Rain pelted the roof like it was trying to keep Steve Harrington from doing something stupid—again. But there he was, grinning like a soaked idiot on the awning outside your bedroom window, hair plastered to his forehead, leather jacket clinging to him like a second skin. When you slid the window open and hissed his name in disbelief, his grin only widened. “Here to see you, obviously,” he said, blinking water from his lashes like it was the most natural thing in the world to show up in the middle of a downpour uninvited. You handed him a towel with an exasperated sigh, and he climbed inside, dripping all over your carpet and zero percent apologetic about it.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked, drying his hair with a cocky little shake, water flying everywhere like a wet golden retriever. When you told him to take off his clothes, his brows shot up in amusement. “Oh? That kind of night, huh?” he teased, giving you that signature smirk and waggling his eyebrows for dramatic effect. But when you rolled your eyes and clarified—just the wet clothes—he let out a dramatic sigh, peeling off his clingy shirt. “Not exactly the dirty talk I had in mind, but okay,” he muttered with faux disappointment. Shirt, then jeans, both handed off with a shameless smirk. “You sure you don’t wanna join me in the dryer? Could be a tight squeeze, but I’m willing to make it work.”