The hallway always smelled faintly of hairspray and cheap cologne, a fog of the eighties hanging in the air. {{user}} moved through it a step behind the popular girls, never quite in sync.

She wasn’t ugly—just… off, by the standards of the time. Her face was soft, unremarkable in a way that didn’t demand attention. Hair that never quite did what it was supposed to, even when she tried to tease it higher or spray it stiffer. Clothes that were technically right— a cute sundress, borrowed colors, trends copied straight off someone else’s back—but wrong on her somehow, like a costume worn too long. {{user}} wore whatever they told her to wear. Smiled when they told her to smile. Laughed when they laughed, even when the joke was clearly about her.

The popular girls treated her like an accessory they hadn’t decided to throw away yet. Sometimes they snickered behind their hands, whispering just loudly enough. Other times, they acted like {{user}} wasn’t there at all, talking over her shoulder, walking ahead without checking if she followed. She always did. Always would.

From across the room, Steve noticed. It was hard not to. He told himself he didn’t care — he was King Steve, after all — but every time someone cracked a joke at her expense and she laughed like it didn’t hurt, something twisted in his chest. {{user}} didn’t seem annoying or fake, not really. Just desperate. Desperate to fit in.

He never said anything. He couldn’t. Not without losing the crown he wore so effortlessly. So he stayed quiet, leaning against lockers, smirking along while people laughed at her, even when the laughter scraped his nerves raw.

The dare came on a Thursday.

The girls circled {{user}} like sharks pretending to be friends, eyes bright with excitement. The new guy — Billy Hargrove — just transferred in, all sharp edges and louder confidence. The plan was simple and cruel. They dared her to go talk to him, already knowing how it would end. They’d made sure of it.

Steve heard about it before {{user}} did. Heard the whispers. Saw the looks. And for once, he didn’t laugh.

Later, when the hallway thinned and lockers slammed shut one by one, he caught her alone. He hesitated—then grabbed her arm gently, pulling her aside like it was no big deal.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking down the hall. “Don’t do it.”

{{user}} blinked at him, confused. No one warned her about anything. No one ever did.

“They’re messing with you,” he went on, words tumbling out faster than he liked. “They don’t care about you. They’re—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “They’re not worth it.”

She stared at him, stunned. King Steve Harrington, talking to her. Not laughing. Not smirking.

He looked uncomfortable, almost angry—but not at her. “You don’t have to keep chasing people who treat you like crap,” he muttered. “Just… yeah. I felt like I had to warn you.”