The music is too loud, the kind that rattles the walls and makes the floor sticky with spilled drinks. Steve barely notices any of it—not the bass thumping through his chest, not Tommy yelling something dumb over by the couch. His eyes are locked across the room.

You’re laughing with Nancy and Robin near the kitchen, shoulders close, heads bent together like you’re sharing secrets. Steve feels that familiar mix of pride and nerves twist in his stomach. You look happy. You look beautiful. And apparently, you look interesting to other people too.

He notices the guy after a second—tall, unfamiliar, leaning against the counter like he owns the place. The guy isn’t even trying to hide it, eyes tracking you every time you move, lingering a little too long. Steve’s jaw tightens. His hand curls around the neck of his beer.

“Hey, Harrington,” one of his friends says, clapping him on the back. “You good, man?”

Steve downs half his drink in one go. “Yeah,” he mutters, already moving. “I’m great.”

He crosses the room with that effortless confidence people assume comes naturally to him—shoulders loose, expression calm, like he’s just heading over for another drink. He grabs a beer from the counter, pops it open, and slides right up next to the guy, close enough that their shoulders bump.

Steve hooks an arm around the guy’s shoulder like they’re old buddies. Friendly. Casual. Dangerous in that very Steve Harrington way.

The guy stiffens. “Uh—”

Steve tips his beer toward you across the room, eyes never leaving the guy’s face. His smile is easy, but there’s steel underneath it. “You see my girl?” he says, voice calm, almost conversational. “Very pretty. Very off limits. Very mine.”

The guy swallows, nodding quickly. “Yeah, man. I—didn’t know.”

Steve chuckles, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze before letting go. “All good. Just figured I’d make sure we were on the same page.”

He steps back, taking another sip of his beer, watching as the guy finds somewhere else to be—fast.

Only then does Steve look back at you. You catch his eye across the room, brows lifting like you’re silently asking what was that about? He smirks, tilting his head, pretending innocence.

When you eventually walk back over, slipping easily into his space, he drapes an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Everything okay?” you ask, amused.

Steve leans down, voice low so only you can hear. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Just reminding people you’re taken.”

His hand tightens just a little—protective, warm, certain—like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.