Iâd Find You | Steve HarringtonÂ
Summary: Steve Harrington survives the end of the world, but his memory doesnât [8.1k]
Warnings: memory loss, angsty, insecure reader, fluff, a sobfest really
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The hospital room smells like antiseptic and the ghost of his cologne.
Thereâs a mug of coffee gone cold on the windowsill, wilting carnations Robin brought in, and your own shampoo clinging to the collar of his gown because you leaned over him for too long and cried into his shoulder.
The beeping is steady.
So is the rise and fall of his chest.
You sit curled in the hard plastic chair they shoved into the corner, one knee up to your chest, fingers worrying the hem of your sweatshirt until the threads fray. Your eyes burnâtoo many sleepless nights, too much cryingâand the clock above the door ticks loud enough that it feels like itâs inside your skull.
You stare at him.
You never get tired of looking at Steve Harrington. Even like this.
His hair is flattened in places from the pillow, but still curls at the ends, brushing his forehead. A bandage wraps around the side of his head, white against warm skin. Purple bruises bloom along his jaw. Scratches arc down his throat like something tried to claw him back.
You swallow around the ache in your chest and reach for his handâcareful of the IV lines, careful of everythingâand lace your fingers with his.
They fit the same as always.
You squeeze gently. âHey,â you whisper. âItâs me.â
You bring his hand toward your lips, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.
âThey say your scans look better,â you tell him quietly. âSo thatâs⊠thatâs good. I know you probably donât care about medical stuff, but I thought youâd like to know youâre still uh, still fighting.â
Your throat tightens.
You lean forward, foreheads nearly touching. âAnd youâre not getting out of putting together that stupid bookshelf, you know,â you murmur. âIâm not doing it by myself. You promised. So. Wake up.â
Your breath shakes as you let it out.
You donât let go of his hand.
âRobin says sheâs going to read to you later,â you add, sniffing softly, âbut I told her if she picks anything other than a magazine youâre gonna wake up just to tell her to shut up.â
Thereâs no responseânot a twitch, not a sighâbut the beeping stays steady, so you count it as a victory.
The door opens softly.
Robin steps inside, rubbing at tired eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Her face is drawn, but she still musters a crooked half-smile.
âHey,â she whispers. âAny change?â
You shake your head. âJust me talking his ear off.â
âGood,â she says, pulling a chair up on the opposite side of the bed. âSomeone has to. He hates being left out of conversations.â
She tries to joke, but her voice cracks on it.
A moment later, Dustin appears in the doorwayâhands shoved deep into his pockets, chin trembling before he swallows hard and steels himself. He comes to stand at Steveâs other side, staring down at him with wide, glassy eyes.
âHey, Steve,â Dustin says, voice cracking and pretending it isnât. He clears his throat. âI brought you the new issue of that car magazine you pretend you only read for the articles. Also, if you donât wake up before I start explaining my next campaign to you, Iâll consider it a personal insult.â
Robin huffs a tiny laugh. You manage a small one, too.
It feels like a warm hand pressing over a woundâdoesnât fix anything, but keeps you from falling apart.
Dustin sits. Robin sits. You all watch him breathe.
The beeping stays steady.
The room stays quiet.
You keep holding his hand.
You keep waiting.
â
Itâs two a.m when you feel his fingers twitch.
At first you think you imagined itâyour eyes sting from exhaustion, and youâve had too many false alarms, too many times you thought the monitors jumped because of something you did.
But then his brow pinches.
And his hand moves again.
âSteve?â You sit forward so fast the chair squeaks. âSteveâheyâcan you hear me?â
Robin is on her feet instantly shouting for the doctor.
Dustin scrambles backward, âIâm gonna call the others.â
Your heart leaps into your throat.
His lashes flutter, jaw clenching around a grimace.
âSteve?â you whisper, terrified and hopeful at the same time. âIâm right hereâjust breathe, okay? Justââ
His eyes open.
Not all the way. Barely a squint. Hazel and unfocused, pupils blown wide. He stares at the ceiling first, then the bright light the doctor swings over him, then Robin and Dustin hovering anxiously at his sides.
And thenâŠfinally at you.
His gaze lands on your face.
You expect something, a smile, a blink of recognition, a sarcastic comment about how bad your hair must look at two in the morning.
Instead, his expression shifts into confusion. Deep. Sharp. Like youâre a puzzle piece heâs holding the wrong way.
âWhâwhereâŠâ His voice rasps, raw and hoarse. âWhat happened?â
The doctor steps in. âMr. Harrington, youâre at Hawkins General. Youâve been unconscious for several days. You took a hard hit during the collapse of the chemical plant at the old Creel house.â
Chemical plant. The official government line.
Steve frowns like the word doesnât match the picture in his head. âHow long?â he asks.
âTen days,â Robin says too quickly, trying to sound encouraging. âYouâyou scared the crap out of us, dingus.â
He tries to laugh, but it comes out as a muffled cough.
Dr. Patel continues gently, âSteve, I need to ask you a few questions. Just to check how your brain is doing.â
He nods stiffly.
âWhatâs your full name?â
âSteven Harrington.â
âAnd your birthday?â
He answers.
âAnd the year?â
He hesitates. You see the panic begin to creep in around the edges of his expression.
