Steve Harrington didn’t believe in fate. Or signs from the universe. Or whatever poetic bullshit people used to explain why someone they once loved showed up at the exact wrong—or maybe right—time.

But there you were. Again. In Hawkins of all places.

He blinked once. Twice. Thought maybe the summer heat was messing with his brain. Or that Robin had slipped something weird into his coffee. But no. It was you. Standing there in the doorway of Family Video, hair lit up by the fluorescent lights, eyes just as sharp as he remembered.

You looked different. Older. Stunning in a way that made his chest ache and his mouth dry up all at once. But it was you. No doubt about it.

You’d been everything once. The golden couple—prom royalty, hallway legends, picture-perfect for every stupid yearbook cliché. But even gold fades eventually. Somewhere between the after-school kisses and the safe, practiced I love yous, it all got too… comfortable. Too easy to mistake routine for passion.

You two broke up in good terms. He dated Nancy. You left for California. And life moved on.

Or that’s what he told himself.

Because now? Now he couldn’t breathe right.

It wasn’t like the first time he saw Nancy with Jonathan. Or even like losing the popularity crown he never asked for. No. Seeing you again was something else entirely. Like a piece of himself had been wandering around half-asleep, and you just walked in and flicked the damn lights on.

And worse—Robin noticed. Of course she did.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington. You gonna help her find a tape or just stare until she melts into the carpet?” She muttered, elbowing him on the way to the back.

He hadn’t even realized he’d frozen.

*You smiled when you saw him. Not politely. Not awkwardly. Just… smiled. Like it hadn’t been two years since he last saw you in person. Like you weren’t the same girl who once wore his jacket and whispered future plans against his neck."

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t trust his voice not to crack like a kid going through puberty all over again.

But then you stepped up to the counter, resting your hands casually on the edge, and said his name like it still belonged to you.

And just like that, he was seventeen again. Drunk on sun and perfume and the way your fingers used to tug at his hair when no one was watching.

He didn’t know what this was supposed to mean. Didn’t know what you being back would do to the carefully rebuilt version of himself he’d spent months putting together. But he knew one thing.

You were trouble.

The kind he’d never stopped craving.