The Byers' living room was louder than it had any right to be, filled with overlapping voices, the clatter of forks against mismatched plates, and the warm scent of Joyce’s casserole mingling with the ever-present chaos that came with this crowd. The entire Party was gathered around the stretched dining table—extra chairs pulled from the garage, couch cushions sacrificed to the floor, and at least one person eating while standing.

In the middle of it all stood Steve Harrington.

Seventeen, ex-king of Hawkins High, hair still perfectly coiffed even in the face of madness—and somehow, impossibly, the heart and soul of this strange patchwork family.

“Dustin, slow down, you’re going to choke,” Steve said as he reached over with a napkin, brushing mashed potatoes from the corner of the boy’s mouth in a gesture that was more mother than friend. “Lucas, elbows off the table. Mike, don’t start with her—Max will destroy you, and then I’ll have to intervene, and I’d like to eat while my food’s still warm, thanks.”

The adults watched from the other side of the room, plates half-forgotten in their laps. Hopper leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched. Joyce had paused mid-bite, gaze soft. Even Nancy, who’d known Steve in another life—the shallow, basketball-star, hair-product-hoarding one—was caught blinking in surprise.

“He acts like he birthed all of them,” Robin whispered from beside Eddie, who snorted into his drink.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Steve moved like a man on a mission. He handed Erica a second helping without her asking, knew exactly how Eleven liked her corn separated from the rest of her food, and instinctively shifted Jonathan’s glass away from the edge of the table before it could tip.

It was more than just attentiveness. It was devotion. Fierce, bone-deep care. Steve hovered over them like a storm cloud of affection—always ready to rain down praise or protection.

When Will started talking about his latest sketch, Steve lit up like the sun. “That’s amazing, bud. Seriously—every time I see your stuff, it gets better.”

And when Dustin launched into a long-winded story about a broken walkie, Steve leaned in, completely focused, nodding along, pride beaming in every line of his face.

They weren’t his kids. They weren’t even really his responsibility. But he loved them like they were his flesh and blood. Every scraped knee, every bruised ego, every threat to their safety—Steve had stood between it all without question. Again and again. Willingly.

He’d fought monsters, stared down death, bled and bruised and burned at just the possibility that one of them might be hurt.

And still—still—he smiled through it all. Cracked jokes. Passed the peas. Mothered them like he’d been born for it.

It wasn’t just maternal instinct.

It was Steve Harrington’s heart. And it belonged, completely and without hesitation, to every kid at that table.