To love me is to suffer me And I believe it.

The cacophony was absolute—a craggy wall of voices, the sharp clack of assault rifles being readied, and the guttural curses of men who had forgotten how to be human.

Steve was shoved forward, the momentum of the crowd carrying him along with Dustin, Mike, and Robin. He caught a glimpse of Robin’s hands, bound tight enough to turn her fingers white, before a soldier’s gloved hand slammed into the back of his neck.

His face was crushed against the cold metal of the transport truck. The smell of oil and old blood filled his nostrils. He couldn't breathe. Every gasp was a battle, his lungs struggling against the weight of a man twice his size pinning him down.

The problem was, he couldn't find you anywhere.

“Hey—hey,” He grimaced, a sharp, sickening pop echoing in his ears as his zygomatic bone groaned under the pressure against the metal panel. “Have you seen her?”

Dustin twisted his head as far as the restraints allowed, face pale but steady. 

“She was with El, they must've escaped.”

The relief hit Steve like a physical wave. Good. That was more than good, it was the only thing that mattered. If the plan had worked—if the girl he loved was somewhere safe, somewhere far away from the screaming and the cold steel—then he could endure whatever was coming.

So a small, genuine smile blossomed on Steve's lips. It lasted only a second, because when he looked up, the smile died where it was born.

Where the sky had torn itself open, where the portal to the Upside Down bled a bruised, pulsating violet into the world, he saw you.

You weren't running. You were standing at the threshold, your silhouette framed by the apocalypse, your eyes fixed on the military line with a gaze so deadly it looked like it belonged to a different person.

“No… no, no, no—” Steve’s voice rose from a whimper to a raw, jagged roar. The realization settled in his gut like lead: you had stayed.

You were going to fight a war you couldn't win.

With a strength that shouldn't have existed in his broken, battered frame, Steve threw his head back. He felt the icky thud of his skull connecting with the soldier’s chin. He didn't wait for the man to fall. Two other guards lunged for him, their hands like iron claws on his sleeves, but something had snapped inside him. It wasn't bravery anymore, it was an animalistic, primal instinct.

“Steve!” Robin’s scream was high and thin, a desperate warning as a soldier leveled the butt of a rifle.

Steve didn't hear her. He stumbled, his legs heavy and uncoordinated, and when he finally fell to his knees, he didn't hit the pavement. Cold water splashed against his skin. He realized then, he was in your mind.

You walked quickly toward him and he got up, running to you.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice broke on the words. “Please—please don’t do this.”

His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if the sheer force of his touch could tether you to the earth.

He was shaking. There were tears welling up in his eyes, and despite everything, it was his broken expression that haunted you the most.

“Steve,” you whispered, swallowing the thick knot of grief in your throat. You looked into those deer-like eyes, your own vision blurring as the first hot tears spilled over. “You need to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving under his bruised ribs. His eyes searched yours, begging for a lie, begging for a misunderstanding he could desperately fix.

“What? No—no, whatever you’re thinking, we’ll find another way. We always find another way.”

“I need you to understand my decision.”

“No. No. I don't—Please.”

You kept going because stopping would mean breaking. “I need you to tell the others the truth. Tell Hop that Jane's safe. I need you to tell them—” Your voice faltered. You forced it steady. “Tell them how grateful I am. For being so kind to me. For loving me.”

Tears slid freely down your cheeks. Steve lifted his hand without thinking, brushing them away with his thumb like he always did, like it was a reflex built into him. He was crying too, silent and helpless, but still trying to take care of you. He always would put you first.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, pleading now, like if he said it enough times, reality might listen.

“I do. Steve, this will never ends. El will be hunted for the rest of her life. She’s just a kid. She deserves a chance to grow up without blood on her hands.”

You caught his hands, pulling them from your face to hold them against your chest. His fingers were calloused, covered in the fresh scratches and deep purple bruises of the fight. They were the hands of a protector, and they were the only things you were going to miss.

He stared at you like you were speaking another language.

“What about you?” The question came out with a sharp edge of accusation, a jagged shard of resentment born from pure, unadulterated heartbreak. “Don’t you deserve to live? Don't I deserve for you to stay?”

You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister.  Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.

