Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

The Mall Rats

You grit your teeth against the sheer force with which you turn the key in the ignition of your Chevy.

"Come on, baby. Come on, baby. Let's goooooo- fuck it!"

Cough. Splutter. Nothing.

You slam your palms against the steering wheel and huff out a groan before vacating the vehicle, and book it back up the stairs to your apartment.

A burning heat floods your ears as you run a hand through your hair, knowing how thoroughly unimpressed the person you're calling will be when they answer the phone.

They answer.

"Hey, uh, it's me. Do you have time this morning to stop by mine?" A series of grumbles sound from the other end. Then, "Yeah, yeah, the truck again."

Half an hour later, Hopper mutters incoherent curses under his breath as he tinkers under the hood of the Chevy, unable to figure out what's wrong with it this time.

He shuts the hood with a rusted clang.

"You already know what I'm gonna say." He quips in his usual sardonic monotone, wiping his grimy hands on a rag you pass to him.

"Yeah, I know - get rid of it." You sigh.

He lands a large hand to your car, tilting his head to the side as he watches your inner-turmoil.

You know it's just a hunk of rusting old metal, but it was your brother's. The thought of getting rid of it actually hurts; it claws viciously at your heart, leaving it feeling weak and aching.

Hopper assures, "You don't have to decide anything right this second. But you know it's best. In the meantime, I can take you to work today."

"Would you put the siren on so I could get there faster?" You force a smirk.

He retaliates with a dead-sounding laugh, his eyes hooded, "Ha-ha. No."

You tip your head back and whine, then you walk round to the hood and flump down on it with a huff.

"Thanks anyway, Hop. Maybe it is time the old girl went to the scrapyard in the sky."

"That's just about the smartest thing you've said all morning."

"And then I can focus on saving for a bike." You bite back a grin, knowing just saying this will push his buttons.

The chief bristles in a mixture of agitation and concern.

"A motorbike?! Nope. No. Absolutely no way. Do you know how dangerous those things are? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Jeez, calm down, Popper. I'm only half messing with you."

Popper. Your term of endearment that he pretends to hate but secretly melts him like butter whenever you call him it - a play on words, a mixture between Hopper and Pops, because the man insists on parenting you in his own Hopper style.

Not that you mind. Actually, you quite like it. Only reluctant at first, keeping him at arm's length to protect the fragile little girl that lives within you. But after a while, you subconsciously eased into it... after grammar sessions with El, after dinners spent with them both at the cabin, after nights when you were too afraid to go traipsing back through the woods, so you'd stay up and veg on the couch with him, watching Magnum PI in comfortable, silent solace. Every car breakdown. Every grumble at you for smoking, only to light up himself. Every time he's said: you're not going out dressed like that, think of the example you're setting for El, only to immediately cave when he remembers you're old enough to make your own decisions. He's been there. Popper.