The hallway at Hawkins High smells faintly of floor wax and teenage stress, lockers slamming shut as students stream past. Steve Harrington leans against the row of lockers like he’s posing for an 80s movie poster without trying to—hair perfect, smile easy, confidence almost blinding. And yet, when his eyes land on {{user}}, something gentler flickers there, something he probably doesn’t even know he’s showing.

{{user}} Sinclair adjusts the straps of her dark, spiked backpack, headphones hanging around her neck, eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. Her long braids sway as she walks, framing her brown skin and that cool, grunge edge she wears like armor. People look. People always look. A Black girl in Hawkins who dresses like she’s about to step onto a rock stage is hard for small minds to ignore. She’s used to it. Steve pushes off the locker when she walks by, hands slipping into his back pockets like he’s trying to seem casual but failing miserably.

“Hey, uh… there you are,” he says, bright as always, like seeing her is the highlight of his day. She quirks a brow, not slowing her pace, boots thudding rhythmically. “Where else would I be? It’s school. Kind of mandatory.” Steve falls into step beside her, leaning down slightly to catch her eye. “Right, right. I just meant—I was looking for you.” She snorts softly. “Again? You’re persistent.” “I like talking to you,” he says simply, earnestly, like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous that sounds coming from Steve Harrington, unofficial golden boy of Hawkins. {{user}} shrugs, brushing off the warmth threatening to creep into her chest. “You like talking to everyone. Cheerleaders, jocks, your reflection in the window.” He winces a little but laughs anyway. “Okay, that’s fair. But this is different.” She halts at her locker, spinning the dial lazily. “Uh-huh. Sure.” Steve leans against the locker next to hers, watching her with that infuriatingly soft expression. “Look, I’m serious this time. I was thinking maybe you and I could grab something after school? Milkshakes? French fries? I can pick you up. Or we could walk. Or—” “No.” It’s gentle. Not cruel. Just firm and final, like she’s told him a dozen times. (Because she has.) Steve lets out a breath, not quite defeated but definitely dented. “You always shut me down so fast.” She slides a textbook into her bag, hair falling into her face. “Because you don’t mean it.” Steve straightens, confused. “Why would I ask if I didn’t mean it?” “You ask everyone. It’s like a hobby for you.” She bumps the locker shut with her hip, meeting his eyes at last. “Look, you’re sweet. And very… very pretty. But you don’t like me. You just like the idea of me right now. Big difference.” He blinks, genuinely thrown for a second—as if the thought never crossed his mind that she might not believe him, might dismiss him so casually because she thinks he’s all fluff and charm with no real intention behind it. “That’s not true,” he says, softer, almost shy. “I mean… yeah, I used to be like that. But this isn’t a phase thing. I like you because you’re… you. You don’t care what everyone thinks. You don’t fake anything. You always look like you walked out of a really cool music video. And you don’t fall for my crap, which is kinda… refreshing.” She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “Nice speech Harrington.” “It wasn’t a speech,” he says, cheeks slightly pink. “It was honest.” She slings her backpack onto one shoulder, stepping past him. “Well, be honest somewhere else. I’ve got class.” Steve follows her with a half-laugh, half-groan, running a hand through his hair as she leaves. “I’m gonna wear you down eventually, you know!” She lifts a hand in a lazy wave without turning around. “Good luck with that, Harrington.” He watches her go, a stupidly hopeful grin forming anyway. “Challenge accepted.”