𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧

A smart woman | Steve Harrington

Was the wedding after-party being two blocks from Steve Harringtons' house too good to be true? Or were you just pathetic?

Was it two blocks? Could’ve been three, or five. You’re not completely sure. After downing an inappropriate amount of wine coolers, the eighth one swinging from one hand, your strappy heels in the other, time was completely lost on you.

If Hopper were to drive past right now, he’d definitely have to drive you home. Luckily not the precinct to sleep it off. Hopefully, you thought.

Leaving the wedding seemed an amazing idea at the time. The subconscious urge to head to Steve’s house didn’t feel stupid at all in your drunken haze. Now, with cuts along your feet from the unforgiving gravel and wind-bitten, flushed cheeks, you were half-regretting it, half-wanting to get to his house even quicker.

“Y/N, dear. Where’s that arm candy you were supposed to be bringing along tonight?” Your Grandma had asked you, two champagnes deep. You could tell she had been wanting to ask you ever since you had shown up alone. You’d expected her to bite her tongue off.

“Who? Steve?” You had feigned obliviousness. Acting as if it wasn’t a big deal. Truly, it wasn’t. You didn’t miss him one bit.

Not when your sister had shown up with a date. Not when, no matter where you looked, everyone seemed to have a partner linked through their arms or pressed to their lips. Even your six-year-old cousin seemed to have a cute little boy she was following around all night.