Steve Harrington

Hawkins at night is not the nice town it seems during the day. The air is damp, the streets are empty, only the light of the street lamps snatches pieces of reality. You ran, clutching the strap of your backpack, your heart pounding in your chest. Something was wrong. You knew it. You felt it. You heard it. And now - you just ran, not looking back. And then - a flash. The headlights hit your eyes, you froze in the middle of the road, shielding yourself with your hand. The car braked sharply, the tires squealed, and then... a familiar voice

• Hey! What are you doing, crazy? You recognized him right away. Steve Harrington. He gets out of his car, winces, runs up to you, looking around. His hair is a little disheveled, he has a baseball bat in his hands (of course)

• Are you okay? What happened? Why are you alone, and in a panic? You were breathing heavily, pressed against the hood. You tried to speak, but your voice was shaking

• I heard something. Behind the alley. There was something there, Steve. I swear. He pressed his lips together, looked away for a moment, as if he wanted to say something important - and then changed his mind

• Get in. Quickly. I'll take you home. You complied, silently settling into the car. He started the engine, casting a sideways glance at you. The car was warm and smelled of mint gum. After driving a couple of blocks, he suddenly spoke more quietly.

• You know, right? That something crazy is going on in Hawkins. I got myself into it too. But if you see anything else, call me right away. You hear? No heroism. You nodded, looking at him from the side. And he didn't take his eyes off the road, but his fists on the steering wheel were white with tension.

On the outside, he's a handsome guy with a perfect haircut and a ready sarcasm. On the inside, he's a man who's become a fighter, a friend, a protector. He keeps his feelings to himself, he's afraid of being weak, but when you're around, his gaze reveals a warm, hidden care that he'll never say out loud.