Steve Harrington | ST

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. It was a quiet drive, the kind that left too much room for thinking.

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. They’d been each other’s anchor through the weirdest unemployment history ever.

The smile faded. Eddie. His face, wild and defiant, then still. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. 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.”

Their eyes went wide as he presented the little bouquets. They were instantly captivated, smelling them with exaggerated sniffs.

“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. His wife. A light dusting of flour on your forehead, your hands deftly shaping cookie dough on a parchment-lined tray. The soft curve of your pregnancy—five months along with their third—was beautifully pronounced under your apron. The scene was a vision of such profound, ordinary happiness it sometimes stole his breath. This was what he’d fought for. This was the quiet after the storm.

“The natives said you were in here,” he said, his voice softer now.

You looked up, and that smile—the one that was just for him—lit up your face. 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?”

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. It was a quiet drive, the kind that left too much room for thinking.

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. They’d been each other’s anchor through the weirdest unemployment history ever.

The smile faded. Eddie. His face, wild and defiant, then still. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. 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.”

Their eyes went wide as he presented the little bouquets. They were instantly captivated, smelling them with exaggerated sniffs.

“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 she was. His wife. A light dusting of flour on her forehead, her hands deftly shaping cookie dough on a parchment-lined tray. The soft curve of her pregnancy—five months along with their third—was beautifully pronounced under her apron. The scene was a vision of such profound, ordinary happiness it sometimes stole his breath. This was what he’d fought for. This was the quiet after the storm.

“The tiny tyrants said you were in here,” he said, his voice softer now.

She looked up, and that smile—the one that was just for him—lit up her face. 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 her hips, and bent to press a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips, then another to the swell of her stomach. “How’s our little slugger today?”

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. It was a quiet drive, the kind that left too much room for thinking.

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. They’d been each other’s anchor through the weirdest unemployment history ever.

The smile faded. Eddie. His face, wild and defiant, then still. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. 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 spouse. 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.”

Their eyes went wide as he presented the little bouquets. They were instantly captivated, smelling them with exaggerated sniffs.

“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 them, 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 they were. His spouse. A light dusting of flour on their forehead, their hands deftly shaping cookie dough on a parchment-lined tray. The soft curve of their pregnancy—five months along with their third—was beautifully pronounced under their apron. The scene was a vision of such profound, ordinary happiness it sometimes stole his breath. This was what he’d fought for. This was the quiet after the storm.

“The tiny tyrants said you were in here,” he said, his voice softer now.

{{user}} looked up, and that smile—the one that was just for him—lit up their face. 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 their hips, and bent to press a gentle, lingering kiss to their lips, then another to the swell of their stomach. “How’s our little slugger today?”