kavs

Faint whispers trickle through your eardrums. They’re soft, quiet at the rounded vowels, and the hushed words almost go undetected. 

“Do we just let her sleep?”

“What other choice do we have?”

A third hushed voice breaks through your haze of sleep. “Or we could just wake her up, dipshits.”

“Real nice, Henderson.” 

“You asked for my input, so I gave it.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be such an asshole about it.” 

Suddenly the voices rise in volume as Steve and Dustin break out into yet another exhausting argument. Faintly you register Jonathan’s soft voice pleading with them to be quiet, fearful of waking you up, but the fear has long since come to pass.

Your eyes open and your gaze lands on Steve and Dustin in the front seat, bodies facing away from each other in a tense standoff with Jonathan next to you, a worried hand on the base of your ankle as he anxiously endures the conversation. 

“Listen, if we don’t wake Y/N up then she’ll wring our asses.” Dustin says, rolling his eyes at Steve’s dismissive huff. 

“But this is the first time she’s slept in days,” the older boy reminds your brother. “Like hell am I waking her up. She needs the rest.”

The reminder of the events from the last forty-eight hours settles into your bones. Forcing yourself to sit up, ignoring every fiber of your body that begs to be laid to rest, you look out through the van’s window and realize you’re parked in front of the radio tower. 

Daylight surrounds itself around you. A deep, dull ache sits in your back. 

You must’ve slept the entire night on the van’s floor. 

“Unfortunately I’m already up.” 

All three boys whip their heads to look at you, staring down at you as if you’re some science experiment they haven’t quite figured out. 

Steve clears his throat sheepishly, now red. “Did we wake you?”

“Of course you woke her up.” Jonathan snaps, removing his hand from your ankle as if it has stung him. Although the movement doesn’t go unnoticed by either you or Steve, whose eyes narrow dangerously. 

He sucks in a breath, reeling for another fight, but you fling your hands out in annoyance and beckon towards the radio station. “I’d prefer if someone explained to me why we’re back here.”

Both Dustin and Jonathan turn to Steve expectantly, forming an unspoken alliance against him. Steve’s face pinches together as he waves his middle finger at them before turning to you. “Robin radioed us while you were asleep.”

Immediately you sit up properly. “What’d she say? Is everyone okay?”

“She’s with Will and Joyce,” Steve continues, fingers brushing over yours to quell the sting of your rapidly building hope. “But that’s all she told us before demanding that we meet here to discuss a new lead she has.”

While the information remains vague, it’s enough to snag at the remaining fragments of hope inside your chest as it expels the remnants of your exhaustion. Scrambling to your knees, you frantically crawl out of the van before anyone can stop you. 

Early morning birdsong greets you as your feet touch the grass. Time almost seems to stand still as you take in the rolling hills and green meadows before you. In the sunlight the red of Karen Wheeler’s blood on your clothing burns to brown and the kiss of the sun’s warmth masks the multitudes of grief that you can never seem to outrun. 

Yet in the distance Nancy’s car sends billows of smoke signals into the air and the minute she steps out of the vehicle her legs carry her to you. 

“Y/N.” Nancy’s small frame shudders against your chest as you hold her in your arms. Her eyes are as bloodshot as yours.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe into her neck, apologizing for the unfair hand she’s been dealt as you hold onto her so tightly that her skin becomes yours. “How is she–?”

You’re unable to utter Karen Wheeler’s name, though her daughter understands anyways. “She made it to the hospital. That’s all we know.”

You exhale at her words, your fingernails dig into her back and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Nancy so frail. A heavy hand falls on your lower back, accompanied by a gruff voice, “let me see her.”

If it were anyone else you’d bare your teeth and spit foul words, but for Jonathan Byers you lessen your grip on Nancy Wheeler and watch, silently, as she melts into his embrace. They come together like water, melting into one, and for a moment they’re just two kids in love. 

“You look like hell.” Mike steps out of the car and bypasses all formalities upon noticing you. Lucas stands next to him and both boys look about as well as you feel.

Though try as he might, Mike can’t hide his hurt from you. Traces of dread etch his face, and you’re pulling him into your arms before he can escape. “How’re you holding up?”

