, heart hammering, and looked over to see Steve pulling up beside you, laughing and shaking his head.

“You… cheating!” he exclaimed, mocking outrage written all over his face. “Cheating?” You teased back, smirking. “I didn’t even have to!”

Steve leaned back against his seat, smirk softening into something warmer. “Alright… alright, maybe your dad’s mods aren’t entirely fair.”

You laughed, you couldn’t help the flutter in your stomach at the way he was looking at you—half playful, half impressed, and entirely Steve.

You stepped outside of the Impala, the leather seats still warm from the drive, and quickly grabbed your pack of menthol cigarettes from your bag. You lit one and took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl lazily in the crisp evening air before making your way over to Steve’s driver side of the car.

He had already gotten out, leaning against his Beamer with his arms crossed and that infuriatingly playful smirk plastered across his face. “I didn’t know the Impala would smoke me out,” he said with a laugh, eyes flicking over the sleek black car like it was some kind of trophy.

You giggled, holding your cigarette between your fingers and tilting your head at him. “Told you I’d win,” you said with a proud little smile, feeling your chest swell with satisfaction.

Steve feigned a look of hurt, shaking his head dramatically. “Not fair, though. Your dad definitely put some crazy mods on that car. If he didn’t, I totally would’ve won,” he said, his voice dripping with mock indignation.

You just nodded, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. “Whatever makes you feel better,” you teased, letting your grin linger.

Steve stepped a little closer, the evening sun catching the highlights in his hair, and tilted his head at you. “Yeah, yeah… don’t let it get to your head, honey. But I’ve got to admit, you handled that Impala pretty damn well. Kinda impressive,” he said, his smirk softening into something almost… genuine.

You felt your chest tighten slightly at the compliment, taking another drag and flicking the ash to the side. “Told you I could do it,” you said lightly, leaning casually against the car, though your heart was doing a little flip in your chest.

Steve’s eyes never left yours, playful and challenging all at once. “Okay, okay… today’s yours. But don’t think I’m letting you have an easy win next time,” he said, voice low, teasing, yet there was something in the way he said it that made your stomach flutter.

You laughed softly. “Next time, I’ll win... again,” you teased, feeling the adrenaline from the race and the evening air tingle in your veins still.

Steve chuckled and leaned back against his Beamer, hands sliding into his pockets. “Don't get too cocky, now ” he said, his gaze lingering just a little too long as the wind played with his hair.

You exhaled a thin stream of smoke, letting it curl into the evening air before glancing up at him. “Why’d you seem upset earlier?” you asked, leaning casually against his Beamer, the metal cool against your arm.

Steve shifted slightly, as if caught off guard by the question, one hand running through his hair. He let out a soft chuckle, more nervous than amused. “It’s… nothing. Just stuff from class, doesn’t matter,” he said, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed him.

You raised an eyebrow, taking another slow drag from your cigarette. “Mm-hmm,” you said, voice gentle but teasing. “Looked like it mattered a little, though.”

Steve glanced over at you and let out a soft chuckle. “Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted with a shrug.

You waited for him to continue, but he hesitated, then cut himself off. “Uh—never mind,” he mumbled. He didn’t want to worry you about what your ex had said.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to coax him. “Come on, Steve. You can tell me,” you said, your voice gentle but persuasive.

He let out a long exhale, running a hand through his hair. “I just… don’t want to worry you,” he said, looking away for a moment. “Why would I be worried?” you asked, confused, tilting your head slightly.

Steve’s eyes met yours, and he lingered there for a moment, debating how—or if—he should bring up that your ex had claimed you were “his” and that Steve was trying to “steal” you. He shook his head slightly, brushing it off. “It’s just… stupid, really,” he muttered, forcing a small smile.

Trying to move away from the tension, he shifted gears. “Are you hungry?” he asked, more casually. “Cause I’m starving,” he continued with a hopeful grin. “I really want a Big Mac.”

You blinked at him, still confused about why he wouldn’t open up, but finally nodded. “Yeah, I am too,” you said.

Steve exhaled softly, relief washing over him. Good, he thought.

“Race you to McDonald’s?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips as he opened the door to his Beamer. You flicked your cigarette away and smirked back at him, sliding into the Impala. “Oh yeah,” you said, your eyes sparkling with challenge.

You jumped into the Impala, slamming the door shut as your pulse hammered with excitement. Both you and Steve circled around the patch of dirt until you were lined up perfectly, facing the long stretch of road back toward Hawkins. His Beamer idled loud and clean beside you; your Impala growled, the engine vibrating through your chest like a heartbeat.

You rolled the window down. Steve did the same, leaning halfway out his window, one arm hanging over the door as he looked at you with that cocky grin.

“On the count of three!” you shouted over the thunder of both engines.

"Don't cheat this time!” Steve yelled back, pointing a finger at you.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes hard. “I didn’t cheat!”

Steve only shook his head like he didn’t believe a single word, that stupid smirk refusing to leave his face.

You shot him a glare—then broke into a grin.

“One!” you shouted, gripping the wheel tighter.

Both engines roared louder, vibrating through the ground.

“Two!”

Steve leaned forward, ready to launch.

“Thr—”

Steve’s tires screamed against the pavement as he shot forward.

“That cheater!” you yelled, pushing down hard on the gas. The Impala lurched forward so fast it slammed you back into your seat.

“Come on, baby—come on!” you muttered to the wheel as the speedometer climbed.

100…

120…

140…

150…

The Impala rattled, the wind shaking her frame, but she held strong—your dad definitely tinkered with her more than he admitted. The Beamer’s taillights grew closer and closer until you were nearly right beside him.

Steve looked over his shoulder at you, hair wild from the wind, eyes sparkling. He winked—actually winked—before stepping harder on the gas.

“That fucker!” you barked out, shoving your foot fully down on the pedal.

The Impala roared in protest, then surged forward. You were only a hair behind him now—your front bumper kissing the back corner of his Beamer. Both cars tore down the road, engines screaming, the world blurring into streaks of green and gold around you.

You clenched the wheel, breathing fast and loud, eyes laser-focused on the stretch ahead.

Just a few more inches.

Just a little more speed.

You were gaining on him.

And Steve Harrington knew it.

You both continued down the road, engines roaring against the stretch of dark highway as Hawkins blurred behind you. The road started to curve—sharp, mean twists that you knew Baby hated. You muttered a quiet curse under your breath and eased off the gas, the Impala groaning in protest.

Ahead, Steve didn’t slow. Of course he didn’t. His taillights carved red streaks through the dark as he maintained his pace, getting farther and farther ahead of you with every bend.

“Show-off,” you hissed, tightening your grip on the wheel. Another curve. Then another. The trees were leaning in close now, like they were waiting to catch someone slipping.

You wanted to speed up—God, you wanted to wipe that smug grin off Steve Harrington’s face—but you couldn’t. Baby could go fast, but she wasn’t built for high-speed snake roads like this. Not without biting back.

Then the next curve came at you too fast.

Your tires screamed before you did. The back end of the Impala fishtailed hard, jerking sideways as the world tilted. You yanked the steering wheel, trying to counter the skid, trying to keep control—

But for a split second, the car was gliding, weightless, pointed directly at a tree.

“Oh shit!” you shouted, heart slamming against your ribs. You twisted the wheel again, foot tapping wildly between brake and gas, and somehow—miraculously—the car snapped back to the road. Gravel spat out behind you as you veered away from the tree by inches. Actual inches.

Your heart was pounding so hard you swore you could hear it over the engine. Your palms were slick on the wheel. You were pretty sure your soul had briefly left your body, taken a lap around the moon, and crash-landed back into your chest.

You noticed Steve’s taillights disappear for a second—then suddenly stop a few feet ahead. You eased Baby to a shaky halt right in the middle of the road, the engine ticking under the hood like it was catching its breath right along with you.

Your hands dropped from the wheel and your forehead landed against it with a dull thud.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, dragging in a long, trembling inhale.

And then, for whatever reason—for the sheer terror, the relief, the absurdity of it all—you burst out laughing. A full, wild laugh that came from deep in your chest.

A sharp knock hit your window. You jumped, still laughing, and turned to see Steve standing there, eyes wide and frantic.

You rolled the window down, nearly wheezing from leftover adrenaline.

“You okay??” Steve asked, bending slightly to look you in the eyes. He was clearly trying not to freak out, but his voice wavered, and his curls were a mess from the wind.

You couldn’t stop. You laughed harder. “Oh my God, my dad would kill me if he knew this happened!” you managed between breaths.

Steve stared for a second—then cracked, the panic melting as he started laughing too. Relief poured off him like steam.

“I swear,” he said, placing a hand dramatically over his heart, “I saw you almost hit that tree and I just watched your funeral flash before my eyes.” You snorted a laugh you didn’t mean to. Steve grinned wider.

“I think we should take it slow this time,” Steve said once the last of his laughter faded into a breath. His voice was gentler now, steadier—still a little shaken.

You nodded immediately. “Yes. Definitely.” Steve’s smile was small but real, the kind meant to reassure you.

