#dad!steve

Hazel hiccups on another sob. Her face glows blotchy red, curls plastered to her cheeks in sticky loops. She glares at Sparkles—her once-beloved unicorn plushie, now lying face-down on the rug like a murder victim—and grabs it again only to hurl it overhead with all the rage her tiny body can muster.  

Sparkles hits the arm of the couch with a sad thwump before slinking to the floor.

“Hey, hey,” Steve murmurs gently, sitting cross-legged on the floor because the book also told him that being at eye level helps.     

It does not appear to be helping.

“Careful, Hazey. Sparkles didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mistake. Big mistake.

Hazel whirls toward him, face crumpling in righteous fury: how dare he speak? Steve can see the meltdown gathering like a storm front; it's a Big One.

He knows all the signs by heart: trembling lip, puffed cheeks, tiny fists curling tight-tight-tight like popcorn kernels ready to pop.

Then the shriek hits.

A full-body, glass-rattling howl. She grabs the nearest toy, a plastic block this time, and flings it blindly. It ricochets off the coffee table and clatters across the hardwood.

Steve winces. “Hazey, sweetheart…” He reaches out with a cautious hand, inching closer on his knees, joints creaking in protest. “Mommy’s gonna be home soon, okay? Maybe we can—”

“NO!” She shrieks in despair, dropping to her butt. When he tries to reach for her, she scrambles backward on her hands, feet kicking wildly.

“No! Don’t wan’ you! Wan’ Mommy! MOMMY!”

Steve goes utterly still.

And it isn’t the volume that stops him. It isn’t the block still spinning on the floor, or the cracked plea for Mommy.

It’s the plain, simple truth from the mouth of a two-year-old who doesn’t have the language to soften it:

I don’t want you.

Something inside his chest goes strangely quiet.

His outstretched hand hovers there for a moment longer, before he lets it fall to his side. He doesn’t reach for her again.  

He reaches for his phone instead, thumbs stiff as he types out a message he hates needing to send.

Your reply pops up within seconds: omw!! 5 mins

He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back.

The relief hits him so hard it stings.  

He despises himself for feeling it. ✿ By the time he hears your car in the driveway, the living room looks like a fairytale war zone.

Marker caps scattered like plastic shrapnel. Sparkles’ felt tail, ripped clean off its glittery rump. Three abandoned juice cups and a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of apple slices leading from the couch all the way to the hallway.

Hazel goes stock-still the moment she hears the jingle of keys.

“Mommy?”  

Then she bolts.

Tiny feet slap across the hardwood: fast, faster, too fast. Steve’s heart squeezes in panic; she just learned to run without falling every five steps. He opens his mouth to warn her—careful, baby, slow down—but she’s already launching herself at you the second you step inside.

She slams into your thigh so hard you stumble.

You laugh in surprise, until you hear the shaky hiccups she’s burying in your jeans.

“Oh, Hazey,” you coo, voice soft, already kneeling. You smooth her sweaty curls back, wiping tears and toddler-snot with gentle, practiced hands. Hazel clings like a barnacle, fists curled tight in your coat.

Steve stands a few feet away, silent.

Hands braced on his hips. Shoulders caved inward.  

He watches you sway Hazel in your arms, rubbing her back and murmuring softly into her hair. Watches the way she calms almost instantly, her breaths leveling out like someone turned off an alarm inside her. She even lets out a soft giggle when your fingers skitter across her tummy.

When you look up, he manages something close to a smile.

“See?” he shrugs. “What’d I tell ya? Mom’s home.” ✿ Hazel’s terrible twos have been... difficult.

Big feelings with no brakes. Velcro attachment one second, volcanic eruptions the next. A tiny body playing host to emotions too large for its frame.

You expected the chaos. You expected the meltdowns.

You knew this stage to be rough.

You didn’t realize how much rougher it’d be on him.

Because for Steve, it’s not the tantrums themselves.

It’s the echoes.  

It’s the way they scrape against old bruises. Ones he never puts words to.

The way “I don’t want you” lands in a place no parenting book could’ve ever warned him about. ✿ Later—after dinner (which Hazel ate glued to your side), after bath time (which Steve handled despite her screaming bloody murder), after she finally starfished across her bed and conked out in five seconds flat—

Steve all but collapses onto the couch.

Or rather, onto you.

He melts into your side like he’s trying to hide inside you. Face pressed into your shirt, arms tight around your back.

He hasn’t said a word in ten minutes.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing, hoping he’ll drift a little.

Until you hear it.

A tiny, wet sniff.

“Baby?” you whisper.

He doesn’t lift his head. Instead, his shoulders tremble—a small, shuddering exhale that rattles right through both of you.

“Oh, honey…” You shift under him so you can cup his jaw. He dips away, resisting, but you follow gently until he lets you tilt his face up.

When he does, it just about breaks you.

It almost hurts to look at him. Red-rimmed eyes, lashes clumped from unshed tears. Lips pinched like he’s holding everything in by sheer force of will.

For a moment, you’re unsure of what to say.

Steve doesn’t cry often. You’ve seen him tear up at the big moments: Hazel’s birth, her first steps, the first time you dropped her off at daycare and had to switch seats with him in the parking lot because his hands were shaking over the wheel.

But never like this.

Never this quietly broken.

The second he realizes you’ve seen the tears, he flinches. Tries to pull away.

“Steve,” you murmur, keeping him close with a steady hand under his chin. “Talk to me.”

He snorts faintly. “’S nothing.”

“Is it?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Steve...”

“Really, I’m fine.”

“Is this about Hazel?”

His eyes flick away.  

You cradle his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the dampness under his eyes. “Baby. Look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he does.

“She screamed when I picked her up,” he whispers after a while, voice thick. “Like I was hurting her.”

“Oh, Steve…” You frown, stroking his cheek.  

“I know she didn’t mean it. But she—god, she looked at me like I was… like she didn’t want me anywhere near her.”

Your heart squeezes tight. “Sweetheart, she was just overwhelmed. Big feelings in a tiny body, remember?”

“No, I get that. I do. She just... she only wanted you. All day. Every time I tried to help, she wanted to get away from me.”

“She’s two,” you remind him softly. “Kids latch onto one parent sometimes. It doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”

But he shakes his head, jaw clenching. His breath stutters on his next inhale. “But what if it’s always like that? What if she always—”

He cuts himself off.

But you know the ending.

The thought he keeps locked inside.

Because you know him.

You know this man.

You know his boundless heart, his unshakeable loyalty. The way he loves with every part of himself because he never learned how to love halfway.

You know the way he pours himself into parenthood, trying to fill the gaps; warm where they were cold, present where they were absent.

This man who tries so hard. Who loves so big.

Who still keeps a small child inside him waiting for a different father than the one he got.

You know the shadowed places he tries to ignore. The lingering belief that love is conditional, that affection can be revoked. That a single mistake can make you unwanted.

And you know what’s sitting there, right now, under the exhaustion, the shame, the guilt, the sting of suddenly being the “least favorite” parent after two years of nothing but quiet, precious routines that built their little world together.

Two years of pillow forts in the living room, of bath-time bubbles and silly, made-up songs. Of YouTube tutorials watched at midnight so he could master pigtails soft enough not to tug. Of butterfly clips lined up on the kitchen table because he couldn’t wait to put them in her hair. Two years of her always reaching for him first—asking daddy for juice, showing daddy her latest scribbles, insisting daddy be the one to zip her coat, babbling “dad-ee” and crawling into his lap before she could even stand.

Two years of Hazel calling for him, wanting him, choosing him.

