The air of Scoops Ahoy is thick with sugar and artificial cheer, the kind that sinks into your clothes and follows you home whether you want it to or not.

Steve is behind the counter, uniform crisp, sailor hat tilted just enough to look intentional, hands moving on autopilot as he wipes down the same spotless patch of glass for the third time in two minutes. He’s mastered this job; memorized the flavors, the smiles, the way to survive a shift without losing his mind, but none of that matters the second you step into the mall.

Something in his chest pulls tight, sharp and familiar, like his body recognizes you before his brain catches up.

You’re here for Robin, obviously, you’re always here for Robin. Steve knows this, understands it on a logical level, but logic tends to short-circuit around you. He watches the way you linger, how comfortable you are in this space, like Scoops Ahoy belongs to you just as much as it belongs to him.

You don’t look at him right away, and that somehow makes it worse. He adjusts his stance, squares his shoulders, smooths his hair even though he already did that in the reflection of the freezer door thirty seconds ago. Every movement feels too loud, too obvious.

This has been happening since the first time he saw you: standing a little awkwardly near the counter, smiling like you didn’t realize how easily you disarmed people. Steve had nearly dropped a full tray of cones that day. Since then, it’s been a slow, painful routine of longing disguised as friendliness; extra napkins slid your way, samples offered a beat too eagerly and small talk that makes his palms sweat even though he’s faced demodogs and lived.

You’ve never noticed, or maybe you have, and you just think this is who Steve Harrington is: nice, a little awkward, painfully earnest.

Steve tells himself not to stare, then does it anyway. He notices the details he shouldn’t; the way you stand when you’re waiting, the way your presence seems to soften the sharp edges of the mall. He wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like if you came here for him. The thought makes his stomach flip.

He shifts his weight, fingers tapping nervously against the counter, stealing one quick glance in Robin’s direction even though she’s definitely not paying attention. Your older sister is definitely more busy with customers.

He leans forward before he can talk himself out of it, smile forming instinctively, warm and hopeful and just a little doomed.

“Hey,” Steve says, voice easy despite the chaos in his head. “You, uh… want to try something new today, or are you sticking with your usual? Samples is on the house, as always.”