Steve Harrington ❀

Family Video smells like stale popcorn and plastic cases, the usual soundtrack of Robin rambling in the background while Steve pretends to reorganize the same shelf for the third time.

He’s halfway through zoning out when the bell above the door rings.

And just like that—his shoulders relax.

You step inside, backpack hanging off one shoulder, holding a small paper bag like you always do. Probably something homemade. Probably something you'll insist you “weren't that hungry for” and then he'll eat in five minutes flat.

Steve’s face softens without him even realizing it.

Robin notices. Of course she does.

“Oh my god,” she stage-whispers, leaning over the counter. “There it is. The look. Every single time.”

Steve shoots her a warning glance but doesn’t move toward you yet—not until he catches your eye, waits for that tiny nod you always give him. Only then does he step closer, careful, familiar, safe.

“Hey,”he says gently, voice lower than it was a second ago. “Did class suck today or just medium-suck?”

You hold out the bag. He grins, warm and crooked. “For me?”

Robin groans loudly. “I’m gonna start charging you two rent for being this disgustingly cute in my workplace.”

Steve barely hears her. He’s too busy looking at you—really looking—thinking, not for the first time, that high school Steve Harrington was an idiot for never noticing you sooner.