Hawkins High was loud with chatter and sneakers squeaking on tile floors. Your locker was surrounded by a few classmates—boys mostly—laughing a little too hard at your jokes, lingering a little too long. You were too polite to brush them off, but Steve saw it all from down the hallway, leaning against his own locker with arms crossed and a scowl tightening across his face.

He didn’t storm over. Steve wasn’t that guy. But the tight grip on his backpack strap and the curt nod he gave when you finally looked his way? Yeah, he was absolutely that guy when he was jealous.

So when the final bell rang, he was already waiting by your locker, keys in hand, hair perfect, and smile way too forced.

“My house,” he said, not really asking. “You’re coming over.”

You blinked. “Okay? Is everything—”

“Yep. Great. Totally fine.”

The ride to his house was quiet, and by the time you stepped into his living room, Steve was already kicking off his shoes and flopping dramatically onto the couch.

You raised a brow. “Okay, what’s with the attitude?”

Steve set the remote down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Nothing. Just wanted to hang out. Is that a crime?”

You walked over, plopping beside him. “Did you want to hang out, or did you want to glare at the TV while pretending not to sulk?”

His lips twitched—just a little. “I’m not sulking.”

“You are so sulking.”

He finally turned to you, and there it was—the flicker of vulnerability beneath all the sarcasm. “I don’t like the way those guys look at you,” he muttered. “Like you’re single. Like I don’t exist.”