Steve Harrington x Henderson fem!reader
warnings: Angsty, traumatized Steve, mixed signals, slow burn, multal wanting, Soft heartbreak with hope?, 'Almost relationship ' dynamic.
summary: You never expected Steve Harrington to matter to you, just a name, a reputation, someone your little brother admired. But after surviving Hawkins’ horrors together, Steve slowly becomes a constant presence in your life: lingering looks, quiet care, and moments that feel dangerously close to something more. As mutual feelings grow, both of you hold back, afraid of breaking what little stability you have left. In the end, your situation doesn't leave room for love, right? So you stay close enough to care, even if it means never fully having him. But how long could that actually last?
You always knew Steve Harrington. He was a name first, the King of Hawkins High, the boy teachers watched a little closer, the one girls whispered about in the hallways. By the time you actually met him, you were already unimpressed.
Dustin, on the other hand, was not.
“Where are you going ?” you asked from the couch as you saw your brother leaving.
“I'm hanging with Steve,” he said, dumping his backpack on the living room floor.
You blinked. “Steve? Like Harrington?” You ask
“Yeah,” Dustin beamed. “He’s like… nice. Weirdly nice.”
That was the first crack.
The second came weeks later, after your first encounter with a demogorgon in the Byer home. You started playing nurse, patching up the boys when they needed. They couldn't go to a normal doctor after all. That's when Steve began to show up at your house, bloodied knuckles, split lips, that same stupid apologetic smile as if your living room had become some headquarters for broken boys who pretended they weren’t scared.
You were older than most of them, and mature enough to understand what fear looked like when it tried to pass as humor.
After that, it was small things.
Steve waiting for you before walking Dustin home.
Steve sitting a little closer than necessary during mission debriefs.
Steve glancing at you when he thought no one was looking, and looking away too fast. You hated yourself for noticing. Steve Harrington didn’t look at people casually.
When he looked at you, it felt like he was holding his breath.
You convinced yourself it was nothing.
Just proximity. Trauma bonding. Shared chaos.
You told yourself he was just being Steve, overprotective, loyal, painfully earnest.
But then there were nights like this one.
The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. Dustin was asleep. Steve had stayed late again, sitting at the kitchen table like he didn’t quite want to leave.
You leaned against the counter, arms crossed.
“You don’t have to keep coming over, Dustin is fine,” you said gently.
Steve swallowed. “I know.”
The space between you felt charged, like something unsaid kept pacing back and forth, waiting to be acknowledged.
He finally stood. “I should go.”
He walked to the door, hand on the knob, then paused.
“Do you ever,” he started, then stopped. He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Never mind.”
Your heart did something stupid.
For a second, you thought he might say it. Whatever it was.
Instead, he just looked at you, soft, aching, careful.
And you stood there long after, thinking,
What would I do if I were close to you?
If wanting was quiet, almost was loud.
Almost, Steve was brushing past you in the hallway, hand grazing your arm like an accident neither of you believed.
Almost was sitting beside him on the couch, knees touching, neither of you moving away.
Almost was the way he always found you in a room, even when he didn’t need to.
You noticed how he took care of Dustin as if it were instinct.
How he listened when you spoke, really listened.
He looked tired lately, like he was carrying more than he let on.
Not in the obvious way, no confessions, no grand gestures.
But in the way Steve lingered.
The night it broke open, it was raining.
Dustin had fallen asleep at the Wheelers’, and Steve offered to walk you home anyway, like you needed the protection.
Halfway there, you stopped under a streetlight, rain misting your hair.
“Steve,” you said, quietly.
He looked at you immediately attentively as if you would dissapear if he looked away. “What’s wrong?”
You stared at him, heart pounding. “Why do you keep doing this?”
His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”
“This,” You say, gesturing between you two
Then space. The silence. The waiting.
He looked at you like he already knew the answer.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted. “And I don’t know if I should.”
“You could...” you said. “If you wanted to.”
Steve stepped closer, rain soaking through his jacket. “That’s the problem.”
You were so close, now close enough to see the doubt in his eyes, the care, the fear of ruining something that hadn't even happened yet.
“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “And I hate that it feels selfish.”
“Because everything feels fragile,” he said. “And you’re… good. You’re steady. Dustin needs you. And I don’t want to be the thing that complicates that.”
You felt it, then the truth settled heavily in your chest.
He wasn’t afraid of wanting you.
He was afraid of having you.
“So what do we do?” you asked.
Steve’s voice was barely audible.
“I stay close enough to care. Far enough not to hurt you.”
You laughed softly, bitterly. “That sounds like torture.”
For a moment, you thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he reached out and gently brushed the rain from your cheek with his thumb, slow and reverent. Enough to make you want more.
“I wish,” he said, “that wanting was enough.”
And just like that, it was over
not with heartbreak, but with restraint.
Later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you realized something painful and true:
You didn’t lose Steve Harrington.
You just had to make him realize that he was good, just as good as he said you were.