And you know there's a certain ache stitched through every moment of that. A voice that whispers to him, even on his best days.

It’s fear.     

Fear that he’ll fail her the same way he was failed.

Fear that these first few moments of rejection are an omen.

Fear that he’ll always be his father’s son.

You cup his face with both hands, brushing your thumbs along his cheekbones.

“Steve. You are the safest person in that little girl’s world.”

He shakes his head weakly. “She was terrified without you.”

“She wasn’t scared of you, baby. She was overwhelmed. And kids save their biggest feelings for the parent they feel safest with, remember?”

He lets out a hollow huff. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Mm, and what else did the book say?”

“That... phases end.”

“And?”

“That tantrums aren’t personal,” he sighs. “Even when they feel really damn personal.”

You smile. “There it is.”

He leans into your touch, letting his eyes slip shut.

“Steve,” you whisper, brushing his hair back, “Hazel adores you.”

He remains quiet. So you keep going.

“She asks about you all day. Every time you leave for work, she walks around the house going, ‘Where’d Daddy go?’ And when I try to do her hair? She hates it. Says I’m not ‘gentle-gentle’ like you.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, just slightly.

“And she refuses to eat the pancakes I make because—”

“—because you forget the heart,” he nods, a tiny laugh in his breath. “Blueberries go in a heart.”

“Exactly.” You press a kiss to his cheek. “See? You’re her person. Today was just a storm. Storms pass.”     

He exhales, some of the heaviness draining from his shoulders.

Not all of it. Not the oldest parts. But enough.

You hold his gaze as you whisper this next part, hoping it settles deep, sink into the cracks where it’s needed most.

“Steve Harrington. You are an incredible dad. Hazel is so lucky to have you.”

This time, his eyes soften fully. A real smile breaks through.

You know he hears you.

You also know he doesn’t fully believe it. Not yet.

Not after a lifetime of doubt. After years of fearing he might turn into the people who raised him.

But he’s trying. God, he’s trying.

And it’s exactly why today cut him so deeply.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs, arms winding around you as he pulls you close. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” you whisper.

The two of you sit like that for a long moment. Breathing together, wrapped up in the quiet hum of the house.  

Eventually, Steve shifts.

Just a tilt of his head at first.

Then slow, lingering kisses along your throat.

His wordless way of asking for comfort. Of seeking reassurance the only way he knows how when his heart is this bruised.

“Missed you,” he breathes, lips brushing your jaw. “All day.”

“I was gone for five hours,” you whisper, smiling.

“Felt longer.” His palms are warm as they trail over your shoulders, your arms, lingering at your wrists before sliding to your sides. One hand settles on your hip, the other slips between your knees to nudge them apart.  

“Baby,” you whisper, brow furrowing as he starts to lower himself off the couch, trailing kisses down your stomach. “You need sleep.”

“Later,” he mumbles, lips brushing your navel, the soft inside of your thigh. “Just let me do this first.”

“Steve…”

He looks up at you, eyes liquid-soft, vulnerability still lingering like a bruise.

“I don’t wanna think for a minute,” he whispers. “Just want to take care of you.” His hands slip under your shirt, tender and quietly desperate. “Need to take care of my girl.”

You feel it all in his touch. The guilt. The doubt. The need to feel capable. Wanted.

“Honey....” you breathe, chest aching for him. “I... okay. But only for a bit.”

He grins into your thigh, pressing another kiss there.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises.

You don’t bother answering, because you know damn well he won’t be rushing anything. ✿ “Daddy? Daddy, wake up.”

A tiny voice cuts through the warm fog of sleep. It seems your early riser is up before the rest of the world, again.

Beside you, Steve stirs, voice sleep-rough and panicked. “Mm—wha? Hazel? You okay?”

You keep your eyes closed, smiling into the pillow. Hazel doesn’t sound distressed. She sounds… determined.

Dangerously determined.

“Come wif’ me,” she demands, voice muffled by the blankets as she tries to drag them off Steve.

“Okay, honey, hang on...”

“Why you whisper?” she asks loudly.

“’Cause Mommy’s sleeping, baby.”

Hazel gasps. “Oh! ‘Kay. I do whisper,” she announces proudly. Then, whisper-yelling at a volume that could wake the dead: “LOOK! HAZEL DO WHISPER!”

You bite back a laugh into the pillow.

Steve’s laugh is muffled as he pulls a shirt over his head.

“Daddy! Come!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming… gentle with the door, please. Good girl.”

The door closes softly. Then, two seconds later:

Pitter-patter-pitter-patter—

A pair of tiny feet slaps down the hall at full velocity; the unmistakable zoomies of a toddler on a mission.

A chair scrapes downstairs. Something metallic clatters. Then Steve’s frantic, “No, no, Hazel—gentle, gentle—can Daddy—oh my god—”

You crack one eye open.

This should be good. ✿ It’s worse.

It’s so much worse.

The kitchen looks like it’s been hit by a blizzard. White powder covers the counters, the stools, the floor, the ceiling. It floats in the air, too, drifting downward in a foggy haze.

And in the eye of the storm stands your daughter.

She’s coated head to toe like a powdered donut. Your husband is… only marginally better.

Both heads snap toward you when you enter.

“Mommy! No! No look!” Hazel squeaks, throwing her arms out protectively over the mess.

You slap a hand over your eyes. “Ah! Okay! I didn’t see anything!”

A beat.

“’Kay, Mommy! You look now!”

You peek.

Hazel bounces proudly next to… something. A soggy, brownish mound you suspect was meant to be a banana muffin, along with mangled fruit slices (hearts?) and a mountain of sprinkles.   

“Make you cake!” she beams. “’Nana cake. I make it. Daddy help.”

“For me?” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest.

Hazel nods so hard she sends a fresh puff of flour into the air, which sparkles as it catches the early-morning light.

You scoop her up, peppering her face with loud kisses. “I love it! Thank you, baby.”

Across the counter, Steve leans against the cabinets with his arms crossed, watching the two of you with a quiet smile.

That smile. The slow, tender one that creases the corners of his eyes and softens everything inside you.

Your gaze lingers on him. Tracing the warm honey-brown of his eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw, the love etched into every line of his expression, every inch of his posture. It’s all so easy to read with him.

There’s nothing more profound than being loved by this man.

The man whose love is easy where his childhood wasn’t. Who fears he’ll never be enough, yet pours himself into fatherhood like it’s the only thing he was built for. The man who chose a lifetime with you, of shared mornings like this, of messes he never got to make as a kid.  

You’re still watching him when Hazel starts wriggling impatiently in your arms. Her hands shoot out toward Steve, fingers grabbing at the air.

As soon as you set her down, she toddles straight to his leg, climbing it with the ferocity of a tiny koala.

He huffs a laugh and lifts her onto his hip.

The second she’s at eye-level, Hazel grabs his cheeks with both hands and squishes them together. Then plants the wettest, loudest kiss imaginable, right on his nose.

A big, sloppy “MUAH!”

Steve sputters dramatically, playing it up for Hazel as she bursts into a fit of giggles.

With a delighted, high-pitched squeal, she flings her whole body around him, soft, squishy arms wrapping around his neck, burying her face in the warm hollow beneath his jaw.

Then, with her cheek smushed against his shoulder, voice soft and muffled and completely unprompted, she murmurs:

“Love you, Daddy.”

Steve goes utterly still.  

You see it happen in real time, the way those three words slip under his ribs. His whole body freezes, one hand suspended mid–pat on her back. His breath stops halfway, caught in his chest.

