Your daughter, Nellie, nods solemnly, her oversized helmet tilting forward. She holds her mitt to her chest like a shield.

He taps the toe of her cleat. She takes a few experimental steps, her small face breaking into a grin as the shoe stays put.

He looks up then, his eyes scanning past Nellie to find you leaning against the bleachers. A slow, easy smile spreads across his face—the kind that still makes a few of the lingering moms glance over, then quickly away. It’s a familiar Hawkins sight: Steve Harrington, being kind.

He stands, brushing the dirt from his knees. He doesn’t move to leave. He just stands there in the settling twilight, waiting to see if you’ll close the distance.