He stiffens at the unexpected embrace, but after everything he’s been through the last sixteen hours, he can’t bring himself to pull away. His chest rises slowly, exhales even slower as he says, “I-I don’t really know what I’m doing–holy shit.”

Suddenly Mike shoves you away and rushes towards your brother, eyes narrowed at the onslaught of bruises and blood that stain his face. 

“You look like hell, dude.” Mike lets out a low whistle, studying Dustin’s face.

“Bike crash.” The lie comes out of Dustin’s mouth with a practiced ease that makes you uncomfortable. 

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Flew headfirst into a light post.” 

You feel Steve bristle next to you. Everyone knows that Dustin is lying.

Sharp pain coats your mouth as you bite the inside of your cheek. There’s nothing you can say that would change anything. 

“Look, I’m sorry about missing the crawl, and about… Everything.” Dustin averts everyone’s gaze. The guilt eats him alive. You know how painful the sensation of its hunger can be. 

“It’s not your fault,” Mike’s quick reassurance to comfort his friend leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you find hard to swallow. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Looks like he already did.” Lucas steps closer to your brother and grimaces at the injuries that scatter his face. 

He reaches to Dustin’s nose, as if about to grab it, before you slap him away like a mother scolding a child. “Please don’t make the injury worse.”

Lucas glares at you, immediately defensive. “I just wanted to see if it was broken!”

“By touching it?” Dustin takes several steps back, alarmed at the idea of Lucas prodding at his still sore nose. 

An argument starts to break out between the two boys, but it quickly comes to an end when Robin flings the radio station’s door open and gestures wildly for everyone’s attention.

“Hey, this isn’t a social call, guys.” Her tone borders on annoyance and the manic glint in her eyes tells you that she hasn’t had a pleasant night, either. “Let’s go!”

Slowly everyone settles back into the realization of where they are, of why they’re in the middle of an abandoned field running on exhaustion and paranoia. Mike is the first to follow Robin inside, followed by Lucas and Dustin, and eventually even Nancy manages to break herself out of her grief long enough to grab Jonathan’s hand and guide him inside. 

You’re left with Steve and a silence that presses into your ribcage. 

You’ve never known how to survive in the silence. 

But then Steve’s arms wrap themselves around your waist, uncaring of the torn clothing and bloodstains. He holds you to his chest, cradles your head so that you can hear every beat of his heart, and in his embrace you find a solace that not even silence can bring.

“I can feel you slipping away,” Steve whispers, arms tightening around you with every word. His steady breathing gets interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if bracing for impact, before he says, “It scares me.”

You stiffen in his embrace. The unwavering way that Steve has always managed to see right through you still sends shockwaves through your system. It isn’t fair. 

“I’m not trying to.” You wish there was more you could say to reassure him, but exhaustion has long clouded your mind and you’re not sure how to piece together the fragments that are left.

“I know you aren’t,” Steve’s thumb traces the crest of your cheek. His eyes shine down on you soft, familiar and warm, though through the years they’ve weathered with worry. “But I need you to stay, angel.”

You’ve become a border edge of the silhouette you once were. A ghost that inhabits an abandoned body. 

“Stay here in the present with me, alright?” Steve pinches your nose and smiles bashfully when it elicits a small laugh from you. “I can’t have you getting lost in the past or stuck in a future that nobody can control. No shutting down. I won’t allow it.”

And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party.

Lucas’ words remain etched into your mind. You haven’t forgotten them, though you suppose you haven’t quite figured out how to remain present, given how tirelessly the past tries to drown you. 

“Are you done lecturing me now?” You brush Steve’s hand away and encase it within your own, tugging him along. “Because I’m not sure how much longer we have before Robin sends a search party after us.”

But Steve doesn’t move. Instead, he remains in place and stands before you, arm extended with your hands still intertwined. His boyish face changes for a moment, flickers into something more real, more serious. “We have all the time in the world, Y/N.”

Time has always been a dangerous promise to keep, yet somehow its liminality morphs into something finite as it falls from Steve’s lips as he pulls you in.

He spins you around, holds you close to his chest as you dance together for only a brief second, before he seals his promise with a kiss that not even time itself could ever take away from you. 