You were the burden that was meant to be dropped so the light could keep shining.

And Steve—sweet, stubborn, endlessly kind Steve—was the only thing that had ever made you wish, just for a moment, that fate might be wrong.

But then Hopper found you and Jane together in that forest, clinging to each other like a second skin, desperate and afraid of what fate had planned. And that changed everything.

He had reached through the brush and pulled you into a life you were never supposed to have. He was resilient, jaggedly caring, and he tended to your wounds with a gentleness that felt like an assault on everything the lab had taught you. He fed you, gave you shelter, and advised you—doing all the things a father was supposed to do. A father you and Jane had only ever seen in child storybooks.

You had been reluctant at first, a wild thing trapped in a cabin. You ran away a dozen times because you were convinced that this life—the warm blankets, the Eggo waffles, the safety—was for Jane, not for you.

But Hopper had been immovable. He insisted, with a gruff, stubborn love, that you deserved that comfort too. It wasn't a luxurious life, but it was a life full of affection.

And what was supposed to be just a life for three became a big dysfunctional family, but one that you loved with every shattered piece of your heart.

Joyce, Jonathan, and Will. The family that went through hell on earth when little Byers was possessed and captured by darkness. There was Joyce, who taught you what it meant to be a woman, who brushed your hair with a mother’s tenderness and hugged you until the cold in your bones finally began to thaw. There was Jonathan, the quiet observer, who always stayed close enough to make sure you were alive.

The kids, who followed you like you were something out of a comic book. They made you feel brave when you were anything but. They welcomed Jane like she had always been theirs, and through them, you learned what friendship really was, unconditional, loud, forgiving.

Nancy showed you worlds hidden in books and taught you how to hold a gun without flinching. She kept your secret without ever asking for anything in return. Let you sleep in her basement when Hopper’s house became unbearable. Robin taught you sisterhood—real sisterhood. Movie nights, bad jokes, honesty without fear. She made life feel lighter just by standing beside you.

“Every moment of my life has led me here,” you said softly.

“Bullshit.” His voice cracked, raw and furious. “This is all bullshit. You can’t—you don’t deserve this. You can stay, I—”

“Steve,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands. His skin was cold, damp with sweat and tears. He pressed his lips together, a sob catching in his throat, and you felt the hot, thick tears roll down his cheeks until they pooled in the palms of your hands.

“From day one, you saw me. You saw beyond what I could see in myself.”

Steve let out a broken, animal sound and leaned into your touch, his eyes searching yours for a way out that didn't exist. He had spent years trying to convince you that you were worth saving, and now, he was watching you use that very life to save everyone else.

How could you ever forget that first night in the Wheeler basement? You had been a mess, bruised and soaked from head to toe, looking like you’d gone ten rounds with a nightmare. But even then, he didn’t look at you like a wounded animal. He didn’t look at you like a disposable tool of war. He looked at you with a careful, tentative affection that felt like the first warm sun after a lifetime of winter.

But the words had been written in the stars long before you met him and your story couldn't have been written any other way. If you were here now, it was because fate had allowed you to live. And if you lived, it was because Steve Harrington happened in your life.

It was because he accepted you for who you are. Because he fell first, pretending that all that fascination wasn't masked as love. Because he held your hand that Fourth of July and kissed you under the fireworks. It was because he saved you from near death and allowed you to still have some time together. It was the way he had knocked on Hopper’s door with a bouquet of flowers, his knees literally shaking with fear of your father, just to take you to a movie date. It was because he loved you devotedly, respected you, adored you with everything he had.

“If I know what it's like to love and to be loved, it’s because of you,” you whispered. “And you don't know how forever grateful I'll be to you for giving me that.”

“Please,” Steve murmured repeatedly, his hands trembling as he held your body against his. He was clutching you as if he could absorb you into his own skin, as if he could hide you from the fate that was coming for you.

“You made everything easier. All my life I believed I wasn't worthy of being loved, but then you came along and changed everything.” You smiled through the tears, a fragile, beautiful thing. “I wouldn't do anything differently, Steve. Not a single second.”

“Don't do this to me, babe—please, please—”

It was breaking your heart. Each plea was a physical blow. You felt your heart cracking, tiny pieces of it falling away one by one. 

