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who’s crying now? | steve harrington x fem!reader

summary A late-night study session is interrupted by an unexpected visitor — and even more unexpected feelings.

warnings 18+ only, mild language, minor romantic tension, suggestive thoughts (nothing explicit), Y/N, reader wears 👓

𝜗𝜚

“The most popular song in the land for the seventh big week in a row is by the Police, Every Breath You Take.”

You scribble a few half-formed answers onto the page, your pencil tapping impatiently against the margin as you glance back and forth between the paper and your open chemistry textbook. The formulas blur together, refusing to stick. Mr. Kaminsky’s tests were as impossible as Nancy had warned—no mercy, no curve, just pure academic brutality.

You sigh, sinking deeper into the uncomfortable desk chair you'd dragged from the kitchen. With your phone unplugged from the wall and snacks out of reach, you’d planned for a distraction-free cram session. Well… almost distraction-free.

A sudden scuffle outside the window breaks the silence—gravel crunching, a muffled thud, then footsteps. You freeze. A knock follows, sharp and deliberate.

Knock knock knock.

You groan audibly and throw your head back. The joys of switching rooms with your sister—unexpected visitors.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" you call, voice hoarse from lack of use.

Grabbing your robe from the edge of the bed, you toss it over your shoulders and stumble over to the window. You yank up the blinds and slide the pane open, the cool night air rushing in. There, leaning casually against the windowsill like it’s the most natural thing in the world, is Steve Harrington—Nancy’s boyfriend, Hawkins High's golden boy, with that smug half-smile plastered across his annoyingly perfect face.

“You know the front door exists, right?” you deadpan, squinting at him through the dark.

"Nice to see you too, Specs," Steve says as he swings one leg through the window and lands inside with a dull thud. He dusts off his jeans like he just did you a favor and not, in fact, tracked in half the yard.

"I told you to stop calling me that!" Arms folded tight across your chest, you glare at him. “And Nancy isn’t home.”

Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. "Figured. Guess I’ll just hang out here with you until she gets back."

Before you can protest, he’s already flopping down onto your bed like it belongs to him. Shoes and all. Dirt smears your comforter like a signature left behind by poor decisions.

“Absolutely not.” You march over and shove his feet off the mattress with more force than necessary. “Off. The. Bed.” You swipe at the muddy smudge with your sleeve, scowling. “I’ve got a chemistry test to study for, and with offense? You are the exact opposite of focus.”

“Well then just let me help,” Steve offers, already making his way to your desk like you’d said yes. He snatches your worksheet off the surface, squinting at it like it’s a foreign language. “What even is this? Did you write this during an earthquake?”

You shoot him a look. “You failed chemistry.”

“C-minus,” he corrects with pride, holding the paper higher as you reach for it. Of course, he pulls back—annoyingly fast, and the unfair height difference doesn’t help.

“In that case…” You make a grab for it and this time manage to snag it from his fingers, though the paper is now a crumpled mess. You scowl down at it, but barely have time to be annoyed before you realize how close you are to him.

Really close.

You’re practically pressed against him, and his hand—steadier than you’d expect—is resting lightly on your back, probably to keep you from toppling over during your little victory tug-of-war. His eyes flick to yours, and for a second everything slows. His smirk softens, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close his face is to yours.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate, climbing the stairs.

You both snap apart like magnets flipped the wrong way. Judging by the familiar weight of the footsteps, you don’t even need to look to know—it’s your dad.

“Hurry!” you whisper-shout, frantically motioning toward the window.

Steve’s eyes dart to the open window, his brain clearly running the math. He takes one step toward it—then hesitates. Too risky. Spraining an ankle before Saturday’s big game? Not worth it.

Without another word, he drops to the floor with a grunt and shimmies under your bed like some kind of reverse action hero. You barely have time to adjust your face before you plop back into your chair, heart hammering, and grab your pencil as if it had never left your hand.

Just then, your door creaks open.

“Hey, honey,” your dad says from the hallway, peering into your room with that sleepy dad squint.

You spin around in your chair a little too fast and give him your best innocent smile, praying the color has drained from your face by now. “Hi, Daddy! Off to bed?”

“Yeah,” he says with a yawn, rubbing the back of his neck. “Got to get up early in the morning.”

Your smile stays frozen, even as your foot nudges the edge of your bed, under which Steve is almost definitely not breathing.

“Well, have a good night!” you say, a little too brightly as you stand from your chair and cross the room to give your dad a kiss on the cheek. You hope the gesture distracts from the slight tremble in your voice and the growing pit of panic in your stomach.

He leans casually against the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning your room like a security camera with dad-level intuition.

“Something wrong?” you ask, doing your best to sound confused, innocent, and not at all like you’re hiding a teenage boy under your bed.

Your dad’s eyes narrow. “I thought I heard you talking to someone. Is Nancy home?”

Your brain scrambles for a response. “Oh! No—uh, I was on the phone. With Jonathan.”

His eyebrows lift a fraction. “Byers’s kid? This late at night?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your tone casual, even as your heart slams against your ribs. “We’ve got a group project coming up. We were just working out the details.”

“Hmm.” Your dad doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Dad,” you say with an exaggerated laugh. “He’s my best friend.”