– 

A distinct sense of horror freezes over your body when Robin reveals why she brought everyone to the radio station. 

Vecna has a new target. A little boy, not much older than Will had been. 

You’ve been here before.

“Derek? As in, Derek Turnbow?” Steve’s voice carries your own disbelief as he sits next to you on the couch, weight pressed to your side as a way to ground your ever growing nerves. “From the Turnbow Realty family?”

“The one and only.” Robin affirms, body hunched over in her own exhaustion. 

Your eyes close and the sensation of your nails digging into your palms provides enough of a sting to abate the panic swelling in your chest. 

“The whole family’s a menace.” Lucas says unhelpfully.

You bite back your disdain for the comment, knowing that Lucas doesn’t mean any harm. You understand why he said it, having spent a rather awful night babysitting Derek for a few hours when you were fourteen. He had been nothing but cruel, obnoxious, and vindictive. Ultimately you declined Mrs. Turnbow when she asked if you’d be willing to babysit him in the future.

Yet despite how terrible Derek Turnbow may be, he’s still just a kid. 

And you’re still marked. Vecna’s curse. It still resides in your bloodstream.

You’ll do anything to remain his sole victim. 

“How do you know it’s Derek who’s next?” You’re careful to keep your voice level, calm. The less emotion you show, the better. “I mean, as far as we know, I’m still marked. Who’s to say it isn’t me that Vecna’s looking for?”

Steve inhales sharply and Dustin drops his head to his hands. You refuse to look at them, instead choosing to aim your gaze at Robin.

Only it’s Will who answers.

“Because I saw Derek,” he says softly, almost regretful. “Not you, Y/N.”

His words confuse you. “I don’t think I understand what that means.”

“I’ve learned that when I’m close enough to the hive mind, I can tap into it. I can tap into Vecna’s mind.” Will explains, eyes regretful as he delivers the news he knows will upset you. “I can see who he’s targeting.”

Your stomach twists painfully as a new wave of horror washes over you. Will was once called a spy and declared a traitor who was forcibly locked away in a cabin in the woods in an attempt to expel the monsters inside of him. 

Now, years later, Will has become the very thing you promised him he wouldn’t.

Vecna’s spy. A weapon against his will. 

“But were you seeing through the eyes of Vecna or of Derek?” Steve rubs his temple, trying desperately to keep up.

“Both.” Will clarifies. “I-I was Vecna, but inside of Derek’s mind.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that you didn’t ‘see’ Y/N in that hallucination of yours?” Steve questions, adamant he ensures that there isn’t a hint of a possibility of you being in danger. 

Will shakes his head. “All I saw was Derek.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, eager to find an answer that involves your life on the line. “I was Vecna’s last target. It should be me he comes after next. Not Derek or Holly.”

“Vecna’s a psychic serial killer. Nothing he does makes sense.” Robin reminds you gently. “I mean, he stalks his victims by invading their minds. That’s what he did with Chrissy and Max and you–”

Then Robin seems to remember just how close she came to losing you, and her mouth snaps shut immediately. “Sorry.”

You shift away from the others, uncomfortable with the sudden mournful expressions on everyone’s face. Their pity only builds resentment within your chest.

Memories from last year haunt you. Sometimes you can still feel Vecna’s claws in your membrane, but that doesn’t mean it makes you any more willing to be mourned over. Not when it was Max who suffered the consequences that should’ve been yours. 

Steve’s hand falls to your thigh as he tries to comfort you, yet Nancy, sharp as a knife, doesn’t shy away from your past.

“Vecna stalked Holly before he took her.” She looks only at you. “Only he stalked her as Henry, befriended her, for weeks.”

Nancy clenches her fists, exhales slowly, before asking the question that she dreads the most. “Were there any signs before he attacked you?”

A phantom sensation of dandelions choking you constricts your breathing. The memory of them slices your tongue, tangles your airway, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the memory from drowning you. 

“The summer before Vecna attacked… I had a nightmare.” The words get stuck in the grooves of your teeth, forcing you to spit them out like a dirty confession. “I was in a field of dandelions before they suddenly swarmed around me and I was suffocating.”

