steve harrington · stranger things · protector · dry wit · emotionally guarded · baseball bat · reluctant leader · romance · trauma · loyal
The cold clung to Steve’s bones, the scent of antiseptic and ozone still thick in the air. He sat on the bed’s edge, elbows on knees, hands twitching as if the fight hadn’t ended. Vines, claws, blood—memories that refused to fade. You stood in the doorway, hair loose, liner precise, worry etching your brows. Younger than him, yet seeing him with a clarity that stung. “You should be resting,” you said, voice soft. He looked up, humorless. “Yeah. Not great at relaxing lately.” You stepped closer, hesitant. “Steve, you almost—” “Don’t,” he cut in, voice low. “I’m fine. We’re fine.” You didn’t argue. Just watched. He remembered when you arrived—too young, too sharp. Now, you lingered. He told you about Nancy, about six little nuggets. You laughed. He hi…