“I’ll drive behind you,” he said, giving the roof of the Impala a soft pat before turning and jogging back toward his Beemer.

You watched him go, your pulse still buzzing under your skin. When he got in and flashed his headlights twice, you exhaled and put Baby back into gear.

The Impala eased forward, much slower this time. Ten under the speed limit felt embarrassingly slow for most people—but for you, right now, it was the only speed that didn’t make your stomach twist.

In the rearview mirror, Steve stayed glued behind you. Not tailgating—just close enough that his headlights felt protective, like he was physically holding the road together for you.

You kept your eyes forward after each quick glance, focusing on steady breaths, steady hands, steady speed. The night wasn’t as loud now; the adrenaline had faded into a quiet hum under your ribs.

You drove all the way to McDonald’s like that—slow, careful, Steve shadowing your every move until the golden arches finally came into view.

12

You and Steve walked into the McDonald’s side by side, both of your hearts still beating a little too fast from the near-crash adrenaline. The inside was warm compared to the cool evening outside, buzzing with the low hum of fryers and the soft chatter of a few families finishing dinner.

At the counter, you tried—repeatedly—to pay for your half, but Steve just shook his head every time.

“Come on, Harrington,” you insisted.

“Nope, I'd said I'd pay for you,” he said, putting his card into the kunckle-buster before you could even reach for yours. “I got it.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile creeping up your face. As much as you genuinely wanted to pay your share, it felt… nice. Warm, even. Someone taking care of you for a change.

Once your trays were ready, you both grabbed them and sat at a booth near the window where the fading gold light spilled across the parking lot, painting everything in soft amber.

You unwrapped your food, took a huge bite and sighed. “I’ve never had that much fun before,” you admitted with a small laugh.

Steve grinned, already chewing. “Yeah, me too.”

You swallowed, shaking your head. “We should do it again. Minus the almost-dying part.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, definitely. I don’t want to explain to your dad why both you and the Impala are dead.”

“Baby,” you corrected automatically.

Steve raised a brow, watching you. Heat flooded your cheeks as you realized how it came out.

“I mean— I’m not calling you— the Impala’s name is Baby,” you sputtered, waving your fries for emphasis.

“Ohhh.” Steve’s eyes widened, and he leaned back, smirking. “Baby.”

You nodded, relieved.

“Yeah. It suits her,” he said, smiling as he took another bite.

You felt your face soften into a quiet smile of your own.

“Yeah. It definitely does.”

“So…” you started, nudging your tray a little as you looked up at Steve.

He looked back at you with his cheeks stuffed full of fries, eyes wide like he’d been caught doing something illegal. The sight made heat bloom across your cheeks. God, why was he cute like that? He swallowed quickly and wiped his mouth.

“What’s up?” he asked.

You took a sip of your drink, gathering a bit of courage. “What was it that you didn’t want to tell me earlier?” Steve paused mid-reach for another fry. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow nod. “Yeah… right…”

It took him a second before he spoke again. You could see him weighing something in his head.

“It’s just—your ex was being an ass during class, that’s all.” Steve tried to shrug, like it was nothing.

Your smile faded. Of course. Of course, your ex was already causing trouble. You felt that familiar pinch of irritation settle in your chest.

“What’d he do?” you asked, trying—and failing—not to let the annoyance seep into your voice. You knew exactly how your ex could be when he wanted to get under someone’s skin.

Steve took a drink, buying himself time. “Don’t worry. He’s just… very competitive playing basketball.”

That wasn’t it, and you both knew it. Steve had that look—one he got when he was trying to protect someone from something he didn’t think they needed to hear. He didn’t want to stir something up. Or maybe he didn’t want to see you get hurt.

You nodded slowly anyway. “Yeah.”

It was true your ex got aggressive when it came to sports. But Steve’s hesitation told you this wasn’t just about basketball. Still, he didn’t offer anything else. And you didn’t know how to pry without pushing too hard.

So you just poked at your fries, the silence settling between you, warm but tinged with something unspoken.

“Don’t worry,” Steve said gently, trying to calm you down. “He just annoyed me, that’s all. I get competitive, too.”

Something in his voice—steady, warm, believable—eased that tight knot in your chest.

“Okay,” you said slowly.

The subject dropped like a stone sinking into the lake, and the two of you drifted into easier conversation. Steve learned that you and Eddie had been friends since childhood, and the news visibly softened him, smoothing out that tension he’d carried since break. He asked questions, listened closely, and smiled at the parts where your eyes lit up.

He also learned you played guitar—“not as good as Eddie,” according to you—but even without hearing a single chord, Steve somehow knew you were lying. He could just tell. The way you talked about music, the way your fingers moved when you described chords. You had that spark.

Time passed without either of you noticing. At some point, you glanced out the wide McDonald’s window and realized the sky wasn’t golden anymore—it was pitch-black. The streetlights glowed yellow against the pavement.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, eyes darting to your watch.

9 PM.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked, already standing when you jumped up and started gathering your trash.

“It’s late, my dad will kill me,” you said quickly, tossing everything into the bin. Steve nodded, falling into step beside you.

“Oh yeah—me too,” he said automatically. Except he knew damn well his parents weren’t waiting up. They never were. He could disappear for days, and they wouldn’t notice. But he didn’t say that part.

“I’m sorry, I really have to go home.” You rushed toward the exit, and Steve followed, not wanting to let the moment just… end.

“Yeah, no, I get it. Don’t sweat it,” he said as you both approached your cars.

You paused at your door and looked up at him with a small smile. “Thanks—for the food, by the way. I’ll get you next time.”

Steve shrugged like it was nothing. “No biggie.” You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened.

“See you around,” you said—and before he could reply, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Steve froze for half a second, stunned, before folding into the embrace like he’d been waiting for it all day. His arms slid around your shoulders, strong and warm, pulling you gently against him. He breathed you in—your perfume, the faint hint of smoke from earlier—and his heartbeat tripped over itself. You smelled really good.

Your head rested against his chest, your arms snug around his torso, and God, he smelled amazing too. Clean, warm, familiar.

You pulled away—reluctantly—and opened your car door.

“Drive safe,” you said.

“You too,” Steve replied, voice softer than he meant it to be.

You shot him a small smile before starting Baby, the Impala rumbling to life. You waved once and pulled out of the lot, the headlights disappearing into the dark on the way back home.

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Figure You Out Pt.3

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

summary: based off of the song "Figure you out" by voilà. reader is dating someone who doesn't actually care for her, and Steve hates seeing she's with someone who doesn't care for her like he does.

parts: 1, 2, 3, 4,

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1

When Steve puts the phone back into the receiver, the soft click feels heavier than it should. He watches his hand linger there for a moment, fingers curled around the edge like he’s afraid to let go. Your voice is still echoing in his head—not panicked, not shaken. Just… sad. Quiet in a way that makes his chest ache. Like you were trying not to break and still somehow sounded like you already had.

He can’t sit with that.

He bolts for the stairs, taking them two at a time even though he’s still half-asleep. His room is chaos—clothes everywhere, blankets twisted, shoes kicked under the bed—but he dives straight into the mess with no hesitation. He yanks out the first pair of white-washed Levi’s he sees and forces them on while wobbling around the room, almost tripping over a shoelace but not stopping for even a second.

A polo shirt is crumpled near the foot of the bed. He grabs it, lifts it to his face, and gives it a quick sniff. “Whatever,” he mutters, tired but already tense. It doesn’t smell bad, but it’s definitely been worn before.

That’s when he reaches over to his dresser, grabs the cologne bottle, and spritzes it across the shirt—once, twice. Enough that it smells clean, warm, like he actually tried this morning. If you were feeling low… the last thing he wants is to show up looking and smelling like a mess.

He slips the shirt on as he heads into the bathroom, flipping the light on so fast it burns his eyes. He looks rough—hair flattened on one side, pillow lines still faint on his cheek, eyes heavy from not sleeping much lately. Normally he’d spend an hour perfecting his hair, sculpting every strand into place.

He doesn’t even consider it.

He wets his hands under the tap and pushes them through his hair, trying to tame it into something decent. The strands push back, sticking up stubbornly.

“Seriously?” he mumbles under his breath, dragging a comb through it in quick, uneven strokes. It’s not perfect, it’s not even close, but he doesn’t care. You sounded sad. You needed someone—not a perfect version of him, not polished Steve Harrington. Just… him. Showing up.

He splashes cold water on his face to wake up, dries it off roughly, and gives himself one last glance in the mirror. He still looks tired. But he looks determined, too.

He takes a breath.

You called him.

You needed him.

That’s all he needs to know. He turns, already heading for the door.

2

Steve jogs out the front door and into the chilly morning air, still running a hand through his hair like he can magically fix it on the way. He practically throws himself into the driver’s seat of his Beemer, slamming the door shut before pulling the sun visor down. The tiny mirror catches him in its glare—sleepy eyes, messy hair, shirt still slightly wrinkled from being on his bed 3 minutes ago.

He starts the car, the engine rumbles awake, and leans closer to the mirror. And that’s when it hits him.

“…oh, you idiot.” He didn’t brush his teeth.

