Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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December, 1990

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Willow’s fourth birthday party arrives swiftly. Most of the weeks that follow your first doctor appointment are spent within the comfort of your bed, trying to keep food down, trying to make sure you’re drinking enough water, and resting. It seems like all your body wants these days is rest. 

Luckily, your husband is more than capable of accommodating. Promises to take care of things on the days you’re feeling worse than others. Be it by doing dishes, folding laundry, or watching Willow while you take a nap after work. 

He’s nothing but easy going about it all. Reassures you on the days when your hormones have you sobbing in his arms that he’d do whatever you need him to, because you’re doing the hard work of growing the little one in the first place—his sweet little boy or girl that seems keen on making sure their mother never forgets it, too. 

But, you make it your mission to get out of bed that day and try and make yourself look presentable. 

It’s around the ten week mark, and you’re already noticing changes that weren’t there around this point with Willow. As if your body quickly knows what it wants to do this time, whereas it had only been learning with Willow.  There’s the fullness of your breasts to be expected. A feature your husband very much doesn’t mind, though there’s not much of that these days. Not when you feel like death warmed up most evenings, nor the way you feel like someone took a bike pump to your belly and inflated you a bit. 

Steve notices it that morning as you stand in front of the mirror, the little, barely there curve that wasn’t there a couple of weeks ago. A small hill that begins right beneath the band of your bra and disappears into the waistband of your leggings. 

His fingers splay over it, mouth coming to brush over your temple, just as you mutter, “I look like there’s a bunch of air in there.”

“You look a little bit pregnant,” he says, snorting. “Which you are. You’re beautiful and I’m a lucky lucky man.”

“Sorry I’ve been so… blah.”  

By blah, you merely mean the sudden lack of physical intimacy between the two of you. You’d gone from an ‘all the time’ sort or frequency to nothing at all since the nausea has come in full swing. There were moments, sure, when things grew a little more heated, but those also happened to be the moments where your baby decided it actually didn’t like what you ate for dinner. 

“I will survive,” he laughs, rubbing a hand along your back. 

You huff out a sign, leaning further into him.

“Oh! Did you know your baby books say you should be feeling much better by the second trimester? You’re almost there, in fact.”

“You’ve been reading them?” 

Your heart is in your throat. 

Damn hormones. 

“Every night when you go to sleep,” he says, smiling fondly at your reflection in the mirror. “I want to be there in whatever way you need, so I figured I should be prepared and learn everything I need to know about what to expect.”

“How did I get so lucky?”

“I ask myself that every day.” He huffs out a laugh, rubbing your back as you rinse your mouth with listerine and clamber back into bed. “Go—get some more sleep. You were up sick at three in the morning. I’ll start a birthday breakfast for our girl.”

‘Our girl.’ 

His favorite girl. 

His first girl—well, aside from you. 

With a sigh, you tuck your hand under your head and shut your eyes. Languish in the feel of Steve’s lips, a gentle press, against your temple. You don’t sleep for long. Another hour at most, but it’s enough to feel better, enough where you roll over and stretch your spine happily, before walking down into the kitchen where you can hear Steve talking to his daughter as he cooks, her voice shrill and elated, giggles bright and joyous. 

“But Daddy, I love you this much!” And she lets out another laugh, head tipping back as she extends her arms on either side of her, as far as they’ll go, trying to show him the breadth of her love for him. 

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks, catching your gaze from over Willow’s head. “Well I love you this much!” 

His arms spread on either side of him before he rushes forward and wraps her in his embrace, lifting her bodily, spinning her around and around, lyrical laughter making your eyes burn. 

One of your hands slides over your midsection, fondness bubbling up for the little one who doesn’t even know just how lucky they are yet to have Steve as their father. 

“Good morning, Mommy!” Willow laughs, presently upside down in her father’s arms. 

Her little hand comes up in a wave as you step closer, Steve righting her so you can extend your arms. Steve winces as Willow shifts out of his arms and into yours, knobby little knees jabbing you in the abdomen, though you brush him off with a swift shake of the head and squeeze your not so little girl in your arms, bouncing her on your hip. 

“Can you stop growing up?” Your voice breaks a little. 

Hormones, or just general motherly sadness over watching your baby grow up, you’re not sure. Either way, it drives you to hold her tighter, keep her closer. She rubs her fingers along your chest, head burrowing into your neck, while Steve looks on with a warmth you feel deep in your bones. 

“I’ll try not to,” she promises, glancing up at your face. “Maybe I can stop eating my vegetables?”

Steve chuckles. “Baby, you need to eat your vegetables.”

“I’m not a baby anymore. Mommy has the new baby in her tummy.” She pouts, a deep sigh spilling across your collarbone. 

Steve brushes his thumb along his daughter's temple, dragging downward. Taps at her cheek until her lip twitches up slightly. “You’ll always be our baby. Doesn’t matter how old you get. Always.”

Willow crumples. “Promise?”

“We promise.” You bounce her higher up on your hip. “Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

The three of you spend the morning as a family. Willow recounts tales of preschool, of her new friends she’s made, of what she’s learned so far. And you sit with your hand curled around the one cup of coffee Steve will allow you for the day, listening to her talk, thinking back to that day so longingly like you always do. Your little girl, swaddled in pink, and a tiny hat around her dark head of hair. So quiet and peaceful, a stark difference to the girl who sits across from you now, glaringly Steve’s daughter in the best way. 

“Okay, now that breakfast is done, what do you think we should do next?” Steve asks, glancing over at the clock. “Your birthday party starts at three, so we have a little bit of time before everyone gets here.” 

“Like Hop Pop, Gram and Grammy?” 

Hopper, Joyce and Mrs. Harrington. 

After your wedding, your parents have been…around, though never frequent. With them living in another state, they’ve started phone calls. Short conversations here and there where they ask about you, Steve and their granddaughter. But it’s stilted and awkward still, strained by time and distance. They’d apologized to you and Steve at your dinner table a few months after you married. For kicking you out, for making you feel forgotten and unsafe, young and expecting. To Steve, for hurting his now wife. For ever thinking the little girl in the next room, playing with her coloring books, was a stain on your ‘good family name.’ 