“I need you to promise me something, okay? Look at me, Steve.” You sought his eyes and had to exercise a lot of self-control not to break down right there. “I want you to be happy. I want you to live the life of your dreams.”

His laugh was broken, almost soundless. “I fucking hate this,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that without you?”

“I’ll always be with you,” you said, even though you both knew what that promise cost. “You have a life ahead of you, Steve. A good one. Promise me you won’t stop. Promise me you’ll fight for it.”

He couldn't speak. He just looked at you, his chest heaving, his face a mosaic of soot, drying blood, and fresh, hot tears. He looked like he was physically dying, like his soul was being pulled through his ribs.

“I love you,” was all he managed to choke out between the jagged, guttural sobs that racked his body.

You smiled, even as your heart felt like it was being torn in two. 

“I love you, Steve Harrington.”

When you moved, you collided like lightning meeting thunder, violent, inevitable, and destructive. Your mouths crashed together in a disastrous mess of tears, salt, and terror.

Steve wanted time. God, he had wanted time so badly. He had built plans around it, trusted it like it was something guaranteed. The weight of his mother’s ring, hidden on a small chain beneath his shirt, felt like it was branding his skin. He had decided he'd propose the moment you got home, the moment the world was safe. He knew how much you dreamed of Alaska—of the frozen, silent mountains and the way the northern lights painted the sky—and he had spent every spare cent he had for a year to make that happen.

The initial plan was to propose to you with that breathtaking view as a witness to your youth, reckless, love. But Steve had always been haunted by the feeling that time was a thief. That was why he’d put the ring around his neck that morning. 

He just hadn’t known how little time he had left.

As he kissed you with a painful, bruising intensity, he reached for the chain. He ripped it from his neck, the metal snapping with a faint ping that was lost to the chaos. He pressed the cold silver into your palm, his fingers trembling as he closed your hand around it.

You felt it when he placed it in your hand, the cold metal against your palm.

You felt the weight of it, the history of a family you would never officially join. You deepened the kiss, holding him with a strength that defied your tired body. You were holding your first love, your only love, the boy who had made you human.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads touching, both of you breathless and ruined, you closed your fingers around the chain and held his hand instead.

“Please, please—” he whispered, the word barely there. “Don’t leave me.”

You wanted to say everything. You wanted to stay forever.

You were at the end of the road, and the time for promises had run out.

“Goodbye, Steve.”

The sound never fully left his throat. It caught there, raw and animal, and when reality slammed back into place, it did so cruelly. Hands dragged him backward. Boots scraped asphalt. Someone shouted orders he couldn’t hear because all he could hear was his own voice breaking apart as he screamed your name.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Everyone was frozen, witnesses to a sacrifice they were powerless to stop. Robin had collapsed to her knees, her sobs racking her frame until she was doubled over. Hopper stood paralyzed, his eyes brimming with tears he couldn't shed, his path blocked by a wall of military personnel. Nancy’s hands were pressed tight over her mouth, a single, silent tear tracking through the soot on her cheek.

These were your people. The one you had built out of chaos and survival and love. The one that had taught you what it meant to belong.

Steve fought like a caged animal, his boots scraping against the asphalt as he begged them to let him go, shouting your name until his lungs burned. He was thrown to the ground, the grit biting into his skin, but he never took his eyes off you.

You looked at Hopper one last time. Not to ask. Not to beg. Just to let him see that this was your choice. That you were at peace with it. That Jane would live. That she would grow up safe, loved, ordinary in all the ways you never got to be. She was now the age you had been when he found you in that forest, feral, terrified, alive. She deserved the life he had fought to give her.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered.

Then, the air crackled. You felt the surge of energy before the world white-outed—a hum that vibrated in your very marrow. A flash swept across the perimeter, a titanic force field that pushed the entire world back. The C4 charges detonated in a synchronized roar, and the Upside Down didn't just break, it folded. Everything was sucked into a violent whirlwind, a chaotic abyss that began to erase itself from existence.

The noise was horrifying, a primal scream of a dying dimension. You closed your eyes, letting go of the tethers that held you to the world of the living. In the fading distance, you could still hear them screaming your name.

