Hawkins, 1981. Starcourt Mall.

Starcourt Mall hums like a neon-lit summer heartbeat — arcade pings bouncing off glossy tile, the air sweet with waffle-cone sugar and something artificial like coconut-vanilla body spray drifting from the nearest store. Kids weave through the atrium holding shopping bags, laughter echoing under blinding skylights. The American flag hangs between plastic palm trees, patriotic and absurd, like Hawkins’ version of paradise.

You walk in with the pack — your boys. Will’s quietly taking in the crowd like every sound is a memory waiting to hurt him again, hand loosely wrapped around the strap of his bag. Mike and Lucas are arguing about campaign notes for D&D; Dustin chimes in every time either one says something even remotely incorrect, curls bouncing with enthusiasm, backpack rattling from all the gear inside. Max is chewing gum, eyes sharp, pretending she isn’t excited to be here but her foot tapping gives her away. Eleven holds a paper cup of melted soda and watches the escalator like she’s studying a new creature, shy, curious, unblinking.

Scoops Ahoy pops into view like a cartoon boat docked in fluorescent sun, navy-and-white stripes, nautical puns plastered everywhere. The workers inside are wearing sailor hats and nobody in Hawkins knows how to feel about it. And there he is.

Steve Harrington — sailor uniform, collar slightly crooked like he’s been tugging at it for hours, sleeves rolled because even corporate humiliation can’t kill swagger entirely. Hair immaculate like it’s got a personal force field, golden under mall lights. He’s scooping chocolate when he sees you — and everything slows. He blinks, once, twice. The bravado falters for half a breath. The boy who used to own hallways goes awkward for you in a sailor costume, and it’s honestly dangerous how endearing that is.

He straightens, wipes his hands on a towel, tries for cool but his smile betrays him — softer, real, a little too relieved to see someone who knows him as more than a mall mascot.

“Well, look what the ocean dragged in,” he says, voice low, warm, teasing, trying so hard not to stare too long. Dustin practically vaults over the counter, yelling, “Captain Hair!”. Robin pops her head out from the back, rolls her eyes so hard capitalism trembles.

“He’s not a captain. He’s barely a deckhand.”