“Exactly like them,” Steve tells her, handing her a napkin to wipe the strawberry juice from sticky four year old fingers. “And the rest of your aunts and uncles. Also, Uncle Eddie is coming to town for the holidays. Just finished up a tour, and he’s coming to stay here for your birthday.”

Her eyes grow wider at that. At the prospect of seeing one of her favorite people in the world once more. Eddie calls often. Once or twice a week while he’s gone, not only to talk to you and your husband, but to prattle on with his favorite niece. There’s been countless times you’ve left her to sit by the phone where she’ll talk with him for hours over the years. At first, when she spoke little, other than a few words here and there. 

And now that she’s older, she has full conversations with him, all giggly and bright, telling each other stories about fantastical lands, dragons, knights, kings and princesses. Of bards and gnomes, dwarves and elves. 

Their relationship is the sweetest. Yours and Steve’s metalhead best friend and chosen brother the kindest uncle to your baby girl. Loves her in a way that seems contrary to his rougher exterior, and melts for her without any qualms or care over what one might think of him for it. 

“For me?” She points to herself and Steve nods. Excitedly, she pushes her plate away, glancing down at the floor, and then up to your face. “Mommy, can I get down?”

As you dip your head, Steve stands to his feet, moving to grab the dirty dishes from the kitchen table and settles them in the sink. You’re behind him in an instant as Willow dashes into the living room, the sound of her toys being thrown about the floor immediately following. Arms loop around his waist, your chest to his back, ear against his spine as he hums to “My Girl” by the Temptations spilling from the radio he flicks on with the twist of his fingers around a volume knob. 

“I’ll clean up and put the decorations up. And before you pout, because I know you are since I know you like the back of my own hand, the doctor said no lifting things more than Willow’s weight or standing on ladders.”

“They didn’t say no ladders—”

“Okay,” he laughs, and it vibrates against your cheek. “But I said no ladders.”

“Who says I have to listen to you?” Your tone is light and teasing. 

Steve turns around in front of the sink, wiping his hand on a dish towel before brushing his fingers along your temples, down your cheeks. You lean up to brush your lips against his, smiling into his skin, relishing in his nearness. Those hands along your cheeks glide down your arms, your sides, hips. Tug you flush against his hard chest. And then he’s hugging you against him, holding you close, keeping you there as he sways back and forth to the music. 

“Go—let me take care of it, okay?”

The time passes playing dolls and building block towers with Willow. She chatters on in her imaginary worlds, bringing you into the fold with her, settling down into your lap eventually when you suggest you braid her hair for the party. She ends up with two french braids, and dressed in a frilly pink top (her choosing) with a pair of dark leggings to complete the birthday look. She’d even settled on her dress up princess tiara Eddie had bought her last Christmas, claiming she wanted to be a princess for the day, to which Steve exclaims she’s his princess every day (you melt once more, and if you weren’t already pregnant would let him get you pregnant). 

Said little girl runs down the hall when the doorbell rings and suddenly your other kids, who are no longer kids, come barreling into your home. Max’s bright hair, Lucas holding her hand beside her. El and Mike attached at the hip. Will and his new boyfriend. Dustin and Suzie. Erica. Willow giggles as Max hikes her up into her arms, and then upward onto her shoulders, presents in all the kid’s hands thumping against their thighs as they make their way over to the two of you, giving you and Steve bone crushing hugs. 

As the kids all gravitate in the living room, playing with Willow who twirls around to whatever song is spilling from the radio, you linger with Steve in the kitchen, welcoming your friends and family as they arrive. Jonathan, Nancy and the baby. Eden and Argyle in a flurry of excitement, looking for their ‘favorite little brochacho.’ Mia and Robin appear in a cloud of presents and a giant cake that you shove onto the kitchen island, both of them calling out into the home for their favorite niece. And then there’s Hopper and Joyce, who you nearly throttle because once again they’ve bought too many gifts for your daughter, arms practically overflowing with them. 

Before long, you’re sitting beside Steve, your hand in his, his hand against your lap, the other arm draped around your shoulders as the kids play with fake lightsabers with your daughter. It’s then the doorbell rings and Willow screeches that it’s ‘Uncle Eddie.’ And she’s right, joyful laughter spilling down the hall as her favorite uncle scoops her up into his arms and walks her into the living room. 

And it’s there, as the room grows quiet upon Eddie’s arrival, freshly home from tour, that Willow whispers against his ear (and it’s never really a whisper with her), “Uncle Eddie…did you know Mommy has a baby?”

The room halts. You’ve told Willow not to tell anyone yet. But…you suppose you’ve forgotten to tell her Eddie is included in that rule. Eddie’s eyes widen at that, as do everyone else’s in the room, heads turning your way. 

“What do you mean?” And he’s looking at you and your husband, your fingers curling tighter around Steve’s.  

“Mommy has a baby.” She pokes Eddie in the stomach, grinning widely. “In her tummy.”

Heads and eyes shift your way. Endless faces looking to you imploringly. At your face initially, then southward to your stomach, where your sweater presently covers any hint of the secret you’ve been hiding for a little over two months now. 

Steve’s arm around your shoulder tightens. “We…wanted to wait a little longer to tell you all, but…” 

The room erupts into chaos. Everyone’s screaming and congratulating the two of you, arms coming to curl around both of you, hands on your face, giggles and jumping up and down from the girls, shouts of who is going to be the best uncle to the new baby. Hopper and Joyce pull you in for a tight hug, and Mrs. Harrington couldn’t be more excited for another grandbaby. 

“I knew it!” Amelia shrieks beside Robin. 

“She dumped her drink in my sink on our last girl’s day when she thought no one was looking,” Nancy adds. 

“That’s right!” Robin muses. “Any ideas of what baby Harrington is?” 

You exhale, palm coming to rest along your midsection. “I think it’s a…”

*

March, 1991

*

“It’s a boy!” The doctor announces. 

“A boy?” Steve’s practically choking on his tears beside you, holding your hand tight within his own. 

“Your baby is definitely a he. And look, he’s sucking his thumb!” She points out, outlining your son’s little profile, the arm bent in front of him, thumb tucked between his lips. “Growing perfectly for twenty weeks. Congratulations to you two. The front desk will set up your next appointment on your way out. See you two soon.”

