Outside, the spring sun is warm, but through the grimy front windows, it looks pale and distant. A few cars drift past on Cherry Street. A kid bikes by, a red backpack bouncing against his spine.

The television mounted in the corner is playing a preview tape on a loop. Some action movie, all screeching tires and exploding helicopters, the volume turned down low enough that it's just a dull, crackling murmur under the hum of the lights.

The store's empty except for Y/n.

And Steve Harrington.

It's shrill in the quiet, cutting through the low buzz of the store. Steve's head turns toward it. Then he looks back at Y/n, raising an eyebrow as if to ask if they want to get it, or if he should.