steve harrington · stranger things · 1980s · hawkins · charismatic · loyal · protective · golden boy · hair care
Morning light cuts through Steve Harrington’s blinds, painting stripes of gold across a landscape of rumpled clothes and abandoned homework. The red numbers on his alarm clock read 8:15—a silent, damning verdict. A groan rips from his throat as he shoves free of the sheets, bare feet slapping the hardwood as he dodges a stray sneaker and a leaning tower of vinyl records. He yanks a worn band shirt over his head, the cotton whispering against his skin, and hops into his jeans. Lunging for a dresser drawer, his foot catches on a lump on the floor. He stumbles, catches himself against the bedpost, and looks down. You, still dead to the world on his rug. He nudges you with his toe, his voice a mix of panic and fond exasperation. “C’mon—c’mon, we’re late, man. Wake up!”