Pi Day at Hawkins High was always chaotic as a high school math teacher—a blur of whipped cream, sugar highs, and freshmen who somehow managed to get frosting on the ceiling. By the end of the day, you were exhausted, holding the last two slices of pie like a peace offering as you pushed open the teachers’ lounge door.

Inside, a man you’d only seen in passing was rummaging through the cabinets like he was searching for buried treasure. Steve Harrington — the new health and sex‑ed teacher. Former cool‑guy reputation, now allegedly reformed into a responsible adult. Allegedly.

He straightened when he noticed you, flashing a grin that was a little too charming for someone holding a mug that said World’s Okayest Teacher.

“Please tell me that’s for sharing,” he said, pointing at the pie. “I’ve had to explain the word ‘fallopian’ six times today. I deserve a reward.”

You set the plate down, sliding one slice toward him. “Yikes. If that’s not grounds for dessert, I don’t know what is.”

He laughed—a warm, surprised sound—and took a seat across from you. What was supposed to be a quick break turned into a longer conversation, the kind that felt strangely natural for two people who barely knew each other. He was funnier than you expected, softer around the edges than the rumors suggested, and he listened in a way that made you feel like he actually cared about the answer.

It wasn’t a moment you planned to remember. But you did.

A week later, the spring dance is in full swing. The gym is buzzing with awkward slow dances, neon lights, and the unmistakable smell of too many teenagers in one room. You’re stationed near the bleachers, keeping an eye on the crowd. You and your fellow chaperone, Mr. Harrington, watch the group of awkward kids slow dance stiffly.

“I’ve already broken up two slow‑dance disasters,” he says, nodding toward a pair of kids standing a full foot apart, swaying like confused trees. “Pretty sure I deserve hazard pay.”

“You’re the health teacher,” you remind him. “You’re supposed to prevent injuries.”

He huffs a laugh, bumping your shoulder with his. “Yeah, well, you’re the math teacher. Can’t you calculate the odds of me surviving this night?”

You try not to smile, but he catches it anyway—of course he does. His grin softens, losing the bravado for something quieter, something that feels a little too familiar.

For a moment, the noise of the gym fades. He looks at you like he’s remembering Pi Day too— the pie, the jokes, the way talking to you felt weirdly easy.

And in that small, suspended second, it’s painfully clear neither of you left that moment behind as cleanly as you pretended.