You’re left there in that office, shifting your shirt back down over your presently rounded middle, palm cupping Steve’s face. Your heart clenches at the endless tears in his eyes, the way his bottom lip wobbles, how his hand comes to rest over the increasingly prominent swell of your belly. Still now, except for the little flutters of movement only you've been able to feel this far, much to Steve’s frustration. He’s in love. Absolutely enamored with the little one growing beneath your heart. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips. Kisses you soundly. Wipes at the tears coasting down your cheeks. 

“A boy,” you whimper into his mouth, sides shaking with your tears. “Steve, we’re having a boy.”

With Willow at Robin’s, having a special day with her, Eddie and Amelia, you’re left to spend the evening with your husband. Which means a trip to the supermarket, and then to the hardware store where you sift through endless swatches of blue paint to try and find the perfect color for your son’s nursery. The thought still swirls in your mind, palm rubbing around and around your midsection as Steve swipes his credit card at the store, carrying the bucket of paint with the lovely sky blue you eventually settle on. 

He gets to work immediately, pouring paint into a tin and rolling it onto the walls, his mouth a determined line as he works meticulously in the guest room turned baby room. You enter after a while, fingers curling around a brush, when he stops you with a brush of his mouth against yours.  

“Hopper would kill me if I let you paint.”

“I can paint! A little.”

Steve shakes his head. “You’re not supposed to.”

“A little.”

“Honey,” he laughs, leaning forward to kiss you. “I’ll be finishing up the first coat soon. And then after that we can relax and watch a movie or something. We still have a few hours until Willow gets brought home.”

“Or something,” you say, mulling the thought over in your mind. 

Steve brushes the backs of his fingertips along your temple. Kisses your forehead tenderly. “ Or something.”

That or something ends up being his fingers digging into the tops of your shoulders on the couch an hour later after he’s finished up with the baby’s room and taken a quick shower. He rests with his bare back against the armrest of your living room couch, his thighs on either side of your hips, your back to his front so he can rub at the tension in your shoulders. Every so often he’ll lean down and kiss at the nape of your neck, the slope of it, the juncture of your jaw. All teasing brushes, tantalizing fingers, and tender affection needed after a long week. 

That or something later turns to amorous kisses as he shifts you both onto your sides, hiking one of your thighs over his, parting you for him, and brushing a tentative finger at your center. Swirls around and around until you push back against his hips, aching for more, aching for touch, aching for the comfort of his body after so long without. You tell him as much with a breathy sigh, gasping as he shoves his sweatpants down and does the same with your shorts, face pressing into his arm where it rests beneath your head to muffle the elongated moan that spills from you like a long held breath once he’s finally fully sunk inside. 

“Oh—oh fuckkkk,” he groans into your shoulder, hand curling tight around your hip, rocking slowly into you. “Missed you. Missed this. Missed us.” 

Panting. He’s panting in time with your soft mewls and whimpers, shifting the hand around your hips to slide between your thighs, pressing a middle finger to your clit. 

“‘M already close, Steve.” It’s pitiful, your breathy cry, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. 

Because you won’t. Not like this. Not after so long. Not with his fingers holding yours above your head, his lips at your neck, fingers between your thighs. Not after weeks of wanting him, craving him. 

“M-me too. Shit honey.”

You shatter together. Simultaneous tremors as you come back to earth, breathless whispers of kisses pressing against skin as you slowly drift back to reality. Shuddering as he rolls you back over onto your side, fingers brush along the contour of your earlobe, along the delicate lines of your neck. Your mouth presses against the corner of his, fingers curling beneath the hem of his shirt, seeking his warmth. And his fingers drift down to your midsection, brushing over the swell before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

He’s about to speak when a distinct growl signals from within you, brows arching curiously. “Hungry?”

“Yeah, but he only wants ice cream.”

He. Your little boy. “He only wants ice cream, huh? Or do you only want ice cream?”

“It’s a little bit of both.” 

You grin, sitting upright as he slips his boxers and sweats back on, bare shoulders on display as he walks into the kitchen and returns a moment later with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. Your spoons clang together like old times, digging into the container to shovel copious amounts of your sugary treat onto the metal. 

“Good?” He asks, watching with rapt attention as you scarf down your first bite, smiling around your mouthful. 

“Mmm.” 

There’s a pause at a sudden jolt in your lower abdomen, fingers pressing down against skin. And then another, but it’s accompanied by a tiny nudge. Barely there, yet real all the same. For weeks you’d been feeling him, but only ever inside, and never in the way Steve could ever detect. Heart hammering, you extend your hand out and grip his palm, resting it where you’d felt the movement. 

“Is something wrong? Do you need me to call the doctor? Talk to me— wait. Was that?” 

Nodding, you grin. “Yeah, that’s definitely him.”

“Hey, buddy,” Steve says, lowering his face toward your middle. He does this every night, and yet it still never gets old seeing Steve Harrington soft over his newest little one. “It’s your dad. I love you so much.”

Your fingers curl through his hair, sides shaking from laughter when he swiftly lifts the bottom of your shirt to kiss your skin quickly before settling it back down and rushing to kiss your face. Your cheeks, the bump of your chin, your forehead. 

“I love you,” he breathes, with a reverence that makes you shudder, kissing you at last. 

“I love you, too.”

Later that night, just as you’ve fallen asleep beside him after you put your daughter to bed with a bedtime story, Steve lays near the curve of your belly. Hands against the spaces where his son dances away within, little nudges against his palms, making his heart skip within his chest. Moments like these, moments he missed when you’d been pregnant with Willow, are the moments he relishes now. New experiences with the little boy growing beneath your heart. Half him, half you, and already so loved. 

Steve knows he’s lucky in love. Knows he’s lucky to have found it in you as teens, to have learned to cherish it, to hold fast to his family above all else. He also knows this, being a husband and father, are what he’s called to do. To be a teacher and a coach for his day job, but his family is everything. He sees that now. Day in and day out, he thanks all the stars that aligned for this to be his reality. You in his arms, in his heart, and two little ones to care for. To love, to teach, to tend to so they can grow. 