He groans, drops his head against the steering wheel for a second, then immediately pops back up, scrambling. He starts digging around his car like a man on a mission—glove compartment, cup holders, between the seats, under the passenger visor—getting more desperate by the second.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing—

And then—

There. A crumpled pack of mint gum wedged between the seat and the console.

He grabs it like it’s some divine miracle. “Oh thank God,” he mutters, ripping it open.

It’s Robin’s. Obviously. She always leaves stuff in his car—gum, tapes, half-written notes, hair ties, basically a trail of goblin belongings. He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs.

“She won’t mind,” he decides out loud, popping two pieces into his mouth at once. Strong mint burns through his sinuses, but at least he won’t show up smelling like he just rolled out of bed. Even though… he totally did.

He tosses the gum wrapper into the cup holder, shifts into reverse, and backs out of the driveway with a little more speed than necessary. His heart is already pounding—not from the morning rush, not from the lack of sleep.

From you.

From the way your voice cracked.

From how small you sounded.

From the fact that out of everyone… you called him.

He grips the steering wheel tighter and pulls onto the street, the quiet roads rushing past as he heads toward your house—faster than he probably should, but slower than he wants.

You needed someone.

He was going to be there.

3

When the call with Steve ended, you didn’t move. You just slowly lowered the phone back into the receiver and then let yourself sink down to the floor, your back sliding against the wall until you were sitting right underneath it. The house was quiet—too quiet—but for once, it didn’t make you anxious. It felt… still. Like everything had finally stopped spinning.

You stared straight ahead, unfocused, your vision kind of blurring at the edges. Not because you were about to cry again—more like your body didn’t quite know what to do now that it wasn’t bracing for another argument, another explosion, another night of pretending everything was fine.

You thought you’d be wrecked. Fully shattered.

But you weren’t.

Sad, yeah. Your chest still ached and your eyes still burned. But it wasn’t the choking, crushing sadness you expected. It wasn’t the kind that swallowed you whole.

And sitting there, with your knees pulled toward you, you realized why. You already mourned the relationship while you were still in it.

All those nights staying up late, silently crying into your pillow so no one could hear. The afternoons where you walked around in a fog, pretending to be okay because pretending was easier than explaining. The moments where you caught yourself staring into nothing, wondering when things got so bad and why you kept hoping they’d get better.

You’d already grieved.

Piece by piece.

Quietly.

Alone.

So now—now that it was officially over—you didn’t feel broken.

You felt… free.

Like a window had finally been cracked open in a room you didn’t realize was suffocating you. Air in your lungs didn’t hurt anymore. Your shoulders didn’t feel so heavy. And even through the leftover tears drying on your cheeks, there was this faint, fragile bloom of relief in your chest.

You rested your head back against the wall and exhaled—slow, shaky, but real.

It was over.

You didn’t have to carry him anymore. You didn’t have to shrink yourself to keep the peace. You didn’t have to cry yourself to sleep.

You were free.

And for the first time in a long time… someone was actually coming for you.

Someone who wanted to be there

Someone who cared.

Someone who said fifteen minutes and meant it.

4

On the way to your place, Steve wasn’t exactly thinking straight. His hands were tight around the wheel, his mind running laps around itself—worry, adrenaline, the echo of your voice saying I really need someone right now.

For a moment, he actually considered stopping at the grocery store on main street—the tiny floral section in the front. He pictured himself running inside, grabbing the prettiest bouquet they had, something bright and full and worthy of giving to someone who was hurting. But the idea of you waiting alone in your house—even five extra minutes—made his chest tighten. You’d sounded so tired on the phone. So done.

He couldn’t make you wait.

That’s when something on the side of the road caught his eye.

A patch of wildflowers—simple, small, white petals bobbing gently in the morning breeze.

Daisies.

Before he could second-guess himself, Steve pulled over, gravel crackling under the tires. He climbed out of the car, the early sun hitting his face as he crouched by the ditch. He felt a little ridiculous, kneeling there in his white-washed jeans and half-buttoned polo, plucking flowers like he was in some kind of cheesy romance movie.

But… he didn’t care. Because what else could he bring you? What else did he have to offer, really, besides this tiny gesture that might—hopefully—make the morning hurt a little less?

“They’re just daisies,” he muttered to himself as he gathered a small handful. “She probably likes something fancier. Crap. These look kinda sad. Is this stupid? Am I doing too much? Or not enough?”

He stared down at the lopsided, uneven bundle in his hand.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t perfect. But it was something. And you deserved something.

So he straightened, shook the dirt off his jeans, and headed back to the car with the flowers clutched carefully in one hand. He set them gently in the passenger seat before backing onto the road and driving the rest of the way to your house.

When he finally pulled into your driveway, he killed the engine and took a breath. He glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror—hair a little more chaotic than usual, eyes tired, gum still tucked in his cheek. Not perfect. Not his usual polished Steve Harrington look.

But this wasn’t about looking good.

This was about showing up.

He grabbed the daisies, stepped out of the car, and walked toward your front door. His heart thudded harder with every step.

Just as he lifted his hand to knock, he flicked his wrist and checked his watch.

Seven minutes.

He told you fifteen.

He swallowed.

I got here too fast.

I hope she doesn’t think I was freaking out.

Well… I was, but still.

With one more steadying breath, Steve raised his hand and knocked—flowers held tightly in the other.

5

You heard a knock on your door—soft this time, gentle, nothing like the pounding you’d endured from your boyfriend… your ex-boyfriend. The sound made your breath hitch anyway. You dragged in a shaky inhale and slowly pushed yourself up from the floor, palms brushing over your cable-knit sweater in a pointless attempt to smooth it out. More like trying to smooth yourself out.

While Steve was on the way, the memories hit you again—those early days with him, when he used to smile at you like you hung the moon, when he used to try. When everything still felt warm instead of cold. You didn’t understand when it changed. Why it changed. Why he stopped trying when the beginning had felt so beautiful.

Your eyes burned. You tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept spilling, warm and constant, slipping down your cheeks no matter how fast your hands worked.

Still, you walked to the door.

Your fingers trembled on the lock. You pulled it open—

—and there he was.

Steve stood on your porch, hair still a little messy from rushing, wearing jeans and a polo that are a bit wrinkly. And in his hands, held almost awkwardly, was a small bouquet of daisies—wild, uneven, a little crushed from being picked off the side of the road.

And somehow, they were the prettiest flowers you’d ever seen.

Steve’s eyes softened the moment he saw you—red-eyed, messy, still crying. And despite everything—despite your heartbreak, despite the ache in your chest—you felt something lift inside you.

You smiled. Small, tired, but real.

6

When you opened the door, Steve swore his heart skipped clean out of his chest. You looked beautiful—achingly beautiful. Even in nothing more than your simple Levi bootcut jeans and that black cable-knit sweater, you still managed to pull the air right out of his lungs.

His eyes swept over you before he could stop himself, taking in every detail. Your hair hung loose and soft around your face, still holding the faint curls from the night before. No makeup, no effort, and somehow, you looked like something he shouldn’t even be allowed to stare at for too long.

Your cheeks and the tip of your nose were flushed, pink from crying, and your lashes were still damp—each one clumped delicately together in a way that made his chest tighten. You looked vulnerable, raw, so heartbreakingly human… and so pretty that he had to take a quiet, sharp breath just to steady himself.

Because God, he thought, you were gorgeous. And seeing you like this—seeing you hurting—made him want to fold you into his arms and never let anyone come within a mile of you again.

7

“I, uh… I got you some flowers,” Steve said, his voice soft and shy as he held them out to you.

Your lips curved instantly, a small, warm smile blooming across your face as you took the bouquet from his hands. You looked down at the daisies, and something in you softened—your shoulders, your eyes, even the way you breathed. Steve didn’t think he’d ever seen a smile as gentle as the one you were giving those flowers… or the way it tugged at your whole expression, making you look softer than he’d ever seen you.

You lifted them to your nose, inhaling quietly, and then glanced up at him through your lashes. The sight alone nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“Thank you,” you whispered, lowering the bouquet just enough so he could see your face clearly. “You really didn’t have to.”

Steve shook his head immediately, hands slipping awkwardly into the back pockets of his jeans. “Of course I had to,” he said with a little shrug. “You deserve them.”

Your smile deepened, small and grateful, and you nodded.

Silence settled for a beat—not uncomfortable, just full. Full of things neither of you were saying yet.

You cleared your throat softly. “Um… you can come in,” you said, stepping back and opening the door wider.

Steve hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold, doing his best not to stare at you again even though his heart was still stumbling over itself from the first time.

You closed the door softly behind him, the click sounding too loud in the quiet of the house. Steve stepped forward, eyes drifting over the hallway like he was taking in a museum exhibit—photos lined up neatly along the wall, some a little crooked from years of being bumped or straightened. Family portraits. School pictures. You at five years old with a missing front tooth. You at ten with uneven bangs. You at fourteen, with way too much makeup on. And finally, you in high school, the version closest to now but still different—brighter, maybe. Happier.