But this was the end. This was your story, and as the darkness rushed in to claim you, you realized you were happy. You have lived. You have loved.

One last tear tracked down your cheek. And then, nothingness.

A deafening silence took over the place. Steve stared in sheer, unadulterated horror at the space where you should have been. There was no portal. Just a building in ruins, smoking under a normal, mocking sky.

You were gone. Truly, finally gone.

He dropped to his knees, skin splitting against dust, pain flaring uselessly through his hand. He didn’t feel it. There was no room for it. All he could see was you, every version of you he had ever loved, layered one on top of the other until it crushed him.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in broken hitches. It was then that he realized his fist was clenched tight around something cold. He raised his hand, blinking through the tears, and saw it: the silver chain, the wedding ring dangling from the end. He hadn't noticed, but you had put it back in his hands as a promise you were forcing him to keep. You wanted him to move on.

You wanted him to be happy. A future you were asking him to live without you.

Steve let out a sound that barely resembled a sob and curled forward, clutching the ring to his chest like it might still anchor him to you.

But it would never be the same.

Without you, there was no happy ending. 

“All right, all right—let’s go.”

Steve planted his hands on his hips, scanning the parking lot as the kids—who absolutely were not kids anymore—filed into the trailer. “Jeez, did you have to buy the whole store?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting as Robin struggled with a bag that looked one bad move away from tearing.

“In my defense,” she said, breathless but defiant, “we have, like, a small army to feed. And I needed a Kit Kat.” She held one up proudly. “I even brought one for you.” She tapped a second bar against Steve’s chest.

He caught it between his fingers, let out a long, grounded breath, and stuffed it into his pocket. “All right. Enough. Everyone here?” He poked his head into the trailer, performing the mental head-count that had become second nature.

Lucas glanced around. “Uh—Dustin’s not back yet.”

Steve opened his mouth to complain about the schedule when a familiar voice grumbled behind him.

“Jesus Christ, the bathroom in this place should be classified as a biohazard.” Dustin shrugged, his face twisted in a look of pure disgust.

“Everything okay, bud?” Steve took off his shades and patted Dustin’s shoulder, fighting back the laugh that threatened to break through his responsible adult mask.

“Barely,” Dustin said. “I stared death in the face in there, ‘cause—.”

“Biohazard,” Max interrupted, rolling her eyes with a smirk. “We get it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“All right,” Steve said, gentle but firm, clapping hands to get everyone moving and get things in place. “Everybody, buckle up. Right now!” 

Max and Lucas were already arguing about who got to lean on whom for the next leg of the trip.  Dustin went back to his astrophysics book while Mike, Will, and El chatted happily in the back. 

Steve caught El’s eye in the mirror. She gave him a small nod, there was a depth of respect and gratitude in her eyes that always made Steve’s heart ache. 

When she had returned to Hawkins eighteen months after the Upside Down took you, it had been a bittersweet miracle. Hopper and Mike had known she was safe because of your final message, but for Steve, her return was the final, broken proof that you were gone.

He didn't blame her. He loved her. But looking at her was a constant, living reminder of the price you had paid.

“All right, dingus,” Robin said, already buckled in, watching him closely. “We doing this or what?”

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and fastened his seatbelt. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

He pressed play.

The familiar, melancholic chords of Piano Man filled the cabin, your favorite song. Billy Joel’s voice drifted through the speakers, steady and nostalgic. Steve turned the key, the engine roaring to life, and before they even cleared the gas station parking lot, the chaos in the back reached a fever pitch. Max was yelling at Lucas, Dustin was laughing at something Will said, and the air was thick with the life you had died to protect.

Beside him, Robin offered a small, closed-mouth smile: a look of pure solidarity. 

Before hitting the highway toward the long road to Alaska, Steve glanced in the rearview mirror. Hanging from the glass was the silver chain, the wedding ring catching the afternoon sun. It swung gently with the movement of the car, a North Star to guide him.

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. This was what you wanted. This was the life you would have led if fate had been kinder.

“All right, Alaska,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music and the kids. “Here we come.”

He shifted the trailer into gear and pulled onto the open road. It was for the kids. It was for the future.