That seems to settle it. He gives you a small smile, though his eyes flick once more around the room like he's scanning for hidden contraband. “Alright, alright. Have a good night, honey. Make sure you get some rest too.” He nods toward your desk, still a mess of textbooks, loose papers, and at least three pencils that have mysteriously vanished beneath your notes.

He leans down to kiss the top of your head, and you force yourself to stay perfectly still—even though your pulse is still racing. With a soft click, he shuts the door behind him.

You sigh in relief, turning back toward the room—and nearly jump.

Sitting on the edge of your bed is your stuffed animal, wobbling slightly, clearly being puppeteered from below.

In a high-pitched, desperate voice, Steve whines, “Please don’t kick poor Stevie out into the cold, Specs!”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. Marching over, you snatch the plush from his hand, but can’t hold back a giggle. “Idiot,” you murmur fondly.

You lean over the edge of the bed, plush still in hand, and find him already staring back up at you with those ridiculous, soft brown eyes—doe-eyed and shamelessly begging.

“Fine,” you huff, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips. “You can hang out until Nancy gets home.”

He grins.

“But,” you add, holding up a finger. “I need to study. No funny business, got it?”

Steve raises his hand like he’s taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

You squint at him. “You were never a scout.”

“Details.”

You settle back into your chair, flipping to the next page in your textbook. Behind you, Steve climbs onto your bed again—this time, he has the decency to kick off his shoes.

For the next hour or so, the room is filled with the soft scratch of your pencil and the occasional click of the radio as Steve lazily flips through stations. Sometimes it lands on static, sometimes on soft rock, sometimes on the tail end of a commercial. You don't say anything—neither of you do. It’s not awkward. It’s just quiet. Easy.

Eventually, the station stops changing. You glance back and find him passed out, one arm draped across his stomach, mouth slightly open. You shake your head and turn back to your notes, finishing one last problem before giving in to the weight in your own eyes.

You slip into the kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only sound as you fill your cup with water. You take a long sip just as the front door creaks open.

Nancy steps inside, her bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly windswept. She looks exhausted, but manages a smile when she sees you. “Hey,” she says, voice soft. “What are you still doing up?”

You set your cup down on the counter. “Waiting for you.”

She furrows her brow, curious. “Why?”

“Your boyfriend is here,” you say casually. “Sleeping in my bed.”

Her eyes snap wide open. “Steve is here?”

“Mhm.” You nod, taking another sip. “And I need you to wake him up, please. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

Her sleepiness vanishes in an instant as she drops her bag by the door. “Unbelievable.”

You gesture vaguely toward the stairs. “Tell him he’s got five minutes before I drag him out by the ankles.”

Nancy hurried up the stairs, her steps light but quick. When you step into your room, she’s already kneeling by the bed, brushing a bit of hair from Steve’s forehead and speaking in a soft, almost secret tone. “Steve?”

He stirs with a low groan, blinking up at her through bleary eyes. A sleepy smile spreads across his face. “Hey, beautiful,” he mumbles, voice rough and warm.

They both lean in without hesitation, exchanging a few sleepy kisses. You turn away instinctively, eyes finding a spot on the floor. There's a weird twist in your stomach—tight and uncomfortable. Not jealousy, exactly, but something. Something you don’t want to name.

“Hey, so, um,” you clear your throat awkwardly, “hate to disrupt your little Hallmark moment, but it’s late, and I’d really like to go to bed sometime tonight...”

Nancy laughs softly, straightening up. “Right, sorry, Y/N. We’ll be out of your hair. Come on, Steve.”

Steve sits up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he reaches down to grab his shoes. As he stretches, his shirt lifts just enough to expose a sliver of toned stomach—and that traitorous little line of muscle leading downward that your eyes should not be noticing.

Nope. Absolutely not.

What the hell were you thinking?

You quickly snap your gaze away, but not before your face starts burning up like it’s been dunked in lava. Thankfully, Nancy is too busy helping Steve gather his things to notice the full-body blush consuming you.

You grab your cup off the desk and sip furiously like hydration can drown the thought before it forms completely.

Nancy slipped into the hallway first, peeking around to make sure the coast was clear. Steve lingered behind her, still pulling on his jacket, but before he followed her out, he turned back to you.

“Thanks for letting me hang out here, Specs,” he said, flashing you that easy, lopsided grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

You rolled your eyes, dragging out the word, “Sureee,” in the most unbothered tone you could manage.

Without warning, he reached out and ruffled your hair, completely ignoring your half-hearted protests. You scoffed, swatting at his hand, but he was already chuckling and disappearing out into the hallway after Nancy.

Finally—finally—you were alone.

The house had gone still, the only sound the soft whistle of the wind against the windows. You shrugged off your robe, letting it fall onto the chair, then reached up to remove your glasses, placing them neatly on your nightstand.

Crossing the room, you collapsed onto the bed, dragging the blankets up around your shoulders like a cocoon. The mattress was still warm from Steve's body, the weight of his presence lingering heavier than you expected.

You shifted slightly, nestling deeper into the pillow—and froze for a moment when you realized something.

He left his scent behind.

It was faint, but unmistakable—something like cologne mixed with the clean, sun-warmed smell of his jacket. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

With a small, helpless sigh, you buried your face into the pillow, breathing in that leftover warmth.

And before you knew it, you drifted off to sleep, the faintest trace of a smile curving your lips.

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