He’s happy. Here. Laying beside you, the woman he loves. His daughter is sleeping down the hall. And within you, the little boy that kicks beneath his palm, says hello, reminding him everything he’s endured, all the hardships—they all led to this moment. 

*

May, 1991

*

Steve Harrington can’t find his thirty week pregnant wife. Outside, Eddie Munson strums away on a guitar with his niece in his lap, watching the person he’s meant to—and meanwhile, Steve’s lost a whole adult. 

Today’s your baby shower. A joint one to allow all your loved ones to celebrate the impending birth of your baby boy. Only ten weeks now, maybe less. The doctors seem to think your second baby could come early, seeing as he’s already measuring ahead of where he would be. 

And yet, every day that passes leaves Steve worried. Worried about watching you endure that pain all over again, making sure you’re safe, making sure your son comes into the world safely. But yet…again, he’s already failed in losing his own wife. 

“Honey?” 

He calls out into the home, only to be met with silence. Endless silence, while everyone else is already getting ready outside. Amelia and Robin had insisted they put together the whole thing. A bunch of powdery blue decorations and accents; all meant to highlight the still unnamed nephew they’d be welcoming in just over two months now. 

“In here.” Your voice sounds wobbly. Broken. Sad. 

He hates it immediately. Knows you’ve likely fallen into another hormonal bout. You’ve been having a lot of those lately. Between the cravings, your swollen feet, the pain in your back, and the emotions running through your system, you were constantly tired and on edge. He never faulted you for it. If anything, he found himself more in love each and every day. Completely awed by the fact you were carrying a whole human beneath your heart.  

When he enters your bedroom, he finds you sitting on the floor in nothing but a pair of shorts and a bra, clothes strewn about the floor, and a rounded belly full on display. His instinct is to reach down and kiss it, but the look you give him has him pausing in the doorway. Red-rimmed eyes and a pout that cleaves his heart right down the middle. In an instant, he’s dropping down onto the floor. Clambers across the carpet to cup your face in his palms, looking into your sad eyes. 

“Hey, hey, baby,” he coos, thumbing at the corner of your mouth. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“None of my clothes fit.” It’s a soft, whiny thing. Thin. Quiet. Wobbly. He aches with it, leaning forward to brush his mouth against your forehead. “I look like someone stuffed a basketball in me.”

“No, no, no,” he whispers, crawling even closer. “You look beautiful.”

Your knees brush his thighs, skirting up and over his hips and settling into his lap as much as your round midsection will allow these days. He knows you hate that too. Your inability to cuddle him like you once had. 

“How about the pretty floral dress you just got at the department store? It looked amazing on you, baby.” He points to the dress in emphasis, still hanging on its rack. “I know it’s not one of the baby shower dresses you planned for, but you look incredible in it.”

“I just…I love him inside, but I want him out.”

“You want to evict him.” Steve chuckles against your shoulder, kissing your bare skin. “Just a few more weeks and you get to kick him out, okay? I’m sorry you’re feeling unhappy. And I wish I could take that away, sweetheart. But you're growing a whole human. You need to cut yourself some slack.”

You huff into his skin, arms looping tighter around his waist. He hugs you tighter. As tight as your belly will allow, at least. A little nudge against his abdomen has him leaning back and poking at the outline of what he thinks is a foot rolling across your skin. Drops a kiss down there for emphasis, just to make sure his boy knows how much he loves him. 

“I saw Joyce bring your favorite pastas,” Steve says, grinning. Your eyes lift to meet his. Still sad, but with a glimmer of hope there. “And Amelia made the cake. It’s a few hours, and then we can curl up and watch movies the rest of the night in our pajamas.”

“Like a date?” You sniffle noisily, bottom lip trembling. 

Oh no, he thinks, cupping your cheeks. Not again. 

“Exactly like a date,” he says, kissing the tracks of your tears down your cheeks.

“Okay,” you whimper, sniffling once more. “I’m sorry. I just…”

“You're having a baby. You’re thirty weeks pregnant. Your emotions are at an all time high. It’s fine. You’re fine.” The words are a softly spoken mantra against your skin. Enunciated by a peck after every abrupt sentence. “I love you. Willow loves you. Your friends and family love you. You can do this, I believe in you, and I’m so damn proud of you.”

With a new found security in your sense of self, Steve sits back on your bed and watches you slip the dress up and over your head. Watches from the headboard as you drape the fabric over your middle, a palm coming up to glide down the front of your bump and rest at the bottom, staring into the mirror. Gorgeous. You’re absolutely gorgeous, with your head tilted, smiling softly to yourself, carrying his son. Then, with your confidence reinstated, you turn to face him, hand held aloft in the air between the two of you. 

Steve takes it. Presses it to his mouth, and then leans down to kiss your lips. “Let’s go.” 

*

Your baby shower is everything you could have ever imagined and more. With Willow, you’d only asked your friends for necessities. Things like diapers, because you knew how many she’d go through. Now, celebrating your son, you’re amazed at the efforts taken to make sure this day is absolutely perfect. 

Between Amelia, Robin and Nancy setting everything up, all the food made by Joyce, and the decorations purchased by your mother-in-law, you never could have dreamt up a better scenario. 

It’s proof of the love residing in everyone around you. Proof they love baby Harrington, who kicks away inside you the whole evening, just as much as you do. He’s one of them. A party member, the kids remind you. And he’ll be loved for the rest of his life by these people who remind you family isn’t always who raised you, but those who fill your heart with love and hope, and who encourage you to be the best version of yourself you can be. 

That same family. The kids who you shared blood sweat and tears with through the years in the Upside Down, who stand before you with gift after gift full of baby clothes, toys and other items. The same kids who help put together the garish hat Nancy puts together as the evening goes on, full of ribbons and bows and other streamers stapled to the fabric. A tradition that makes Steve laugh when you rise to your feet and plumes of various different ribbons, bows and other trinkets bob and sway in the gentle summer breeze with your every moment. 

But you can’t even find it in yourself to care as the kids rush forward and crowd around you. As El and Max press a hand each to your belly, while the boys position themselves beneath your arms a gentle hug—because they’re creeped out by the fact you’re pregnant—when it’s their turn and coincidentally when they also need to head back home. 