The room stands still. Unable to look at anyone, you look down at your bloodied palms instead. “Then, when Vecna showed me and Nancy our visions, he told me I've become fragile… like a dandelion.”

You steady your breathing. You don’t know why this feels as if you’re confessing something terrible. Maybe you are. 

“That’s when I realized he’d been watching me for months.”

A cacophony of reactions overtakes the room. 

Steve nearly topples out of his seat due to how fast his body turns to yours, talking a mile a minute and demanding to know more about the nightmare. “Are you serious–”

But his worries get lost in Dustin’s stunned confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve used this information sooner!”

“Was there anything else in your dream?” Mike is quick to ask his own investigative questions, knocking his elbows into your side in his hurry to get closer to you. “I mean, anything useful besides stupid dandelions?”

The voices begin to overlap in a way that dizzies you. Seeing your discomfort, Nancy places a hand on her brother’s chest and pulls him away from you while simultaneously flicking Dustin’s hat. “Give her some space.”

Mike makes a face and Dustin grumbles under his breath, but without another word the boys go back to their seats. Thankful for the breathing room, you smile appreciatively at Nancy. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, soft, tired, before it falls into a broken frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cast the attention onto you.”

“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I want to help however I can. If it means finding Holly and protecting Derek, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“Do you… know why Vecna gave you evil dandelion nightmares?” Mike asks cautiously, unsure how much you’re willing to disclose.

“No,” you admit, regretful. You’re the only person alive who was marked by Vecna and the only source of information available. You despise how little you’re able to help. “I never understood why. All I can remember is that the field felt familiar, like I’d been there before. I…” You clear your throat and cast a nervous glance towards your brother. “I think he was showing me Virginia. Where I grew up.”

Dustin’s spine goes pin straight at the revelation, though he remains quiet. Mike, however, narrows his eyes. “Nancy and I think that Vecna was trying to earn Holly’s trust. That’s why he befriended her. Maybe he was trying to earn yours, too?”

A sarcastic laugh falls from your mouth. “Yeah, well if his long-term goal was forming a friendship, then giving me a nightmare where I suffocate in dandelions was a pretty shitty attempt.”

“Maybe he was shy?” Robin suggests with a wince.

Steve shakes his head in disappointment while you huff lightly. “Unlikely.”

“Well whatever Vecna’s plan is,” Will recenters the group, silencing the room once more. “We have to stop him, and we have to save Derek.”

And the rest is decided.

–

Will herds everyone downstairs and instructs you to stand in front of the projector. Within minutes he has a pointer aimed at the map of Hawkins as he explains his plan with a confidence that surprises you.

“The Turnbows live here.” Will points to a neighborhood on the map. “We wait in a van across the street.”

For as long as you’ve known Will, he has always been a follower rather than a leader. Now, as you watch him command the room, you’re confronted with just how much he’s grown, and it fills you with warm, pleasant pride. 

Then Will proposes kidnapping a child and you’re reminded all over again just how naive and insanely young he still is.

“As soon as they’re asleep, we move in, we grab Derek, and we take him to the McCorkle farm. It’s completely abandoned and isolated.”

“Oh absolutely not.” You gawk, baffled. “There’s no way I’m kidnapping another kid.”

Lucas’ eyes widen. “‘Another kid’?”

“Unfortunately Erica counts as the first.”

“We’ll be using a blindfold.” Will waves his pointer at you. “So technically it isn’t kidnapping if Derek never finds out who we are or where he is.”

“That’s literally the definition of kidnapping.”

“Better than Vecna kidnapping him.” Robin snaps her fingers. “I’d consider us a much better option.”

While she’s right, you still wholly dislike the plan. “Can’t we do something a little less… extreme?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees, looking over to his mom who has been silent the entire time. “Are you alright with just kidnapping a child?”

“Robin’s right. We’re saving a child via kidnapping. So it’s fine. I think.” Joyce shrugs, though she grimaces at her own words and quickly backtracks. “Alright. Now’s not the time to play it safe, Jonathan.”