The hum of the generator that had become a high hum suddenly snapped back into focus, a dull droning sound in the background of the office. The doctor stood before you in a white coat, a woman with greying brown hair and glasses, eyeing you with concern. You sucked in a breath and ignored how it made your chest burn, how the scent of bleach stung your eyes.

Or maybe you were just crying.

“Is there someone you can call? Someone who can collect you?”

L

You sniffed, shaking your head and coming to life. You slid from the day bed and blinked, the overhead fluorescents making the entire scene seem glaringly real. Oh my god, this was real. You felt clumsy on your feet, the soles of your boots sinking into the imaginary sand beneath you and when you bent to grab your bag, your head rushed at the movement. Everything felt upside down, violently so.

You were sure you were going to be sick.

“What?” Your voice didn’t sound like your own. Maybe this wasn’t your body. It didn’t feel like it.

“I said, do you have someone you can call—?”

“No.” You shook your head, startled. Dazed. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

You weren’t fine.

You don’t remember walking out of the medical centre. You barely registered the electric buzz and the shriek of the electric gate as six guards with guns holstered at their hips let you out of the military zone. You stood at the side of the road, the November air nipping at your exposed skin, stinging your cheeks and ears. In a daze, you remembered you hadn’t driven there, instead choosing to ask your co-worker to drop you off after your shift. It felt clumsy to walk still, a numbness settling into your bones that felt harsher than the winter chill.

You walked. One foot in front of the other, you told yourself, that’s all you had to do right now. So you walked with your arms folded over your chest, your cold fingers tucked into your jacket sleeves in order to salvage what little heat you could. Your stomach was still rolling, your heart thudthudthudding in your chest.

You kept walking.

The Wheeler’s station wagon was parked outside or Steve’s house, along with Joyce’s car. Stepping over Dustin and Will’s bikes that were left haphazardly on the lawn, you hesitated at the front door. You never knocked, not when Steve’s parents were out of town.

But now, you weren’t sure what to do. You still felt like you were going to throw up and the red door blurred in front of you, your breath quickening. You could hear familiar voices inside, conversations and debates and the microwave beeping in the kitchen, the smell of pizza rolls reminding you of the lurching wave in your stomach.

You opened the door, immediately assaulted with the kind of chaos you’d grown accustomed to in the past year. Too much chatter, voices overlapping and a living room table full of empty soda cans and hand drawn maps and blueprints. El was on the couch with Mike and Lucas, a packet of hot Cheetos levitating above Dustin’s head across the room, just out of his reach.

Nancy was sitting on the stairs, barely looking up from the printed papers of god knows what as she greeted you with a distracted hello. Hopper was at the table in the kitchen, sitting with Jonathan as they spoke about the last crawl and the lack of findings. Robin was pulling popcorn out of the microwave, Joyce was pouring a cup of coffee and Steve—

Steve wasn’t there.

“Hi, sweetie,” Joyce smiled warmly at you as you stepped into the kitchen, scanning the space once more for the boy, as if you’d missed him, as if he was hiding in the fridge. “Coffee? I’ve just made a new po— are you okay?”

Joyce was in front of you, frowning with motherly concern and she placed the back of her hand on your forehead. You couldn’t help but flinch.

“Are you sick? You look like—”

Robin was staring. Hopper had looked up, his brow creased like Joyce’s.

Your tongue felt too big in your mouth and swallowing was a behemoth task. Your throat was thick, your mouth sticky, but you managed, “where’s Steve?”

Everyone in the room exchanged looks, not that you noticed. The patterned tiles behind the Harrington’s cooker was blurring, the colours swimming into the walls, leaning onto the counters. Your chest was heaving, your throat too tight, too thick. You couldn’t breathe.

“He’s, uh, he’s upstairs,” Robin answered softly, moving from where she had been leaning against the counter, as if to approach you. “Do you want me to go get him?”

You shook your head, the movement jerky and out of sorts. You should’ve replied. You should’ve said thank you. You should’ve tried to pretend you were okay but instead you just walked out of the room and stepped over Nancy on the stairs, not aware of the whispers, the looks, the worry.