He blinks once, then again, a faint, stunned frown pulling at his brows like he’s trying to replay the sound in his head.

Hazel doesn’t notice; she just curls in tighter, tiny fingers hooked in his shirt.

Steve’s throat works around a swallow.

Then he dips down, pressing a soft, careful kiss on the crown of her head.

“I love you too, angel,” he whispers. “So, so much.”

Your chest feels too small for the feeling that rises there.

At the sight of your husband standing in your flour-dusted kitchen, swaying your daughter in his arms, her tiny fingers fisted in the collar of his shirt. He’s rubbing slow circles on her back, the same way he’s been doing since she was the size of a football. You watch as his lashes flutter in rapid, uneven blinks, his head tipping toward the ceiling as the corners of his eyes start to shine.

Hazel makes a content little hum, patting his cheek with her flour-coated hand. Then, completely unaware of the emotional bomb she just dropped, spots a whisk behind him and chirps that she wants down. 

Steve lets out a watery laugh, shaking his head, and gently sets her on her feet. She immediately toddles off toward her step stool, babbling to herself about “boo-bay pamcakes” and "Hazey mix now!" and “Sparkles? Where Sparkles?”

Steve stands perfectly still, watching her go.

Lips quivering. Eyes soft. Still tired, but brighter now. Clearer.

Like hearing those three tiny words rinsed out a lifetime of doubt.

You step beside him and wipe a patch of flour off his cheek. It’s in the shape of Hazel’s handprint.

Steve doesn’t move.

“She sneezed while holding the flour bag,” he murmurs, voice distant and stunned.

You smile. “I can see that.”

Before you can say more, he pivots, suddenly drawing you into him. He pulls you right into his chest, hand cupping the back of your head, face tucked into your hair.

Behind you, Hazel is singing to Sparkles. It’s the silly feel-better song Steve made up weeks ago when she was sick. She chirps the garbled toddler version, every syllable out of tune and perfect.

Steve’s voice is shaky when he whispers next to your ear:

“That's the first time she’s ever said that.”

“Yeah,” you smile into his shirt. “It was.”

“She…” his voice cracks softly. “She said I love you.”

You pull back just enough to see his face.

“She said, ‘I love you, daddy,’” you clarify gently.

His brows knit and then lift, relief and joy and disbelief poured into a breathless laugh as he leans in. His kiss is a quiet thank-you pressed to your lips, full of everything he can’t put into words.

When he pulls back, he clears his throat, swiping a finger under one eye. “Guess I was being a little dramatic last night, huh?”

You shake your head, thumb brushing over his cheek. “There’s nothing dramatic about wanting to be a good dad, Steve. But you don’t have to second-guess yourself. You’re her favorite person. Her safe place. Nothing about one bad day could ever undo that.”

He huffs a laugh, still shaken as he pulls you in for another kiss. You sink into him, hands slipping into his hair, feeling the soft curve of his smile against your lips—

“MIX! MIX! MIIIX!!” Hazel’s triumphant shriek cuts right through the moment.

Steve lowers his forehead to yours, sighing defeatedly. “We should... probably save the kitchen.”

“Yep.”

“Before she—”

A wet splat answers for him.

“OOPS!”  

Steve’s sigh cracks into a laugh. You laugh with him, pressing one last lingering kiss to his lips. “Go. Before she figures out how to turn on the stove.”

Still smiling, he jogs back into the chaos.

Hazel lights up the second she sees him, bouncing on her stool. “Daddy, LOOK! I MIX!”

Steve beams, wide enough to crinkle his whole face. “Yeah, baby. I see you. Daddy’s here.”

And he means it. Down to the very bone.

You turn back to the counter, wiping down the worst of the mess as you listen to Hazel babble away.

“Do boo-bays!”

“You want Daddy to do the blueberries?”

“Mhm!”

“Hmmm… what shape should I make them? Squares?”

“No!”

“Mmm... circles?”

“Noo!”

“Stars?”

“Nooo, Daddy!”

“Okay, okay, honey. Hearts, yeah?”

“Yeah! Hahts!”

You don’t need to turn around to picture it.

Hazel beaming her toothy, blueberry-stained smile. Steve watching her with that soft, honey-warm gaze, the one he keeps just for his girls.

Drifting through the kitchen, warm as sunlight suspended in flour dust, is love.

One that asks for nothing, keeps no count; just simply is.

“Alright, Hazey-bean. Hearts it is.”

Mia shuffles into Steve’s arms without a second thought, pressing her face into the space just beneath his collarbone as she recounts her nightmare. It’s muffled, sleepy toddler gibberish, and even Steve who is an expert in Mia’s language, can hardly understand what she’s saying. Still, Steve listens intently, his hand rubbing up and down the length of her back slowly, comfortingly. Only when Mia mumbles something about monsters does Steve freeze. It’s just for a millisecond, barely even noticeable, but his heart stops for a moment.

How can it not? After everything he’s been through, everything he’s experienced; the fact that he knows monsters are — or can be — real. This… this is not that, but that protective instinct of his doesn’t know that. He doesn’t let it show, the momentary panic, and continues rubbing his daughter’s back, a gentle press of his hand over her pajama shirt.

When she’s finally done with her story, Steve presses a kiss to the top of her head, “I’m sorry, love bug, that sounds so scary. Do you want to come sleep with mommy and daddy? You can sleep between us, safe and sound.”

“Yeah. Mommy, too,” she whispers, tiny fingers grasping Steve’s shirt as he scoops her up, lifting her onto his hip. “Daddy… blankie?”

“‘Course, baby, I got it.”

He bends to grab her blanket and her stuffed animal off of her bed, and drapes the blanket over her head to make her laugh after passing her the teddy bear. It works, quiet giggles coming from underneath the blanket as she scrambles to pull it off, “Daddy!”

“Oh, there you are!” Steve exclaims when she reappears, setting off another round of giggles, which melts his heart.

You’re awake by the time Steve bumps the bedroom door open again, and you sit up quickly, blinking hard a few times to adjust to the darkness, “Steve?”

Mia answers instead, “Mommy, we snuggle? I had bad dream ‘bout monsters.”

Your face flickers with understanding and you scoot over in to make room for your small family, “Yeah, baby. Let’s snuggle.”

Steve deposits his little girl into bed next to you carefully, blanket and all, before getting underneath the covers with you. You’ll definitely need a bigger bed — it’s a tight fit with the three of you, but it’s perfect for now. You get Mia onto her back between the two of you, one of your extra pillows under her head, blankets pulled up high. Steve rolls onto his side and you follow suit, facing your little girl and each other.

“We’re safe in here, okay, love bug?” Steve says softly, barely above a whisper. His eyes meet yours, and even in the darkness and without saying anything more, he knows what you’re thinking. The times you’d repeated the something similar to each other after the upside down. Curled up in bed, underneath covers and wrapped in each other’s arms, willing yourselves to believe you were safe. That the horrors had finally ended, that you could sleep peacefully next to one another.

“Okay, daddy.”

Mia accepts it easily and closes her eyes. You’re not far behind, hand finding Steve’s under the blankets, eyes slipping closed when your fingers intertwine.

Something inside of Steve pieces itself back together at that. At how innately she trusts him, how easily she believes everything will be okay, just because he said so. It makes it all worth it. Everything. Every scar on his body, every monster he’s killed, every horror he’s seen.

You chew your lip, hesitating, but Steve’s already shifting into action. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it loosely across your shoulder - not because he wants you covered, but because he knows you like the option. Then he shifts closer, arm stretched casually across the back of your chair, his body angled toward you.