Eventually, your guests start to filter out. Hugs and kisses given from everyone in passing. A brush of a kiss at your forehead from Hopper, the gentle palm from Joyce over where your son resides, the gentle coo of your mother-in-law as she kisses her grand baby presently hanging out of Eddie’s arms. And finally, and blessedly, it’s only you, Nancy, Jonathan and their baby. As well as Eddie, Argyle, Robin and Amelia. All of which left to help clean up the place and make your life easier, jesting about your days, catching up on time lost, and keeping your daughter entertained. 

It’s perfect. It’s everything you could have ever wanted and asked for and more. 

Your palm glides over your midsection and you know these are the people you love. These are the ones you want around you for the rest of your days, undoubtedly. 

*

July 1991

*

At thirty seven weeks, and likely about to give birth any minute with the way you’ve been feeling lately, Steve and you make an effort to spend the days where Willow remains an only child full of family time. Be it movie night within blanket forts your husband builds for her, or nights where it rains and you all color together at the dinner table, bedtime stories while she rests in your bed until she falls asleep in your arms. Little things that are meant for her and only her; experiences with the people who love her most in the world. 

Your friends also come over often. Eddie to teach her how to play guitar, the kids to do various arts and crafts with her while they’re around for summer, Nancy and Jonathan with their own daughter, playing dolls with Willow on the lawn as their little one sleeps in yours or Steve’s arms. Her grandparents play with her on the little swing set Steve and Hopper installed for her a summer ago now. Her aunts and uncles play tag and swim in the pool. 

It’s endless days of Willow, but today it’s spent with you and Steve. 

Steve starts the day by singing “My Girl” to her, rocking her in his arms like she’s the little baby he met three years ago now. Until her laughter reaches your ears, lyrical in nature, endless giggles that pop like little champagne bubbles. Elation personified in your baby girl. Steve eventually brings the song into your bedroom, Willow curled around his hip, grinning up at him as he spins her around and around, her hair twirling around her as he goes. 

She wants you next. Crawls across the bed, as Steve joins the two of you, to rest in the crook of your neck. Her little legs swing over your hip, and her arms loop around your shoulders, head burrowing in your chest. 

“Morning Mommy,” she says, earning a swift kiss to the forehead. She kisses the hill of your belly next. “Hi brother.”

“There’s my sweet girl,” you cry, overly exaggerated, but it makes her grin when you nuzzle your nose against hers. “Love of my life, baby girl. What do you think we should do today? I think Daddy will braid your hair first, definitely. Just cause it’s gonna be nice and warm today and it’ll make it easier to play.”

“I can do that,” Steve says, clambering closer to the two of you. “And then it’s whatever Willow wants.”

“Mmm…I wanna garden. Color! Oh—and play dollies. And…guitar!” 

“I don’t know if Uncle Eddie can come today,” you tell her, pouting. “But I can always call him and see, okay? He is going to be here tomorrow for our party though. How about we color first?” 

“Okay!” She excitedly hops up on the bed, dancing on her tippy toes, making Steve laugh as she drops down and snuggles against his chest. So in love with him, as always. “Daddy, can you do my hair so I can play?” 

“Yes child,” he laughs, snatching her up off the bed and carrying her into the adjoining bedroom. 

You, on the other hand, slip out of your sleep shorts and tee shirt and slide on a gauzy dress. Something comfortable and airy, which doesn’t cling to all the places you don’t particularly want it to this far along. Once satisfied, you walk down the short hall and find your husband sitting behind your daughter on the bathroom counter, her little legs crossed in front of her, and his fingers working through her hair. 

It never gets old seeing him like this. Loving her, caring for her, being the best version of himself for your little girl. “Look, Mommy! Daddy put butterflies in my braids.”

She’s referring to the little clips he’s fastened on the ends, sparkly and bright pink. Two of her favorite things as of late. Last month it had been horses, now she’s got a deep newfound love for sparkly butterflies. And plants, which is why you anticipate part of her special day will be planting some flowers in the backyard garden. Steve bought them the day prior, and though he’s not sure what he’s doing (as it’s more his mother’s forte), you know he’ll try his very hardest to learn. 

“I can see that, sweet pea. What do we want to wear today?” you ask, coming up behind her to brush a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Matching dresses!” 

It comes out as a breezy giggle, her arms tossing up into the air so you can loop yours around her waist and pull her high up on your hip. Fortunately, her decision is dresses, as it’s the only thing you feel like wearing anymore. Summer and late term pregnancy haven’t been a good mix thus far. 

The two of you get ready for the day in tandem. Willow rushes into your bedroom once Steve grabs her dress from the rack in her closet, and you slip into your bathroom to change quickly. Once satisfied, straps on your shoulders pushed into place, you slip out into your bedroom to find her already twirling around in a circle, Steve grinning from where he sits on the bed. You settle down beside him, taking in your wonder girl, and his left hand slides over your midsection. 

“Feeling okay?” he asks, as he has been everyday since your last doctor’s appointment. 

“Yes,” you reassure him, leaning into his shoulder. “We’re doing just fine.” 

It’s enough to quiet his fears that you’ll go into birth at any moment long enough for you all to traipse down the stairs and make your way toward the backyard. Once on the patio, you call Willow over to lather her in a layer of sunblock, dropping kisses to each cheek before she winces at the cold lotion you streak across after. 

The two of them work together in tandem. Steve, glistening sweat on his forearms, and Willow there with a small pair of gloves on. You watch as they work, dirtied hands joining together to place bundles of flowers in the bed. Bright colors that gleam up at the sun once Willow moves down to pat soil into place. As they’re finishing the last of the flowers, you walk them out a lunch tray full of lemon water, fresh lemonade for Willow, and various fruits. On little plates you’ve sat down sandwiches for her and Steve. Here in the shape of a heart, making sure there is absolutely no crust to be found on any edges. 

After lunch you sit around the outside table, colored pencils and crayons strewn about every inch of the table. It’s around that time Hopper and Joyce show up with a pack of beers for the guys, and some cheesecake for dessert. Nancy and Jonathan show up with the baby shortly thereafter, your husband immediately making grabby hands for the little girl who eases into her uncle’s arms as always, while Jonathan gets to work on the grill. 

