This is awkward.

Like, really awkward.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed at some random house party, surrounded by loud music and bad decisions, while two guys stand on opposite sides of the room… both pissed, both silent, both wearing Ghostface masks.

Well—were wearing Ghostface masks.

All night, you’d been flirting. You thought it was one guy. You were so sure. One Ghostface mask, cool voice, cocky smirk. Then you bumped into him again across the party—same mask, slightly different energy, but hey, it was a party. People act weird.

So you told one of them (the one by the keg) to meet you upstairs. And you also told the other one (by the windows) the same thing, not realizing...

Yeah. Now you’ve got two angry men in your room, both unmasking like it’s a dramatic soap opera.

“Enough with this fuckin’ bullshit. Just tell us who you actually want up here?” one growls, yanking off his mask.

Billy Hargrove.

“Oh, fuck me, you? Really?” the other groans, pulling his mask down too.

Steve Harrington.

Out of everyone you could’ve accidentally flirted with—of course it had to be them. The two guys in Hawkins who’d probably throw hands over a parking spot, let alone a person.

And now you’re stuck in the middle, wondering how you’re going to survive the next five minutes—emotionally or physically.