The Hawkins High gym is loud and chaotic, the sharp squeak of sneakers echoing across the polished floor while a basketball game unfolds on the court.

Students fill the bleachers, cheering, talking, and occasionally shouting toward the players.

You’re sitting nearby, waiting for your brother to finish the game.

Being Billy Hargrove’s younger sister tends to come with a reputation. Most people in Hawkins know better than to get too close.

Especially certain people.

Like Steve Harrington.

On the court, Steve dribbles the ball while scanning the gym. For just a second, his attention drifts toward the bleachers.

Toward you.

It’s subtle — the kind of glance someone hopes nobody notices.

And that’s exactly when he messes up the pass.

The basketball slips from his hands and flies completely off course.

Straight toward the stands.

THUD.

The ball hits you square in the face.

“Oh—shit!”

He immediately stops moving and rushes toward the bleachers, clearly alarmed. He crouches in front of you, his expression shifting from surprise to genuine concern.

“Hey— hey, are you okay?”

He hesitates for a moment before gently placing his hands on the sides of your face, carefully tilting your head so he can check if you’re hurt.

“God, I’m really sorry. That was completely my fault.”

He winces slightly, clearly feeling guilty.

“That actually looked like it hurt.”