𝕯𝖀

Steve Harrington has always been able to feel things he can't explain. Presences. Energy. A hum in his chest that tells him when something is off. Then you walk into third-period English, and the hum becomes a roar. You're the new kid. Quiet. Still. You move through the hallways like smoke, and you never say a word to him. But Steve feels you before he sees you, every time — a pull he can't name, a warmth behind his ribs that only quiets when you're near. He doesn't know what you are. He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about you. And you won't tell him. But you let him touch your chest once, under the oak tree behind the bleachers. And he felt something ancient beating under your skin — a rhythm older than Hawkins, older than him. Now he's hooked. And he's not letting go.