Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

Season 3: Suzie, Do You Copy?

Summer. 1985. And all seems well in the sleepy town of Hawkins.

The balmy sun of the baking heatwave seems to have melted the town into an even deeper slumber.

People move at a snail's pace, sluggishly slow, squinting against the bright skies. They seek out shady spaces to lie, lake jetties from which they can leap, or the coolness of the public pool.

You like it like this - calm, uninteresting. It keeps you sane. And the freedom of a long summer break screams of possibilities.

Except it would, but you have a job to go to, shuttered away from fresh air and sunscreen and long, orange summer nights.

At least there's ice-cream.

Drool oozes lazily from the corner of your mouth, agape and crushed against the wet patch on your pillow. A window is open. The breeze tickles your skin, your bare leg which you curl over the covers.

Adorning the surfaces of your coffee table and kitchen counters, the empty remnants of beer bottles. One appears to have toppled over in the night, the last droplet of amber nectar pooling from the top.

The TV is still on, the screen flickering with a snowstorm that tells of a finished VHS tape begging for a rewind - last night's horror movie you fell asleep to on the couch, in the tangle of a dangerously comfortable cuddle, before blindly stumbling to bed alone.

Sighing deeply, you run a palm sloppily along your face as you stretch and rub your eyes. As you wipe away the drool with the heel of your hand and through blinking eyes, you grapple with the alarm clock and assume you must still have a few precious moments swaddled up in bliss, because it hasn't yet sung its wake-up call.

The digital face of the clock mocks you, flashing in demonic red: 00:00.

Your eyes snap open.

"SHIT!" You spring out of bed. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Steve get your ass up!"

The boy you left sprawled on the couch last night, in just his boxers, mumbles something barely coherent to you.

"Hm?" He grumbles, eyes still shut.

Meanwhile, you're chaotically scrambling around your apartment, nearly pitching flat on your face when you yank up a pair of ridiculous sailor shorts over fishnets.

Next, you run to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water before aggressively brushing your teeth.

After, you fluff your hair and bolt from the bathroom, to register Steve is yet to move.

His sun-kissed hair sticks out at odd ends, and he lazily scratches day-old stubble that grows from his jaw.

You warn him that, "There was another powercut last night; the clock reset - we're late!"

"Jeez, Y/N, wanna use your inside voice?"

"Wanna get your ass off my couch and put on some damn pants?" Bundling up his own pair of shorts, you chuck them his way and pelt him right in the face, pulling an irritable grunt from his throat as he labours to sit up. Finally, you clap your hands together. "Come on! Look alive, sailor!"

The toast you slather streaks of butter on practically tears in two while Steve scrabbles together the last of his uniform, only slowing when he passes a mirror to run a hand through his hair and ensure his messy curls fall perfectly imperfect into place.

By the door, slice of toast in hand, you pat your pockets for keys and wallet.

You ask your fellow sailor, "Name badge?"