Steve’s bedroom door was ajar, as was the one to his small en-suite. The sink was running, the sound of your boyfriend muttering to himself escaping through the crack. His room looked different to how it did when you first met him, the space lacking its personal belongings, his favourite pillow. Most of it was in your apartment, small trinkets, his radio and favourite cassettes, most of his clothes, a few framed photos. It still smelled like him though, like his cologne and fabric softener, the deodorant he always used.

It made the tears that had lingered in the corners of your eyes finally spill over; hot and fat and wet over your cheeks, salt leaking into the seam of your wobbling lip. You sucked in a breath that was shuddering and Steve stepped out, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.

“Oh, hey babe, I didn’t hear you come in.” He wasn’t looking at you yet, too busy smoothing down the front of his shirt, a frown pulling at his brows. “Henderson spilled a damn soda on me, had to come change. How’d med check g— babe?”

Oh god, you couldn’t. You couldn’t tell him. How were you supposed to tell him?

Steve was in front of you, hands coming to cradle your elbows and he looked so worried, he looked overwhelmed with concern. He bent down just a little, so he could meet your gaze with his own and he looked so frightened it made your breath hiccup, the sound getting stuck in your throat and you were sobbing now, openly, heartwrenchingly.

“Baby, what’s wrong.” It was barely a question. Steve demanded it in the softest way, in the most gentle way. Quiet in his worry, frenzied in the way he looked at you. His eyes spent too long searching every inch of you, as if he could sense the hurt, as if he could diagnose the injury. “Baby, you’re scaring me. You hurt? Are you sick? Wha—”

You shook your head, feeling like it was a lie. You felt sick. But you weren’t ill. Not really.

Steve was blurry now, a streak of colours in front of you, a mosaic of concern and you couldn’t stop the tears, not even when the boy’s big hands reached up to cradle your face, thumbs doing their best to wipe away the tracks on your hot cheeks. Strands of your hair stuck to them and your once cold hands were now throbbing from the heat inside, the tips of them stinging. You felt messy, everything felt messy.

You stepped back, hiccuping still, you hands pulling clumsily at your jacket, the zip catching as you whimpered and you wrestled off the offending material, hoping that without it, you could breathe a little easier.

You couldn’t.

Steve looked desperate, hands still outstretched for you. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart, please, c’mere. You gotta breathe, what’s going on?”

You bit down on your lip so hard you tasted blood, tart and metallic. You met Steve’s gaze and sucked in a breath, filling your lungs as if you’d just spent the last hour underwater.

You felt like you had.

Like you were in too deep.

Like you were drowning.

“I’m pregnant,” you whispered.

The room felt too big all of a sudden, but your admission filled the space. Big, booming words, painted in bright red across the walls, your whisper bouncing around the floor, hurtling against the furniture, wrecking everything in its path.

No one moved, but it felt like the world was tipping over.

“Oh,” Steve uttered, stepping back awkwardly until his back met his dressers. The trinkets atop it swayed and clattered, Steve’s hands catching the edge of the wood as he braced himself. “Fuck.” He swallowed roughly, his face stricken. “I thought— we— we were careful? We were being safe.”

Steve looked how you felt, like he’d joined you on the bottom of the ocean, sinking downdowndown until he was drowning right there beside you. The company did nothing to ease your heavy chest.

Your voice was hoarse when you responded, your breath catching in your throat between each word. “We were. It just… it doesn’t always—”

“Work,” Steve finished for you. He dragged a hand down his face and looked at you, his lips parted and his eyes wild. “Fuck, baby…”

You were sobbing again, openly, wildly. You crumpled entirely, dropping to your haunches before you sagged to the floor, your face in your hands, hot and wet. Steve caught you, moving to lean against the bottom of his bed and he gathered you into his arms, pulling at you until you were in his lap, a mess of his limbs and your own as he wrapped you up in himself.

He figured if he held you tight enough, maybe he could save you from falling apart. But as your shoulders shook and your breath came out in wrenching gasps, Steve wondered if he was too late.

Your tears soaked his fresh shirt, a wet patch he felt through to his chest and he held you tight, his nose pressed into your hair as he rocked the both of you in whatever way he could from the uncomfortable position you were in. He whispered to you the whole time; soft, timid affirmations that you barely heard, his own voice cracking between each word.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, baby, it’ll be okay, I swear.”

