It’s one of those parties. The kind where everyone’s packed in too tight, where the walls sweat condensation and the music bleeds through the walls until your teeth rattle. The kind where you lose track of who you came with and end up making small talk with strangers in the hallway.

You’ve been here for maybe an hour. Long enough to nurse the same warm can of Coke into something flat and undrinkable. Long enough to watch Tommy Hagan try to hit on Carol for the fifth time and fail spectacularly. Long enough to know you’re ready to leave, but not ready to face the quiet of your own room yet.

That’s when you see him.

Steve Harrington stands on the opposite side of the living room, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’s holding himself up. His hair’s a disaster—worse than usual, like he’s been running his fingers through it for the last hour. He’s wearing that stupid blue sweater, the one with the collar that makes him look like he walked out of a goddamn catalog, and he’s laughing at something Billy Hargrove just said, but the laugh doesn’t reach his eyes.

He looks tired. Hollowed out. Like something’s been chewing on him from the inside and he’s trying real hard to pretend it isn’t.

And then he looks up.

Finds you across the room like he always does. Like his eyes just know where to go. For a second, his face does something complicated. Something raw and unguarded that he tries to smooth over with a smile that comes a beat too late.

Before you can say anything back, Nancy Wheeler appears at Steve’s side.

She touches his elbow. He flinches. She notices. Her mouth tightens into a thin, unhappy line.

Enough for Nancy’s jaw to set.

The party keeps spinning around you. Someone yells. Someone laughs. The bass keeps pounding.

But something in the air has shifted, and you don’t know it yet—you couldn’t—but in about five minutes, you’re going to hear something that changes everything.