#sudden realization

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

neon lights. summer heat. and the worst possible realization— when did you get hot?

Man’s Best Friend Masterlist

You don’t believe it at first.

That’s the thing—you refuse to believe it.

Because there are some truths in life that feel permanent. Fixed. Unchangeable.

Steve Harrington being a douchebag was one of them.

It was just… fact.

High school proved it.

You remember it too clearly—him leaning against lockers like he owned the place, laughing too loud, walking through the halls like everyone else existed in the background of his life. Always surrounded by people. Always untouchable.

And you?

You existed just far enough away to see it clearly.

You weren’t impressed.

You weren’t charmed.

If anything, you were annoyed.

You remember telling your friends once, “He’s just a walking ego with good hair.”

And you meant it.

You meant it so much that it stuck.

So yeah—some things are supposed to stay the same.

Steve Harrington is supposed to stay the same.

That’s why this—

This makes absolutely no sense.

—

The bell above the door of Family Video jingles as you step inside, the late afternoon heat following you in like a second skin.

Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Rows of VHS tapes stretch in every direction, colorful spines lined up like they’re trying too hard to get your attention.

It’s quiet.

Calm.

Normal.

You head toward the counter, digging in your bag for your wallet, already half-distracted—

“—No, I’m serious, you cannot just skip to the end, that’s not how movies work.”

You stop.

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

That voice.

No.

No, that’s—

You slowly lift your head.

And there he is.

Behind the counter.

Steve Harrington.

Except—

Not.

Your brain stalls.

Because yeah, it’s him. Same face. Same hair. Same stupid, familiar everything.

But also…

Not.

He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on the counter, talking to a kid—maybe thirteen, curly hair, baseball cap turned backwards. The kid is arguing with him like it’s a life-or-death situation.

Steve doesn’t snap.

Doesn’t roll his eyes.

He listens.

Actually listens.

“You’ll ruin it,” Steve says, softer now, like he’s trying to reason instead of win. “You gotta let it build. That’s the whole point.”

The kid groans dramatically.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mutters, grabbing a tape and scanning it. “I’m still right.”

There’s a smile there.

Not cocky.

Not performative.

Just… real.

And something in your chest does a weird, uncomfortable flip.

You stare.

You can’t help it.

You stare like your brain is trying to piece together two completely different people and failing.

Because the Steve you knew?

Would not be here.

Would not be patient.

Would not care.

Your eyes drag over him before you can stop yourself.

His sleeves are rolled up—why are his sleeves rolled up?—and his arms—

You look away so fast it’s almost violent.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

We are not doing this.

This is Steve Harrington.

You know better.

…Right?

“Hey.”

Your head snaps back up.

He’s looking at you.

Of course he is.

Of course the exact moment you spiral internally is the moment he notices.

“Uh,” you say, incredibly eloquent. “Hi.”

He squints slightly, recognition flickering in.

“…Wait.”

Oh no.

“Yeah,” you say, already bracing yourself.

“You’re—” He points at you vaguely. “You went to Hawkins High, right?”

You huff a small laugh. “Wow. That’s all I get?”

He grins, a little sheepish. “Hey, it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Clearly.”

There’s a beat.

And then his gaze sharpens slightly.

“You okay?”

You blink.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that today?”

“Because,” he says, crossing his arms, “you’ve been staring at me for like, a full minute.”

Your stomach drops.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I haven’t.”

He tilts his head, amused in a way that feels entirely too observant.

“You’re doing it again.”

Heat rushes up your neck.

“I’m just—” You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “You look different.”

There.

You said it.

Out loud.

And now there’s no taking it back.

Steve pauses.

Actually pauses.

And for a second, he just… looks at you.

Not defensive.

Not cocky.

Just curious.

“…Different how?” he asks.

God.

Why did you open your mouth?

You shrug, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—your voice, your hands, the way he’s looking at you like your answer matters.

“I don’t know,” you say. “You just… do.”

“Wow,” he says dryly. “Super helpful.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, Steve.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that.

And then—

“You used to hate me.”

Your breath catches.

Oh.

We’re doing this now.

“I did not hate you.”

“You called me—” he gestures vaguely, searching his memory “—‘a walking ego with good hair.’”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “You were not supposed to remember that.”

“Hard to forget,” he says, but there’s no bite to it.

If anything, he sounds… amused.

Which somehow makes it worse.

“I wasn’t wrong,” you mutter.

“Wasn’t,” he repeats.

That word again.

You hesitate.

Because yeah.

That’s the problem.

You look at him—really look this time.

At the way he’s standing there, relaxed but grounded. At the way his attention keeps drifting back to the kid lingering by the candy rack like he’s making sure he doesn’t knock anything over.