Steve’s mouth twitched, a small laugh slipping out before he could stop himself. You followed his gaze and your face flushed instantly. “Hey—don’t look at those,” you muttered, half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

Steve glanced back at you with a grin. “You still look the same.” You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, that’s because I’m the same person.”

He snorted, the sound warm and disarming as he bent to unlace his shoes. “Okay, fair point.” he says as he sets his shoes neatly by the wall, straightening up again as his eyes drift back to you—like he couldn’t quite help it.

You crossed into the kitchen quietly, the daisies held gently against your chest like something delicate—like something you weren’t sure you deserved. You grabbed a small vase from the cupboard, rinsed it out, and filled it halfway with water before setting it on the counter. The daisies looked bright in the morning light as you arranged them, adjusting stems, turning them just so.

For a moment, you just… admired them. Simple little things. Soft white petals, sunny centers, still damp with the cold from outside.

You ran your thumb along one of the petals, tracing the edge in a slow, absent motion. “You know…” you said quietly, voice almost swallowed by the hush of the kitchen.

Steve was standing just behind you—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, but not close enough to crowd you. You could sense his eyes on you, curious, waiting.

“I’ve never been given flowers before.” The words slipped out smaller than you meant them to, almost embarrassed. “You’re the first.”

You kept your gaze on the flowers, a bittersweet expression tugging at your mouth before you forced yourself to look up at him.

Steve’s eyes widened instantly. “Really?”

You nodded, heat rising in your cheeks. “Yeah. I’ve never been given flowers before.”

He just stared at you for a beat—like the sentence itself didn’t make sense. His mouth opened, then closed again as if he had to reorder his thoughts. A breath left him in a soft, disbelieving chuckle.

“Well… this won’t be your last time,” he said finally, a small smile pushing at the corner of his mouth. “That’s for sure.”

His voice was gentle but sure, like a promise.

You smiled up at him, small and a little shy. “We’ll see about that,” you murmured before pushing off the counter and giving him a gentle nod. “Come on. Follow me.”

Steve trailed after you as you left the kitchen and made your way down the stairs. The wooden steps creaked softly under your feet, the familiar sound grounding you after a morning that felt anything but normal.

When you reached the bottom, you stepped into your room—your entire basement. It wasn’t large, but it was finished, warm, cozy. Wood-paneled walls, soft amber lighting, shelves cluttered with records and old books, and a handful of rugs thrown over the polished floor to soften the space. It actually looked lived-in. Safe. Yours.

Steve paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in with a kind of quiet awe. “You have the whole basement to yourself?” he asked, turning slowly, eyes tracing over the band posters plastered across your walls—The Cure, Fleetwood Mac, Black Sabbath, Metallica, AC/DC, and some local bands only you cared about.

“Yup,” you said simply. You moved across the room toward the small window near the ceiling—the one that sat almost level with the grass outside. You set the daisies there gently, adjusting them so they caught the slanted morning light. For a moment, you just stood there, fingers still on the vase, letting the soft glow settle on the white petals.

Then you turned and leaned back against the windowsill, watching Steve as he looked around your room like he was walking through someone’s diary.

He looked…charmed. He really did.

His eyes traveled over every detail, lingering on the posters, your vinyl collection, the guitar leaning in the corner, the scattered polaroids pinned to a corkboard. He looked like he was seeing new, unknown pieces of you—and admiring every single one.

You pushed yourself off the sill, padded over to your bed, and sat down, hands folding in your lap. You sat on the edge of your bed, watching Steve take everything in. His eyes drifted from your shelves crammed with books to the stack of vinyl leaning against your dresser to the small TV sitting across from your bed with a VCR perched underneath it.

“Whoa,” he said under his breath, stepping closer to the record player sitting beside a little cassette deck. He brushed his fingers over the needle arm like it was something delicate. “You’ve got… everything down here.”

You shrugged, trying not to look too proud. “Perks of being the only kid. My parents figured it was easier if all my stuff was in one place.” Steve huffed out a laugh as he picked up one of your tapes, flipping it over to read the tiny tracklist you’d scribbled on the back. “I didn’t know you were this into music.” His gaze flicked back to the band posters on your wall—the mix of metal, rock, punk.

You smirked. " What? Didn't expect me to listen to this type of music?”

“No,” he said immediately—then softened. “I guess I just didn’t know what kind of stuff you were into. It’s cool.”

He moved toward the little TV, leaning down to peek at the movies stacked next to it. “You even have your own TV? Seriously?” You stretched out on your bed, leaning back on your palms. “Yeah. Helps when I wanna stay up late watching movies without waking anyone up.”

Steve looked back at you then, eyes warm, settling on you like he was seeing you in a brand-new way. “This place is… really you,” he said quietly. “Feels like you built your own little world down here.”

Your cheeks warmed at the softness in his voice. “Maybe I did.”

He smiled—small, almost shy—and took a step closer to your bed. “Mind if I sit?”

You shook your head, eyes watching him, and Steve eased himself onto the end of the bed. He didn’t sit too close—just enough that you could feel the faint shift of weight beside you, the warmth of him settling into the mattress. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt quiet in that thick, heavy way basements did, the low hum of the old TV in the corner blending with the soft buzz of the cassette player plugged into the wall.

Steve cleared his throat softly, his voice gentle when he finally spoke.

“Are you okay?” he asked, licking his lips like he wasn’t sure how to form the question. “You sounded… tired when you called.” You exhaled, long and shaky, your gaze dropping even further. The loose thread on your comforter suddenly felt like the most interesting thing in the world.

“Honestly…” Your voice came out small. “I don’t know how I feel.” You could feel Steve’s eyes on you, steady and patient, waiting.

“I mean, I feel sad,” you continued, twisting the thread around your finger. “But also happy. If that makes any sense.” He shifted again, just slightly, like he wanted to be closer but didn’t want to push you. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It makes sense.”

You finally looked up. His expression was soft, open in a way that made something warm press beneath your ribs. “It’s like everything’s kind of heavy,” he said, searching for the right words, “but it’s not… all bad.”

A tiny, weary laugh escaped you. “Exactly.”

He held your gaze, his brown eyes gentler than you’d ever seen them, like he was studying you carefully.

“I was just getting ready for the day,” you began, your voice trembling slightly, “when he started pounding on the door. When I opened it… he acted like nothing happened last night.” Your hands twisted together in your lap. “That’s when I called him out.”

Steve stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on you, sensing the weight behind every word.

“He denied it… all of it. Said he didn’t remember anything. And then, when I told him I was breaking up with him, he said we could work it through.” You shook your head, voice cracking. “But I… I shut that down.”

Steve’s chest tightened as he saw the way your lips quivered, how your hands shook, the soft glint of tears gathering in your eyes.

“And then…” You took a shaky breath, voice almost a whisper now. “Then he said something so mean…”

Steve leaned in slightly, his voice soft, careful. “What’d he say?”

“He said… he never loved me anyway,” you choked out, the words catching in your throat. “And… that hurt so badly. Hearing him say that…” You reached up to try and wipe away the tears, but they kept falling, and your hands were shaking too much to stop them.

Steve’s chest tightened as he heard your words, the weight of your ex’s cruelty pressing down on him. He let out a slow breath, momentarily at a loss for what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he finally murmured, voice soft. “No one deserves to be talked to like that.”

You sniffled, nodding quietly. “Yeah, I know… it’s just… how can someone be so cruel? Say things like that? Some things are just… meant to be left unsaid,” you mumbled, twisting your fingers together nervously.

Steve nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. “Yeah… I know. I get it. Remember what I told you about Nancy?” he asked gently.

You looked up at him, biting your lip anxiously, nodding silently.

“Well…” Steve started, glancing away for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. “There was this Halloween party Nancy and I went to. She… had a few too many drinks, and I was trying to stop her. She ended up spilling it all over herself. Later, in the bathroom, she was trying to clean herself up, and I told her I could take her home. And… she said our relationship was bullshit. That we weren’t in love.”

He paused, his gaze drifting down to his hands before looking back at you. “And… how we… how we, uh… Barb… she thinks Barb was killed because we left her alone at the party at my place once…” Steve trailed off, unsure how much to say.

You listened quietly, taking in every word, your fingers still playing nervously with each other.

You raised an eyebrow, processing what Steve had just said. “What do you mean?” you asked softly, curiosity and concern lacing your voice.

Steve hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor as if weighing how much to reveal. He shook the thought away with a dry chuckle. “I… uh, I don’t mean it literally,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “But… you know, she went missing after a party at my place. Nancy… she feels responsible for what happened, and I get it. I feel bad too… it was preventable, but… I was a selfish asshole.”

He let out a long sigh, and the weight in his voice made your chest tighten. You could see the regret etched in his expression, the kind of regret that went deeper than just words.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, feeling a pang of guilt at the weight he carried.

Steve looked up at you, shaking his head. “It’s okay… let’s move on from me,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I came here for you, to talk—not about me.”

You couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah… that’s true,” you said, nodding your head.

Steve’s smile widened. “But don’t hang yourself up over him. It’s over, and you don’t need to worry about him anymore, or what he thinks. You deserve way more than that… more than a moody asshole who wouldn't even get you flowers,” he said with a soft chuckle.

