#heldheartqueue

October 14, 1994

@echoesofthevoiid

Which made the absolute shock of seeing Steve Harrington standing in the dimly lit corner of a downtown music hall entirely unmanageable.

Boston in the mid-nineties was a far cry from Hawkins, Indiana. Nancy had built her entire life on precision—every press badge earned, every Emerson deadline met, every hard-hitting article typed out until her knuckles ached. She was a real journalist now, just like she’d promised herself she’d be. She dealt in facts, deadlines, and concrete truths.

She stopped dead in her tracks near the bar, the rain-slicked trench coat draped over her arm almost slipping from her grip. On stage half an hour ago, he’d been mesmerizing—a full-fledged rockstar command of the crowd that felt lightyears away from the boy in the yellow sweater she used to study with. But now, away from the stage lights, he was just Steve. Older, sharper, but with that same familiar posture that pulled at something deep and buried in her chest.

Nancy took a quiet, steadying breath, falling back on her reporter’s instincts to cover the sudden, erratic thrum of her heart. She stepped out of the shadow of the entryway, her heels clicking softly against the worn floorboards until she was standing just a few feet away.

"You put on a hell of a show, Harrington," she murmured, her tone shifting into something softer, far more personal. "It's... really good to see you."

"I usually like to do my research before I cover an assignment," Nancy said softly, her clear, articulate voice cutting through the low hum of the post-show chatter. A faint, nostalgic smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though her blue eyes held a intense, lingering heat. "Imagine my surprise when the lead singer everyone in Boston is talking about turns out to be the guy who used to fail basic algebra."

She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as she looked him up and down—taking in the musician persona, the mature edge, and the unshakeable something that still existed between them after ten long years.

REUNIONS // JEANETTE AND STEVE {CLOSED STARTER}

July 25, 1994

@echoesofthevoiid

Ten years was a hell of a long time. It was enough time for Hawkins to start feeling like a distant, hazy memory, for synth-heavy indie rock to replace the high school hair gel, and for the boy who used to drive a BMW with a broken radio to sell out venues across the country.

Jeanette adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers tightening around the familiar weight of her worn leather notebook. Standing outside the green room of the Chicago venue, the muffled thrum of the bass lingering in the air from soundcheck was almost dizzying. She’d spent the last few years hiding behind other people’s stories—ghostwriting memoirs for washed-up socialites and polishing prose for authors who didn't know how to end a chapter—all while quietly trying to stitch together a manuscript of her own. But sitting down to write fiction felt simple compared to the real-life plot twist of running into Steve Harrington in July of 1994.

She knocked twice, the sound swallowed by the heavy backstage door, before pushing it open just enough to slip inside.

There he was. Older, warmer around the edges, wearing the quiet exhaustion of tour life, but still so unmistakably Steve. The guy who had been her best friend before he was her boyfriend, and the person who used to know every hidden corner of her mind.

"You know," Jeanette began softly, a gentle, teasing warmth lacing her voice as she leaned back against the closed door, a small smile tugging at her lips. "When I saw your name on a marquee halfway across the country, I thought it was a typo. Since when does the King of Hawkins trade his hairspray for a guitar?"

She crossed her arms, her dark eyes scanning his face with a mixture of disbelief and deep, quiet affection. "It's good to see you, Steve. It really is."

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