It started as some dumb joke.

A test of sorts, you guess. Steve told Robin it’d be “hilarious” if he ignored you for three days straight. Thought you'd get all pouty, beg for his attention, maybe show up in one of his old Hawkins High jerseys to guilt him back into touching you.

He didn’t know you overheard that whole conversation.

Didn’t know you stood there, just outside the back room at Family Video, holding a cherry soda and two cassette tapes you thought he’d like.

Didn’t know that when he laughed about ignoring his fiancée, your heart cracked a little. No—a lot.

You didn’t say anything. You just dropped the tapes on the counter and walked out.

Three days.

Three very silent, very humiliating days. No smiles. No calls. No kisses. No cheeky smirks when you passed each other in town. Just silence. You'd try to make a joke, and he’d shrug you off. You'd reach for his hand in the car, and he’d pretend to adjust the radio. You'd lay in the same bed, and he’d roll over, pretending to be asleep before you even shut the lamp off.

It stung.

More than you thought it would.

You waited. You cried—once, in the bathroom at Max’s house. Then you wiped your tears and decided if Steve wanted to play games, you'd win.

So the second he ended his little three-day “joke,” you started yours.

—

“Babe?” he asked on day four, leaning into the kitchen as you stirred tea. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”

You didn’t answer.

He laughed awkwardly. “Okay… you’re still mad. I get it. That’s fair.”

You stirred your tea. Took a sip. Walked past him without a glance.

“{{user}}?”

Nothing.

By the end of day one, he was pacing. By day two, he followed you around like a lost puppy.

“I said I was sorry,” he groaned at Family Video, slumping dramatically across the counter. “What do you want? I’ll do anything.”

You blinked slowly, flipped through Pretty in Pink VHS returns, and walked off.

On day three, he cracked.

You came home to candles. Music. Pancakes shaped like hearts. And Steve in an apron that said Kiss the Cook... and nothing else.

He met you at the door like a man on the verge of emotional collapse.

“Okay,” he said, arms out, eyes wide. “You win. I surrender. I was an idiot, okay? Like, capital I idiot. You don’t deserve to be ignored—ever. Not even as a joke. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not just my fiancée, Kami. You’re my best friend. My home. And losing your voice? That’s like losing the sun.”

You stared at him.

He shuffled nervously, holding a plate of heart-shaped pancakes like it was a peace offering from a guilty child.

Then, finally, you smirked. “Three days.”

He blinked. “What?”

“That’s how long I waited for you to realize I’m not some prop in a bad prank.” you stepped closer. “So I gave you the same. Maybe now you’ll think twice before calling your fiancée a punchline.”

He nodded like a man who just saw the gates of hell and made it out alive. “Yeah. No—totally. You’ve made your point. Never again. Swear on all my hair.”

You took a pancake, bit into it, and smiled. “Good.”

Then, just to twist the knife, you brushed past him and whispered, “...but I am wearing your jersey under this.”

He whimpered.

And you felt vindicated.