You’re leaning against the chain-link fence, arms crossed, pretending to watch your son Miles intently as he takes his turn at bat. But your gaze keeps drifting, as it has for months now, to Steve Harrington.

He’s standing near third base, kneeling to adjust a base, his soft brown hair catching the last of the sunlight like a halo of golden fluff. He’s wearing a faded Hawkins Little League jersey, sleeves rolled up to reveal arms that are lean and strong. You only know the man before you now: the one who laughs easily, claps kids on the shoulder, and somehow makes nine-year-olds feel like they’re the most important people in the world.

Miles adores him. So do the other kids. Steve’s got that way about him— like he was built to protect, to guide, to care.

That first day, months ago, you’d lingered after practice, waiting for Miles to finish changing. Steve had offered you a bottle of water from the cooler, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “You must be Miles’ mom. He’s already talking about you like you hung the moon.” You’d laughed.

You’ve lingered ever since.

Now, you watched Steve crouching beside a nervous-looking boy named Danny, demonstrating how to hold the bat.

Miles lined up for his next at-bat, and Steve trotted over to the pitcher’s mound, clapping his hands. “Alright, Miles! Let’s see that power swing!” Miles smiled, adjusting his batting gloves, and swings—crack! The ball soars into left field, and the kids erupted in cheers.

After practice wraps up, the kids scatter— some to parents’ cars, others to bikes and scooters. Miles ran over, sweaty and breathless, eyes shining.

“Mom! Did you see? I hit it past the outfield!” “You were amazing,” you said, ruffling his hair. “Go grab your bag.”

As Miles ran off, Steve approached, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “He’s really coming into his own,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “I think he’s going to be our cleanup hitter this season.”

“He’s been practicing every day,” you said, smiling. “He talks about you almost as much as he talks about baseball.”

Steve chuckled, but there was a softness in his eyes. “Well… I’m glad. I mean—not that he talks about me. I just—” He stumbles, scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. That came out wrong.”

You laughed, and the sound startled him into a wider grin. “It’s sweet,” you said. “He feels safe with you. That means a lot.”

Steve looked down, then back up at you and for a second, the world narrowed. The crickets faded. The field emptied. It was just you and him, standing in the warm dusk, saying nothing, understanding everything.

“I was thinking,” he said, voice lower, “there’s this new video store that opened up on Main Street. They’ve got a whole section of retro horror—The Thing, Poltergeist… the good stuff. And—uh—they have slushies. Real ones. Not the gas station kind.”

You blinked. “Are you… inviting me on a date, Steve Harrington?”

His cheeks flushed, just a little. “Only if you want. I mean, Miles could come too, if—”