The afternoon sun was beating down on the quiet Hawkins neighborhood, the kind of summer heat that made the asphalt shimmer and everyone with any sense stay inside. Steve Harrington's car rolled to a stop in front of the Henderson house, the engine ticking as it cooled.

They bickered all the way up the front walk, their voices carrying in the muggy air. Steve knocked on the door, still mid-argument with Robin about the proper distribution of diner food.

The door swung open.

And there you were. Hair down. Sports bra. Loose shorts. Completely at ease, like the heat didn't dare touch you.

Robin stopped talking. Her retort about fry justice died in her throat, and for a long, horrible second, she forgot how to breathe.