âUh⊠â86?â he guesses. âSummer? We justâwe just dealt withââ His breath shakes. âVecââ He stops abruptly, brow furrowing, correcting himself to fit the âearthquakeâ explanation heâs been given. âThe, uh⊠the tremors, from the earthquake?â
Robin and Dustin trade looks.
Dr. Patel hums thoughtfully. âSteve, tell me the last thing you remember before waking up here.â
He swallows, throat bobbing. His eyes dart across the room, searching for something that isnât there.
âI was talking to Nancy,â he finally says. âIn the RV. We were⊠I donât know. Catching up, I guess.â His voice softens in confusion. âShe was scared. We all were. And then⊠then the ground started to shake. And⊠nothing.â
Your pulse pounds.
Because that was a year and half ago. Before he met you. Before your first apartment together and late-night confessions and soft I love yous whispered into your hair. Before everything you built with him.
The doctor finishes the test, as the door bursts open. Jonathan is first inside, breathless, eyes wide. âWe came as soon as Dustin called.â Eddie and Nancy trailing behind him equally as breathless and relieved.Â
Eddie leans on the foot of the bed like his legs might give out. âJesus H. Christ, dudeâyou scared the shit out of us.â
Steve blinks at all of them, overwhelmed.
âCould I speak with you all,â Dr. Patel says quietly, âout in the hall?â
Robin squeezes Steveâs shoulder. âWeâll be right back, okay?â
He nods, breaths coming uneven.
Dustin stays behind as Steveâs shakingly pleads, âDonâtâdonât leave me alone yet.â
Dr. Patel closes the door gently behind him. His expression is gentle, but serious. âSteve shows signs of retrograde amnesia,â he explains. âThe memories leading up to his injuryâmonths, possibly more than a yearâare currently inaccessible.â
âLike⊠gone?â Eddie asks, eyes wide.
âNot gone,â the doctor corrects. âThink of memory as a file drawer. The files are there, but the drawer wonât open.â
âAnd when does it open?â Robin presses.
Thereâs a heavy silence.âIt could be days,â the doctor says. âOr weeks. Or years. Or⊠never.â
Your lungs stop working.
âCan we⊠tell him?â Eddie asks, voice pitching higher. âLike, fill in the gaps? Show him photos, talk him through it?â
Dr. Patel shakes his head. âNot yet,â he says firmly. âForcing memories can be damaging in cases like this. The brain is in a vulnerable state. If you bombard him with information, try to âmakeâ him remember, it can cause severe anxiety, confusion, even setbacks in his recovery.â
âAndâand weâre supposed to just pretend he didnât lose the last 18 months of his life?â Nancy whispers.
âPretend? No. Avoid triggering details? Yes,â Dr. Patel says. âKeep him grounded in what he does remember. Familiar routines. Familiar places. Familiar people.â
Your heart splinters. Because youâŠyou are none of those things to him anymore.
Eddie clears his throat awkwardly. âSo uh⊠whereâs he supposed to stay? âCause he sure as hell canât go back to the house he doesnât remember living in.â
Jonathan nods toward you. âHe was staying withââ
âNo,â you interrupt immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. âHe canât⊠he doesnât know me. That would freak him out.â
Robin winces sympathetically.
Nancy adds, âAnd staying with me and Jonathan would confuse him even more. He doesnât remember patching things up.â
âIâll take him,â Eddie says without hesitation. âMy place is basically a cave of familiar smells and poor hygiene. Should feel like home.â
It draws a strained, grateful laugh from the others.
You nod numbly, âYeah. Thatâs⊠thatâs good.â
The door opens again, Dustin peeking out, âHeâs asking for you guys,â he says softly. âHeâs⊠um⊠kinda scared.â
Steve is sitting up more, breathing hard like heâs trying not to panic.
His eyes scan each faceâDustin, Robin, Nancy, Eddie, Jonathanâlanding on each with some level of recognition.
Then he looks at you. And his brows pull together in apologetic confusion.
âUm,â he says, voice hoarse, âsorry but⊠do I⊠know you?â
For a second, no one breathes. You force a small smile. Force your voice to work.
âIâm just⊠a friend,â you whisper. âOne of the people who came to see you.â
His shoulders relax, but he still looks guilty. âSorry. Iâm justâeverythingâs blurry.â
You swallow the burn in your throat. âItâs okay,â you tell him. âYouâre okay. Thatâs all that matters.â
â
The day Steve is discharged is strangely bright.
One of those Hawkins afternoons where the sun feels performative, like itâs trying too hard to pretend everything is normal. The hospital lobby hums with murmured conversations and the low squeal of wheelchairs against polished floors. Families gather with flowers and get-well balloons; nurses laugh at inside jokes youâre not part of.
Youâre not there.
Instead, you stand in the middle of the apartment you once shared, drowning in the silence that used to feel comforting and now feels impossibly loud. It still smells like himâlaundry detergent, cheap coffee, the cologne he always applies too generously in the morning because he insists it âfades by noon.â The couch cushions hold the shape of his favorite spot. His sneakers lie abandoned in the corner, one toe pointing toward the door like he left in a hurry. His jacket hangs over the back of a chair the same way it always does, never quite making it to the hook he installed and promptly stopped using.
On the fridge, the Polaroids watch you as you move. You, in his old Scoops hat, smiling like an idiot, while he flips off Eddie behind the camera. And the one Eddie took where Steve isnât looking at the lensâjust at you. Eyes crinkled. Mouth mid-laugh. A moment caught in the exact shape of adoration.
