The summer air in Hawkins still smells faintly scorched, like the town never quite shook the memory of fire and lightning, like it’s holding its breath after years of things better left unnamed. It’s calmer now—quiet in a way that feels earned—but you don’t trust it. Hawkins has never deserved trust.

You step out of the car and blink against the late-morning glare. The little league field sprawls ahead, grass clipped meticulously, the chain-link fence humming under the weight of a thousand cicadas. Kids dart across the diamond in mismatched jerseys, shouting at one another, parents clustered on aluminum bleachers with coolers, folding chairs, and sunscreen-smeared smiles. Normal. Suspiciously normal.

Derrick hops down from the car, tugging his cap lower over his hair. He seems… softer. Less sharp at the edges. The dimples still flash when he grins at you. “Told you,” he says, bouncing toward the dugout. “Coach says if I keep my average up, I might move positions.”

You ruffle his hair. “I’m proud of you, Delightful Derrick.”

He groans. “Don’t call me that.”

“You can blame Holly Wheeler,” you reply, and that shuts him up immediately.

You follow him toward the dugout, half-distracted by how absurdly peaceful this looks. Like the sky never ripped open. Like the town never collectively agreed to bury the things that happened here. And yet, Hawkins has baseball. A league. Little league. People are pretending everything is fine.

Then you hear it.

“Alright, alright—helmets on the fence, gloves inside the dugout, not on the field—yes, that means you too, Turnbow—”

The voice cuts sharper than a thrown ball.

Too familiar. Too smug. Too… confident.

You stop short. Derrick keeps walking, oblivious, until he realizes you’re frozen. “You coming?” he asks, frowning.

You can’t. Not yet.

The coach leans one foot on the bench, clipboard tucked under an arm, sunglasses perched atop his impossibly perfect hair. Sunlight glints off it, highlights catching the careless swoop. Older. Broader. Calmer. But the look in his eyes—predatory, amused, untouchable—hits a part of you that hasn’t been this alert since…

The linoleum-floored drugstore. Two weeks ago.

⸻

The air-conditioning blows like a gust of destiny, carrying the sterile tang of floor cleaner, shampoo, and faint panic. There it is, across the aisle: Farrah Fawcett hairspray. Liquid gold. Holy grail. The difference between greatness and tragedy in your hair that day.

Ten feet away. You quicken your pace.

Then—movement.

A shopping cart barrels toward you, deliberate and aimed. You leap aside just in time; it smashes into a cardboard display, cans and bottles clattering to the linoleum. A gasp rises behind you.

And there he is.

Tall. Smug. Denim jacket like it was stitched by the cosmos. One hand grips the cart, the other reaches past chaos, plucking the hairspray like it weighs nothing. He smiles. Not sorry. Never sorry.

“Sorry,” he says, voice dripping charm and malice.

You trail him, silent and swift, through aisles of shampoo, tampons, deodorant, lawn fertilizer. He pauses to flirt with a cashier, to inspect gum, existing as if he hasn’t just declared war on your very sense of justice. Then, finally—your chance. While his attention drifts, you snatch the hairspray from his cart. Three steps, heart pounding.

He notices.

“Hey—!”

You don’t walk. You run. Breathless, triumphant, furious. Register paid. Cart abandoned. Date ruined. Victory yours.

⸻

Back in the present, Steve laughs at something a kid says, clapping once to gather attention. The sound yanks you fully into now.

He looks up.

Recognition sparks in his eyes. Brows lift, mouth curls into that wicked, knowing smile. Your stomach does the thing again. Hairspray girl.

He slowly removes his sunglasses, verifying you exist.

You cross your arms. Derrick watches, confused. “You know Coach Steve?”

Steve crouches slightly, charming grin in place. “Buddy, grab your glove. Warm-ups.”

Derrick darts off, oblivious to the tension crackling between you and the man who just barreled into your life.