Steve hadn’t meant to notice her this much.

At first, she was just… there. Another girl from the lab. Another reminder that the world had chewed up kids and spit them back out wrong. Like El.

But she wasn’t Eleven.

She was older. She listened more than she spoke, eyes always moving, always taking everything in like she was afraid the moment she stopped paying attention, something bad would happen again. And whenever the group got loud—Robin ranting, Dustin pacing, Jonathan arguing theories—she sort of folded into herself, sitting off to the side like she didn’t want to take up space.

Except Steve noticed something else too. She barely looked at him.

Not in the “I don’t trust you” way. Not in the “you’re annoying” way. More like… shy. Like every time their eyes almost met, she’d glance down or away, cheeks warming just enough for him to catch it if he was paying attention. Which, annoyingly, he was.

It messed with him more than it should.

They’d known each other for two days.

Two days of planning, sleeping in uncomfortable places, talking about Vecna and Holly and end-of-the-world scenarios. Two days since he found out she’d been locked back up in some military nightmare for a year straight, like they were trying to rewind time and remake monsters.

And now they were all crammed into the radio tower, tossing ideas back and forth, static humming softly in the background. She sat near the wall, knees pulled in, quiet but focused—listening to every word.

Steve hesitated, then grabbed a jacket from the back of a chair and a granola bar from his pocket. He walked over, stopping just close enough not to crowd her.

“Uh,” He said, rubbing the back of his neck, offering both like it was no big deal.

“You looked cold. And—yeah, this is probably the worst dinner option ever, but it’s better than nothing.”

A pause.

He gave her a small, easy smile. Not the King Steve one. The real one.

“You’re doing okay, right?”