He doesnât remember any of it.
You walk through the apartment like youâre trespassing in your own life, touching objects that feel suddenly foreign. You kneel beside the bed and pull out a duffel bag, spreading it open like a wound youâre trying not to look directly at.
T-shirts first. Sweatpants. Socksâeven though he never matches them, insisting that the washing machine âeats the good pairs out of spite.â
Robin kneels beside an open duffel bag on the bed, her expression tight with concentration as you hand her his favorite mug with the stupid cartoon shark on it, wrapped carefully in an old sweatshirt you stole from him months ago. âThis sucks,â she says conversationally, yanking a hanger free. âLike, in case you were wondering, this sucks. Ten out of ten, do not recommend.âÂ
The cassette box sits by the stereo, full of tapes you made togetherâhis messy handwriting, your neat labels. You pick it up gently, thumb brushing over the one marked simply: YOUR STUFF.Â
You snort weakly, âYou donât say.âÂ
âYou sure you donât want to come to the discharge? We could go with Joyce and Hopper, then straight to the trailer. Like a whole welcome-home parade. Balloons, confetti, you bursting dramatically out of the cake.âÂ
You make a face, âAbsolutely not.âÂ
She sobers, âOkay, but for real. You donât have to hide.âÂ
âIâm not hiding,â you lie. âIâm just⊠doing this instead. If he woke up and they told him he had to move back to a house he doesnât remember packing for, thatâs weird. At least this way when he gets there, he has his stuff. Thatâs⊠useful.âÂ
âAnd you?â she presses softly. âWhatâs useful for you?âÂ
You shrug one shoulder, eyes on the socks youâre shoving into the side pocket of the bag. âIâll be fine.âÂ
âYou donât have to be. Not with me.âÂ
You blow out a shaky breath. âIf I go,â you say quietly, âif I stand there and watch him walk out of that hospital and into⊠not our home⊠Iâm gonna fall apart. And I really⊠really donât want to do that in front of him.âÂ
âOkay,â she accepts. âThen Iâll go. Iâll take thisââ She gestures to the duffel. âIâll say itâs from his parentsâ place, or something. But now heâll probably think I raided his underwear drawer.â
Meanwhile, Eddie guides Steve out of the hospital, one hand hovering near his elbow like he expects Steve to topple over at any moment. Steve insists heâs fineââFor the fifteenth time, Munson, I can walkââbut the stiffness in his movements betrays how exhausted he really is. âMy parents arenât here?â he asks, tone attempting casual but landing closer to wounded curiosity.
Eddie adjusts his grip on Steve's arm and shakes his head. âBusiness trip. Overseas. They got the messages, though. Said to tell you theyâll call once theyâre back in the country.â
Steve nods in a way that tells Eddie he expected nothing else.
Eddie jogs ahead, swinging the van door open with an exaggerated bow âYour ride, sir.â
Steve rolls his eyes but canât quite smother the smile. âDid the royal chariot break down?â
âThis is the royal chariot,â Eddie retorts. âSheâs got character.â
âShe smells like Cheetos,â Steve says, hoisting himself up into the passenger seat, âAnd maybe⊠weed.â
When they pull up outside the trailer, Steve goes quiet. The place is the same and not. The cracks in the ground nearby have been filled, the damage patched badly. There are still scorch marks on the grass where things fell from the sky that âdidnât happen.âÂ
The trailer is cluttered but clean. Thereâs a blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Two mugs in the sink. A stack of tapes by the TVâsome horror, some metal concerts, some romcoms Robin smuggled in âfor balance.â
âThatâs your room,â Eddie says, gesturing toward the small door off the hallway. âI mean, technically itâs my room and thatâs technically my bed, but Iâm feeling generous.âÂ
Steve steps inside like heâs expecting the floor to shift under his feet. There are posters on the wall he half-remembers. A pile of laundry in the corner. The batâthe batâleans against the wall, grip worn. He runs his fingers over the bedspread, the edge of the nightstand, the window frame. His head hurts. He sinks onto the mattress, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his face.Â
Eddie watches him carefully. âYou alright? You look like you swallowed a brick.â
âJust⊠trying to make it all match up,â Steve mutters. âDoc says about âone year,â but it feels like someone ripped pages out of a book and kept the ending. Iâm assuming we won. And that VecnaâsâŠÂ gone. But I donât know how. I donât know what we did. Are the gates closed? I donât know when MaxâŠâ He trails off, swallowing hard. âWhen did she wake up? How bad did it get? What did I⊠do?â Thereâs a jagged frustration under the questions. A helpless anger at his own brain.Â
Eddie sees it. Hears the edge in his voice. âThatâs a story for another time, pal,â he says gently. âAll you need to know is that Vecna is gone for good, Hawkins is still miserable, and all you need to worry about is your flat hair.âÂ
Steve huffs out a startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening a fraction. âThatâs, like, three things.âÂ
âI believe in your ability to multitask,â Eddie says.Â
Robin appears in the doorway, hair windblown, cheeks flushed from the cold. The duffel bag you packed hangs from her shoulder, heavier now with everything you folded so carefully. âSpecial delivery!â she announces, stepping inside with exaggerated flourish. âStraight from Casa Harrington.âÂ
Steve brightens a little. âMy parentsâ place?âÂ
âYup,â Robin lies smoothly. âThey, uh⊠left the key taped under the mat. Super secure. Very responsible.âÂ
âThanks,â he says, soft. âReally.âÂ
Robinâs smile falters for a secondâjust a secondâbefore she recovers. âYeah, dingus. Thatâs what friends do.âÂ
Eddie catches her eye. She gives the smallest shake of her head. Steve doesnât see that either.Â
They spend the next twenty minutes unpacking shirts and socks and the hoodie he doesnât remember buying. Robin chatters about mundane thingsâJoyceâs attempt at making bread that could double as a weapon, Lucasâs new videogame obsession, Dustinâs twelve-step plan to introduce Steve to every campaign he missed. Steve tries to laugh in the right places. He tries to feel grounded in the little stories of a life he doesnât remember living. Still, every few minutes, his gaze drifts to the door.
