Steve Harrington²

The party is too noisy.

Not just noisy—overwhelming. Music vibrates through the walls, people talk over each other, laughter is too frequent, too harsh. You knew you shouldn't have come.

But you tried anyway. *

• You're standing by the kitchen, holding a glass you haven't even touched, trying to look like you belong there. *

• You laugh a second too late at something you didn't quite hear, say something off-key—and suddenly you trip. *

• It's not even that bad, but it's enough. Your elbow hits the counter, the glass tips over and shatters, and suddenly it feels like the whole room has noticed. *

"Sorry—I didn't mean to, I just—"

• You fall silent. Because, oddly enough, you're only making things worse. *

• Of course you do. *

• You quickly squat down, your hands moving too fast, trying to clean everything up before someone says anything— *

"Hey, don't—"

• Steve Harrington appears next to you, grabbing a towel. *

"You'll cut your hand,"* he says. *

• Pause.

“…Are you okay?”