You chuckled too, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Yeah… you’re right.”

You shifted on the bed, pulling your knees up slightly as Steve sat at the end, giving you space but not leaving you feeling alone. The daisies on the windowsill caught the morning light, and for a moment, the world felt quiet, almost safe. You glanced at them again and then back at Steve, your chest feeling a little lighter than it had all morning.

“I… I don’t even know what to do with myself now,” you admitted softly, fingers tracing the edge of your sweater. “I thought breaking up would hurt more, but… it just feels like—like I can finally breathe.”

Steve nodded, his eyes gentle. “Yeah… I get that. I remember when Nancy and I broke up—well, after everything that happened with her at the party…” He paused, swallowing, a little embarrassed. “I thought I’d be completely crushed. But then, slowly, you just start realizing you deserve better. And that you can still laugh, still care about yourself.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound shaky but honest. “I guess that’s what I’m feeling. Like… I can finally care about me again without worrying about him.”

Steve smiled, the kind of small, warm smile that made your chest feel lighter. “Exactly. And hey, sometimes it helps to just… take your mind off it for a bit. You know, music, old movies, maybe some of those books you’ve got down here.” He gestured toward the shelves stacked with novels and cassette tapes along the wall.

You followed his gaze and felt a tiny spark of excitement. “Yeah… I have a bunch of stuff I haven’t touched in forever. My record player, cassettes…” You smiled softly, “It’s kind of my little escape.”

Steve leaned forward a little, curious. “Can I see?”

You nodded, hopping off the bed and motioning him to follow as you walked over to the corner where your record player sat. Vinyls stacked beside it, cassettes in a little wooden box. You picked up a record, blew off the dust, and placed it on the player. The warm crackle of the needle hitting the vinyl filled the room.

Steve smiled, leaning against the wall near the record player. “Sometimes it’s nice to just forget everything else for a while. Listen to music, read, whatever. You deserve that.”

Your eyes softened at his words, and for the first time that morning, you felt a sense of calm wash over you. “Thanks, Steve,” you whispered. “For being here… for just… caring.”

He gave a small shrug, but there was warmth in his voice. “Hey… that’s what friends are for, right?”

And in that quiet basement, with the faint hum of music filling the room, you felt something else too—a flicker of trust, of safety, and maybe… the start of something new.

8

Hours slipped by without either of you noticing. One moment you were both sitting stiffly on opposite ends of your bed, talking quietly; the next, you were on the floor together, your backs against the side of the mattress, legs stretched toward the record player as music filled the room.

Somehow, talking to Steve Harrington—King Steve, former senior heartthrob, reformed babysitter, hair‑obsessed—felt… easy.

He learned more about you in those hours than your boyfriend ever had in the entire time you’d been together.

He learned your favorite flowers are tulips—“the pink ones,” you’d added shyly.

That you loved animals, especially cats and cows, and your whole face lit up when you talked about them.

That music means everything to you, and movies almost as much. How 'The Outsiders' is your favorite book and movie of all time. That heavy rock, metal, and anything with guitars was your comfort zone.

And when you told him your favorite car was a Miata because of the pop‑up headlights—because they were “so cute it physically hurts”—Steve agreed, and then threatened you to not tell a soul, especially Dustin.

He kept asking questions. Not the shallow kind—real ones.

Things no one had bothered to wonder about before. And the more you talked, the more something loosened in your chest. You didn’t feel like a specter, fading in the background of your own life.

You felt seen. Heard.

Human again.

You glanced at your watch eventually and blinked in surprise—it was 4 p.m. already. Had it really been that long?

Steve was in the middle of explaining some ridiculous story about Dustin and the walkie-talkies when you realized you needed to interrupt.

You shifted awkwardly. “Um… Steve?”

He looked over, eyebrows raised, smile warm and easy.

“I, uh… I should probably tell you that my parents get home at five,” you said, cheeks heating. “And if my dad sees a guy down here he—well—he might actually kill you.”

Steve snorted and climbed to his feet. “Oh, that’s okay. I should probably head home anyway.” He brushed off his jeans. “Don’t worry, I don’t feel like getting murdered today.”

You laughed, standing too. “Sorry,” you said with an apologetic smile. “I really don’t want to watch you get buried alive in my backyard.”

“Hey, I appreciate that,” Steve joked.

You walked up the stairs together, the soft echo of your footsteps filling the quiet house. He slipped on his shoes by the front door, then opened it and stepped out into the cool evening air.

“Hey—Steve?” you called, leaning halfway out the doorway.

He stopped and turned, hands tucked into his pockets, the setting sun catching in his hair.

“Yeah?”

You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Thank you. For today.” You hesitated. “And… see you at school tomorrow?”

A slow, warm smile spread across his face. “Of course. Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You smiled back, lifting a hand to wave as he walked to his car. He waved once before climbing in, and you stood there in the doorway until he reversed out of your driveway and turned onto the street.

When you closed the door behind you, the house didn’t feel as heavy as it had that morning.

Your chest didn’t feel so tight.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt… happy.

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Figure You Out Pt.2

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

summary: based off of the song "Figure you out" by voilà. reader is dating someone who doesn't actually care for her, and Steve hates seeing she's with someone who doesn't care for her like he does.

parts: 1, 2, 3, 4,

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1

The drive home felt like slow motion for Steve. Every few seconds, another moment from the night replayed itself in his mind—the way your voice shook when you spoke, how you listened when he shared his own mess of a past, the fact that he was the one who managed to comfort you when you needed it most.

And God, the way you looked.

Tear-streaked cheeks, mascara smudged, hair a little wild from him stroking your hair—and somehow, to him, you were still the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. There was something about the rawness of you in that moment, the honesty of it, that made his chest ache.

He kept seeing you curled up in his passenger seat, breathing softly against the window, the streetlights sweeping across your sleeping face like something out of a dream. And then later—standing in your doorway, that tired but grateful smile, the way you ran your finger over the numbers he’d written onto your palm like you were memorizing them.

Steve’s stomach tightened at the memory, a warm and terrifying hope stirring inside him. He couldn’t help wondering—just maybe—if he had a chance with you. A real one.

He never thought he’d feel this way about anyone after Nancy Wheeler. Nancy had been his first real love, the girl who broke him open and taught him how deep love could cut. But now… Now he was starting to realize that maybe he could fall again. And maybe—if he was lucky—it could be for you.

Steve stepped into his empty, silent house, and the coldness of it hit him instantly. He’d always hated coming home to this—rooms that echoed, air that never felt warm, a quiet that made the loneliness louder.

He let out a long, exhausted sigh as he dropped his keys onto the counter. His shoes and jacket were discarded with little care before he trudged up the stairs, each step heavier than the last. Sleep was the plan—at least, the attempt at it was.

But the moment he lay down, the moment he closed his eyes, there you were.

Your face.

Your voice.

The way your body had fit against his when he held you—like he was meant to be a place you could fall apart safely.

He couldn’t shake the memory of it. Couldn’t stop thinking about how perfectly you seemed to fit in his arms, how right it had felt, how the warmth of you seeped into him even now. He found himself imagining what it would be like if you were here—sleeping beside him, breathing softly, curled into his chest. How warm the bed would feel. How peaceful.

Steve groaned and rolled over, trying to bury his face in the pillow as if that would smother the thoughts. But they kept coming—soft, relentless, comforting, and torturous all at once.

He tossed and turned, cheeks heating at the mere thought of you. Every time he tried to force his mind somewhere else, it drifted right back to you. The swing set. The sound of your laugh when he teased you. The way you whispered thank you like it meant more than you could say.

Eventually, exhaustion took him. His body stilled, his breathing evened out.

And still, even in sleep… you were the only thing his mind could hold onto.

2

Just a few streets away from Steve, you lay curled beneath your blankets, the room washed in pale moonlight. Your finger traced absent patterns over the numbers inked on your hand—Steve’s number—your touch lingering like you were afraid it might fade if you didn’t keep reminding yourself it was real.

A small smile tugged at your lips. It felt… nice.

Nice to have someone who actually listened.

Nice to have someone who noticed when you were hurting—even when you tried so hard to hide it.

Nice to feel cared for, even for a moment.

Butterflies rose in your stomach at the thought of him, warm and unwelcome all at once. You tried to push them down—God, it felt wrong to feel this way about someone else, especially when you still technically had a boyfriend.

You tried to push the thoughts away; it felt wrong feeling this way towards another man. Steve Harrington of all people. You knew how he treated Nancy. How he humiliated her, how he called her a slut for all of Hawkins to see. But tonight, the boy sitting beside you on that swing seemed nothing like the one you thought you knew. The Steve you saw tonight was gentler. Softer. Funny, even. He looked at you like he actually cared—not because he had to, not because he wanted something, but because he genuinely wanted to make sure you were okay.

Thinking of Steve was comforting…

Thinking of your boyfriend was anything but.

While Steve was on your mind, your boyfriend was still the main person lingering in your thoughts. How he ignored you—and when he finally did notice you, it was with anger, not love.