To the empty space beyond it. To the missed presence he canât name.
He doesnât know whoâs missing. He doesnât know why.
He only knows that something important isnât hereâ and that the absence feels wrong.
â
Movie nights, dinners, and game nights stop being weekly and start happening every other day, now. Not just for Steve, but for everyone. Staying alone feels worse than crowding into too-small spaces, so they choose noise.Â
You skip the first movie night because youâre scheduled for a late shift at work. The second because you tell yourself youâre tired. By the third, you donât even bother coming up with an excuse.
But the invites never stop.Â
Robin calls you while youâre sitting cross-legged on the bed, a half-unpacked box of Steveâs things open in front of youâthings you didnât have the heart to finish putting away. His sweatshirt is folded on top, soft from too many washes, still faintly smelling like him.
âWe miss you,â she says into the receiver, voice light but tired. âHe misses you.â
Your chest tightens.
âHe doesnât know me,â you reply quietly.
Thereâs a pause on the other end. You can hear the low hum of voices behind her, the sound of a life continuing just out of reach.
âThat doesnât meanââ
âIt does,â you interrupt gently. âIt does mean something, Robin. He doesnât need⊠complications. He needs to feel normal.â
You hang up before she can argue, the silence feeling louder than the conversations youâre avoiding.
At the next get-together, Steve volunteers for the snack run.
He comes back with grocery bags filled with a specific brand of chips none of them remember him liking, a box of cookies no one else reaches for, and a candy bar that makes Eddie wrinkle his nose.
âSince when do you eat those?â Robin asks, watching him unload everything onto the counter.
Steve shrugs, unconcerned. âI donât know. Just⊠grabbed them.â
âFor who?â Dustin presses, crouched on a chair to see over the counter.
Steve pauses. He feels it â that moment when his brain stalls out mid-thought. A faint pressure builds behind his eyes, like trying to remember how a dream ends after youâve already woken up.
âNo idea,â he laughs, the shrug coming a second too late. âMustâve looked good.â
Itâs a few gatherings later when he finally brings it up.
Itâs late. The kids are swallowed by a board game, voices raised in mock outrage. Eddie stands at the sink, washing dishes. Jonathan leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching soap bubbles drift down the drain.
âCan I ask you something?â Steve says.
Jonathan glances over and nods. âSure.â
âThe girl from the hospital,â Steve continues carefully. âShe said she was a friend.â
âYeah,â Jonathan says. âShe is.â He hesitates, then adds, âShe doesnât come around much anymore.â
Steve frowns. âWhy not?â
Jonathan exhales slowly. âSheâs trying to deal with all of this on her own. Everything that happened. Losing people. Almost losing people.â His gaze flicks briefly toward the living room. âBeing around all of this can feel like reopening a wound.â
Steve absorbs that, jaw tightening. âThat seems backwards,â he mutters. âWouldnât it help? Being around people who actually get it?â
Jonathan looks at him â really looks.
âSometimes,â he says quietly, âpeople think staying away is easier. That it hurts less in the long run.â
Steve frowns deeper. âThat still doesnât make sense.â
Jonathan gives him a small, sad smile. âNo. It usually doesnât.â After a beat, he adds, âNext time you see her, you should invite her. Maybe sheâll listen to you.â
â
The grocery store smells like overripe fruit and burned coffee.
Youâve been standing in the cereal aisle for too long, staring down two different boxes like one of them might solve something bigger than breakfast. Your cart has the basics â bread, milk, eggs â and the coffee you swore you wouldnât keep buying anymore because it still feels like buying it for him.
You tell yourself this is normal. That itâs fine. That youâre doing fine.
You reach for the box on the left.
At the exact same time, someone else reaches for the one on the right.
âSorryââ
The voice stops you cold.
You donât look up right away. Your fingers stay curled around cardboard. Your heart slams painfully against your ribs, the sound of it loud enough that youâre convinced he must hear it.
You already know.
Steve Harrington stands in front of you in a worn Tigers hoodie and faded jeans, hair doing that familiar floppy thing that makes your chest ache. He looks healthier now â less pale, steadier on his feet â but thereâs a faint scar at his temple that your eyes go to automatically.
His eyes widen.
âOh,â he exhales. âItâsâ itâs you.â
You swallow. âHi.â
You donât mean to smile. It happens anyway, small and brittle, like your face remembers before the rest of you can stop it.
He shifts his weight, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands. One of them rests on the red plastic handle of his cart; the other hovers, then drops awkwardly at his side.
