͏b͏r͏o͏k͏e͏n || ͏b͏i͏l͏l͏y ͏h͏a͏r͏g͏r͏o͏v͏e

S E V E N T E E N

𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍
𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑯 𝑳𝑨𝑻𝑬𝑹

Snow sifted lazily against the windshield, glowing blue under the streetlights. Steve's radio crackled with a reporter's voice, sharp over the static:

"Since the release of the incendiary tape, the once-quiet town of Hawkins, Indiana has found itself under a national spotlight..."

I turned the volume down, staring at the dashboard as the reporter continued listing off government admissions, cover-ups, chemical leaks, and "the tragic death of local student Barbara Holland."

"Wow..." I whispered, more to myself than Steve.
The words felt surreal. Too huge. Too far away from the nights we'd lived through them.

Steve bumped my shoulder with his. "Hey. We saved the town and made national news." He held up a fist like we were superheroes.

I bumped it weakly. "Indeed we did."

He pulled into Dustin's driveway, the headlights sweeping across the Byers-orange pumpkins still rotting on the porch. Snow Ball night. The kids were buzzing with nerves. And here I was, stewing in my own.

"Alright," Steve said as he put the car in park. "Business."

I turned slowly to face him. He had that look — the big-brother-slash-mom look.

"What now?"

"What's going on with you and Hargrove?" he asked flatly.

I groaned and dropped my head against the headrest. "Nope. Absolutely not. We're not doing this."

"Oh, we are," Steve insisted. "Because for the last month you've been ignoring him like he's a telemarketer, and meanwhile the dude has called me every night asking where you are."

I swallowed. Hard.

"I told him I wasn't talking to him until he apologizes," I muttered. "He claims he did, but I call bull. He thinks mumbling 'my bad' through a concussion counts? No thanks."

Steve sighed and slumped back in his seat. "He needs to hurry up and apologize. I hate seeing you miserable."

"I am NOT miserable," I protested, then deflated instantly. "I just... miss him."

Steve gave me a long, slow look—the kind of look older siblings reserve for when they know exactly what you're lying about.

"Look," he said, "I already know you two are gonna get married on some beach someday and pump out a bunch of tan-haired demon babies or whatever—"

"STEVE."

"I'm getting to the point." He lifted a hand. "My point is: don't waste your time playing hard to get. When you know, you know."

Before I could respond, the front door swung open and Dustin hopped out in a tux that made him look like a ten-year-old insurance salesman. He started rambling instantly about Farrah Fawcett hairspray and mousse ratios.

Steve groaned. I stared out the passenger window, heart pounding harder than it had all day.

Steve was right.

I did know.

Steve's car rolled to a stop in front of the school, strings of blue and gold lights glowing through the fogged windows. From inside, music thumped, thin and fizzy like soda through cheap speakers.

Steve turned toward Dustin with an encouraging smile.
"All right, buddy. Show time."

Dustin swallowed hard, staring at the school doors like they were the gates of Mordor. "So, remember," Steve coached, "once you get in there—"