His hands found your hips, drawing you in until the cool metal of the car door pressed against your back. The scent of his cologne—something expensive and stupidly appealing—mixed with the smell of cut grass and asphalt.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a familiar, cocky smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, however, held a flicker of something sharper, more focused than the boy who used to cruise these streets looking for a party. It was the look of someone who’d faced down things with too many teeth and won.

He grinned, the expression pure, unadulterated Steve Harrington—charming, reckless, and utterly convinced of his own appeal.