His knee bumps yours beneath the table, grounding you, like a quiet promise: I’m right here. Anyone walking by gets nothing but Harrington back.

Amelia settles against you quickly, tiny fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, her soft little sigh warm against your skin. The cries fade to quiet, and relief washes through you… until you notice a man at the next table staring a second too long.

Steve catches it instantly. 

His eyes sharpen, jaw ticking as he locks onto the guy. “Problem?” His tone is low, calm enough that it doesn’t carry, but there’s steel underneath. The stranger blinks, mutters something you don't care to hear into his coffee, and looks away. 

Steve doesn’t. He waits, gaze steady and hard, until he’s sure the man won’t try again. Only then does he turn back to you—and the difference would give you whiplash, if you weren’t used to it.

That harsh glare melts into pure softness. He gives you that crooked smile—the one that makes him look boyish even now.

“See?” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles gently over Amelia’s tiny socked foot. She shifts slightly, lips still latched, a little fist pressed to her cheek, and Steve’s eyes soften like he’s never seen anything better. “Perfect. She’s happy. You’re amazing, you know that?”

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders slipping free at last. Steve feels it—he always does—and his hand finds yours, thumb tracing slow, steady circles over your skin. Then he leans in, brushing a stray hair behind your ear before pressing a kiss to your temple. He lingers there, long enough that your eyes sting.

“You don’t ever have to feel weird about this, okay? Not with me. Not with anyone. Feeding our kid is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.” It says a lot for everything the two of you have been through.

Amelia sighs contentedly against your chest, and Steve grins like he’s just won something huge. He glances between the two of you—your tired eyes, Amelia’s flushed little cheeks—and his smile softens into something that feels almost reverent. He squeezes your hand, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you.

“Best team in the world.”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice appeared behind you, warm, gentle. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

He slid in beside you, pretending to check the dishes even though he was clearly only there for you. He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Dizzy… nauseous… tired? Anything.”

You shrugged with a tired smile.

“A bit of everything,” you admitted. “This morning I got dizzy when I stood up too fast. But it passed. And… I’m okay. Just… nervous.”

Steve frowned, worried, though his eyes still shone with that affection he could never hide.

“If you need to sit, I’ll handle everything,” he said, already reaching for the knife to take it from you. “I’ll cook, serve, entertain everyone, dance if I have to.”

You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder.

“You’re not going to dance.”

“I’ll dance if the baby wants,” he replied quietly, almost like a secret he was proud of.

His words filled you with warmth. He glanced toward the living room, making sure no one was really paying attention.

“Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t want you pushing yourself. And…”

He paused, swallowing.

“When we say it… I want you calm. I want you to be happy. Not pressured.”

You looked at him, and for a moment, the noise around you disappeared.

“I am happy,” you said, “Scared… really scared. But happy.”

Steve smiled, the kind of smile that always seemed to promise that no matter what happened, he would still be there.

“Good,” he whispered, “Because I am too.”

From the living room, Dustin’s voice broke through:

“Hey! Is dinner ever going to be ready, or am I going to graduate again while I wait?”

You both laughed. Steve leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

“After we eat,” he murmured. “We’ll tell them after we eat.”

The table filled up in minutes.

Plates passing from hand to hand, glasses clinking, conversations overlapping; everything seemed to vibrate with young, bright happiness. The Wheelers, the Hendersons, the Sinclairs, the Byers — Hopper now engaged — everyone gathered around the table like time had never really passed.

Joyce helped Karen hand out bread, moving calmly around the dining room. Every so often, she glanced at the table, making sure no one was left without anything.

Ted was talking with Hopper off to the side, both leaning against the wall. They pretended to be completely focused on work or traffic, but now and then they looked at the kids and nodded, as if silently measuring how much they had grown.

Your mother was with the Sinclairs, laughing at something Mr. Sinclair had exaggerated wildly with his hands; Mrs. Sinclair added details, and the three of them shared the quiet laughter of people who had seen many years go by and could still be surprised.

When you approached the table, a conversation was already underway.

“I like this,” Mike started saying, “All of us together… without chaos.”

“Uh-huh, no chaos,” Robin muttered nearby with half a smile, “Totally normal. Absolutely relaxing.”

Steve looked at her from across the table.

“Hey, in our defense, this is the calmest it’s been in years.”

You sat between Max and Will. Steve was across from you, between Robin and Dustin, watching you without looking like he was watching you.

“This looks amazing,” Lucas said, serving himself potatoes. “This is going to make me forget the stress of moving.”

“Liar,” Max replied, rolling her eyes, “You’ll still be stressed. Just with a full stomach.”

You laughed.

“It’s so strange hearing you talk like that. I mean, I remember all of you when you were so little and… look at you now. College, projects… everything you dreamed about.”

Mike looked down, pretending indifference, but he smiled.

“We weren’t always this sure,” he murmured, “Sometimes it felt like nothing was going to work out.”

“But you tried,” you said softly, “And you kept trying, even when it was scary.”

Will nodded, with a small, shy smile.

“Having you around helped more than you think. For… all of us.”

Max leaned toward you.

“I used to listen when you came to visit me,” she said slowly, “When you talked about everything that could still happen if I woke up. I held on to that.”

Lucas toyed with his fork, hesitating.

“I never had an older sister,” he said, a little embarrassed, “but… you were the closest thing. And Dustin never complained about sharing.”

Your brother, hearing his name, grinned.

Steve raised his hand a little.

“Hey… what about me?”

Everyone turned to look at him, and Dustin leaned toward him, smiling with affection.

“We love you too, Steve.”

Then he looked at you, serious again.

“But she was taking care of us before you were cool.”

Steve stayed quiet for a second and looked at you, lifting his brows as he surrendered. You lifted your glass to hide the knot forming in your throat.

“The best part is seeing you here today,” you whispered, “Knowing all of it… was worth it.”

Will studied you with that quiet calm he always had.

“It sounds like you’re saying goodbye.”

You shook your head immediately.

“No. No goodbyes. I’m just… happy. Really happy. For you. For everything that’s coming.”

And it was true. But underneath that happiness, there was another one — softer, hidden. Sometimes your hand drifted back to your belly under the table.

Small gesture. Secret.

Steve noticed. He didn’t say anything. He just held your gaze for a second and smiled, like telling you silently that he was there.

The noise rose again.

Jonathan talked with Will about photography, Nancy discussed article ideas, Robin told a wildly exaggerated work story, Lucas and Dustin argued about who was visiting whom first.

Little by little, you began to notice it more clearly: every conversation was also a gentle goodbye. Paths opening in different directions. New cities. New houses. New routines. And still, all of you tied together by something that wouldn’t break.

“I guess, in the end, everyone has to follow their own path,” Max murmured, looking at her hands, “Even if it’s a little scary.”

“Yeah,” Will replied quietly, “But it doesn’t mean we stop belonging here.”

Your chest tightened.

Karen smiled from the other side of the table.

Families don’t fall apart because of distance, she said softly.

Your eyes filled with tears; as if the moment wasn’t emotional enough, pregnancy hormones had you on a roller coaster. Robin looked at you a second too long, suspecting something else was happening, but she didn’t ask. She just smiled.

Your plate was almost empty, and you remembered Steve’s words: after dinner.

The moment was getting closer… and everything was about to change.

You tried to focus on the conversation, the gestures, the warm murmur around the table, but every minute felt like a silent countdown. You could feel Steve close, calm on the outside, nervous on the inside, just like you.

