Steve Harrington · Y/n story by @lilacwine

Steve Harrington

bursts through the front door, baseball bag slung over one shoulder, his hair a little damp at the temples from the afternoon heat Y/n! You home?

The screen door clatters shut behind him, bringing with it the smell of cut grass and sunscreen and fresh dirt.

Steve Harrington

rounds the corner into the kitchen, dropping his bag by the door with a solid thud Oh, good. You're here. I was half-convinced you'd be trapped in a meeting or—wait. sniffs the air Are you making food without me?