Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

Season 2 Epilogue: After the Snow Ball

Your back aches you've been poured over the sink in your bathroom that long, eyes buried right into your handiwork. Armed with kitchen scissors, you snip away at your hair. Piles of the wet strands tumble into the porcelain bowl. Piles upon piles of them, as you cut more and more away.

Choosing a shorter style seems to be a good idea. That, or it's simply an unhealthy coping mechanism; the night you had your rumble with Billy left you feeling like you needed to cut it right back, haunted by the very idea of how vulnerable you'd been rendered, all because your hair was long and accessible... he just grabbed it so easily and used it to his advantage. You think about what else could grab at your hair... a Demogorgon perhaps? You think about those ashen flecks in the tunnels, peppering your scalp to the point of making your skin crawl.

Yeah, a shorter style is better.

When you're done, you grasp the ridges of the sink, leaning into the mirror to inspect. The tips of your ears are nipped by the cool climate of your apartment, your bare neck also bitingly cold. You feel boyish and unattractive, with sharp little tufts of hair tickling the contours of your face. The glass of your reflection fogs up as you unleash a big, deep breath, deciding you'd rather look like this, than put yourself in danger again.

While you're there, you take a few moments to scrutinise the rest of your appearance, because the the past few weeks have been rather unkind to you. Evidence of this has settled into your skin - pale, with purpling bags under your eyes, only emphasised further under the harsh white light of the bathroom; it illuminates your pallid complexion, each and every pore.

When exactly was the last time you slept soundly? Without the ghost of those dogs creeping into your dreams?

You don't remember.

This is just like last year, when the monster leered over your surrendered body, before Steve saved your life. You couldn't sleep for months after that either.

You hope this isn't your whole existence now, living alone in fear.

Then, every single nerve in your body starts awake, when the sharp sound a knock at your door shatters your thoughts.

You frown and tentatively tiptoe out the bathroom, down the hall into your living room where the neon lanterns of the Chinese takeaway below glimmer and set everything in a wash of pink.

Finally, you reach the door, and nothing could have prepared you for what you see through the peep-hole...

Steve fucking Harrington.

You feel a flutter in your chest, your heart leaping right into your mouth either from shock or excitement. You aren't sure which.

Outside, Steve's head whips right up when you open your door with a hesitant creak.

He stops, stunned even.

Perhaps it's because your new haircut frames your face differently, pinches your cheekbones in all the right places, or showcases the alertness of your eyes, but when you look up to greet him at the door, he sees how achingly beautiful you are, probably even more so in your natural state at home - little pyjama shorts, a sweater far too big for you, hair wet, eyes shining bright in the dark. How can a person be so damn adorable?

Steve sees you raise your eyebrows, a mixture of alarm but pleasant surprise written all over your face. That's when he realises you've both been standing there for a minute and he hasn't yet uttered so much as a word to you, just gawked like a fool.

He clears his throat.

"Love the hair."

"Steve..." You begin. "You're... at my apartment?"