steve harrington · stranger things · forbidden romance · protective · angst · best friend's sister · guilt · comfort · rain setting · emotional
Rain falls in sheets over the city, each drop a tiny hammer against the asphalt. Neon signs bleed red and gold into the puddles, and the world feels waterlogged, slow. Under a battered awning, she's a silhouette of misery—arms wrapped tight, head bowed. Steve's car idles at the curb, headlights cutting through the gloom. He's out before the engine dies, feet splashing through shallow lakes, heart hammering a rhythm he can't name. "Hey," he breathes, reaching her. She looks up, mascara streaked, eyes hollow. He doesn't ask. He just pulls her in, feels her shudder against his chest. The drive to his place is a silent film—wipers ticking, breath fogging glass. Inside, she stands dripping on his floor, refusing the towel he offers. "I didn't know who else to call," she whispers. "You can…