Of all the places Steve thought he’d end up after surviving demogorgons, Russians, and his own questionable life choices, a cramped radio station in Hawkins definitely hadn’t been on the list.

WSQK smelled like dust, old vinyl, burnt coffee, and something vaguely electrical, and yet it had somehow become routine, too routine. The red ON AIR light hummed softly above the booth, casting everything in a faint glow as the late-night shift dragged on, the town quiet outside, unaware of the tiny emotional disaster currently unfolding inside these walls.

Steve leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, pretending very hard to look relaxed. He wasn’t. His knee bounced uncontrollably under the desk, sneakers tapping against the metal leg in a nervous rhythm.

Across the booth, you were busy flipping through a stack of records, humming absently, completely unaware that he, Robin included, was watching you with barely concealed amusement. Robin shot Steve a look through the glass, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching like she was two seconds away from laughing outright.

This had been her idea just tell them, she’d said.

And Steve had panicked. Because telling you directly meant risking rejection, awkward silence, and the terrifying possibility of ruining something good. So instead, he’d chosen the coward’s route: music. Carefully chosen, painfully obvious music.

Robin slid a vinyl from its sleeve with theatrical slowness, glancing at Steve one last time like this is happening whether you like it or not, before placing the needle down. The opening chords filled the station—soft, romantic, unmistakably a love song. Not subtle. Not even a little. The kind of song people dedicated to someone when they wanted to confess feelings without actually saying the words.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

You froze mid-motion, head tilting slightly as you listened, eyebrows knitting together in mild confusion. “Did we… schedule this one?” you asked casually, not looking at Steve, already flipping through papers again. Robin’s grin widened and Steve dragged a hand down his face, his ears burning as he realized just how bad he was at this.

Everyone knew. Robin knew. The party knew. Probably half of Hawkins knew. Everyone except you.

The song swelled, lyrics spilling into the booth; about late nights, stolen glances, someone being afraid to say what they really meant. Steve sat there, heart hammering, watching you tap your fingers against the counter in time with the music, completely missing the meaning. Robin mouthed say something through the glass, then leaned back, clearly enjoying his suffering.

Steve shifted in his seat, finally turning toward you, the bravado he usually wore slipping just enough to show something real underneath.

“Uh… hey, so, this song... yeah, it’s not random,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, voice lower than usual. “It’s kinda… for you, actually.”