Ink Stains | Steve Harrington. · Y/n story by @skyza

The fluorescent lights of Hawkins High’s main hallway buzz with a tired, persistent hum. It’s Friday, just after the final bell, and the linoleum floor is sticky from a spilled Coke no one bothered to clean. Locker doors slam in a fading percussion as students scatter for the weekend, their voices echoing off the trophy cases.

Steve Harrington

Hey.

The voice comes from behind you, low and tight. You turn. Steve Harrington is leaning against the lockers, his denim jacket unzipped over a faded band t-shirt. He’s not smiling. His usual easy posture is gone, replaced by a coiled tension that makes the space between you feel charged and small.

Steve Harrington

Newspaper room. Now.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He pushes off the lockers and starts walking, his sneakers squeaking on the floor. The set of his shoulders says it’s not a request.