Dessert showed up among laughter and jokes: cake, ice cream, a few spoons tapping against plates. Everyone kept talking, still excited, still dreaming.

Steve looked at you. You took a deep breath. And the two of you nodded, like some kind of unspoken agreement.

He set his spoon aside, straightened a little in his chair and cleared his throat gently.

At first, no one noticed. So he cleared his throat again, louder.

“Uh.”

Dustin looked up.

“You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Steve answered, “I just… need to say something.”

The conversations slowly faded, like lights dimming on a stage. Eyes began turning toward you both.

Nancy laced her fingers together, attentive. Robin watched him with curiosity. Jonathan went still, expectant. The rest of the kids looked confused.

Steve gave you a quick glance, almost asking for permission, and you nodded. He smiled… nervous, but steady.

“Well,” he began, “since we’re all here, together… and since this almost never happens without something weird ruining it…”

A few soft laughs broke out.

“…we wanted to take the chance to tell you that,” he looked at you again, gently, warmly, “we have something important to announce.”

Every gaze left your boyfriend and landed on you. You stood up and stepped to his side, where he wrapped an arm around your waist; you could feel his hand shaking.

“Is it bad or… good?” Nancy asked, her brow barely furrowed.

In the rush of the moment, you could only register a few reactions:

Jonathan crossed his arms, alert, as if bracing himself for whatever news might come. Will lowered his head a little, not scared, just focused; his fingers played with the edge of the plate, like he was trying to guess what was coming. Dustin barely breathed. Max, silent, stared at you, on edge.

Steve shook his head with a nervous smile. “No. Nothing like that. It’s something good. Something… big”

The silence grew thick, but not uncomfortable: expectant.

You felt your heart pound harder, the emotion rising like a wave. Steve suddenly seemed to lose his voice, like he might cry.

You spoke instead:

“What we want to tell you is that…” your voice trembled just a little “we’re having a baby.”

The words spilled into the air gently, almost sacred.

For a second, nobody spoke.

It was just a heartbeat suspended in the air…

But in the next one, every reaction burst out at once.

The kids moved first.

Max covered her mouth, eyes wide; Lucas blinked several times, like he had to process it before letting himself feel it; Mike let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding; Will smiled, small and shaky, like something inside him finally loosened.

Nancy came straight to you, a mix of wonder and tenderness in her eyes; Jonathan gave one of those quiet, sideways smiles that only show up when something truly matters. Robin looked at you, then at Steve, and suddenly her eyes shone like she’d been waiting —without knowing it— for news like this.

Then the adults came.

Karen was the first to stand, holding back a rush of emotion that looked ready to spill into tears; Ted tried to say something, but only managed an awkward nod. Joyce hugged you with a warmth that almost hurt; Hopper clenched his jaw, as joy sat in him in a strange but deep way. The Sinclairs smiled, proud, talking over each other. The Wheelers, the Byers —everyone seemed to fill the room with widening happiness.

Almost immediately, several people went over to your mother to congratulate her; she, emotional, confessed with soft laughter that she had known since the night before, but had kept the secret. Of course, knowing didn’t stop her from crying like everyone else.

And in the middle of it all… Dustin said nothing.

You had been watching him since you started talking, waiting for his reaction. He stayed still, eyes wide, looking first at your hand, then at Steve’s, then at your faces.

He blinked. Once.

Then again.

“For… real?”

His eyes lit up instantly. His chest rose, like the air wasn’t enough.

You nodded.

“Yes.”

And then he let out a breath that was half–laugh, half–sob, and stood up without thinking, circling the table to hug you.

He wrapped his arms around you gently, as if you were holding something fragile —as if he were already protecting someone.

“I’m going to be an uncle…” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re going to be a mom.”

You felt the burn of tears rise in your eyes.

Steve was watching with that vulnerable expression he only had for very few things. He cleared his throat again, softly.

“And…” he added, “there’s something else.”

All eyes turned back to him. Everyone’s —including your mother’s, who had no idea what he was about to say.

Steve slipped his hand into his pocket and the world seemed to grow small around you.

“We talked about it and… we want to do this right. We want the baby to grow up knowing we chose to take care of each other… to choose each other.”

His eyes filled, but they never left yours.

“We’re getting married.”

Emotion swept across the table like a silent wave.

Robin lowered her head, breathing deeply, steadying herself.

Jonathan looked down and Nancy finally let a tear fall, not even trying to hide it.

In the growing murmur, your mother brought a hand to her chest and, for a moment, her face went pale. Hopper reacted quickly, pulling a chair over and handing her a glass of water; she sat, laughing nervously.

“Sorry…” she murmured, “I knew about the baby… but this, no. It’s… it’s a lot for one day.”

The emotional laughter eased the tension.

And then Dustin stood up. He said nothing —just crossed the table, wrapped his arms around Steve and hugged him with unexpected strength, as if trying to hold all the years, all the fears, all the love at once.

You didn’t hear what he whispered, but whatever it was, that’s what broke Steve.

His hands clutched Dustin’s back and, for the first time, he let the tears fall without shame.

Nancy had already come to you, and you felt her hug you, catching you off guard:

“You both deserve this,” she said softly.

And even though Wheeler had never been sentimental, it was impossible for her not to cry.

You looked around: everyone was talking quietly, still emotional, but calm. Joyce sitting again, Hopper pouring water, someone collecting a plate, someone else passing napkins to wipe runaway tears. The table slowly drifted back to normal.

And still, you knew nothing was exactly the same.

You felt the sweet weight of that thought… and let the moment end on its own.

The gift boxes took up almost the entire living room.

Only a few days had passed since the wedding —flowers still drying in a vase, a pair of shoes forgotten near the couch— and yet the world already seemed to be pushing you toward whatever came next.

You leaned slowly against the backrest. Seven months. The weight in your belly was sweet but constant, and you could barely tell you were pregnant; sometimes you had to check that he —or she— was still there.

Steve came from the kitchen with two glasses of water.

“Here,” he handed you one first. “I don’t want you getting up every five minutes.”

“I’m not made of glass,” you muttered, though you smiled at him.

He sat beside you, close, his hand resting on your belly without even thinking.

On the floor, the opened boxes began to pile up. Plates, blankets, dishes, frames, envelopes with cards full of signatures and hearts. With every gift, a joke, a laugh, a “we’ll use this.”

Until a flatter box appeared, wrapped in simple paper.

You opened it.

Inside, there was a thick book, covered in soft fabric, with your name and Steve’s engraved on the cover.

You went quiet.

“What is it?” he asked, curious.

You opened it carefully.

The first page had a note written in big letters:

For you two, for when you build a home.

Underneath, you recognized Nancy’s handwriting.

You turned the page.

There were letters glued in carefully: envelopes, folded pages, some in blue ink, others typed. Each one had a name.

You read the first one.

Advice, well wishes, gratitude…

They were pure love, written down.

“Wow…” Steve whispered, leaning in with you, not caring that you could see him cry.

You turned another page.

Now there weren’t letters. There were photos.

You with Mike and Lucas in the Wheeler living room, you holding Dustin when his backpack still looked too big for him, you sitting beside Will with a notebook in your hands. Later, another you, a little older, laughing in the passenger seat of the BMW.

You recognized yourself in every one and felt the years hit you all at once, like someone had folded them, one over another.

You kept going.

Pictures of you and him in the early months: a melted ice cream, an empty movie theater, a party in the Henderson backyard. Your eyes on him. His on you.

At the end, another note.

Short.

It’s not that you finally have a family of your own.

