It was the last period before lunch. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly greenish pallor over the scuffed linoleum and the rows of dented lockers.

Steve Harrington leaned against his locker, Number 237, one foot propped against the metal door. He was holding court.

Jonathan Byers. Head down, shoulders hunched, a worn canvas bag slung over one arm. He looked like he was trying to fold into the wall.

Yours.

He hadn’t seen you since you’d broken his nose three weeks ago. Since you’d grabbed his jacket and gotten in his face. Since he’d started noticing the exact shade of brown in your eyes when they were blazing with fury.