âI was hoping Iâd run into you,â he says, then winces immediately. âThat sounded weird. Not likeâ I meanââ
âItâs okay,â you say quickly, because it always used to be your job to make things less hard for him. You almost laugh at that thought. âI just⊠yeah. Hi.â
He nods, once, then twice, like heâs confirming something invisible. âHi.â
Thereâs a beat where neither of you move. The store hums around you â carts rattling, a kid crying somewhere near produce, the muffled sound of a radio playing something forgettable overhead.
Steve clears his throat. âJonathan said you might⊠might be doing this whole âhandling everything by yourselfâ thing.â
Your mouth tilts faintly. âThat sounds like him.â
âYeah,â he huffs. âHeâs annoyingly perceptive.â
He glances down at your cart without thinking and freezes.
Coffee.
The exact one.
His brow furrows, confusion flickering across his face. âHuh.â
âWhat?â you ask, too quickly.
âNothing,â he says, then pauses. âI justâ I keep buying that.â He gestures vaguely. âAnd I donât even like it. It tastes burnt.â
Your fingers curl tighter around the edge of the cart. âThen why do you buy it?â
His eyes go distant for half a second, frustration tightening his jaw. âNo idea,â he admits. âI just⊠felt like I needed to.â
Silence stretches between you, fragile and heavy.
He breaks it first. âSo,â he says, forcing casual into his tone. âUh. Thereâs⊠thereâs stuff happening. Movie nights. Dinner. Game nights. A lot of⊠togetherness.â
You nod. âRobinâs told me.â
âYeah, well,â he rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish. âRobin tells everyone everything, so.â
You smile despite yourself. Thereâs a pause. Long enough for the hum of the lights to fill the space between you.
Steve clears his throat. âSo, uhââ He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. âThereâs another movie night coming up. Dinner too, probably. People crammed onto couches. A lot of noise.â
You wait.
He gestures vaguely. âYou donât have to stay the whole time. Or talk about anything. Orâ you knowâ do anything, really.â He winces, clearly aware heâs rambling. âThis sounded smoother in my head.â
âOkay,â you say finally. âIâll⊠come. Next time.â
His face lights up so fast itâs almost embarrassing. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah.âÂ
âGreat,â he says, then catches himself. âI meanâ cool. No pressure. Totally casual.â
You smile, real this time. âYouâre terrible at casual.â
âYou should see me try flirting,â he replies before thinking.
You both freeze.
He flushes immediately. âNotâ not flirting with you! I meanâ not that Iââ He groans, dragging a hand down his face. âWow. Iâm just gonna shut up now.â
You laugh.
It slips out unexpectedly, warm and sharp and painfully familiar.
His eyes soften when he hears it.
âGuess Iâll see you,â he says, backing toward his cart.
âGuess you will,â you answer.
He pauses, then adds, quieter, âIâm really glad I ran into you.â
âSo am I,â you say, and you mean it â even though it scares you.
â
The next movie night is at Hopperâs cabin.
You stand in the driveway for a long second before you knock, keys cool and solid in your palm like an anchor. The windows glow warm against the dark, voices overlapping insideâtoo loud, too alive. Laughter punches through the wood of the door, Dustinâs unmistakable cackle cutting loudest.
You almost leave.
Almost.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, the door swings open.
âHey!â Robin says, already grinningâand then sheâs hugging you. Tight. Arms locked around your shoulders like sheâs afraid if she lets go youâll disappear. âYou actually came.â
âCareful,â you mutter into her shoulder. âYouâre gonna break a rib.â
She ignores that and squeezes once more before pulling back. âWorth it.â
The cabin smells like popcorn and woodsmoke and something questionable Eddie brought in a foil tray. The couch is already half-fullâLucas and Max twisted together at one end, Dustin sprawled on the floor with a blanket, Eddie perched on the armrest like furniture is more of a suggestion than a rule. Nancy looks up from where sheâs setting drinks on the table and offers you a soft, relieved smile.
You step farther inside, shrugging off your jacket, trying to remember how to occupy space like this again.
And Steveâ
Steve is in the kitchen.
Heâs got his back to you, sleeves pushed up, hair a little wild like he forgot the mirror existed today. Heâs holding a mug beneath the coffee pot, focused in a way that suggests heâs taking the task far too seriously.
âOkay,â he mutters to himself, barely audible over the noise. âNot boiling. Thatâs⊠probably important.â
You pause. For a second, it feels like stepping into a room you used to know by heart. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just him half-awake in your apartment kitchen, hair sticking up, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple while the coffee brewed.
You shake the memory loose and move farther into the room.
When he sees you, his expression shiftsâsubtle but unmistakable. Like tension easing from his shoulders, like something unknots behind his eyes before he can stop it. âYou came,â he says, surprised enough that it doesnât sound casual.
âI said I would.âÂ
âRight,â he says, nodding once, then glancing down at the mug like heâs suddenly remembered it exists. âUhâ drink? Coffee, soda, whatever. Eddie tried to make punch again but Iâm pretty sure it violates some kind of health code.â
âIâll take coffee,â you say before you can stop yourself.
Your fingers brush his when you take the mug from his hand. The contact is brief. Barely anything. But still sparks something sharp and familiar, a lightning-bolt jolt that runs straight through you.
You retreat to the far end of the couch, heart beating a little too fast, mug warm in your hands. The taste is right. Warm. Familiar in a way you donât examine too closely.
