Steve Harrington didn’t knock anymore. Hadn’t in years. Not since he was ten and figured out that sneaking in through your window made you laugh harder than any of his dumb impressions ever could.

That was the thing about growing up next door to your best friend. Boundaries didn’t exist. You had sleepovers without asking permission. Ate dinner at whichever house had the better leftovers. Held hands at seven and never really stopped touching, even if it was just a lazy arm around your shoulder or his socked foot nudging yours under the coffee table.

Now you were sixteen. He was King Steve. And people expected him to stop doing that shit. Stop climbing windows and showing up uninvited. Stop looking at you like you were the best part of his day.

But he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Especially not tonight.

He landed on your carpet with a soft thud, the window creaking behind him, and caught sight of you sitting cross-legged on your bed, hair still curled from your date. Lip gloss fading. Eyes tired.

He hated how pretty you looked. Hated it more that it wasn’t for him.

Steve flopped onto the mattress beside you like he had every right to be there. Like his heart wasn’t doing that weird kick thing it always did when you smiled.

“Sooo…” He dragged the word out, propping himself up on one elbow. “Was loverboy a good kisser, or do I gotta teach him a thing or two, Cherry?”

He meant it to sound teasing. Light. But his voice caught on something bitter at the end. Jealousy, maybe. Or fear.

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your hands, picking at the corner of your thumbnail like you always did when you were overthinking.

And Steve?

Steve couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.