In the Henderson household, the air was thick and still, heavy with the scent of warm dust and the distant promise of rain. The only sounds were the relentless hum of the box fan in the living room and the occasional, distant shout of kids playing somewhere down the street.

You’d fallen asleep on the couch in the den, a paperback copy of The Shining splayed open on your face, the spine creased from where it had been propped against your nose. The heat had won, dragging you into a fitful, sweaty doze despite your best intentions to read.

The crash of the front door slamming open jolted you awake. The book slid to the floor with a soft thump.

Voices. A whole chorus of them. Dustin’s high, excited chatter, and another, deeper, more familiar one you couldn’t quite place, talking over him.

Padding barefoot across the worn carpet of the hallway, you didn’t bother to check your reflection in the mirror you passed. You were in your dolphin-print shorts and an old, thin sleep shirt, your hair a curly halo of sleep-mussed frizz. You felt like a wrung-out dishrag.

You thumped your fist against the bathroom door. “Dustin, I swear to God, if you’re in there conducting another ‘experiment’ with Mike, I’m telling Mom about the sulfuric acid smell last week. I need in. Now.”

The door swung inward before you could finish.

Standing in the doorway of your small, tiled bathroom was Steve Harrington.

He was shirtless. His hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was damp and tousled, droplets of water clinging to his shoulders and chest. He held a wadded-up blue shirt in one hand—the top half of his Scoops Ahoy sailor uniform. He was wearing only the matching navy shorts, white socks, and his sneakers.

A damp towel was slung over his shoulder. He smelled like cheap men’s deodorant and, faintly, of chlorine.

His eyes, wide with surprise, flicked from your face down to your sleepwear and back up again. A slow, familiar, infuriatingly handsome smirk began to tug at the corner of his mouth.