You step forward, casting an apologetic look towards the woman. “With all due respect, Mrs. Byers, I think now is the exact time to be playing it safe. We’ve already lost El and Hopper and Holly. We can’t just blindly run into whatever Vecna has planned for us.”

Dustin nods. “I’m not morally opposed to the plan, but I agree with Y/N. There’s a few holes in it.”

“Like what if Derek falls asleep before the Demogorgon attacks him?” Lucas suggests.

“That’s one.” Your brother agrees. 

“Or what if Derek wakes up before we grab him and alerts his family? We’ll go to jail.” Nancy points out.

“And there’s another.” Dustin nods again. “But the third, most gaping hole is that even if by some miracle this plan even works: saving Derek won’t bring us any closer to finding Vecna and the others. It just buys us some time. That’s it.”

The atmosphere turns somber at the reminder of just how much none of you know. Without El and her powers, you’re practically helpless against Vecna and locating him. 

But just as the silence becomes deafening, Mike breaks it.

“Not necessarily,” he slowly looks up at the others. “There might be a way to save Derek and find Holly.”

In a heartbeat he stands up and rummages around the basement, mumbling under his breath with every passing second. No one interferes, either too confused or too worried it will only set the kid off more.

Then Mike lunges towards a small, blue bag and he lets out a small victorious cheer. “Yes! Okay, everyone around the table, now.”

Curious, you do as he says and watch as he dumps the bag out, revealing a multitude of old, worn D&D pieces. 

“This is Derek,” Mike holds up one of the pieces, silently instructing everyone to follow along. He sets the piece down and arranges the others into a circle. “And this is the rest of the Turnbow family. We’re gonna need to recruit someone that the family trusts and can gain access to the house.”

“And this person will do what? Ask the Turnbows not to call the cops?” You ask, uncertain of the plan. 

“No, the person is going to knock the family out so we can extract them from the house.”

Mike’s words cause you to sigh. “Right. Should’ve assumed that.”

“Knock them out?” Joyce’s concern reflects your own. 

“Safely,” Mike assures her. “With sleeping pills or something.”

“I might know where we could get some benzos.” Robin supplies. “Those things are like elephant tranquilizers.”

“How would you know?” Steve eyes her wearily.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “There are now multiple felonies included in this plan.”

Robin winks. “Only the two, pretty girl.”

“We’ll take the benzos.” Mike ignores your disdain. “That way, if Vecna spies, he’ll just assume that Derek is fast asleep in bed and he’ll send his Demos to grab him. Only he won’t find Derek. He’ll find us.”

“Wait a minute,” you place your hand in the middle of the table, blocking Mike from putting any more pieces down. “Who is ‘us’?”

“Everyone in this room.” He leans forward, eyes daring you to argue. “Me and the rest of the party included.”

You go to open your mouth to argue, but Dustin interrupts before you can start. “Save your breath, Y/N. You said yourself that we’re missing Hopper and El. Like it or not, we need all the help we can get.”

As much as you want to protest, you know that your brother is right. While you hate the idea of the kids staging an ambush against Vecna, you don’t have any other option. Biting your lip, you reluctantly remove your hand and nod to Mike to continue. 

He flashes you a sarcastic thumbs up and explains that Murray will be supplying the traps that’ll hopefully burn the demogorgon. Then he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small device. “But not before we stick him with one of these.” 

The telemetry tag flashes red on the table. “We’ll track the Demo across the Upside Down in the Squawk van just like we did with Hopper, and if we’re lucky the bastard will lead us back to its lair.”

“Where Vecna will be with Holly. Two birds, one stone.” The pieces fall into place and you nod, impressed. “Clever as always, Wheeler.”

“Someone has to be.” 

And when no one voices any complaints or possible flaws within the plan, Mike smirks triumphantly and dismisses the group to prepare for what lies ahead. 

Lucas and Mike set off to the middle school to find Erica, who apparently used to be close friends with the Turnbow’s daughter. You find it ironic that it’s somehow Erica that the plan hinges on, given her history of forced compliance. 

Robin all but drags Will outside with her to secure the benzos needed, despite your many attempts to stop her. 

