The first rule of Scoops Ahoy is simple: don’t take anything seriously.

Steve breaks that rule the moment you start working there.

It’s impossible not to notice you—perched behind the counter in that ridiculous sailor uniform, pretending you don’t see him watching you from the corner of your eye. You flirt like it’s a game, like neither of you is actually trying. A raised eyebrow when he messes up an order. A dramatic sigh when he leans too close just to steal a cherry.

“Careful, Harrington,” you tease one afternoon, sliding him a cone. “You keep that up and I might think you’re into me.”

He grins, effortless. “What? I flirt with everyone.”

You snort. “Liar.”

It’s harmless. Easy. A distraction from the sticky floors and screaming kids and the fact that Steve Harrington is pretty sure his life peaked in high school.

Then the lights flicker.

The mall hum changes, drops into something wrong. You’re mid-laugh when the alarms go off, shrill and piercing. Steve’s smile vanishes instantly, replaced by something sharp and alert.

“Get behind the counter,” he says, already moving.

That’s when everything goes to hell.

The back hallways twist into something unfamiliar. Russians. Monsters. Too much blood for a place that smells like waffle cones. At one point, you’re pressed against a concrete wall, Steve standing in front of you like it’s instinct, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

“You okay?” he asks, breathless.

You nod, hands shaking. “Guess this ruins the whole pretending-not-to-care thing.”

He huffs out a laugh, even now. “Yeah. Kinda does.”

A creature shrieks somewhere too close. Steve grabs your hand—no hesitation, no jokes—and pulls you after him. His grip is warm, solid, grounding in the chaos.

For a split second, when you’re hidden behind crates and the world feels like it’s ending, his thumb brushes your knuckles. Gentle. Almost reverent.

“If we get out of this,” he says, voice low, “I’m not pretending anymore.”