Two days.

That’s how long it had been since you and your boyfriend ended things. Or, more accurately, since he ended it with a shrug and a “we’re just different people now.”

You hadn’t even cried. You just sort of stared at the wall for a while. Lit a joint. Played The Cure until the silence stopped echoing.

Now?

You were parked behind the old train station, the sky dark overhead. Steve Harrington sat in the passenger seat of your Corolla, fiddling with your broken cassette player.

Nancy had left him, too.

“The perfect couple” — unraveling like cheap thread.

“You think we pick the wrong people on purpose?” you muttered, pulling your knees up.

Steve exhaled slowly. “I think we pick people who look like they’ll fix us. Then blame them when they don’t.”

You gave a soft, dry laugh. “Wow. You thinking that one up on your own, Harrington?”

“I can be deep,” he said with a shrug, his grin faint.

The joint burned low between your fingers. You passed it to him. Your hands brushed.

“I never liked Jessie,” Steve added.

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, no kidding. The arcade incident kind of gave it away.”

“He was a dick. Made you feel like you were too much.” He paused. “I hated seeing that.”

Your throat tightened.

“You weren’t exactly thriving in your own love life,” You offered.

“True,” he chuckled, leaning his head back against the window.

Silence filled the space between you, thick and a little electric. The windows started fogging.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” You murmured. “Not in a clingy way, I just...”

“I get it,” Steve said, voice quieter now. “Me either.”

He reached for your hand. Your fingers laced.

And then he leaned in.

The kiss was slow at first, then rushed — desperate, messy. You didn’t even know who moved first. Your hands were in his hair. His mouth was on yours.

You scrambled into the backseat, laughing between kisses. His flannel came half-off, your jacket shoved aside.

“This is probably a terrible idea,” You whispered.

“Definitely,” he breathed against your skin. “But we’re not known for good ones.”

You didn’t stop.

The scent of weed clung to everything.

But in that fogged-up car, you didn’t feel broken.

Just wanted.

And for once, that felt like enough.