It’s that the family you built… is just growing.

Your vision blurred.

You closed the book for a moment, pressing it to your chest.

Steve wrapped his arm around you, leaning closer.

“Imagine how beautiful this is going to look in our living room.”

He ran his hand along the cover, thoughtful. It seemed like the right time to finally tell you what had been on his mind for weeks.

“Sweetheart, about that…”

“Yes?”

“The houses I’ve been looking at… they’re not here.”

You blinked.

“What do you mean they’re not here?”

He swallowed.

“They’re… outside Hawkins. About an hour and a half away. A quiet neighborhood, close to an elementary school and a high school. There’s work. And the hospital is nearby —” he added, almost shyly “I thought about you. I thought about the baby.”

The silence hovered for a few seconds.

Hawkins.

Familiar streets. Familiar voices. The Wheelers’ table. The school bell. The bikes. The woods. The years.

Everything flashed through your mind at once.

And still, underneath the nostalgia, you felt something different: space. Air. The idea of starting over.

“You’d been thinking about this before,” you said softly.

Steve lowered his gaze, half–guilty.

“For a long time. But… I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t want you to feel like I was dragging you away from home.”

You looked at the book again.

The photos. The letters. Everything you had built there.

“Maybe,” you whispered, “we already did here what we were meant to do.”

He looked up.

“Really?”

You nodded, slowly.

“We don’t stop loving them just because we live far away. And we can’t… stay frozen just because we’re scared.”

You stroked your belly.

“This baby deserves to see more than Hawkins. And so do we.”

Steve let out the breath he’d been holding.

He laughed, nervous. His eyes shone.

“I found a house with huge trees out front.” his voice sounded almost like a kid’s. “It has a big window in the living room, which would give you light to read. I think you’re going to like it.”

You pictured it.

Not Hawkins.

Somewhere else. Another smell. Another morning sky.

And you, with him, with your little one. With a new life, complicated, but yours.

Suddenly, the baby gave a soft kick. You felt it. Steve did too.

You both stayed quiet for a few seconds, the book open on your laps, surrounded by boxes, paper, ribbons… and the clear feeling that, now, the future really was getting close.

The letters they wrote for the book.

Steve comes into your bedroom, sighing when he sees your backpack is open and empty on the floor by your bed, “Kid, even if you refuse to pack, you’ve still gotta go.”

“Why though?” You ask, and Steve braces himself for the conversation the two of you have every other Friday without fail.

“Because that’s the contact arrangement. I didn’t set them, I just have to follow them.”

“She only wanted every weekend to annoy you.”

“I know. And now she only has every other weekend so it could be worse. Now come on kid, let’s get that bag packed. If I don’t take you to your Mom’s I could get into trouble.”

You groan dramatically, standing up from your desk and stuffing clothes haphazardly into your bag. You scan your bookshelf, taking a long time to decide before picking out two and shoving them in as well, along with your Nintendo Switch. Steve watches with a sympathetic expression, knowing that you don’t want to go – but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He’d split up from your mother years ago, and contact arrangements had been a nightmare ever since. At first it had been agreed there’d be a 50:50 split. One week you’d spend with your Dad in the Avengers compound, the other you’d spend in your Mother’s apartment. That had lasted for a few years before you’d begged your Dad to just let you live with him all the time, telling him that going back and forth was driving you insane. Steve had applied for sole custody which had been denied, though contact with your mother had been reduced to every weekend, then eventually every other weekend.

Steve had initially thought the problem was solved, now that you had somewhere to officially call home. He knew that ferrying your stuff between his and your Mom’s place wasn’t working, you seemed permanently exhausted, and you were often late for school if staying with your Mom. It hadn’t taken long to realise the problem ran deeper than that though. You were miserable when you were at your Mom’s, even now you only had to see her every other weekend. It transpired that your Mom never did anything with you despite insisting on seeing you so often. You were left to fend for yourself, with her never offering to take you anywhere or actually spend any meaningful time with you. Annoyingly, if anything cropped up over your Mom’s weekend, she wouldn’t make any exceptions. A birthday party, any kind of celebration, club tournament, trip, vacation, your Mom didn’t care. As far as she was concerned it was her weekend and that was that.

Now you were getting older Steve could tell you were growing resentful and he was at a loss on what to do. Talking to your Mom would get him nowhere; his relationship with her had long broken down. His suggestions of you trying to talk to her and suggest activities also never lead to anything. ‘She’ll just say no. She won’t listen to me, she never does.’ Ultimately, it was your Mom’s weekend with you, the onus was on her to try and forge a relationship with you. All Steve could do was sympathise when you complained.

“Can’t I just stay here?” You whine as you both head down to Steve’s car. “It’s not like she’ll even notice that you haven’t dropped me off anyway.”

“I think she would notice kid,” Steve says, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Besides, I’ll be there Sunday lunchtime to pick you up. We can do something nice, whatever you want.”

“Can we go out for lunch? That sushi place that I like?”

“Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

You perk up a little but can’t help continuing, “I still don’t want to go to Mom’s.”

“I know, kid. But she’s still your Mom so you have to go every other weekend until you turn eighteen.”

“How come I don’t get a say?”

Steve sighs, not really sure how to answer that one, “I don’t know. Custody laws favour the parents I guess. Though it’s good that you keep in touch with your Mom, right? You wouldn’t want to not see her completely.”

“I guess not but I wish I could just go for one night. And not sleep there. Like, maybe I could see her for a couple of hours every other week. We could go out for dinner. That’d be nicer.”

Steve nods, “You know she loves you though, right? In her own way.” You shrug your shoulders and Steve sighs again. “Just try and have a good weekend.”

“I got invited to a sleepover tomorrow night and I didn’t even ask Mom ‘cos we both know what she would’ve said.”

“You can have your own sleepover next weekend if you want; you could have a couple of friends round. I’ll order in pizza or whatever you want.”

You cheer up a little at that, “Thanks Dad. I love you.”

“Love you too kiddo. Always,” Steve says.

You take out your phone, counting off every weekend you’re at your Mom’s for the rest of the year, and you groan, “Oh for- I’m going to be at hers over Christmas. It’s going to be so boring.”

“Maybe I can have a word with her and-”

“She didn’t even let me stay home for 4th of July, she’s not gonna let me stay home for Christmas,” You sulk.

Steve nods, understanding your point. The 4th of July had finally fallen on a Saturday so Tony, even though Steve had asked him not to, had organised a big party with fireworks to celebrate Independence Day but also Steve’s birthday. It was the talk of the entire compound; it was going to be the biggest celebration they’d had in ages with no missions coming up, and everyone was involved in the preparations. You’d realised it had fallen on your Mom’s weekend so you’d asked if you could skip a weekend. She’d said no. You’d asked if you could go to hers on Friday night, go to the compound for the celebrations, then came back on Sunday for a few hours. Still no. Steve had appealed himself, but your Mom had gone on a rant about how he was trying to damage your relationship with her. Nothing had been able to change her mind, and you’d sobbed the entire drive to your Mom’s house. The celebrations had gone ahead without you, and Steve knew you were still upset with your Mom for that. He was too - not having you there hadn't made it very enjoyable.

“I’m sorry kid,” Steve says. “But I’ll see what I can do about Christmas, alright? I promise.”

You sigh, and nod, turning your attention out the window. Steve glances at you, feeling guilty. He always does when he has to drop you off at your Mom’s, knowing that you don’t want to be there.

He pulls up outside your Mom’s apartment building and reaches over to give you a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Love you kid. Be good for your Mom, okay?”

