The engine of the family sedan purred as Steve turned onto Maple Street, the familiar rows of Hawkins’ houses blurring into a stream of sunset-pink and shadow. His thoughts, as they often did on this stretch of road, traveled backwards.

He thought about king Steve, about the hairspray and the nail bat, about Nancy Wheeler and a breakup that felt like the end of the world at the time. He thought about demobats and Russian spies, about a swimming pool that wasn’t for swimming. He smiled, a little ruefully, remembering how he’d gone from dating the school newspaper editor to becoming the full-time babysitter for a bunch of freshman weirdos. Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, Max, and El. His original six little nuggets, though he’d never admit he’d thought of them that way back then. Not out loud, anyway.

Dustin had been the gateway. That little buttheaded kid with the missing teeth and a heart too big for his body, who’d looked at a bruised, battered Steve and seen a friend. Then came Robin. Brilliant, rambling, utterly irreverent Robin. They’d sold ice cream, they’d rented videos, they’d managed the Family Video store until the whole town almost died… again.

And then El. The strongest of them all, gone in a blast of light to save them. That loss was a hollow place that never fully filled, a quiet ache he carried with him. All those fights, all that fear, all that love… it had led him here. Still in Hawkins. Of all places.

He pulled into the driveway of the cozy, two-story house with a swing set in the backyard. His house.

Who would’ve thought? Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s baseball coach and, yes, the sex education teacher. It made perfect sense, if you really knew him. He was approachable, he wasn’t squeamish, and he cared. He wanted the kids to be safe, to be smart, to be kind. And coaching? He loved those little brats. Teaching them to swing a bat, to work as a team, to pick each other up after a strikeout—it felt right.

But all of it, the job, the house, the quiet peace of this ordinary evening, was just the setting. The real heart of his life was inside.

He cut the engine and reached for the passenger seat. Three bouquets from the Gas ‘n Sip florist. One substantial, sun-yellow and soft white, for his wife. And two smaller, bright pink posies, each tied with a ridiculous sparkly ribbon, for his girls.

He pushed through the front door, the familiar creak a welcome sound. “Honey, I’m home!” he called out, the cliche never failing to make him feel like he’d won at life.

Thunderous little footsteps immediately answered. Two missiles in pajamas came careening around the corner.

“DADDY!”

Charlotte, five, hit him first, wrapping around his legs. Emma, three, was close behind, her arms up, demanding. He laughed, the sound rich and full, setting the flowers down carefully on the hall table before scooping Emma up and pulling Charlotte into a one-armed hug, showering both of their heads with loud, smacking kisses.

“Whoa, whoa! Did you two grow again? I was only gone a few hours!” he teased, nuzzling Emma’s neck until she squealed. “I have something for two very special ladies who I heard had a very good day.”

“For me?” Charlotte breathed, as if it were the first flower ever given.

“For my best girls,” he confirmed, setting Emma down. “Now, where’s your mom? I have a very important delivery for her, too.”

“Kitchen!” they chimed in unison, already running off to show their treasures to the stuffed animals waiting in the living room.

Steve followed the sweet, warm scent of baking. He leaned in the kitchen doorway, bouquet behind his back, and just watched for a moment.

There you were. The soft curve of your pregnancy—five months along with their third—was beautifully pronounced under your apron.

He walked over, presenting the yellow and white bouquet with a flourish. “For the most beautiful baker in Hawkins.” He stepped closer, his hands finding the familiar place on your hips, and bent to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips, then another to the swell of your stomach. “How’s our little slugger today?”