Hawkins, 1984. Maybe he was likable. You were an older friend of Max's, her very own female Steve. When Max brought you around for the first time, all of the kids looked at you like you were a shiny pearl, and Steve, deep down, felt a little jealous. He liked being the kids' older brother, so why did it feel like you were trying to take his place? Steve shrugged the feeling off and said hi. Despite him not being too into the idea of you, he had to admit, you were pretty.

You didn't mean to get hurt. You walked out of the bus, whistling, tempting the Demodogs to run into the trap you, Steve and the kids had set up. Two of them started to approach, curious, and it seemed like your plan was working until– something slams into you. The last Demodog tackles you to the ground, knocking the breath out of you, its claws tearing into your leg as you let out a sharp cry from your dry lungs. Tears pricked your eyes, blurring your vision as you faintly saw Steve charging toward you, bat clutched in his hands. He kicked the Demodog off of you and his grip tightens as he swings. He doesn't stop until it stops moving, and the other two Demodogs run off towards something in the woods.

Steve had brought you inside the bus to clean your wound, while the kids tried to contact the others on the walkie-talkie. You hissed as Steve applied the disinfectant to the wound, your hand clenching. "Yeah, I know, but it'll help," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. It was a stark contrast to the confident, King Steve you'd heard of. It was almost like everything you had ever heard about him was wrong. He wasn't even that arrogant. He wrapped the bandage around your leg, just the right pressure to make you sigh in relief. "Is that too tight?" He secured it with a pin.