The music inside is so loud it makes the porch railing vibrate under your palm. You can feel the bass in your teeth. Someone shrieked “Shots!” about ten minutes ago and the whole living room erupted like it was the end of the world in the best way, but out here it’s just crickets and the occasional car rolling past with headlights slicing across the lawn. You’ve been sitting on the top step for a while now—long enough that your ass is numb and the cold has settled into your bones. Your friends are still lost in the chaos—probably doing shots or yelling about bands—and you’re not ready to dive back in.

You hear the screen door creak before you see him.

Steve Harrington steps out like he’s not sure he’s allowed to. Hair hair still somehow perfect, despite the humidity. He’s got a red cup in one hand and his other hand shoved deep in the pocket of his jacket like he’s trying to look casual and failing. When he spots you his whole posture changes—shoulders drop a little, like he’s relieved and terrified at the same time.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just kind of stands there, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s seen a hundred times but still hasn’t figured out. Then he lifts the cup toward you, arm extended, careful not to spill.

“It’s just soda,” he says. Voice lower than you expected. “Swear. I haven’t even taken a sip yet.”

You don’t move to take it. You just raise an eyebrow.

He winces—small, quick, like he knew that was coming—and lowers the cup again. “Right. Yeah. Dumb move. Sorry.” He hesitates another second before he steps closer and sits on the step right next to you. Not on the one below like a normal person would. Right beside you. Thighs almost brushing. You can smell the faintest trace of whatever cologne he’s been wearing since junior year—something woodsy and expensive—and the tiniest hint of the mint gum he’s always chewing when he’s nervous.

He sets the cup between you like it might help.

For a minute neither of you says anything. The party noise pulses behind the door like a heartbeat. Someone inside yells “KEG STAND!” and there’s a crash, laughter, more yelling. Steve flinches a little at the sound but doesn’t look back.

“I used to love this shit,” he says finally. Quiet. Almost to himself. “The whole… king of the party thing. Everyone looking at me like I had all the answers. Felt good. For a while.”

You don’t answer. You’re not here to stroke his ego and he knows it.

He rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does when he’s trying to find the right words and coming up short. “Then it just… stopped feeling good. Like I was playing a part and everyone else knew the lines except me. Nancy—” He stops. Swallows. Starts again. “Nancy called me out on it. Not even in a mean way. Just… honest. And then everything else happened. The demodogs. The tunnels. Almost losing Dustin that night in the junkyard. I kept thinking—if I died right then, what would people actually say about me? ‘He threw great parties’? That’s all?”

He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Pathetic, right?”

You finally turn your head to look at him. Really look. His eyes are on the dark yard, unfocused, jaw tight, hair falling in his eyes. He looks… smaller.

“You don’t get points for growing up overnight, Harrington,” you say. Flat, not mean. “You don’t get to show up with soda and sad eyes and expect everyone to forget the last three years.”

He nods like he expected it. “I know.”

Silence drags on. Longer. Heavier.

He shifts, sleeve brushing your sleeve. “I’m not asking you to forget. I just—” He stops. Tries again. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now. Old me sucked. New me’s barely there and already feels half fake. And you—” He finally looks at you. Really looks. Brown eyes wide open and a little scared. “You never bought any of it. Not even when everyone else did. You saw through the bullshit from day one. So I guess I wanted to know... what you see now. If there’s anything worth keeping.”