At the way he’s not trying to impress you.

Not trying at all.

And somehow—that’s exactly what’s doing it.

Your stomach flips again.

You exhale slowly.

“I didn’t think I’d ever say this,” you admit, quieter now, “but… I might’ve been wrong about you.”

The air shifts.

It’s subtle.

But it’s there.

Steve blinks, caught off guard.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat passes.

And then—because apparently your brain has completely abandoned you—you add:

“…Also, when did you get hot?”

Silence.

Actual silence.

Somewhere behind you, a tape case clatters as the kid drops it.

Steve just stares at you.

Like you’ve just short-circuited his entire system.

“What?” he says finally.

“You heard me.”

“I—no, I did, I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly thrown. “Where did that come from?”

“I don’t know!” you snap, half-laughing, half-horrified. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”

He lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes!”

“This isn’t, like, a joke?”

“Do I look like I’m joking right now?”

He looks at you.

Really looks.

And something in his expression softens.

“…No,” he admits.

Your heart does something stupid.

You cross your arms, trying to regain control of literally anything.

“It’s just—” You gesture vaguely. “Last time I saw you, you were—ugh—and now you’re—” You stop yourself before you say something embarrassing. “This.”

“This,” he echoes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, oh my god.”

He laughs then.

And it’s easy.

Warm.

God, when did his laugh get like that?

“You’re unbelievable,” he says.

“I’m right.”

He opens his mouth to argue.

Stops.

Considers it.

“…Maybe,” he admits.

Your breath catches again.

And now it’s worse.

Because now he’s agreeing.

“Look,” he says, a little quieter now, “I’ve just… been trying to be better, I guess.”

Better.

The word lands heavy.

Not flashy.

Not impressive.

Just honest.

You nod slowly.

“It shows.”

Something shifts between you.

The space feels smaller now. Charged.

Like every movement matters a little more.

“You’re still kind of annoying,” you say, softer.

He grins. “Good. Wouldn’t want to lose my charm.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

There’s something else there now.

Something new.

“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “you gonna keep staring at me, or—?”

“Oh my god,” you groan. “Shut up.”

He laughs again.

And you hate—hate—how much you like it.

You turn away, pretending to look at the shelves, but your focus is completely gone.

Your thoughts are loud.

Messy.

Uncooperative.

Because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to change.

You weren’t supposed to notice.

And now—

Now you can’t unsee it.

You glance back.

He’s watching you.

Of course he is.

And when your eyes meet—

He smiles.

Not smug.

Not cocky.

Just… soft.

And yeah.

That’s when it really hits you.

This isn’t just a glow-up.

It’s not just better hair or broader shoulders or whatever the hell else your brain is trying to blame this on.

It’s him.

It’s the way he looks at people now.

The way he cares.

The way he tries.

And somehow—

That’s what makes him dangerous.

Because now?

Now you get it.

Now you see what everyone else probably missed the first time around.

And that—

That’s a problem.

A big one.

Because you’re not just noticing him.

You’re looking.

And worse?

You don’t want to stop.

You step up to the counter, placing your tape down like you didn’t just have a full identity crisis in aisle three.

Steve picks it up, glancing at the cover.

“Good choice,” he says.

“Thanks.”

Your fingers brush when he hands it back.

It’s quick.

Accidental.

But it lingers.

Just enough.

You both pause.

Just for a second.

And then—

“You coming back?” he asks, casual, like it doesn’t matter.

Like he didn’t just ask something that feels a little too close to something else.

You meet his eyes.

Try to act normal.

“Maybe,” you say.

He nods.

Like that’s enough.

Like he’ll take it.

And as you turn to leave, the bell jingling above you again, one thought follows you out into the warm evening air—

Clear.

Loud.

Unavoidable.

When did you get hot…

Comprensión tras la tormenta: el vacío dentro del recipiente es su función

I recently had a realization:

The reason I'm turning into an "Old woman yelling at cloud" is not that the "Good Old Days" were all that great (in many ways, they were Effing Terrible Old Days). But I'm old enough to remember that the way we do things now is not the only way we've ever done them. And we could be making better choices (and remembering the better choices the generation before me could have made, 50-something years ago, but didn't)**.

And more and more, I'm surrounded by people who don't remember different ways, and seem to be just accepting the enshittification of our lives as the natural evolution of human society.

Head, meet Desk. Head, meet Desk. Head, meet Desk. Head, meet Desk.

*People born from 1946-1964; demographers don't all agree on most generational divides. But they seem to all agree with that. Of course, as someone born with a physical disability, I didn't grow up following the usual trajectory of Life's Big Milestones, so my experiences don't align with the normate fellows of "my generation." Still...