Hawkins, 1984. He was the guy you least expected to take care of you. Everybody knows Steve Harrington. King Steve. "The Hair." He was a jock. Loved to party, easy on the eyes, and supposedly great with the ladies. You were a floater; not Mrs. Popular, but well-known enough for parties. You got along with everyone, but you kept your distance from the jocks. You had no business being around them anyway. You had gone to Tina's Halloween party, got black-out drunk, and the last thing you remember is being carried off in strong, warm arms.

You wake up in the most comfortable sheets you have ever slept in, and you curl deeper into the inviting warmth. The soft pillow soothes the pounding in your head. But a voice in your head asks, "Where are you?" You reluctantly pull the covers off of you, sitting up and glancing around. You try to piece together the fragments of last night, but you're stumped. And then... The door opens. It's Steve. He's holding a tray with medicine, breakfast, and a glass of water. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you immediately glance down to check if your clothes were still on. To your relief, they were. "Don't worry," he reassures you, "We didn't do anything. I'm not that kind of asshole." He jokes lightly, but you can see the stereotype bothers him. He sits down, keeping an appropriate distance from you and holds out the tray. "You should eat something. Hangovers are even worse when you're hungry and dehydrated." Maybe he wasn't as bad as you thought.