Nancy settles down with you and Joyce, whereas Willow’s crawled onto her Hop Pop’s lap and demanded everyone start coloring. “What are we coloring, Lola Bear?” Hopper asks, leaning around her shoulder to help color the blue sky she demanded he help her with. 

“Our family!” she exclaims. “There’s Mommy and Daddy. Mommy has a big belly because brother. And then there’s you Hop Pop! Then Grammy Joyce. Gram. Auntie Robin and Tía Mia. Uncle Eddie. Aunt Nancy and and Uncle Jonathan. Cousin Ellie. Uncle Argie and Eden. And all the kids.” 

“What’s that?” Hopper asks, pointing to the golden blob at the front of the drawing. 

“A doggy,” she trills. Nancy chuckles beside you, and you hush her. “Because I want a puppy for Christmas. Daddy says if I’m really good Santa said maybe I can get one!”

“Did he?” Joyce teases, and your brow arches in Steve’s direction. 

Steve, presently bouncing a very content Ellie on his hip, shrugs. “You had Scooby growing up. I figured…” 

“We’ll talk later,” you say, though you can’t help but smile at the idea of adding another member to your growing family. 

*

“You winced. Why did you wince?” Nancy asks later that evening as you walk about the kitchen. 

Outside, through the gently parted window, you can hear Willow giggling as she runs around the yard with sparklers. Hopper and Jonathan had broken out a few of them early, despite the fact you’re quite literally having a party the next evening with all the kids to celebrate the summer and potentially one of the last barbecues Steve will be able to host before he’s got a newborn to help you care for. 

“She winced?” Steve asks, opening the sliding door at the most inconvenient moment. 

“It’s another one of those Braxton Hicks I’ve been having. Just like all the other ones,” you try to explain, but he’s rushing across the kitchen and cupping your face. “I’m fine. I’ll know when it’s time.”

“You didn’t know with Willow,” he reminds you, though there’s no malice there. 

“I was also a teenager,” you remind him. 

“Steve you’re going to overwhelm her,” Nancy admonishes, standing up to curl a palm around your shoulder. “How about I finish cleaning up dinner and you go sit down for a minute—just to be sure?” 

The look Nancy gives you is enough to not argue with. Stern, in a way that reminds you she’s always been no nonsense. Sighing, you grip Steve’s hand and allow him to lead you outside to sit down at the dinner table with Joyce. 

Willow’s presently tickling Jonathan and screeching, “Tickle, tickle, tickle,” with her girlish laughter shaking her smaller form. Hopper is hunched over, hand on his chest, chuckling at whatever must have happened before you came outside. Catching your gaze, he settles down next to you as Jonathan defeats his tickle monster and starts pretending she’s a plane, soaring through the air. It’s so strange, you think, how much has changed in a matter of years. 

From high school friends, to husbands and wives, and now parents. 

“Are you doing okay there, kid?” Hopper asks, cupping the back of your palm with his hand.

You swipe at your eyes, suddenly emotional. “Everyone keeps asking me that. Little guy is perfectly happy enjoying his free housing situation. I’m just…happy. Really happy.”

And later that night, as you lay beside Steve with Willow asleep between the both of you, you brush your fingers along the back of her head. Enjoy the smell of her strawberry shampoo, the softness of her skin, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. 

“Do you think she had a good day?” you ask quietly, turning your head to look at your husband. 

His eyes meet yours in the dark. “If we are going off of her saying, ‘today was the best day ever’ over and over again while she hugged everyone goodbye, I would say so.”

“I’m glad.” You brush a kiss at the top of her head, and her form wiggles closer to yours. “I love you, Steve.” 

“I love you, sweetheart.”

*

Those pains continue into the next morning, though by the time you’ve woken, Eddie and Steve are already hard at work getting ready for the barbecue outside. They’re excited, and it’s a distraction from the pain. And it dissipates anyway. So you figure it’s likely normal pain from the weight on your back, and the hip pain you’ve had the pleasure of knowing this go around with pregnancy. 

Later, Eddie and Willow are strumming along on the guitar he got her for her birthday, his arms immediately extending to pull you into a hug when you finally appear for the evening’s festivities. “There she is. How are you feelin’, Oz?”

Today—not great, actually. But you don’t want to worry Steve over something you probably don’t even need to worry about. The pains haven’t been frequent, nor long in duration. 

 “Good,” you say, leaning against his chest while Steve finishes setting the dinner table. “Need me to help with anything?” 

“Maybe an extra pack of cups?” Steve suggests, glancing about the table. “Other than that we’re good. Our friends and the kids should be getting here any minute. Are you sure you’re okay?” 

You startle back to reality, breathing deep through another ache that starts in your back, before curling around your abdomen. It’s unlike what you felt with Willow. Sharper in nature, but it skitters away soon after it comes. 

“Yeah,” you tell him, extricating yourself from Eddie’s arms to brush a kiss against Steve’s lips. Behind you, Eddie whistles. “Be right back. Don’t get into trouble, you two.”

“Cross my heart,” Eddie says, dragging an ‘x’ over his heart. 

Sighing, you rush back into the house, hand cupping around your midsection. “You better behave,” you tell the little guy growing inside. “You’re starting to get me a little worried.” 

And it turns out there’s a good reason to be worried. Halfway through dinner, Max and El ask if they can have some more lemonade. You tell them you have to make more, and insist it’s no problem. When you walk back into your home, however, and your hand curls around the plastic pitcher you intend to refill, a sudden cramping tightens your midsection. Leaves you breathless—enough so that the pitcher clatters to the floor. 

“Oz…” El’s hand is soft against your side, holding you upright as you breathe through the ache, her own breath coming a little shakily. “Max?” 

“That pitcher was empty, right?” Max asks, and as you both nod, she mutters out. “Then why is there a puddle on the floor?” 

“One of you—” You pant, planting both hands on the edge of the sink as the pain finally subsided. “Go get Steve, okay?” 

Max is the one to do it, leaving El standing with her hand on your shoulder, murmuring words you can’t really hear over the thundering of your heart. Footfalls meet your ears against the patio, followed by Steve’s voice breaking higher above the group. 