The movie ends sometime after midnight.
You donât know exactly when it happensâonly that at some point the room gets quieter, the sugar rush burns off, and the easy noise settles into something softer. Dustin is half-asleep on the floor, Lucas and Max murmuring to each other beneath a blanket. Eddieâs fallen into an argument with Robin about whether the movie counts as âcinema,â and Hopper has retreated to the doorway with a beer and a headache.
You stand to grab your jacket quietly, trying not to draw attention to yourself, almost making it to the door.
âHey.â Steveâs voice isnât loud. Itâs careful, like heâs testing it out before committing. Heâs standing near the couch, hands shoved in his pockets, the easy sprawl he usually carries himself with dialed back into something smaller. Thereâs a moment where it looks like he might say something elseâbut then he straightens, decision made.
âAre you heading out?â
âYeah,â you say. âItâs late.â
He nods. âRight. Yeah. Makes sense.â
Thereâs a pause. The kind that asks for something without saying what.
âDo you want me toââ He cuts himself off, clears his throat. âI mean. I can walk you out if you want. Itâs dark.â
You consider it. The driveway. The woods. The quiet that will follow once the door closes behind you.
âOkay,â you say.
The word seems to surprise him.
Outside, the night air is cool and sharp, the kind that seeps under your sleeves and wakes you up a little. Gravel crunches underfoot as you step down from the porch. The cabin behind you hums faintly with muted laughter, the sound softened by walls and distance.
Steve walks beside you, not too close. Just enough to be there.
They've filled the cracks in the ground near the treeline, patched the scars as best they can. Itâs obvious where things broke anyway. Hawkins wears it quietly now.
âYou good?â he asks after a moment.
âYeah,â you say. âI think so.â
He hums, not convinced but not pushing.
âThanks for coming,â he adds. âI know it probably wasnât⊠easy.â
You glance at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, jaw set, like heâs afraid if he looks at you heâll read too much into whatever expression he finds.
âIâm glad I did,â you say.
That earns you a quick look. Something warm flickers there before he reins it in. Steve stops a few steps back, rocking on his heels. âSo. Uh. Next timeâif you donât feel like staying long, thatâs okay. Or if you donât come. Or if youââ He exhales, frustrated with himself. âIâm bad at this.â
âAt what?â
He hesitates. âInviting people without making it weird.â
You smile softly. âYouâre doing okay.â
He studies that answer like heâs checking it for cracks. âGood,â he says. âThen⊠next time?â
You nod. âNext time.â
A beat passes. Another.
âNight,â he says.
âNight, Steve.â
You get in the car, shut the door, and donât pull away right away. Through the windshield, you see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching until your headlights come on.
And for the first time in a while, the quiet that follows doesnât feel empty.
It feels⊠anticipatory.
â
You never say it out loud.
You barely admit it to yourself.
But some small, stubborn part of you still hopes that one day heâll remember.
And on the days when that feels like tempting fate â like asking the universe for something itâs already taken â you hope instead that time will do what it always promises to do.
Soften things.
Sand the edges.
Turn this ache into something survivable.
Because loving him like this feels less like healing and more like erosion. A slow wearing-down. A thing you canât stop without walking away completely â so, you learn how to exist in this strange in-between.
Movie nights blur into sleepovers. Dinners turn into late evenings where no one wants to be the first to leave, because empty houses feel louder now. You show up, linger, and leave early. But Steve keeps finding his way to you.
Not pointedly.
Not obviously.
Just⊠naturally.
He doesnât remember you â not in the way that matters â but his attention keeps skidding in your direction all the same. Catching on little things he canât explain.
The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when youâre thinking.
The sound of your laugh, which seems to echo oddly in his chest, like heâs heard it before in a dream.
It starts small.
At a crowded diner table, he ends up across from you, shoulder tipped just slightly in your direction. He asks what youâre getting and then orders something new from the menu. When the food comes, you trade plates without discussing why, like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
At the arcade, he drifts closer as the place fills, not invading your space so much as silently claiming it. He leans in over the din of machines to say something stupid about high scores, his mouth near your ear, his voice pitched only for you. When you laugh, he smiles like he forgot what he was going to say next, eyes lingering a beat too long before he looks away. Later, when you step back to grab tokens, he follows without realizing â like you pulled him there with an invisible thread.
Sometimes itâs quieter than that.
You sit on the hood of someoneâs car after a long night, the air cool and damp, everyone else talking in loose clusters behind you. Steve leans beside you, forearms braced on the metal, eyes on the stars like heâs trying to map something familiar.
âYou ever think Hawkins feels⊠smaller?â he asks.
You hum. âYeah.â
He smiles at that. âGood. Thought it was just me.â
He asks questions.
Small ones. Safe ones.
âWhat do you order at diners?â
âHave you always lived around here?â
âWere you always into that music, or did it just⊠happen?â
He listens when you answer. Really listens. And every time, something in you tightens â because it would be easier if he didnât.
He saves you a seat. Hands you his jacket without comment when the night cools. Walks you home after group dinners even though his place is in the opposite direction. He says itâs late. That itâs dark. That itâs not a big deal. He keeps pace with you anyway, close enough that your arms brush when the sidewalk narrows.
Sometimes you talk about everything.
Sometimes you donât talk at all.
