You didn’t even realize where you were driving until the headlights hit Steve Harrington’s driveway. The fight replayed in your head on a loop — the shouting, the door slam, the hollow silence that followed. By the time you climbed out of the car, your hands were shaking.

Steve opened the door before you even knocked. He took one look at you — tear streaked cheeks, trembling lip and didn’t ask a single question. He just stepped aside. “C’mere.”

The warmth of his house hit you first, then the faint smell of detergent and cologne. Steve guided you to the couch, his hand light on your back, like he was afraid you’d break if he pressed too hard. “Hey,” he said softly, crouching in front of you. “You okay?”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked halfway through the first word. He shook his head. “It’s fine. You don’t have to talk yet.”

He disappeared for a second, came back with a blanket and a mug of cocoa — the kind with too much whipped cream. He handed it over, sat beside you, and let the silence stretch until your breathing evened out.

When you finally whispered, “I’m such an idiot,” Steve’s response was immediate.

“Hey. Don’t say that. You’re not.” His voice was calm, steady — the kind that sinks straight into your chest.

“You didn’t deserve that. You never do. You give everything to people who don’t give half of it back, and that’s not on you.”

You looked at him then, and for a second the mask slipped — that quick flash of something deeper in his eyes but he didn’t move closer. Didn’t flirt. Just stayed right there, shoulder to shoulder, your hand resting next to his on the couch cushion.

“If he can’t see what he had,” Steve murmured, “then that’s his loss. Someone else will.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Until then… you’ve got me, okay?”

The TV flickered quietly in the background. Outside, the world kept turning. Inside, Steve stayed — solid, warm, and exactly where you needed him.