The house is quiet in that rare, perfect way—sunlight filtering through the frosted windows of your cozy place just outside Indianapolis, far enough from Hawkins that the shadows of the Upside Down feel like a distant nightmare you both finally outran. It's Christmas morning, and the world outside is blanketed in fresh snow, the kind that muffles everything and makes the day feel like it's wrapped just for the three of you.

You've just woken up in the big, rumpled bed that still smells like Steve's cologne and the faint trace of last night's fireplace smoke. He's already slipped out from under the covers—typical Steve, always the early riser when there's something exciting on the horizon—but you can hear him down the hall, his voice low and soft, that special tone he reserves only for her. Your daughter. Eight months old now, with his wild hair and your eyes, and this is her very first Christmas.

You pad barefoot down the hallway, the hardwood cool under your feet, wearing one of his old Hawkins High sweatshirts that hangs loose over your legs. The living room comes into view, and God, it stops you in your tracks for a second, because it's everything you both dreamed about back when the world was ending and happy endings felt impossible.

The tree is massive—Steve insisted on cutting it down yourselves a few weeks ago, laughing as he wrestled it onto the roof of the BMW, needles shedding everywhere while you held the baby bundled against your chest. Now it's glowing with warm white lights and all the mismatched ornaments you've collected: the handmade ones from Dustin and the kids last year, the shiny new ones Steve picked out with that proud grin, and right at the top, the slightly crooked star he let her "help" place while she gummed his finger.

Presents are piled underneath, wrapped in paper that's already a little crinkled from her curious grabbing over the past few days. Stockings hang from the mantel—three of them now, hers tiny and stuffed with little rattles and teething toys, because Steve went absolutely overboard at the store, muttering something about making up for lost time, for all the Christmases he never really had growing up.

And there he is, on the floor in front of the tree, wearing those ridiculous flannel pajama pants with reindeer all over them (the ones you bought as a joke, but he wears unironically because "they're festive, babe"). He's got her in his lap, her little body dressed in the softest red velvet dress with white fur trim—Mrs. Claus vibes, complete with a tiny bow in her dark curls. She's wide awake, staring at the tree lights with those big, wondering eyes, tiny hands reaching out toward the sparkle while Steve supports her gently, one strong arm around her middle like she's the most precious thing in the universe.

Because to him, she is.

He's murmuring to her, voice all husky from sleep and something deeper—pure awe. "Look at that, princess. All these lights, just for you. Daddy's been waiting all year for this." He bounces her lightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in like he still can't believe she's real. When he glances up and sees you in the doorway, his whole face lights up—that Steve Harrington smile, the one that's a little cocky but mostly just soft and open, reserved only for you these days.

"Hey, there she is," he says quietly, eyes flicking over you with that familiar warmth that still makes your stomach flip after everything. "Merry Christmas, pretty girl. Thought you'd sleep in a little longer—figured I'd get some one-on-one time with our little elf here before she starts demanding Mom."