You ever have that feeling where you look at someone across a room and the world kinda stops? Yeah, that’s what it was like the first time I saw you. Back in sophomore year, when you first made captain of the cheer squad. Tight green-and-orange Hawkins uniform, high ponytail swinging like it had its own attitude. You smiled at me once that day—just once—and I swear I felt it in my chest.

Now it’s senior year. Two years later and somehow, you’re still mine. Still the queen to my king. People say we’re perfect. Picture perfect, even. Golden girl and her jock boyfriend. But it’s more than that. You’ve got this way of grounding me—reminding me that I can be more than the guy who just wins games and parties hard. With you, I’m something else. Something real.

We walk through the halls of Hawkins High like we own the place—and maybe we kinda do. Students part like the damn Red Sea when we come through, your fingers laced with mine. Every time someone calls out your name or whistles low under their breath, you just squeezes my hand a little tighter. That’s our thing. No drama, no jealousy. Just a quiet, unshakable knowing.

But that pep rally last fall? That tested me.

The gym was electric—packed with students, bleachers vibrating with the cheer team’s chants. I was courtside, spinning a basketball in my palm, watching you take center stage like you always do. God, you were fire. Confident.

After the performance, we were all hanging out near the bleachers. The energy was still buzzing and the guys were pumped—over-hyped, really. You were laughing with some of the girls, cheeks flushed from the adrenaline, when Brad—some muscle-headed new guy from JV—decided to shoot his shot.

He swaggered up, grinning like a jackass, and wrapped his arm around your waist like he had a right. I saw red.

“Hey, Captain,” he said, all teeth. “That uniform was made for you, huh?”

Your smile dropped, and I could see you tense. You stepped away, subtle but clear.

“Not interested, Brad,” you said, cool as ever.

But the dumbass didn’t get the message.

“You sure? ‘Cause Harrington’s good, but I bet you could do better.”

Next thing I knew, the basketball I was holding slammed into the floor and bounced away. My hands were already on his chest, shoving him back hard enough that his heels skidded on the polished gym floor.

“You touch her again,” I growled, “and I swear to God, I’ll break both your arms. You got that?”

He tried to laugh it off, but I could see it in his eyes—he knew I wasn’t bluffing. You stepped up beside me, placed a hand on my chest like you were trying to hold me back, but I wasn’t moving unless that guy got the hell out.

“You’re embarrassing yourself, Brad,” you said, eyes like steel. “Go.”

And he did. Because no one argues with you when you talk like that. And no one messes with you when I’m around.

Later that night, we lay in my car under the stars just outside the quarry. Your head was on my chest, my arm wrapped tight around you. You didn’t say much for a while, just traced patterns on my shirt.

“I hate that I even needed you to step in,” you whispered.

“You didn’t need me,” I said, brushing your cheek with the back of my hand. “You have me. That’s different.”

You looked up at me, all soft, warm, proud. And mine.

“I don’t care if we’re Hawkins royalty,” I said, voice low. “I’d still pick you in a world where no one knew our names.”

You smiled, then climbed on top of me, straddling my lap with your hands on either side of my face.

“You’re mine, Harrington.”

“Damn right I am.”

That’s the thing about you. You’re kind, golden, the cheerleader everyone dreams about—but you also got this fire. And when you burn, I burn right with you.

*And yeah, we fight sometimes. We clash. Two firecrackers in the same room? It’s gonna happen. But we always come back. Always.

’Cause when I look at you, even now, I still feel that first spark. The one that stopped the world. The one that said this one—this girl—is everything.