“Why the hell are you taking Will with you on your drug run?” You grab at her hand and try to use all your body weight to prevent the girl from getting into Joyce’s car, but Robin has somehow become shockingly strong and tugs you away. 

“Because little Byers won’t lecture me!” Robin pokes her tongue out at you and grabs the back of Will’s collar, shoving him into the passenger seat. “See ya, pretty girl.”

Will waves. “Bye!”

You stand in the driveway alongside Joyce, who has watched the whole ordeal as you all but pout, watching as the two drive away in a fit of laughter. Neither you nor Joyce have any idea when they became the best of friends, but you’re starting to hate their newfound friendship.

“Do I have to ask if your friend will keep Will safe?” Joyce nudges her shoulder against yours, breaking you from your moody disposition briefly. 

“Robin will keep him safe,” you reluctantly promise, though you’re a little weary of their relationship. “I just have no idea how she managed to find a stash of drugs in Hawkins.”

Joyce chuckles while Steve walks up behind you and kisses your temple. “I’m sure Robin will tell you all about it the next time she orchestrates a drug deal.”

“I’m never leaving her unsupervised ever again.”

Steve’s chest rumbles in amusement and you allow yourself a moment to sink against him and close your eyes. Your days are slowly blurring together, but here, in his arms, you’re able to breathe.

Sensing the desire to be alone, Joyce gently squeezes your upper arm and places a kiss to your shoulder. The act of affection soothes the open wounds left from the night before. Her presence will always soothe you.

“Anyway, I came out here to tell you that I’ve left a spare change of clothes inside the station.” She says delicately. Her eyes never stray from yours, though you know she struggles against herself not to look down and see the mess of blood that soaks your clothing. 

A piece of your ribcage softens. “How did you–?”

“Jonathan radioed while you were asleep.” Joyce squeezes your arm again, this time with a smile you can’t quite decipher. It appears small, timid, almost nostalgic, but before you can ask her anything else, she lets you go. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

And with that, Joyce leaves.

–

Mike hadn’t specified what exactly Murray would be smuggling over for the Turnbow house, but when the man opens his truck and unloads the supplies, for a moment you’re fearful he somehow intercepted a serial killer’s delivery. 

Murray hands Jonathan a hyper-realistic CPR dummy that makes you highly uncomfortable to look at and Nancy an armful of ammo before turning to you with a crazed smile on his face.

“And, for little miss unbearable, I present this,” he stretches out his arm and reveals a misshapen frog puppet. “Mike said it’d help ease your nerves. Unsure why, but I’ve learned not to question the kid.”

Any more useful insight from Kermit the frog?

Jonathan does a poor job of hiding his laughter while Nancy bites back an amused smile. Both Steve and Dustin outright laugh at you. 

Glaring at them, you grab the frog and hold it awkwardly between your hands. “I really hate how funny Mike is sometimes.”

“He’s an odd duck.” Murray jumps down from the truck and walks over to a crate. He throws open its top and reveals a mass of wire. “Speaking of ducks, do take care to keep your precious frog away from the 3,000 feet of barbed wire.”

“That seems excessive. Even for Mike.”

Murray shrugs at you. “It’s what he asked for. Now, onto Bilbo Baggins,” the man hands Dustin a box. “Some sparkling new spark plugs.”

Dustin frowns. “Spark plugs? That’s it?”

By the tone of his voice you know that he’s unamused with the shortchange he’s been given. 

“I’m also giving out free hugs.” Murray smiles. 

Disgust marks your face. “Do not touch my brother.”

Murray bares his teeth at you while Dustin groans. “You didn’t get the turbocharger, either?”

“No.”

“The suspension kit?”

“No.”

Sensing that your brother will only run the man in circles, you leave him to deal with Murray and go follow after Steve. Mike heroically left him the job of clearing out the van in order to smuggle the Turnbows away. While he withheld his complaints, you know that Steve will enjoy the company as he wrestles with the vehicle and its contents.

You hear Steve before you see him,

“Lousy piece of shit!” A loud thump follows his exasperated groans, proceeded by a pained yelp when he inexplicably drops whatever heavy item he’d been carrying on his foot. “Fuck!”