Every time you closed your eyes, you still saw the flash of anger in his expression. You still felt the painful grip of his hand around your arm, the heat of humiliation spreading across your cheeks, the way the room had gone silent for just long enough to make you want to disappear.

The whispers.

The stares.

His breath—thick with alcohol—when he leaned in too close.

Your chest tightened, breath catching the way it had at the party. Slowly, your mind drifted back to Steve’s voice, low and gentle in the cool night air. If he really cared… he never would’ve stopped trying.

You repeated the words in your head once.

Twice.

Until suddenly, they didn’t feel like a sting anymore—they felt like the truth.

As you stared at the soft glow on your ceiling, your hand curled protectively over the numbers on your skin.

And for the first time, you knew exactly what you needed to do next.

3

The next morning, you wake up tired. Not just from sleep, but tired in a way that sits behind your eyes and settles deep in your chest. Mentally tired. Tired of your boyfriend’s push-and-pull game. Tired of being the one who cares more. Tired of feeling like an afterthought in your own relationship.

As you get ready for the day, your mind runs wild. Wondering how you’ll bring it up to your boyfriend. How you’ll tell him you don’t think it’s going anywhere anymore. How you’ll explain that you feel like you don’t matter to him—like you’re a specter just drifting around him, barely seen, barely considered.

You slide into your Levi’s bootcut jeans and your black cable-knit sweater, staring at yourself for a moment. You look… fine. Not pretty. It's not interesting. Just there. Your hands tremble as you fix the sleeves anyway, the quiet in your room giving you a moment of stillness you desperately needed.

Until it isn’t.

A knock hits your door—sharp, impatient.

Then another.

And another, harder this time, rattling the frame.

The pounding grows louder, angrier. You know immediately who it is. Your stomach twists. Of course he’d show up unannounced. Of course he’d choose the moment you felt steady enough to think.

You’re grateful your parents aren’t home. Grateful they won’t witness the downfall of your relationship—if that’s even what it still is.

You draw in a slow breath as the pounding continues, echoing through the house, echoing through your nerves.

This is the moment you’ve been replaying in your head all morning. And now it’s here.

4

You take a long, deep breath as you stand before your front door. Your hands are shaking, your heart pounding so hard you think you might actually die from heart palpitations. The knocking—more like pounding—has finally stopped, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its place. Through the frosted glass, you can see your very recognizable boyfriend’s shadow looming, shifting with restless impatience.

You swallow hard. Your throat is tight.

Another breath—slow, deliberate. One last inhale, then a long exhale through your mouth as you try to steady yourself, even though nothing about this feels steady.

Your fingers move to the lock.

Click.

You open the door. And he’s right there.

Your boyfriend’s face flashes from anger, to surprise, and then to contempt the moment the door opens. His eyes rake over you before he finally speaks.

“You left last night. I was worried sick,” he says, stepping forward as he tries to pull you into a hug.

You immediately put your arms out, pushing him back—softly, but firmly—as you take a step away from him. His expression twists in confusion.

“What—what’s wrong?” he asks, like he genuinely doesn’t remember, like last night was just another blur he could bury.

You scoff, your face contorting in disbelief. “Do you really forget what you did last night?” you ask, unimpressed.

He stares at you, confused for a moment—thinking, trying to piece together fragments—before he shakes his head. You cross your arms over your chest, your tongue pressing against the inside of your cheek.

“You humiliated me in front of the entire school, Connor,” you finally say. “You grabbed me, got mad at me for having a cigarette, and treated me like I’m nothing!” You throw your arms up, the words finally spilling out. He pauses… and you see the moment he remembers. His brows lift—then he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he glances at the ground.

“Oh, c’mon babe, it wasn’t that serious. You know that,” he brushes off as he looks back up at you. “Not that serious?” Your voice sharpens, disbelief turning into heat. “You humiliated me. You grabbed me so hard it felt like you were going to leave bruises.”

Your glare burns into him. Your whole body is shaking, not from fear, but from the sheer amount of anger building up inside you. He sighs loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jesus, babe, you always are so fucking dramatic. It wasn’t like that. I just had a few too many drinks, and you know how I feel about smoking!” he snaps, the nice façade slipping off in an instant.

You roll your eyes at him. “Oh my God. I had never smoked in front of you ever because I knew you didn’t like it—and the one time I do, you flip out on me in front of everyone! Connor, I am so done with your fucking bullshit!”

He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already talking over him.

“You’ve been treating me like I’m nothing! You don’t even talk to me. You ignore me all the time! Do you even feel love anymore for me? Because I sure as hell don’t feel it.”

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall—not for him. Not now.

He scoffs. “Of course I love you, babe.”

You shake your head furiously. “Don’t you fucking lie to me. I feel more like a ghost than your girlfriend,” you cry, voice cracking but strong. “I’m done feeling this way. I’m done dealing with your bullshit.”

Your boyfriend’s face drops.“What do you mean?” he asks.

You frown, arms tightening around yourself. “I mean we’re done, Connor. I’m breaking up with you.”

His eyes widen, panic flashing briefly as his arms reach out for you. “Oh c’mon, babe—don’t say that. We can work thro—” “No,” you cut him off. “We’re not working through this. I don’t want anything to do with you.”

You take a step back into your house, as if physically pulling yourself out of his orbit. His face twists in disbelief, waiting—hoping—you’ll take it back.

You don’t.

And he realizes that.

He scoffs sharply. “Jesus, I thought you were better than that. Whatever. I never loved you anyway.” He hisses the words and turns on his heel, stomping toward his car without looking back.

You watch him leave, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear the engine start. As soon as he’s gone, you slam the door and lock it. Your back presses against the wood, your legs giving out as you slide down the door until you hit the floor.

And only then—only when he’s gone—do the floodgates finally open.

You break down, arms wrapped around yourself as you sob into the empty house.

You finally broke up with your boyfriend.

5

Steve stayed in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling as the morning light crept through the blinds. He twisted and turned, hoping maybe he could fall back asleep, but your face kept replaying in his mind. The memory of last night—your tears, the way you had leaned into him—refused to let him rest.

Finally, with a groan, he rolled onto his side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet touched the cold floor, and he shivered. Sleepiness still clung to him, but there was no escaping the quiet pull of reality.

Dragging himself up, he stumbled down the stairs, still half-asleep, hair sticking every which way and boxers clinging loosely to him. The kitchen felt empty and cold, but the smell of yesterday's coffee lingered faintly, grounding him. He poured himself a fresh cup, the warmth seeping into his hands, and leaned against the counter, rubbing his face.

Even with the early hour and the quiet of the house, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about you. He thought about the way you had trusted him, the softness in your voice, the tiny smile you had managed after all the chaos. His chest tightened, and he realized there was no going back to sleep—not when you were on his mind.

Steve cradled his warm mug of coffee, staring out the window at the quiet street. The house was silent, the only sounds the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. He took a slow sip, but the warmth did little to calm the storm in his chest.

He ran a hand through his messy hair and let out a low groan. Okay, Steve… think. Figure it out.

After a few moments of pacing in his boxers, he grabbed his phone and dialed Robin’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button for a second longer than necessary, stomach twisting with nerves.

Steve leaned against the wall, phone pressed to his ear. “Hello?” Robin’s groggy voice came through.

“Robin, last night something happened, and I can’t stop thinking about it,” Steve said, not entirely caring that he’d woken her up so early.

He heard Robin yawn on the other side of the line. “What the hell are you yapping about, Harrington?” she asked.

“Last night… remember your friend I met after a shift at Scoops, and we hung out together after work?” Steve asked.

“Yeah? What about her?” Robin replied.

Steve let out a long sigh, running a hand through his messy hair. “Well… her and her douchebag of a boyfriend got into a fight. Long story short, he ends up grabbing her over a cigarette and basically scolds her in front of the school, and she ran out crying.”

Robin gasped. “No way that happened.”

“Yes way,” Steve said. “Anyway, I felt really mad and bad, so I went to check on her. We talked, and she told me she was thinking about breaking up with her boyfriend. I was just like, ‘Yeah, you probably should—he’s a dickwad.’ I didn’t say that exactly, you know what I mean, and she ended up crying. I felt really bad, so I hugged her. Held her for a good fifteen minutes.”

“So basically you swooped in trying to steal Connor’s girl?” Robin asked, teasing.

Steve groaned. “No! It’s not like that. I felt bad, and I ended up comforting her and driving her home since her jerk of a boyfriend didn’t seem to be doing it that night.”

“Jesus, Harrington, how many names are you going to call Connor?” Robin laughed.

Steve laughed, too. “He deserves it.”

“Well, yeah, I don’t disagree there,” Robin said.

There was a brief pause before she spoke again. “So… why are you calling me?”

Steve blinked, remembering. “I’m calling because I think I caught feelings for her. I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s… so beautiful, and I’m worried, and I don’t know what to do,” he rambled.

“And you called me?” Robin joked. “You know my love life is drier than the Sahara Desert.”

Steve scoffed. “You’re her friend and a girl, so I assumed you’d know what to do.”

