The rumble of the ’67 Chevy Impala echoed through the school parking lot, heads turning as the glossy black beast rolled in. A few students stopped mid-conversation, eyes flicking from the car to the girl behind the wheel. You—five-foot-two of unapologetic attitude—pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, dark hair spilling over your shoulders as you shifted the car into park.

It was peak Hawkins summer heat, the kind that made asphalt shimmer, but you weren’t dressed for blending in. Black crop top with a faded Metallica logo, fishnet stockings peeking out beneath cut-off black shorts, and boots that looked like they’d seen more than a few bar fights. The tattoos curling along your arms caught the sunlight, matching the glint of your piercings when you smirked.

You leaned against the Impala, folding your arms as the doors of Hawkins High swung open and a wave of students poured out. It took only a second for a mop of curly hair to come into view—Dustin, laughing about something with a group of kids his age. His eyes widened when he spotted you, his voice cracking as he yelled your name.

“Holy crap! What are you doing here?!” he grinned, running up and wrapping you in a hug.

“Surprise, nerd,” you teased, ruffling his hair. “Figured I’d crash your summer. And maybe make sure you’re not getting into too much trouble.”

That’s when you noticed him—standing just behind Dustin, leaning on the edge of a wood-paneled station wagon with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Brown hair perfectly tousled in a way that was definitely intentional, a denim jacket hanging off his shoulders, and an expression like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or prepare for impact.

Steve Harrington.

He stepped forward, eyes flicking from you to the Impala, then back to you again. “Uh… I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”

You smirked, tilting your head. “What gave it away? The car or the fact I don’t look like I shop at Sears?”

Dustin groaned. “Steve, this is my sister. My older sister. Try to be cool, alright?”

Steve chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets, but his gaze lingered like he was already trying to figure you out.

Steve tried to act casual, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but his eyes kept darting from your boots to the glint of your tongue piercing when you spoke. There was something about you—like you’d stepped straight out of a rock magazine and into small-town Hawkins just to mess with his head.

“So, uh…” he started, running a hand through his hair in that way guys do when they’re trying to look cool and not like they’re scrambling for words. “You, uh… been to Hawkins before?”

You raised a brow. “Nope. First time. Honestly, I expected more cows. Fewer… perms.”

Dustin snorted, already halfway to your car to toss his backpack in, leaving Steve stuck in your gaze.

“You drive that?” Steve asked, nodding toward the Impala like he wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or intimidated.

“Every day,” you said, leaning a little closer, your voice dropping just enough to make it sound like a dare. “Don’t worry, Harrington… I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that.”

Steve blinked—once, twice—like his brain had just short-circuited. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could practically hear the static between his thoughts.

Dustin groaned from the passenger side. “Oh, great. You broke him.”

You smirked, brushing past Steve toward the car, letting your shoulder graze his just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume—something dark and sweet. By the time he turned around, you were in the driver’s seat, sunglasses sliding back down over your eyes.

“See you around, Harrington,” you called, engine roaring to life.

Steve just stood there, watching as you pulled out of the lot, a goofy, dazed smile tugging at his lips.