Either way, it feels dangerously close to intimacy â the kind youâre no longer sure youâre allowed to have.
Thatâs when you start to think of it as a slow death.
Because leaving always hurts.
And staying close somehow hurts worse.
â
Of course you notice Nancy.
You always have.
Sheâs impossible not to notice â all sharp edges and sharper mind, fearless in a way that feels deliberate. You respect her. You always have. That almost makes this harder to stomach.
You notice the way Steve looks at her sometimes. Like heâs lining up memory against reality and trying to see where they overlap.
You know what the last clear thing he remembers feeling is. You heard about the conversation in the back of the vehicle â whispered hopes about kids and road trips and growing old. A future shaped in the middle of chaos.
Not with you.
If his memories never circle back to you⊠why wouldnât they land on her instead? Why wouldnât that path feel safer? Simpler?
So when you step out onto the cabin porch for air and find them there, your chest sinks before either of them even speaks.
They arenât standing close. They arenât touching. But theyâre angled toward each other, voices low and serious, framed by the soft glow spilling out from the cabin behind them. You donât hear the words.
You donât have to.
You see Steve lean back against the railing, hand rubbing the back of his neck. A gesture you know by heart â the one that means something matters.
Nancyâs posture is steady. Arms crossed. Expression soft but intent. Like sheâs anchoring him through something delicate. Personal.
Your stomach drops.
The screen door creaks behind you before you can stop it.
Both of them turn.
âI was justââ Nancy starts.
âIâmââ you say at the same time, already stepping back. âSorry. Itâs getting late.â
Steve takes a half step forward. âYou donât have toââ
âItâs fine,â you interrupt, forcing a small smile that feels brittle on your face. âReally. I need to head home anyway.â
You donât wait for a response. But by the time you reach your car, your hands are shaking. You donât tell yourself not to cry, just let the thought settle, heavy and unkind in your chest:
Maybe he doesnât remember you because he wasnât meant to.
â
The porch is quiet, washed in the soft hum of insects and the distant noise from inside the cabin.
Steve leans back against the railing, elbows locked, gaze drifting out toward the dark tree line.
âI mean⊠you and Jonathan seem good,â he says, glancing over at Nancy. âLike you figured things out.â
Nancy hesitates. Itâs subtle â just a slight shift of her shoulders â but itâs there.
âAnd how does that make you feel?â she asks carefully.
Steve lets out a breath. Not heavy. Not shaky. Thoughtful.
âI remember what I said before,â he admits. âWhat I wanted. Or what I thought I wanted.â He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. âAnd I know that mattered. It mattered a lot.â
âBut?â Nancy prompts gently.
âBut it doesnât feel like that anymore,â Steve says, frustration edging into his voice. âThatâs the part thatâs messing with me.â
She doesnât interrupt.
He gestures vaguely, like he canât quite grab onto the thought, âI remember loving you,âI remember being so sure. But when I picture my life nowâŠâ he continues, a faint frown pulling at his brow, âit doesnât land there. I keep waiting for that feeling to come back. Like Iâm supposed to want that future again. And I donât.âÂ
Nancy studies him for a long moment. Then she smiles â small, soft, and understanding.
âThat means youâre healing,â she says quietly. âEven if it doesnât feel like it yet.â
Steve exhales, shoulders easing just a little, then adds, âI am happy for you, though. For you and Jonathan.â A corner of his mouth lifts. âIâm⊠actually glad weâre friends now. All of us. That part feels right.â
â
Eddieâs trailer is quiet in a way Steve still isnât used to.
Not peaceful â just empty between sounds.
He lies awake on the mattress, staring up at a crack in the ceiling heâs been tracking for the past ten minutes. It vaguely resembles Indiana. Or a boot. Or nothing at all. His brain wonât settle on it.
His chest feels⊠off.
Not tight. Not panicked. Just restless â like something is vibrating just underneath his ribs, an irritant he canât scratch.
He rolls onto his side. Then his other side. Then onto his back again.
âCome on,â he mutters under his breath, pressing his palms flat against his stomach like that might help. âYouâre exhausted.â
He is. He knows he is.
But every time his eyes start to drift closed, something tugs him back.
A sense of⊠unfinishedness.
He exhales and lets his gaze drift, unfocused, toward the dim outline of the wall. He doesnât fight the thought when it comes this time.
You - like a gravity point.
The way you listen. The way you pause before laughing, like youâre deciding whether to let yourself. The quiet steadiness of you, the way being around you makes his shoulders drop without him noticing until afterward.
His mouth curves slightly, fond despite himself.Â
He drags a hand down his face. âThis is ridiculous,â he mutters, though thereâs no heat in it. âI donât evenââ
The thought stalls.
Because thatâs not true.
Itâs not just liking you. It hasnât been for a while now. Not the way his chest reacts when you walk into a room. Not the way he keeps finding reasons to stand near you, talk to you, walk you home like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
The realization settles, heavy and unmistakable.
Iâm in love with her.
The word doesnât scare him.
If anything, it feels like relief â like finally naming something thatâs been quietly demanding his attention for weeks.
He stares up at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.
âOkay,â he whispers to the dark. âOkay.â
Tomorrow, then.
Heâll ask you out. Nothing big. Just honest â just the feeling in his chest that hasnât been wrong yet.
The restless pull eases, finally dulling into something warm.
Sleep comes softly, catching him mid-thought.
