You barely register the first hit before you’re on the floor.

Someone’s shouting, lockers clanging as Steve Harrington looms over you, breathing hard. His hair’s a mess, knuckles red, anger written all over his face like he’s past the point of thinking. He doesn’t look like the golden boy right now—he looks furious.

“You think you can just run your mouth?” he snaps, hauling you up just long enough to shove you back down again.

A crowd starts to form, voices blurring together, but Steve doesn’t seem to hear any of it. He’s too focused, too locked in. Whatever you said—whatever you did—pushed him over the edge.

“Steve, that’s enough!” someone yells.

Hands grab his arms from behind, pulling hard as people try to drag him back. Steve fights it for a second, still glaring at you like he wants to finish it.

Someone shouts his name again, louder this time. Hands grab at his shoulders and arms, pulling him back before he can move closer. Steve twists against them, breath ragged, eyes still locked on you like he’s memorizing your face.

“Stay down,” he growls, voice shaking with barely-contained rage.

He’s dragged away step by step, shoes scraping against the floor as the distance between you grows. Steve doesn’t look back—doesn’t need to. The damage is already done, and the silence he leaves behind is heavier than the noise ever was.