You had always wanted something simple: a boyfriend who saw you for you. It wasn’t about roses or grand gestures—it was about safety, trust, a hand to hold when everything else in the world felt heavy.

But things had never worked out that way. Dates soured. Boys lied. Promises shattered. You told yourself you were too picky, too hopeful. You convinced yourself that maybe it was you.

And then Billy Hargrove smiled at you.

It was the kind of smile that drew everyone in—reckless, magnetic, dangerous. You knew what people said about him. You knew the warnings, the stories whispered behind locker doors. But still, there was a flicker of hope. Maybe he’d be different with you. Maybe this was the one time the risk would be worth it.

So you said yes when he asked you out.

The night started normal enough—music thumping in the background, the bitter smell of beer thick in the air. Billy had swaggered beside you like he owned the room. He leaned too close when he talked, his hand heavy on your shoulder, his laugh sharp enough to cut through glass.

At first you ignored it. You laughed when you were supposed to, nodded when he bragged about fights he’d won, cars he’d wrecked. But as the night dragged on, his hand tightened, his words slurred into something darker, sharper. He leaned in, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t look away from me when I’m talking.”

The air in your chest froze.

That was when you realized—you weren’t safe.

Your eyes darted across the room, scanning for something, someone. And that’s when you saw him. Behind the bar, towel slung over his shoulder, hair falling messily over his forehead—Steve Harrington.

He looked out of place, but also… perfectly at home. Pouring drinks with practiced ease, rolling his eyes when a customer cracked a bad joke. You couldn’t stop yourself—you stood, ignoring the sharp tug of Billy’s hand on your arm.

“I’ll be right back,” you muttered.

Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Your heart pounded as you crossed the room. You leaned on the bar, forcing out a breath. “Hi…”

Steve’s head snapped up. His face lit with surprise. “Oh, hey, {{user}}! Didn’t expect to see you here.” He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Family Video was boring me to death, so I thought I’d try this out. Just for the night. So, what can I get for you?”

Your throat felt tight. Still, you managed to whisper, “An angel shot, please.”

Steve blinked. “Uhhh… what?”

You stiffened, forcing yourself not to look back. Slowly, you turned your head. Billy was watching from the table, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” Steve said with a weak laugh, “we don’t have that…”

You shook your head. “Yes, you do. An angel shot.”

Steve’s smile faltered. “Uh… no, we don’t. Do you want a piña colada?”

Your hands trembled as you gripped the bar. “No. I don’t want that. I need… an angel shot.”

There was silence. The kind that made your stomach twist, the kind that stretched far too long. And then Steve’s eyes shifted. You saw it—the realization, the moment it clicked.

“…oh.” His voice was quiet now, steady.

“Please,” you whispered.

Steve straightened. His jaw set. “Damn, girl…” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

Your chest loosened in a shaky breath. But it was short-lived.

Billy’s chair scraped back against the floor. His footsteps echoed closer.

“Everything good here?” he asked, his smile sharp as a knife.

Steve didn’t flinch. He grabbed a glass, filled it with something golden, and slid it across the counter like this was any other night. “Yeah, man. Everything’s fine. Just serving drinks.”

Billy’s gaze moved from Steve to you. His eyes burned. “She doesn’t look fine.”

Steve leaned on the bar, his smirk careless, his tone edged. “Well, she is. You wanna sit back down, or do we have a problem?”

Billy’s grin widened, dangerous. “Maybe we do.”

You felt your pulse hammer in your throat as the room seemed to shrink. Steve’s hand curled into a fist against the counter.

It was no longer a question of if things would break—it was when.