Because being twenty something and almost-sharing a one bed apartment was one thing whilst young and pregnant. It was entirely another problem to attempt that whilst young, pregnant and living in a town where monsters were real.

—————

You only moved from Steve’s lap when your stomach finally gave in. The situation, your emotions, the tears you’d shed giving way to the churning that had been happening inside you since the doctor had returned from the lab with your stupid pot of pee and a stick in her hands.

You leapt from Steve’s lap, ignoring the way he called after you in worry, stumbling against the doorframe as you shoved your way inside of the bathroom. You didn’t even manage to close the door, your hands grasping the cold porcelain of the sink before you could reach the toilet bowl and you stomach emptied itself of what little breakfast it had had.

Shoulders heaving, you wretched and spat as tears rolled down your face all over again, your skin too hot, bile coating your tongue and you wanted to sleep, you wanted to close your eyes and forget.

Big hands found you, skimming over your back and gathering your hair, holding it for you as another pathetic heave shuddered through your body but you were empty. Done.

You shook as you accepted the towel and bottle Steve had grabbed from his bedside. His stare was on you the entire time you swished the lukewarm water around your mouth, spitting it out and down the sink as the tap washed everything away. Sitting on the edge of the toilet seat, Steve bent down to your level, his hands on your knees.

His face was pale, his eyes wide. “Is that..? Was that like, was that because of,” his gaze dropped to your stomach, panicked, “or is it just, like, I—”

Morning sickness. Pregnancy symptoms. That was what he was trying to say. Your stomach threatened to curdle again but you shook your head.

“Uh, no. No, I just… I don’t know.” You sniffed, blinking against the too bright light. Everything felt jarring, off kilter. Not real. “I’m six weeks.”

“Oh.”

“So, I don’t even know… I don’t know if I’d be feeling… anything yet? Fuck, I don’t know.” You swiped at your face, meanly, uncaring, wishing away the tears that wouldn’t stop falling. “I don’t know what to do, Steve.” Your voice was tiny, childlike in its softness and your face crumpled once again, cheeks hot with too emotion, throat raw with it all.

“Heyheyhey,” Steve soothed, pulling you into his chest. One hand clasped the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, the other holding your hip. You felt like he was holding you together. “We do whatever you wanna do, alright?” Steve swallowed tightly, his voice hoarse, scared, reverent, hopeful, terrified. “What do you wanna do? What can I do right now, huh? I wanna help, honey, let me help, yeah?”

So you let Steve guide you to his bed, the mattress much softer and bigger and comfier than the one you shared with him in your shitty apartment. You let him tuck you into his sheets, let him drag your shoes from your still cold feet and he let them tumble down somewhere near his old desk. He climbed in beside you at your quiet request, curling around your frame until his knees were tucked into the bend behind your own and he lay with tou on the same pillow until the sun set and the light in the room turned from yellow to pink to lavender to blue.

He held you until your breathing evened out, until it stopped hitching and hiccuping and holding itself in your throat. He held you until you shoulders stopped shaking and your eyes closed and your lips parted softly with a sigh of release.

Steve moved to kiss you, to press his lips to where he could reach. Your head, your temple, your shoulder, your neck. He pushed kiss after kiss to those spots, his eyes glassy in the navy darkness, shining in what little light was left. It was only then did he venture downstairs into the kitchen. Nancy was gone and so were the kids, the house a lot quieter without the youngest of them there to bicker about the last pizza roll.

Hopper, Joyce and Robin sat at the kitchen table, a place he rarely saw anyone he loved sit at, but with his parents out of town, there was a lot more room for family. Jonathan was refilling the coffee jug when he slipped into the kitchen, his entire body tense and tight and ready for whatever it was that was about to happen—

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she,” Joyce spoke from her seat, hands clasped around a lukewarm mug and if Steve had ever felt naive enough to think that your bombshell news wasn’t as big a problem as he’d initially thought, Joyce’s facial expression made him think otherwise.

It wasn’t a question, it was a woman's intuition. Steve’s mouth went dry, his shoulders sagged.

He didn’t speak.

Everyone stared.

Everyone waited.

Steve nodded.