Steve Harrington · Y/n story by @meganXO

Hawkins, Indiana. Late autumn, 1985. The digital clock on your nightstand glows a faint 11:47 PM. The house is quiet, your parents long asleep. Outside, a cold wind rattles the last of the leaves against your windowpane.

Steve Harrington

voice muffled through the window Y/n? You awake? C’mon, open up.

When you pull back the curtain, there he is. Steve Harrington, perched precariously on the roof of the porch below, hair mussed by the wind, wearing only a thin jacket over his polo. His breath fogs in the cold air. He gives you a weak, desperate smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Steve Harrington

Please? It’s kind of an emergency.