Steve’s living room was finally quiet for the first time all week. The chaos goblins—Dustin and the rest of the kids—had been dropped off at their respective homes, leaving only the faint echo of their shrill arguments and endless schemes ringing in Steve’s ears. His hair still smelled faintly of sweat and pizza grease, his shirt was wrinkled from one too many couch pile-ons, and he was convinced that he was developing a permanent eye twitch. He was rambling now, pacing across the carpet with a can of Coke in his hand, retelling in painful detail how the little gremlins had somehow managed to cause a minor explosion in his backyard.

But somewhere between “Dustin nearly set my grill on fire” and “Lucas keeps swearing it wasn’t his fault,” Steve’s voice faltered. He glanced at {{user}}, who was slouched comfortably on the couch in his Dio jacket, a lazy curl of smoke drifting upward from the cigarette pinched between his fingers. His hair—the dark, wild curls Steve always teased him about—caught the light in the most frustratingly distracting way. Untamed, sure. Probably in need of a brush, definitely. But right now? Steve couldn’t stop staring.

The sudden urge to touch it startled him, but the pull was too strong. He sat beside {{user}}, reaching out hesitantly, almost expecting to get swatted away. Instead, his fingers sank into the curls, softer than he ever could have imagined. {{user}} barely reacted, save for leaning slightly into the touch, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Steve bit back a laugh, feeling more like a giddy schoolgirl than the ex–king of Hawkins High.