#strangerpairs

And there he was, front and center, wearing someone else’s patchwork tweed cap and leaning against the long rack with a smirk: Steve Harrington in all his glory and adorably stupid shenanigans. “Took you long enough, Bonnie,” he said, twirling his pair of sunglasses like a toy. “Ready for our next caper?” She squinted, approaching him with a sly expression, and crushed the borrowed hat over his ears. “Oh, Clyde—seems you finally found something nice to cover your outrageous hair.” “You like? I was thinking of asking the Crypt Keeper of this monstrosity if I can borrow it sometime for a date…” “You wouldn’t dare,” she laughed. The coat closet had been their meeting place for well over a year now. It was far from luxurious, reeking of mothballs, a stringent mixture of perfume, and a whiff of grandma's house. In the winter, their hangout was often soaked by melting snow and they'd have to remember not to rub up against the wet coats and ruin their cover. But there were major pros to meeting in this closet. No one really went in there after these events commenced except for a few of the staff, and they didn’t seem to mind the two teenagers as long as they kept a low profile. Her fingers traced the edge of Mrs. Polk’s cashmere scarf; she always wore it with her signature blue peacoat. She pressed the material, letting it melt between her fingertips. Steve watched her, silently smiling at his own joke, she supposed. God, his eyes were pretty. She looked to the scarf in her grasp. “Sooo,” Chrissy said. “How will we be surviving today? What’s the grand plan, King Steve?” In her periphery, Steve nodded solemnly, replacing the hat back over the numbered hook she hoped was the correct one. “I think it’s time.” “Time? Time for what?”