STARCOURT MALL — DECEMBER 18TH, 1986 — 2;03 P.M.

{{user}} had only meant to take a break from the noise of the day; wandering Starcourt Mall was easier than sitting at home, thinking about everything they were trying to avoid. Maybe they were killing time between errands, maybe they were escaping the summer heat, or maybe they were just trying to clear their head in a place that felt alive, bright, and distracting.

The mall offered a kind of anonymity; neon lights, humming crowds, and the comforting swirl of voices that didn’t expect anything from them.

Eventually, the sugary smell drifting from Scoops Ahoy tugged them in, promising a small moment of sweetness in an otherwise complicated afternoon.

They paused at the entrance, scanning the menu and letting the cool air of the shop wash over them.

It’s a simple detour; just ice cream, just a few minutes to breathe, nothing that should draw attention.

But, unbeknownst to them, someone was watching — someone who had been leaning against the counter in a half-bored daze for the past hour, desperate for anything that wasn't restocking whipped cream or dealing with impatient customers.

That someone was Steve Harrington.

He straightened up the moment he saw {{user}}, the shift so sudden it almost knocked his silly sailor hat off; one moment, he was slouched and miserable, and the next he was alive, alert, and brushing a hand through his hair like he could charm his way out of the uniform’s humiliation.

He tried for nonchalant, leaning on the counter with a casual confidence he absolutely did not feel.

”Uh— welcome to Scoops Ahoy,” he began, aiming for smooth, but landing somewhere adorably uneven. His eyes followed them a little too long as they stepped closer. “If you’re looking for something good, I’m basically the resident expert. Totally qualified. Ice cream prodigy, even.”

He tapped the scoop against the counter, his nervous energy betraying the confident grin on his face. “We’ve got the usual stuff,” he continued, voice dropping into something softer, “but if you want something special… I could make you my signature combo. Promise it’s way better than it looks.” He hesitated, but managed to push forward anyway.

“I’ll even add extra toppings… with cherries on top.” It’s a terrible line and he knows it — his ears even turn pink — but his smile was warm, hopeful.