“Oz is…and the water…and the pain.” She gasps out, and the table erupts into chaos when she finally blurts, “It’s go time, Steve! Code Red.” 

“We have a Code Red!” Dustin exclaims. 

“Guys, calm down. We have plans for this,” Nancy shouts above the group. “Steve, stop staring into space. Go to your wife and grab the baby bag. Robin and Mia, get some things packed for Willow so she can stay with you two while Steve and Oz are at the hospital. Eddie, you and the rest of these gremlins are going to clean the house top to bottom. And then, we can all pack it in and wait for the baby to be born. Everyone good? Everyone knows what they're doing?” 

You don’t hear the end. You can only groan as Steve rushes in through the side door of the home and catches you gasping against El through another contraction. Sooner than the previous ones you’ve been having. His hand is there at your back, and then he’s pulling you into a hug, rocking you back and forth in the kitchen to help you through it. 

As swiftly as it comes, it goes, and your body slackens enough so you can say, “I think it’s today.” 

“Yeah,” he laughs, his eyes swimming with tears. “I think so too. Let’s go meet our boy, okay?” 

*

“Say goodbye to Mommy and Daddy, okay?” Robin says quickly, frowning as Steve hikes your diaper bag over his shoulder. 

Willow rushes forward, arms right around your thighs. “I don’t want you to go.” And then she’s crying, and your husband can’t even look your way before he’s crying at the look on your face. The utter despair of leaving her when you don’t want to. “Why do you have to go?” 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” you promise her, bending down as much as possible to rub her tiny shoulders. “And you’ll have so much fun with your aunts, okay? Then when we’re home we’ll have ice cream for breakfast and your baby brother will be here.” 

“Ice cream for breakfast?” She sniffles, looking up at you. 

“Yeah, baby,” Steve says, dropping down to his knees to press kiss after kiss to her cheeks. “We love you so much, okay?”

“I love you too,” she cries, and before you can decide to just say ‘fuck it all’ and try your hand at an impromptu home delivery, Robin is plucking your daughter from the ground. 

“Go, go, go!” Nancy says, and Steve’s waving goodbye to everyone and rushing out the front door to get the car ready, while Nancy loops her arms around your shoulder. “We all got it covered here. We’ll see you soon! Good luck.”

Nodding, you wave one last time to your family. Your amazing, lovely, imperfectly perfect family and rush out the front door, finding Steve’s already pulled it up onto the curb and opened the front door for you. 

Once inside, he closes the door and kisses you through the window. “Ready?”

“No,” you admit, breaking off into a low groan. “Okay, okay. No more sappy shit. This hurts. Hurry up. Get in. Let’s go.” 

*

“Steve, I can't do it.”

“Come on, baby. You can. I know you can. You’ve done it before. You’ll do it again. I’m here.” He grasps your hand tighter. Kisses the back of it for emphasis. “Scream. Cry. Break every damn bone in my hand if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

And you do. 

For hours you scream, cry and do exactly that. 

Sweat slicks your forehead, your voice rubs raw, mixing with the other women in rooms all down the labor delivery wing. A symphony. 

Steve’s there, lips at your ear, praises against your flesh. 

He’s so proud, he’s so in love. 

He coaxes you to push, counts with the doctor when it’s time, and reminds you to breathe. He doesn’t complain when you grip his fingers so hard they are purple. Doesn’t complain when you sob your defeat, head falling back against the pillow. 

He’s only there to offer comfort. Reminds you of your strength. Points you to it as the doctor tells you one more push and you’ll bring your son into the world. 

And you do exactly that. Face contorting into a snarl, you steel all your resolve and all your force into that final exertion. Until all you can hear is the blood in your veins, the pounding of your heart, and the high and tight cries of your son entering the world at last. 

Crying. You’re crying as the doctor’s lay him against your chest, as his wrinkled face contorts into a feral cry, body shaking as they rub blankets on his still slick skin. And Steve’s there to kiss your brow, telling you how proud he is, how in love he is as tears stream down his face. 

“He’s perfect, honey,” he sobs, brushing his lips against his son’s head, sniffling noisily. “Thank you. Thank you.”

For this moment. 

This life. 

This love. 

This boy. 

You’re not sure, but you cup his face and kiss him all the same. Tears fall down your cheeks as you whisper, “You have a son, Steve.” Another kiss. Another whimper from the man curling his palm around the wriggling boy’s back. “I love you.”

*

“He’s so tiny,” Steve says, holding his presently sleeping son in the curve of his arm. His finger reaches to trace his chubby cheek. “I never knew I could love someone so much so fast.”

“I know,” you whisper softly, not wanting to stir the little one. “Welcome Leo Edwin. You don’t even know it yet, but you’re so loved. There are so many people who have been waiting to meet you. Especially us.”

Steve turns to you. Eyes on your face. Marveling. “I still can’t get over you just doing that. I’m so proud of you, honey.”

Your face presses into his shoulder. Your little family, sitting in that hospital bed, with Willow on her way now that it’s visiting hours with her aunts and the rest of your friends and family. “He’s so worth it.” 

Steve hums his agreement, rocking Leo lightly in his arms as the first of your guests are allowed to enter. You’d requested Dustin and Eddie first, and your heart nearly shatters at the look on both their faces as they take in Steve holding a little blue bundle in his arms. 

“I knew he was…like growing inside you, Oz. But he’s real,” Dustin says a little quietly. “Like, he’s real real.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, opening your arms as Eddie leans down to hug you, kissing the top of your head and whispering ‘congratulations’ to the both of you. “Guys, there’s someone we wanted you to meet. Steve…”

Steve thumbs along the hat on his son’s head and glances up at his two best friends. “This is Leo Edwin.” 

“What…” Eddie says. 

His voice is a wobbly rasp, breaking off at the end when he realizes what you’ve just said. Steve gestures for him to sit down against the hospital bed and Eddie immediately extends his arms for Leo to be placed into. He wriggles a moment and then stills, lips sucking inward in his sleep. 

“We wanted to name him after you two,” you tell them, their faces awestruck as they look down at the baby. “His two favorite uncles. We wanted you to both know just how much…how much you mean to us. How much you’ll mean to Leo as he’s growing up.” 