You nod, climbing out of the car and swinging your bag onto your shoulder. He watches as you punch in the code for the building, then let yourself in. Steve stays there for a moment before pulling away from the curb, already counting down the hours until he can pick you up again. He’s glad the contact has been reduced to every other weekend, but seeing you so miserable once a fortnight is still difficult. Especially knowing he’s dropping you off somewhere you’ll be left to just get on with things. At thirteen he knows your self-care skills are good, but he still doesn’t like it. Independence should obviously be encouraged and he does his best, but you at least know he’s there to catch you if you fall whereas your Mom just isn’t. There’s nothing he can do though so he just drives home, reassured that you at least have your phone and can call him if there’s a problem.

Your first text arrives when Steve makes it back to the compound, followed by one every half-an-hour for the rest of the evening. He doesn’t mind – he knows you’re just bored. You send him a photo of you playing a new game on your Switch, sitting in your bedroom in your Mom’s house. He’s always struck by how basic your room is there – in the compound Steve can’t even remember what colour your bedroom walls are, they’re so covered in posters and photographs. Whilst your bedroom here is a physical representation of you and your personality, your bedroom at your Mom’s just looks like a spare room.

When he gets out the shower he finds another text from you complaining that you’re bored, and he texts back that your bedtime is coming up, and that hopefully tomorrow your Mom will suggest something the two of you can do together, even though he already knows she won’t. It breaks his heart to think of you in her apartment, hoping that she’ll finally pay you some attention, only to constantly be let down.

Your text messages die off and Steve figures you’ve gone to sleep. He can sometimes have a bit of a battle getting you to go to bed at 9:30PM on a school night, with lights off at 10PM, but at your Mom’s you go to bed on time, probably due to boredom. He stays up later, watching a film with Natasha and Sam, when his phone suddenly chimes.

‘Can you come and pick me up please? Me and Mom had an argument.’

Steve hesitates, knowing that your Mom won’t be happy but you’ve asked him to get you. When Steve became a Dad, the one thing he’d promised himself was that he’d always show up when you needed him, no matter where you were or what time it was. Although you usually text him complaints whenever you’re at your Mom’s, you’ve never once asked to be picked up early. Something pretty bad must’ve happened.

It takes Steve twenty minutes to get to your Mom’s apartment building. The moment his car pulls up outside, the door to the building opens and you come out, rushing to his car and throwing your bag into his backseat. Steve climbs out of the car, taking your arm, “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You wrap your arms around him, and he holds you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you cry, “I asked her about Christmas and she said no, that I have to go to hers. Then she made me feel guilty, saying she’d be alone but I don’t- I didn’t-”

“And that caused a row so bad that you needed me to pick you up early?”

“I just started saying all this stuff,” You sob into his chest. “About how she doesn’t care about me, that she only pulls this shit to get back at you, that it’s pathetic. I said I hated her and I think that shocked her and then she said- She said-”

You sob harder and Steve runs a hand up and down your back, so focused on your upset that he doesn’t have the heart to tell you off for swearing. “What did your Mom say, kiddo?”

“That she hates me too and she hates our weekends together too, that it’s boring, that she’d rather be out…” You hiccup between your sobs. “I don’t wanna see her anymore.”

Steve sighs, “Okay... Okay. I’ll figure this out. I’ll speak to Tony’s solicitor again, see what she says.”

“I’m literally not going, if you drop me off I’ll just runaway and-”

“Slow down,” Steve says. “Let’s take this one step at a time, okay?”

“I wanna go home,” You sniffle.

“Alright kiddo, let’s get you home then.”

“We’re broke!” You argue to Steve–your tone, however, would barely even work to convince yourself.

“I know, but we’re just not broke enough to afford this.” Steve’s index finger taps against thin paper right under the classified section. He’s grinning ear to ear, eyes sparkling like water on a sunny day.

A smile parts your lips, which matches the intensity of his. He can see the wheels turning in your mind. He knows that you’re thinking the exact same thing.

“I know it’s not the big one we dreamed about, but this campervan is literally the perfect size for us right now. And the price…I think we could swing it.”

Steve and you had been married for just under a year but had been sweethearts for much longer. Being with him made you feel whole, like he was a piece you never knew was missing. The two of you were trying to build a life and make it on your own. You both worked long hours and used the hard-earned cash to pay bills. Wedding money had even gone towards covering expenses rather than extras that could be enjoyed together. It was about time that you did something for yourselves, even if this hunk of junk would be the only thing to your name.

“Ok,” you finally say, watching Steve’s pupils grow wider. “Let’s do it!”

Steve only pauses his barrage of kisses long enough to dial the number in the paper and arrange to buy the used campervan.

The two of you planned a small camping trip almost right away. The vehicle allowed you and Steve to drive to a spot tucked away from life for a while. The dream of a Winnebago and a gaggle of children had always been something you shared. When you met Steve, you knew right away he would be the one. He had the biggest heart of anyone you had ever met: so much love to give despite how little of it he received growing up. It was only logical to think that one day the two of you would have a big family of your own to love and nurture. You wanted that future for yourself, but most importantly, you wanted to help Steve’s dreams come true, too.

“This was the best purchase we could have ever made.” You smile up at the stars twinkling overhead.

Steve reaches for your hand that lies between you on the checkered blanket. His fingers thread through yours, warm like the campfire that crackles nearby. “The best,” he agrees, turning his head to lovingly gaze at you.

You shift to peer back at him, a smile creasing your lips. “Someday, we’ll fill it with those little nuggets we’ve always talked about.”

Steve’s cheeks tint, rosy and brimming with affection. “Yeah?”

You bring your joined hands up to your lips, eyes never leaving his. “Yeah. A whole brood.”

A laugh ripples through the dark forest that surrounds you. Steve’s nose scrunches, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “A whole brood,” he echoes before leaning over top you and capturing your lips in a sweet kiss.

Nine months, several spare pennies saved, and a whole lot of happy tears later, you give birth to a healthy baby girl. Steve bawled more than the newborn, and promises of many camping trips were whispered to the infant as she lay in your arms.

Except, not long after your daughter was born, complications developed. The moments that followed were a blur of doctors and nurses, and Steve frantically asking them what was going on. The last thing you remember was him gripping your hand with a desperation you’ve never seen from him and a pleading voice saying, “I love you.”

When you woke up, your body ached, but it was the news you were given that caused the worst pain. Though your life was not in danger, your first child would be your last. It felt like the world was crumbling; the only thing keeping you from falling away was Steve’s hand intertwined with yours. Every dream you and Steve had for the future had been snatched away in the blink of an eye.

Your body tries to pull you into sleep, but the news you had been delivered keeps shaking you back awake.

Steve is by your hospital bed, gently rocking your daughter in his arms. He looks at her like she hung the moon, and your stomach twists, knowing that you’ll never be able to give him the big family he’s always longed for.

He must notice you stir and the sorrow that’s written across your features, because he looks up from the tiny bundle in his arms with furrowed brows and a heavy heart. “Are you okay, babe?”

Your throat thickens, and tears well up along your lashes.

“Hey, hey! What’s wrong?” His voice is a soothing whisper. He leans forward as much as he can without disturbing the little one's slumber.

You pinch your lips together, looking away ashamed. The IV line tugs at your hand while you drag it through your messy hair.

Seeing you become even more distraught, Steve pleads, “Look at me, please, baby. Tell me what’s wrong.”

So, you do. The tears can no longer be held back, and the salt stings your cheeks as they roll freely. “I – I can’t have children again.”