â
He wakes with a sharp gasp.
For a disorienting second, all he knows is pain â bright and sudden behind his eyes, like someone just switched on a light inside his skull. He fumbles blindly, squinting at the dim red numbers on the clock.
3:07 a.m.
He sucks in a sharp breath, hand flying to his face as he squeezes his eyes shut. The room feels wrong. Too unfamiliar. Too small. His heart is pounding hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.
âShit,â he mutters hoarsely.
He sits up too fast and the world tilts. For half a second, he doesnât know where he is â doesnât know whose blanket heâs holding, why the air smells like cigarettes and old flannel instead of detergent and burnt coffee.
Then it hits him.
Heâs on his feet before the thought finishes forming, bare chest goosebumping in the cold air, the floor icy under his soles. He stumbles into Eddieâs chair, sends it clattering, doesnât even slow down.
Eddie jerks awake with a startled noise. âWhat theâ?â
Steve yanks the door open, cold air slamming into him.
âI gotta go,â he blurts over his shoulder, voice hoarse and urgent. âIâI gotta go right now.â
Eddie blinks. Then smiles, tired and knowing and soft at the edges. âYeah,â he murmurs. âFigured.â
The night air burns his lungs, sharp and unforgiving. Asphalt bites into his feet, each step a jolt of pain he registers distantly, like itâs happening to someone else. Streetlights streak past as he sprints, chest heaving, breath puffing white.Â
By the time he reaches your building, his heart is trying to beat its way out of his ribs. He takes the steps two at a time, slips at the landing, catches himself on the railing.
He pounds on the door with both fists.
Once. Twice. Again.
âPlease,â he breathes, forehead pressed to the wood. âPlease.â
The door opens.
Youâre standing there in an oversized sleep shirt, hair a mess, confusion still clinging to your expression.
Steve canât speak. For a split second, he just stares â at your eyes, wide and alarmed; at the familiar hallway behind you; at the sad, wilted spider plant hanging near the keys.Â
âSteve?â you ask, voice thick with sleep. âWhatâare you okay? Why are youââÂ
Your gaze drops.
Bare feet. Red and scraped. His chest rising and falling too fast. No jacket. No shoes.
âDid you run here?â you start, alarm bleeding into your voice. âSteve, youâre barefootââ
He doesnât let you finish.
He steps forward, hands coming up to your face like muscle memory finally given permission, and kisses you.
Itâs not careful.
Itâs not slow.
Itâs desperate and grounding all at once, like he needs the contact to convince himself youâre real. His mouth crashes into yours, breath shaky, lips cold from the night, kissing you like heâs been holding this in for weeks without knowing why.
You freeze for half a heartbeat.
Then you melt into it.
Your hands fist into his shoulders, pulling him closer, anchoring him as his breath stutters against your mouth. When you finally pull back, youâre both breathing hard.
âI remember,â he says, voice breaking on the word.
You still.
âWhat?â you breathe.
âI remember everything,â he says again, softer this time. âYou. Us. The apartment. The fights and the good parts and the stupid plant you kept forgetting to water.â A shaky laugh escapes him. âI fell asleep thinking about you and the next thing I knew, I woke up and it was just⊠there. Like my brain finally caught up.â
Your breath stutters. âSteveââ
His hands are still caressing your face when the words start to tumble out of you, messy and panicked now that heâs really here.
âSteve, Iâ Iâm sorry,â you stammer, tears already blurring everything. âThe doctor⊠he said we couldnât force it. Said it could hurt you, and Iâ I,â Your voice breaks. â⊠wondered if maybe this was your chance to go back. To something easier. SomeoneâŠâ You swallow hard. âMaybe Nancy. Maybe someone better than me.â
He makes a broken sound in his throat and shakes his head, eyes shining, completely undone.
âNo,â he says hoarsely, shaking his head against your skin. âNo, noâ donât do that.â.
You keep going anyway, breath hitching. âI thought if you never remembered me.. You could go back to-â
He cuts you off by kissing you.
Not your mouth this time, but your forehead. Your temple. The corner of your eye, where tears are still spilling over. Your cheek. Everywhere he can reach, like heâs trying to erase the words before they can carve permanent scars into you.
âHey,â he whispers, voice shaking. âHey. Look at me. You really thought forgetting you would make me want someone else?â
You meet his eyes and lose the fight to stay composed altogether, you sob, nodding helplessly.
Heâs crying now too â tears slipping down unchecked, mouth trembling as he cups your face tighter, like you might break if he doesnât hold you together.
âThere is no someone better,â he says, voice rough and earnest and wrecked. âThere never was. Not even when I didnât remember. Not even then.â
He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, thumbs brushing desperately over your cheeks.
âEven when I didnât remember you,â he continues, tears falling freely now, breath uneven, âI still wanted you. And I still couldnât stop wanting to be near you. Couldnât stop looking for you in rooms. Couldnât stop feeling wrong when you werenât there. Every instinct in me knew something was missing, and it was always you.â
A sob shakes through him, âI fell asleep thinking about you, wondering how to ask you out without screwing it up. Wondering why not being near you made my chest hurt. I fell in love with you all over again,â he says shakily.Â
You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palms.
âMy sweet silly girl,â he breathes, voice cracking wide open. He kisses your mouth then â soft, aching, sure. âIâd find you in every lifetime.â
















