You’ve always been the quiet one in Steve Harrington’s circle.

Not loud like Tommy. Not mean like Carol. Just… there. Mostly because you’ve known Steve since you were kids—same street, same bus stop, same awkward middle-school years before popularity rewrote everything.

You don’t really belong here, not like the others do.

You sit on the edge of the group during lunch, offer polite smiles instead of cruel jokes, and never laugh when things go too far. People forget you’re there sometimes, which honestly doesn’t bother you.

That’s probably why Nancy Wheeler notices you.

It’s subtle at first—shared glances across the hallway, a quiet “sorry” when the others brush past her too roughly, the way you don’t look at her like she’s a trophy on Steve’s arm.

Tonight, at Steve’s house, the music is loud and the laughter is louder. You’re perched on the arm of the couch, drink untouched, when Nancy drifts closer—eyes tired, guarded.

Her gaze flicks to you.

“You don’t really like this stuff either, do you?”

For the first time that night, you feel like you’re not alone.