Steve’s face falls. If he wasn’t holding his daughter, he’d be wrapping his arms tightly around you. “I know, but it’s going to be okay. The doctors said you’re healthy, and that’s what matters.” His reassurance is delivered in good faith but still doesn’t soothe the guilt you feel.

“No, Steve,” you say a little firmer, locking onto his gaze. “I cannot have kids ever again.”

He nods at your words. “I know it’s upsetting and really tough to wrap your head around right now, but–”

“Steve,” you cut him off, voice shaky, afraid he’s just saying all this to put you at ease. Moisture now soaks into your hospital gown. The realization that you’ve ended Steve’s dream swallows you whole. “If I can’t have more children, you’ll never get to be a dad again. There’s no Winnebago-full! There’s no brood!”

Steve’s hazel eyes widen and his shoulders sag as the realization dawns on him. “No. Oh, baby, no!” Now tears rim his eyes. “Please don’t think like that. Look,” a hand comes up to carefully stroke back the dainty wisps of dark hair on your daughter’s head. Your gaze settles on the tiny girl in his arms. “See this?” he begins, lifting a small hand with his one finger. “Five perfect fingers,” his hand delicately moves down to your daughter’s little foot, “and five perfect toes.” Steve glances up at you. “She might never get to be a big sister, but she will never be alone. She’s got us,” he offers you a tender smile that dimples his cheeks. “And I got you. That’s more than I could ever ask for. More than I ever imagined was possible for me.”

The love held in Steve’s words washes over you, turning the sad tears into happy ones.

“Our little family is perfect just the way it is,” adds Steve as he places his lips to the infant’s forehead.

You reach out and caress your daughter’s tiny head before guiding your hand to Steve’s cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Steve turns and presses a kiss into your palm.

The rest of the evening unfolds with Steve regaling you with the different trips the three of you will take. How you’ll pack into the campervan and drive around the state. How he’ll teach her to fish after you teach him to. How she’ll chase frogs by the lake. And how you’ll get to see her grow up, with you on one side of her and Steve on the other, each holding a tiny hand to guide her with love through life.

Steve’s arms tighten around your waist as you’re awakened by the sun. You groan in tandem, then catch each other’s gazes and chuckle softly. 

“Morning, my love.” Steve pecks you on the lips and you jokingly swat his chest.

“Steve! Brush your teeth first, nasty!” you snort and turn your face away from his.

“My love knows no bounds, hon, only passion.” Steve retorts as he opts to litter your neck and left shoulder in kisses, seeing as he can no longer kiss your lips.

You giggle and think to yourself that everything is perfect.

Everything seems to these days. Initially defeating Vecna, El’s death had a huge impact on everyone, how could it have not? You had gotten to know El since she had ran into the boys that fateful stormy night, and you instantly got along with her. She was like a daughter to you. Funny, how life works out. You lose a daughter, and you gain one.

Speaking of Hattie, she decides to start the morning off, not with love and kisses, but by wailing absurdly loudly.

“I’ll get her,” Steve says softly and pecks your lips once more, “You rest, I swear she kept you up all night. With the amount of times she’s woken you for milk, it’ll only be a matter of weeks until she looks like a marshmallow!”

You giggle, then sigh at Steve, who is now leaving the room to go check on Hattie.

It’s funny really, to think that you would end up here. After all, you had hated Steve.

Both of you being the caretakers of the party had set an unspoken rivalry between the two of you, a rivalry that soon came crumbling down with El’s death.

Over time, you and Steve naturally gravitated towards each other. On the day of El’s funeral, you had come to learn that behind Steve’s cocky, overbearing persona, was a man who was lost. He had lost one of his ‘nuggets’ in the family he had always dreamed of, and you had lost a daughter you had never expected. It only made sense you sought each other’s company during the healing process.

Over time, you healed each other’s wounds, both literal and metaphorical, until you had matching scars, which led to matching wedding rings.

Steve proposed to you at lovers lake. Two years later you got married there.

Being married to Steve was one of the best things that had ever happened to you. Hattie was the cherry on top though, as if the universe had taken a part of El’s soul and intertwined it into Hattie’s and ultimately, your fate.

Hattie was a blessing, always clinging to you and Steve, acting as a literal band aid neither of you wanted to remove. She healed parts of you nobody ever could.

You let out a contempt sigh, and dress to meet Hattie and Steve at the breakfast table.

“Hattie, sweetie, daddy’s going as fast as he can!” you hear steve playfully scold her “here,” he says as he cheekily passes her a strawberry, “don’t let mommy know okay?” he affirms, then kisses her head and focuses back on the breakfast.

When you turn the corner into the kitchen, you’re greeted by Hattie happily chirping at the sight of you, then chowing down on the strawberry, her round cheeks covered in sticky strawberry juice, and a mushed mess of strawberry guts in her tiny fists.

Steve looks at you guiltily.

“Morning love,” he kisses you, then sits you down at the table next to Hattie.

“Steve…” you say firmly, “would you care to explain why Hattie looks as though she’s eaten a demogorgan for breakfast?” You lean towards Hattie and clean her cheeks with a towel. 

“Uhhh… guilty…” he chuckles and places his and your breakfast on table, eggs and bacon, followed by Hattie’s mountain of miniature pancakes and fruits.

“Steve she has daycare in less than an hour! She can’t turn up like this! We’re lucky she didn’t get any on her dress this time!” You say, mopping up the remaining strawberry juice off her chin.

“Oof…” Steve winces “do not remind me…”

A month ago, Steve was once again lured in by Hattie’s puppy eyes and gave her some blueberries before breakfast, only for it to get all over her jumpsuit, subsequently making you all late for work/daycare. 

You sigh at the memory and smile at Hattie, kissing her cheek when you finish wiping up her mess.

As you eat breakfast, you fall into your usual routine, Steve reading the news, Hattie making a play set out of her food, and you listening to the radio. All is perfect.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for tuning into the WSQK radio station this lovely morning! My name is Mindy Flare, and I’m joined by my lovely co-host Vance Goodman! Vance, why don’t we tell the people of Hawkins what has been occurring these past few days?”

“Well Mindy, if any of you listeners are parents, then today is the perfect day to plan a family outing with your kids! Spring is on the horizon, and that means the flora is out and the animals are hatching!”

“That does seem fun, Vance, but tell you what, what do you think about—“

The radio cut off.

“Steve, the radio cut off! I can’t believe it! Just when I was starting to get ideas too!” you whine.

“Don’t worry, love, I’m sure there’s a hammer in the garage somewhere, give it a few whacks and it’ll be good in no time.”

“Fineee. But while I’m gone I don’t want to see anymore fruits suspiciously on Hattie’s cheeks!” you playfully glare at Steve in the doorway of the kitchen and Steve chuckles.

“No promises, love, now hurry, your breakfast is gonna get cold!” Steve ushers you from the room and shares a mischievous look with Hattie, who’s already eyeing the raspberries on the counter.

You shake your head with a chuckle and head to the garage. Placing the radio down on the tool bench, which is now playing a static sound, you search for the hammer in the drawers, which is when you hear it.

Your name.

“H—H—Hey! You’re there— right—?”

It’s choppy, but it’s there. Somebody is trying to contact you.

“Wake up! None— of this is real! This is fake, all of it is fake— Vecna is in your mind— and he’s making you think— think—“

Silence.

“How unfortunate…” you gasp and see ‘Steve’ in the doorway.

He cocks his head and smirks. Then.

“Go ahead, run. Let’s see how long it takes for you to wake up.”