Moving Day, Harrington Residence (which was really a medium-sized two-bedroom apartment over a record store in Hawkins that always smelled faintly like vinyl and spearmint gum.)

Steve Harrington held the door open with his foot as Bee and Robin lugged the final box up the stairs, Bee’s striped bumblebee tights peeking out beneath her oversized sweatshirt. She’d scrawled “BEESTUFF (FRAGILE!)” on the cardboard in sharpie, complete with a doodle of a grumpy little bee with a pen in its mouth.

“Last box!” Robin huffed dramatically, collapsing onto the couch with theatrical flair. “We made it. She’s officially ours now.”

“Ours?” Bee raised an eyebrow, pushing a strand of her wavy hair behind her ear.

“Communal property. Sorry, that’s the lease.” Robin smirked. “I expect at least some shared custody of your tea collection.”

Steve just stood there for a moment, hands on his hips, staring at the living room like it had been touched by some quiet magic. The space was still messy—half-packed boxes, Bee’s sketch pads spilling off the coffee table, her keyboard leaning awkwardly against the wall—but it was starting to feel like home. A more complete version of it.

The morning sun filtered in through the gauzy curtains Bee had brought—soft amber light pooling on the floor, catching dust motes in the air. There were plants in the window now, all with names. (Steve didn’t ask, but he heard Bee muttering encouragement to a particularly crispy basil.) A fuzzy yellow blanket hung over the back of the couch. There were tiny magnets shaped like mushrooms and moons on the fridge. And suddenly, Steve’s place—their place—felt lived in, loved.

Bee was crouched in front of the bookshelf now, quietly arranging her collection of weird thrifted poetry books and her notebooks, some bulging with pages, others still waiting. Her brow furrowed in that deep-focus way that meant her brain was running faster than her mouth could ever keep up.

Steve swallowed. His chest tightened in a way that wasn’t panic. It was joy, and something else. Something aching.

He had to look away before it cracked him open.

He wandered into the kitchen under the guise of getting water but found himself just… leaning against the counter, watching. Listening. The muffled sounds of Bee laughing at something Robin said. The clink of her rings as she tapped a ceramic mug into place. It hit him again—she lived here now. With him. With them.

And all at once, that old, embarrassing dream crept in again like it always did when the house got quiet and soft like this. The one where he had a backyard. A dog. A ridiculous number of kids. Six, maybe. Or four, more realistically. He was pretty sure he’d already adopted Max and Dustin at this point—God knew he drove them around like a dad already.

But Bee here? Folding her socks into the drawer beside his, humming a song under her breath, biting her lip while deep in thought? That felt like step one.

“Stevie?” her voice drifted in from the hall, “Where do you want me to put my keyboard?”

He blinked, the fantasy lifting like steam off hot coffee. He smiled, walking over.

“Anywhere you want,” he said easily. “It’s your place too now.”

She beamed. Shy, lopsided. A smile like a secret only he got to keep.

And Robin, from the couch, loudly groaned. “God, you two are disgusting. I’m gonna start charging you for every meaningful glance.”

Bee laughed, sticking her tongue out.

Steve just grinned and looked away—toward the little hallway that led to her room, and his, and Robin’s cluttered den of chaos.

He didn’t know what the future looked like exactly, not yet.

But he knew he wanted it to smell like her shampoo, sound like her soft hums, and maybe—just maybe—one day involve a crib beside their bed and baby socks in the laundry basket.

Maybe not yet. But one day. They were getting closer. Box by box. Room by room. Little by little.