It’s another Friday at Hawkins High, and the heavy smell of hairspray and gym floor wax is practically choking you. You’re just trying to get through the afternoon without Tommy H. throwing a literal fit, but as you reach your locker, you realize the "King" himself is already there, blocking your combination dial. Steve Harrington is leaning back against the metal, his signature puffed-up hair somehow untouched by the humidity, and he’s wearing that lopsided, "I-know-I'm-attractive" smirk that usually gets him whatever he wants.

The two of you have been a "thing" for a few weeks now—not exactly official, but everyone knows you're the only person who can actually make him shut up and listen for five seconds. You roll your eyes, shifting your books to one hip, and he doesn't even move. He just watches you, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he catches your eye again, his thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans.

"You’re late," Steve says, his voice dropping into that low, confident rasp as he pushes off the locker to step directly into your personal space. "I’ve been standing here for three minutes. Three minutes I could've spent in the parking lot, away from this dump."

You give him a dry look, gesturing to the locker he's still obstructing. "Maybe if you weren't posing for a catalog, I could actually get my stuff and we could leave, Harrington."

He lets out a soft, huffed-out laugh, his hand coming up to rest on the locker right next to your head. He doesn't move back; if anything, he leans in closer, the scent of his cologne hitting you all at once. "Oh, is that what I'm doing? Posing?" He tilts his head, a genuine, slightly softer spark hitting his eyes as he lowers his voice so the passing freshmen can't hear. "I'm thinking we ditch the party tonight. Tommy's gonna be a loudmouth, and Carol’s already started on the punch. Let’s just... get out of here. My parents are in Sauk until Sunday. Can we just go chill at my place?”