Surrender // Steve Harrington x Reader

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘

Chrissy Cunningham. Fred Benson. Patrick McKinney. Maxine Mayfield.

The names haunt you. You thought it would get easier, but as days fold into weeks once more, you couldn't get them out of your head. 

Distancing yourself from Steve had been a guilt-ridden response to what you'd done. He didn't understand and you couldn't tell him. You were in your own bed again as you woke up, it was early morning but you hear Steve leave through the front door. 

Last night he'd said he was taking Robin to an early pep rally - whatever that was - and then had to work right after. 

There were only so many times you could feign 'not feeling great' or 'being tired' before Steve would catch on that it was something worse; if he hadn't caught on already that is. The burden of your own actions weighed heavy on your shoulders, a sting of bile present in the back of your throat no matter how hard you tried to swallow it down.

But what was done, was done. Henry had his names and there was no going back on that now. 

You'd expected something to happen instantly and when it didn't, you'd hoped you might find some relief. Instead you found only a constant trepidation, stuck in a limbo where you waited for something that wasn't coming any time soon.

The blankets were pulled over your shoulders and pressed against your chin. You didn't want to get up. You weren't sure you even could. 

Looking out of the window, your sore lids narrow at the sun as it rises into view until they can't bare its bright sting anymore and flick down to rest on an uninteresting spot on the wall instead. It felt like an overwhelming numbness coupled with a deafening anguish mixing inside of you. And it was all your own fault.

Weak hands pull blankets over your eyes. 

Chrissy Cunningham. Fred Benson. Patrick McKinney. Maxine Mayfield.

There was no solace in tormenting yourself. But what other options did you have? Part of you yearned for the days when you felt nothing. When you wouldn't even hesitate in helping Henry and would think nothing of sacrificing whoever you needed to for that slim chance he would be proud of you.

But now? Things had changed. Steve changed you.

However much you loved him, there was that niggling sensation within you that slightly resented him for opening you up to the pain that came with allowing yourself to feel. 

Chrissy Cunningham. Fred Benson. Patrick McKinney. Maxine Mayfield.

The names return to plague you once more and you grumble, burying your face into the plush blankets covering it and pressing against your closed eyes as if it might relieve some of the pressure behind it. 

A broken sleep churns your mind into goop though you're thankful for the reprieve of being unconscious. Before you know it, you can hear Steve's return as he pulls up to the house. 

Your heart both stops and races all at once, conflicted on how you felt about it. 

On the one hand, you were happy he was home. You missed him. You loved him. On the other, it was getting increasingly more difficult to satisfy his prying questions with haphazard lies. He calls out to you and you don't respond, rolling over to stare at the door as you hear his footsteps thud against the stairs a moment later.

Lids close. 

Maybe if you pretended to sleep, he wouldn't think anything of it and you wouldn't have to make any excuses. You hear the door pry open into the room which sat in tones of amber as the sun began to set. A quiet sighing sound. Footsteps pacing closer against the thick carpet. The bed dipping under his weight. A hand gently placed on your upper arm and a light shake to rouse you.