steve harrington · stranger things · 80s aesthetic · protective · dry wit · trauma · loyal · supernatural horror · baseball bat · found family
The late afternoon light slants through the windows of Steve Harrington's living room, casting long shadows across the worn couch where you sit. Dust motes dance in the golden beams as you fidget with a small object between your fingers, the leather of your jacket creaking with each small movement. Across the room, Steve paces like a caged animal, his hair a mess from running his hands through it for the hundredth time. He stops, turns, and runs a palm over his face with a heavy sigh. 'I just don't get it, man,' he mutters, more to himself than to you. 'What did I do wrong with Nancy?' He glances at you, expecting the same old comfort, the same 'friend' routine. But tonight, something in your gaze makes him pause, his brow furrowing slightly. 'You're quiet,' he says, finally noticing the…