“Just because I’m her friend—and also the same gender—doesn’t mean I have all your answers. Stop acting like you’ve never talked to or dated a girl before. Just do whatever you did before, but don’t be a dickhead, or I’ll kill you myself,” Robin threatened jokingly, though Steve knew she would if he messed up.

Steve nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, yeah, I won’t. Don’t worry. I just… I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been in this type of situation.”

“Well, do you have her number?” Robin asked.

“Nope. She had mine, though,” Steve admitted.

“Okay… I don’t know. Maybe wait until she calls you. And if you’re really worried, I’ll call her or whatever,” Robin offered.

Steve nodded again. “Yeah… yeah, sounds good.”

There was a brief pause. “So that’s it?” Robin asked.

“Yeah, that’s all I had to say,” Steve replied.

“Good, ’cause I’m going back to bed, dimwit,” Robin said, and without letting Steve respond, she hung up.

6

You sat on the floor, back pressed against the door, tears running freely down your cheeks. Your eyes were glued to your palm, staring at Steve’s number like it was a lifeline. What were you supposed to do now? Cry alone all day, drowning in the aftermath of heartbreak? Go out and pretend nothing had happened. Plaster on a fake smile, act like you weren’t falling apart inside? Or… call Steve Harrington?

The third option felt right. The most useful.

Your hands shook as you pushed yourself up, sniffling, each breath trembling in your chest. You moved toward the phone, fingers hovering over the numbers, hesitating. Would he answer? Would he come, like he said he would, or would you be left waiting, alone with your panic and your broken heart?

You swallowed hard, chest tight, and dialed the number.

Two rings.

“Hello?” Steve’s voice. Just hearing it made your chest flutter, your heart skipping a beat. Your lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.

“Steve… I broke up with him.” You didn’t even say hello. There was no time for small talk—not with your heart in your throat.

There was a pause, just for a second, but it felt like the world held its breath.

“Really? Are you okay?” His voice was low, laced with worry, each word reaching straight into your chest.

You bit your lip, trying to stop it from trembling. “No… I just… I really need someone right now.”

Immediately, without hesitation, Steve spoke. “I’ll be there in fifteen, okay?”

A small, tear-stained laugh escaped you, almost incredulous at how quickly he responded. A small smile broke through the sadness. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

“Good. See you soon,” he said, and then the line went dead.

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Figure You Out Pt.1

Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

summary: based off of the song "Figure you out" by voilà. reader is dating someone who doesn't actually care for her, and Steve hates seeing she's with someone who doesn't care for her like he does.

parts: 1, 2, 3, 4,

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1

Steve always noticed things.

He noticed how you covered your mouth when you laughed... except when it was real. When you really laughed, you forgot to hide it.

He noticed the way your eyebrows knit together when you got upset, how your eyes seemed to grow rounder, how a soft pout settled on your lips. He noticed that you only ever looked at your boyfriend that way when he wasn’t paying attention.

Tonight was no different. You tried to tell your boyfriend a story, excitement bright in your eyes, but he waved you off, laughing with his friends as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

From across the room, Steve watched.

The party was loud and dim, the only light coming from colorful bulbs sweeping slow, dizzy circles across the crowded living room. Every time one passed over your face, it lit you up for just long enough for Steve to think you looked beautiful.

Boomboxes in each corner blasted “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” by Joan Jett & The Blackhearts, the music so loud it made the floor thrum beneath everyone’s feet. Steve saw you swaying softly to the song, mouthing the words as you held your solo cup close to your lips, standing awkwardly beside the guy who still called himself your boyfriend.

He thought you looked really pretty tonight. He always thought you looked pretty. Gorgeous, even.

He loved how you curled your hair and how it framed your face perfectly. He loved your outfit, too. Black sheer tights, a denim skirt, a fitted black long-sleeve, and the slightly oversized leather jacket slipping off your shoulder. It wasn’t a look you saw much in Hawkins. Maybe that was why he noticed you first.

You even wore larger hoop earrings tonight. It was a small change, but he caught it instantly.

“Yo, man! It’s your turn!” Tommy shouted, smacking Steve on the back and handing him the ping pong ball. Steve blinked, shaking himself back into the moment as he grabbed the ball.

“You good?” Tommy asked, eyebrows raised. Steve forced a smile. “Yeah. Drinks are hitting faster than I thought.” Not entirely a lie—though not the reason he kept zoning out. He risked one last glance at you before turning back to the game.

2

You stood beside your boyfriend, drink in hand, eyes unfocused. He hadn’t spoken to you all night. He was too busy talking about last week’s basketball game, too busy laughing with his friends, too busy being everything except your boyfriend.

You tried, a few times, to ask him when you were leaving. Each time, he waved you off with a smile that said absolutely nothing.

You sighed, looking at him with a familiar ache in your chest. You really did love him. He used to be kind. Attentive. Sweet. At the beginning of the year, he’d talked to you i the hallways, walked you to class, taken you out, and made you feel wanted. And then, the second you became his girlfriend, he stopped.

Stopped listening.

Stopped trying.

Stopped caring.

You told yourself it was a phase. But three months later, nothing had changed.

Pushing off the counter, you set your cup down and patted your jacket pockets—only to realize you’d forgotten your cigarettes at home. “Shit,” you muttered.

You glanced toward your boyfriend’s friend group and spotted Markus. He smoked. Heart beating a little faster, you walked over and smoothed your hair, wrinkling your nose at how sweaty the guys were. You cleared your throat. Right as you went to say Markus’s name, the whole group burst out laughing at something else entirely. You tapped his shoulder awkwardly. He turned, smiling down at you. “Hey. How’s it going?”

“It’s alright,” you said softly. “Could I maybe steal a cigarette?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” He pulled a pack from his pocket and handed you one. You thanked him quietly, about to ask for a light, but he was already holding his lighter out.

“Yes, please,” you said, cheeks warming.

You placed the cigarette between your lips, and Markus lit it for you. You inhaled, thanked him again, and turned to step away.

“Hey.”

Your boyfriend’s voice cut through the noise. Suddenly, he was right beside you, fingers closing around your arm. “Since when do you smoke?” he asked, low and irritated. You stiffened. He hated smoking. “I’ve been smoking for years,” you said simply.

He frowned, confused. “Really? Jesus. You know those things can kill you.” He tugged you closer. You inhaled sharply as your body collided with his, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. Heat crept into your face, embarrassment, not loving.

“Yes, I know,” you murmured, trying to pull your arm free. He tightened his grip. You winced. “Let go—you’re hurting me.” People were starting to look. His friend stepped in, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Man, just let her go. People are staring.” Your boyfriend didn’t listen. His jaw clenched as he glared down at you. “Put it out. I don’t want to taste that when I kiss you.”

Something snapped.

You frowned up at him and pushed him away, hard. The lit end of your cigarette brushed his shirt, leaving a tiny burnt mark as he stumbled back in shock.Whispers rippled around you.

Your face burned. Before you could think, you turned and shoved your way through the crowd, heart pounding, vision blurring. Your chest tightened, breath quick and shaky. You could hear your boyfriend calling your name, but your own heartbeat was louder, roaring in your ears. You pushed past another group of people, then another, until finally...

You burst out into the night.

Cool air filled your lungs. You gasped, wiping at the tears beginning to spill. There was a small swing set on the side of the house, half-hidden by shadow. You walked toward it quickly, the tears falling freely now.

And finally, you let yourself cry.

3

You sat on the swing, the cigarette between your lips long dead, though you hadn’t noticed. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground as you kicked at the dirt, letting it scatter under your shoes. Tears streaked your cheeks, hot and relentless, and humiliation burned in your chest like fire.

Your boyfriend had never acted like that before. You didn’t know what to feel, what to think, or what to do. Every instinct inside you screamed that something was wrong, but your mind couldn’t even begin to sort it out.

From inside the house, faint music thumped, mingled with laughter and shouting, a reminder of the party you hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. You didn’t even want to be there anymore. But there was nowhere to go. Your boyfriend had driven you here, and now you were trapped in a place you couldn’t escape from, a night that suddenly felt suffocating.

4

Steve had watched the entire thing. Everyone at the party had. And he was furious. Furious that your boyfriend had acted like that. Furious that he had grabbed you. Furious that he had humiliated you in front of everyone in the damn school.

He stopped mid-game of beer pong, ball in hand, and leaned against the doorframe, staring out at the dark night. He debated whether to go outside and whether to try and comfort you. You weren’t exactly close—just friends who talked every once in a while. You were closer to Robin, and he had never interacted with you much beyond that.

But he remembered the first time he met you. Robin had run into you after a shift at Scoops, and somehow, the three of you ended up planning to hang out. Steve had been Robin’s ride, and you had tagged along. Ever since then, he’d had feelings for you—quiet, feelings he had buried, because you had a boyfriend. He could still be your friend, right?

Finally, he pushed himself off the doorframe. Cold air hit him as he stepped outside, and his boots crunched softly on the frost-covered grass. There you were, sitting alone on the swing, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the ground.

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair, trying to figure out what to say—and how to say it.

