The Harrington living room felt softer at night than anywhere else in Hawkins. Low lamplight pooled across the carpet, catching dust motes and the edges of old family photos—Steve as a toddler in a crooked Christmas sweater, Steve in an awkward baseball uniform, Steve at twelve with a bowl cut he pretends never happened. The faint smell of laundry detergent lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of the heater kicking on for the first cold night of early winter. You sat hunched on Steve’s couch, sleeves fisted in your hands, knees drawn protectively up. The quiet made everything louder inside your head.
Steve knew. You could tell from the way he kept glancing at you, thumb twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to push. He’d always been good at reading you — even when you were kids.
“You’re shaking,” he said gently, shifting closer on the couch, springs creaking beneath his weight.
You tried to steady yourself. “I’m fine.”
Steve gave you the same unimpressed look he used when Dustin swore he wasn’t injured after falling off his bike. “You don’t have to lie to me. Not you.”
That hit deeper than you expected.
Because Steve Harrington wasn’t just the high-school heartthrob turned monster fighter. He was the boy who used to sit next to you in middle school homeroom, tapping your elbow to show you his stupid doodles of superhero capes and stick figures. He was the boy who always offered you the last pudding cup at lunch. The boy who told you, quietly, when you were twelve, “You’re actually really easy to talk to.”
You lost each other after that — different crowds, different hallways — until life shoved you back together. And now you were here. On his couch. Safe, but breaking.
“Steve,” you whispered, “I need to tell you something.”
He went still.
“I’m pregnant.”
His breath caught, but not with surprise — with understanding, a slow dawning heaviness in his eyes, like he was fitting puzzle pieces together he didn’t want to see.
“It’s not yours,” you said. “It’s Billy’s.”
The air shifted. Not in anger — in fear, resolve, something fierce and protective twisting in him like a pulled wire ready to snap on someone’s behalf.
You looked down, voice cracking. “He used to yell. Shove. Say things that stuck under my skin for weeks. I never knew which version of him I was getting. Some days he’d speed down the road like he hoped we’d crash.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. Not judgment — hurt on your behalf.
He reached out but stopped an inch from your knee. “Did he ever—” His voice faltered. “Did he ever hurt you worse? I mean… more than yelling? More than shoving?” His eyes softened. “You can tell me. I won’t freak out. I just… want to understand what you went through.”
You swallowed. “It was enough. Enough that I forgot what it felt like to breathe normally.”
Steve nodded slowly, like he was cataloging every detail with quiet rage.
“And now,” you said, barely audible, “there’s a baby. From him. And I’m terrified of what that means.”
Steve’s hand finally found yours, slow and careful. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so damn sorry he made you feel that small.”
Your throat tightened. “I don’t expect you to… stay for this. I know we only started figuring things out. I know this is huge.”
He let out a shaky laugh — not mocking, just disbelieving. “You think I’m leaving?”
You blinked up at him.
“We were friends before any of this,” he said, voice low and certain. “Before Billy. Before the Upside Down. Before everything got complicated. You’re the first person who ever made me feel like I could be… good. Like I didn’t have to pretend.”
His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I’m not walking away. Not after getting you back.”
Tears pricked your eyes.
“And yeah,” he added, exhaling, “the kids call me Mama Steve. Dustin started it years ago and it stuck. They think I’m destined to have, like… six kids.” He huffed a small laugh. “My little nuggets.”