Eddie sniffles as you start to cry, extending one ringed hand to curl around the back of your head and pull you forward to press a kiss to your forehead. He then reaches over to hug Steve, before returning all his attention to Leo. 

“He’s perfect,” Dustin says with a watery smile. 

Your room is full of familiar faces over the span of the next few hours. Groups of two coming in to say hello, to greet the baby, to take photos. In between you’re able to feed Leo and steal a few perfect moments with your husband, before the next group joins and dotes on your son. 

Joyce and Hopper arrive and bring you flowers and balloons. Your mother-in-law manages to sneak in some food. All are enamored with Leo. All tell you how perfect he is, how loved you all are, how proud they are of you. And your heart just grows. Swells with the love that seeps into the room. For your family, for the little boy they’ve been waiting to meet, the boy who is now here. 

Before long, Amelia and Mia bring Willow into the room, reminding her to be extra quiet as she enters shyly. At your face, she calls your name and you whimper out, pulling her up onto the bed with you. “I missed you, baby girl.”

“I love you mommy,” she whines, burying her face into your shoulder. 

“Is this…” Robin whispers, drawing yours and Willow’s attention. Willow leans over, curious. “Look, Lola.”

Amelia steps further into the room, mouthing she loves you as she goes. You return the sentiment and watch as your two best friends become aunts all over again before your eyes. As Robin rocks the newborn in her arms, and Amelia leans over her shoulder to look down into Leo’s sleeping face. 

“Congratulations, baby daddy,” Amelia teases, choking on a sob as Steve pulls her over into a hug. “Tom Cruise knock-off and his pretty babies.” 

“That’s all my wife,” he says fondly, chuckling into your best friend’s hair. 

*

“Mommy…do you think my little brother loves me?” Willow asks.

She’s sitting on Steve’s lap now as you feed Leo, your fingers gently brushing along the back of his head. He’s already got dark hair like his father’s. Short strands that glide beneath your fingertips. 

“I think he loves you so very much,” you tell her sincerely. “He used to kick all the time when he heard your voice. And now—now he gets to see you everyday because he’s here.”  

“Good,” she says, leaning down to brush a kiss to his cheek. “Because I love him.”

You lean forward and rub your nose against hers. “Good. Because I love you both. Forever and ever.”

“Daddy too?” she asks. 

“Yes, I love your daddy very very much. Have loved him since we were fifteen.” 

Seemingly happy with this, she nuzzles her head back against Steve’s chest, her palm against his when she says, “I love you, baby Leo.”

And those hormones? Yeah, the ones that have been raging in your blood for the past nearly ten months? Those. They take over. And seem to have taken over your husband as well. 

*

Steve sings to your son. And often. So much so, you find yourself humming at all times of the day as your life starts to adjust to having two babies. 

Leo’s two weeks old now, doesn’t sleep much, keeps you up all hours of the night, but you’re both so in love with him you don’t mind. If he’s not in your arms, feeding, or being cuddled by you, he’s with his father. Held close to his chest, being bobbed and swayed to a song. 

Seeing Steve take on his new responsibilities as a new dad…it’s like he’s been born to do it. A wonderfully generous partner. Offers to help when he can, trying to take on as much of the nightly feedings, helping change diapers. He’s been intent on making sure you’re supported, that your daughter and son are loved, and you wouldn’t lie that him cleaning the house while you napped didn’t make you want to give him another baby. 

Just…not right now. 

Now you enjoy those sweet newborn moments. The little sounds Leo makes, the facial expressions that seem to change day by day, the smell of his soft skin. 

He’s everything. He’s everything to you. 

Another extension of your heart, in the sweetest little love. 

Right now, you find Steve in your bedroom, singing “You Are My Sunshine,” in a voice that brings fresh tears to your eyes. He’s bare chested and lovely, sun tanned skin on display, gray sweats low on his hips. Leo’s sleeping in the crook of his elbow, impossibly content to simply be with his father. 

And you think that life couldn’t possibly get any better than this. 

You sigh, picking up the picture of you and Steve as teenagers. The summer you first met. “Did you ever think these two smiling faces would have all of this?” 

Steve glances at the photo, and then at his baby. “I think…I was waiting for you. All along. I wanted this big love I always dreamed of, and I found it in you. I’m so happy I invited you and Scooby over that day.” 

“I’m happy you did, too,” you whisper, stepping closer to kiss him. “All of it. Every bit. It’s all our story. It’s ours. You are my dreams come true, Steve.” 

He lifts a forearm and brushes it over his eyes. You giggle, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch. “You’re mine. Every day. For the rest of my life, sweetheart.” 

*

November 1992 

*

The resort is more beautiful than you ever imagined. And though it took a lot of convincing from your friends and family, a second honeymoon is exactly what you and Steve deserve after the past sixteen months with your two kids. 

Life is perfect. An adjustment, but perfect. In the way that’s filled with millions of imperfections, but because they’re yours, it’s only a part of the story of your lives. 

Of your love. 

You have your husband, who you love deeper than any other. 

Your daughter, with her bright smiles and big heart. 

Your baby boy, who is just as vibrant as the sun that sits high on the Hawaii sky. 

You have your friends. The ones more like family. Those who have endured the heartaches, and rejoiced in the highlands all the same. 

There are days, like today, as you lay beside Steve, where you feel like you need to pinch yourself only to see if it’s really real. 

Days like this, where you’re wrapped in his arms, his heart beating against yours, his lips on your skin. 

It starts and ends with him. 

Always has, always will. 

“What are you thinking, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning down to press a kiss against your bare collar bone. 

“Just happy. Just so happy.”

He rolls you under him, moves over you, and then inside. A hand comes to thread his fingers through yours against the pillow, mouth rendering you silent as his hips rock into you like the waves on the Hawaiian shore. 

There’s a whisper of his love, the dizzying snap inside you, the lovely comedown. 

And then there’s the following peace. The sound of his heart, steady and sure, in your ears. 

Nine months later, Olivia and Violet Harrington will be born. 

But right now—now, your fingers brush along the scars on his sides, the stories behind every imperfection on his and your skin. 

The paths that led you here. 

Hawkins was once in four, your hearts were once in two, but now you’re one. 

Forever. 

*