Steve walked up slowly, stopping just in front of you. His hands were shoved into his pockets as he cleared his throat.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly. You sniffled, quickly brushing at your eyes before glancing up. The cigarette still hung loosely between your lips, mascara streaked down your cheeks. Even like this—vulnerable, tear-streaked—Steve’s breath hitched. You were breathtaking. Always.

You pulled the cigarette from your mouth and flicked it smoothly to the side. “Just peachy,” you muttered, low and flat, staring back at the ground.

Steve exhaled quietly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to think of what to say next. “I… I just wanted to check on you. I’m… sorry for what happened.” His voice trailed off as he shifted to the swing beside you, easing himself down carefully.

You looked at him with the same sad expression you give your boyfriend. Eyebrows slightly furrowed, big, doe-like eyes, lips curved in a soft pout. Steve’s chest tightened. He had never seen you look at him that way, and the combination of adorableness and heartbreak nearly stopped his heart.

“It’s fine… nothing anyone can do about it,” you murmured, glancing away again, kicking at the dirt absentmindedly. Steve nodded slowly, staring forward at the house. The colored lights flashed through the windows, casting moving shadows across the lawn. “That’s true,” he said softly.

A pause hung between you. Steve could tell you had nothing more to add. He opened his mouth, then stopped himself, thinking better of it. After a moment, he finally spoke. “Can I… ask something?”

You sniffled again, looking over at him. Tears still traced lines down your cheeks, and your hand instinctively moved to brush them away. “Sure,” you said quietly. Steve stared at you for a long beat before speaking, his voice gentle but serious. “Why are you still with him? I can tell you’re… not happy. Not to be rude or anything.”

You froze, thinking over his words. Steve expected anger, maybe a sharp retort. But instead, you seemed… thoughtful, as if you were asking yourself the same question. “I… I don’t know,” you admitted finally, eyes meeting his. “I guess I thought if I pushed through this phase, it would be okay again.”

Steve’s chest tightened even more. He wanted to say something—anything—but all he could do was sit there, letting the weight of your words settle between you.

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “I understand what you mean,” he finally said. You raised your eyebrows, scanning his face. What does he mean?bSteve met your gaze and continued. “Me and my ex… Nancy. It was kind of like your situation. I was a douche. We were on different pages about what we wanted, and… Well, we ended up breaking up.”

You listened quietly, taking in his words. After a beat, you asked softly, “And… how was it? The breakup, I mean.” Steve thought for a moment, then let out a short chuckle. You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the sight of his smile—warm, easy, and somehow comforting. He has a nice smile, you thought.

“It was horrible,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Sad and lost all the time. Crying myself to sleep most nights. Don’t tell anyone that,” he added with a grin.

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. The first real smile all night. Steve felt a quiet swell of pride, knowing he’d been able to make you feel even a little lighter. “Does that feeling… ever go away?” you asked, voice low, hesitant.

Steve sighed, staring at the ground for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “After a while, yeah. It takes time. A long time. And sure, I still think about her, but I remind myself it’s for the better.” You nodded, thoughtful, letting his words sink in. For the first time since the party began, you felt a little less trapped, a little less alone.

You bit your lip and glanced back at the ground. “I… I’ve been wanting to break up,” you admitted finally, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m just… scared to be alone.”

You had never said that out loud before.

Steve’s gaze softened, sweeping over you, giving you the space to continue in your own time. He didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

A small, shaky chuckle escaped you, tears spilling again down your cheeks. “I know it’s stupid,” you murmured, voice cracking. “I was good before him… thriving even. But when we first started, it was… amazing. Everything I’d ever wanted. And now… it’s changed. And there’s this part of me—this stupid, hopeful part—that thinks maybe, if I give it enough time, it’ll be like that again.”

Your lip trembled as you looked back up at him, eyes glistening with tears. “Do you think… that could happen again?” Steve’s chest tightened. His heart broke just seeing you like this. “If I’m going to be honest…” His voice was low, careful. “…if he really cared, he never would’ve stopped trying.”

You froze for a moment, lips quivering harder, more tears spilling down your cheeks. Steve’s stomach sank. His words hit harder than he’d intended.

Before he could think twice, he stood and gently pulled you into his arms. You buried your face against his chest, sobbing, hands clutching at his shirt. He held you close, head tilted down, stroking your hair with a soft, careful hand.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with guilt. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.” But you didn’t pull away. You just let yourself cry, letting him hold the pieces of you that felt broken, letting yourself be safe in a way you hadn’t felt all night.

You hid your face against his chest, shaking softly. Steve rubbed slow, comforting circles on your back, murmuring quietly. “Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he whispered. “You don’t need anyone. You don’t deserve to be treated this way. Someone who really loves and cares about you would never let you feel like this.”

You nodded into his chest, trying to calm your ragged breathing. Deep, slow inhales, long exhales. Your hands loosen their grip on his shirt, and you let your eyes close.

“You’re right,” you finally murmured, voice hoarse from crying. Steve smiled softly, looking down at you, continuing to rub your back in steady, soothing motions. Time seemed to stretch quietly, just the two of you in the cold night air, away from the noise and chaos inside.

After a while, you finally pulled away, brushing at your tears. Steve stepped back slightly, giving you space but keeping his gaze warm and steady.“Better now?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “Yeah… I feel better,” you said, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips. Steve returned the smile, and it made your chest feel a little lighter. “I… want to go home,” you admitted softly, glancing down at your watch. 1:00 a.m. Steve nodded, understanding. “You have a car?” You frowned. “No… he drove me here,” you said with a small sigh.

Without hesitation, Steve tilted his head toward his car. “I’ve got mine. I can bring you home… if you’d like, of course.” You smiled and nodded. “Yes… that would be nice.” Steve’s grin widened as he dug his keys from his pocket. “Don’t worry—it’s been a couple of hours since I’ve had a drink,” he joked lightly as you began walking toward his car. “Good,” you chuckled, the sound lighter than it had been all night. “I’d like to make it home alive.” Steve laughed, the sound warm in the quiet night. “Don’t worry. You’ll get home safe and sound.”

He unlocked the car, holding the door open for you. You smiled up at him as you slid inside. He closed the door softly behind you, then rounded to the front seat, sliding in beside you with a comforting ease. The engine hummed to life, and for the first time in hours, you felt a little of the weight of the night lift.

5

The drive home was quiet, the kind of silence that settles after the worst part of a night finally bleeds out of you. Exhaustion crept in with every passing streetlight, your eyelids heavy until your head drifted to the window. Within minutes, you were asleep—soft breaths fogging the glass, mascara smudged beneath your eyes, your hair a little messy from crying.

Steve kept glancing over, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. Something warm bloomed in his chest. He never expected to see you like this—sleeping in his passenger seat after he’d been the one to make you feel better. Pride, protectiveness, something he didn’t fully have a name for… all of it tangled together inside him.

When he finally pulled into your driveway and killed the engine, he turned to you again. You were still asleep, breathing slow and even, cheeks and nose a little red from the cold and the crying. The sight made him blush. God, you were beautiful.

He cleared his throat softly and unbuckled. He didn’t want to wake you—part of him wanted nothing more than to scoop you up and carry you inside—but he knew that would cross a line. So instead, he reached out gently, placing a warm hand on your shoulder.

He said your name quietly. You stirred, blinking awake. With a sleepy groan, you sat up and rubbed your eyes.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice groggy as you stifled a yawn. “Don’t apologize. You’re tired,” Steve said, offering a soft smile.

You nodded and unbuckled. Before you could reach for the door, Steve was already out of the car, hurrying around to open it for you. You stepped out into the cold night, stretching a little.

“Thank you,” you said with a small smile. “You’re welcome,” he answered, closing the door behind you.

He walked you to your front door, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. You unlocked it quietly and stepped just inside, turning to face him again. “Thank you… for tonight,” you said softly. “I owe you one.” Steve shook his head quickly, smiling. “Ah, don’t worry about it.”

You smiled back. A small pause passed between you, comfortable but charged with something unspoken. Then Steve cleared his throat. “If you need anything—like anything—I’m here. Don’t be afraid to reach out, okay?” He patted his pockets, searching for something. You raised a brow as he pulled out a pen, looking slightly embarrassed. “I don’t have paper but… I could give you my number,” he said shyly, his cheeks warming. You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. “Just write it on my hand, Steve.”

You held your hand out to him. Steve hesitated for a split second, looking at your hand, then at you, then back at your hand again. He smiled—soft, almost nervous—and took it. His hand was bigger than yours, warm around your fingers. A small shiver traveled down both your spines as he gently wrote his number along the side of your palm.

Once he finished, he let your hand go reluctantly. “My writing isn’t the best, but I tried,” he chuckled. You looked down at the neat, slightly slanted numbers and smiled. “As long as I can read it,” you teased. “Thank you again.” He shrugged lightly. “No big deal.” He nodded toward your hand. “Like I said… don’t be scared to reach out. I’m here if you need anything.”

You traced your finger absentmindedly over the fresh ink. “Yeah… I will,” you said softly, then reached for your door. “Have a good rest of your night, Steve. Drive safe.” Steve’s smile softened. “You too.”