Turning the corner, you find your boyfriend hunched over his knees amongst an endless sea of wires and leather seats gutted from the Squawk van. Sweat drips down his forehead and his flushed skin tells you he’s one stumble away from driving the van into Mike Wheeler’s house. 

“Need some help, honey?” You brace a hand on his back, steadying his disheveled body as you carefully step inside the vehicle, careful not to fall.

Steve grabs your wrist and kisses it, his overly warm skin cools at the sensation of yours. “Have I ever told you how much I hate Mike?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“I mean,” he kicks at a loose bolt, upending yet another seat from the van’s floor. “Why am I the one tasked with cleaning out this hunk of metal? Do we even need the entire bed of this thing, anyways? Can’t we just squish everything inside and call it a day?”

You snort. “You do realize that we’re throwing an entire family back here, right?”

“They’ll be too knocked out to care.”

“You’ve always had such a way with words.”

Steve chuckles and reaches for your waist. Once he has you where he wants you, he pulls your body down onto his and lands on the last remaining seat within the van. The old leather cracks beneath your bodies, but neither you nor Steve pay any attention to it.

Steve’s head buries itself into your chest and you feel him exhale slowly. Your fingers find his hair, entertaining themselves within the strands you’ve long since have claimed as your own, and he presses himself deeper into your touch. 

“Miss you,” he mumbles, hands roaming down to your thighs as he pulls them over his lap so that you’re seated flush against him. It’s been so long since Steve has had you this close.

And though he’s been at your beck and call ever since yesterday morning, you understand the ache that Steve feels in his longing for you. “I miss you, too.”

You haven’t been alone, truly alone, with Steve in nearly three days. Once, the absence would’ve gone unnoticed. It was you who insisted on spending an entire summer ignoring him and his stupid boyish charm. Now, with the knowledge of just how lovely it is to be Steve Harrington’s, you feel devoid of any pleasure whenever he’s gone.

Steve’s stomach presses against yours as he inhales deeply. Light, butterfly-soft kisses litter themselves along your collarbones. Your breathy laugh accompanies the tender admiration, which Steve smiles in response to as well. 

“I’m sorry about Dustin,” the apology falls between each kiss. “I know I can be a massive dick to him sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” You look down at him with a teasing smile, though you both know you mean it. 

“More than I’d like to admit.” Steve relents, placing a kiss to the base of your throat. You hum at the sensation, and your satisfaction gives him the confidence to find the rest of his words. “I know I should be more patient with him, but I just… I hate the way he treats you.”

“It isn’t your responsibility to defend me. I don’t want you to defend me.” Your fingers dance over Steve’s, intertwining them together. “Not when I understand Dustin’s anger better than anyone else.”

“That still doesn’t make it fair to you, Y/N.”

You can’t help but laugh at this. “And when has anything in my life been fair?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t find your words as funny as you do. 

But rather than continue to try and convince you of all you deserve, knowing it to be a useless endeavor, he instead accepts what he knows you can offer him. “How’re you holding up?”

Though he can’t bring himself to say Vecna’s name, you know that Steve’s question resides in how everyone’s eyes fell on you when you revealed he’d been watching you for a long time.

“I’m fine.” Neither you nor Steve can tell if you’re lying.

“You know that you can always step away, right?” His fingers grow restless in yours. The unease that follows his question makes you wonder just how long his worry has festered. “Let Mike and the others handle the Turnbows if you need the break. I mean, no one would blame you.”

Though you know he means well, you fervently shake your head at what Steve has said. “I promised Nancy I’d bring Holly back to her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Now Steve is the one who shifts uncomfortably. “Y/N, you just had to relive your worst nightmare in front of an entire group of people. You had Mrs. Wheeler’s blood all over you not even an hour ago. I-I can’t imagine what you must be feeling–”

“However I’m feeling doesn’t matter.” You cut off Steve’s concerned rambling. “Nancy and Mike lost their sister, Steve. Their parents are laying in hospital beds. Whatever I may be feeling, I can promise you that what they’re going through is even more painful, even more debilitating.”

You straighten your back and look down at the man beneath you. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs and despite the fact that you’re solidifying every fear that Steve has, he still gazes up at you as if you’ve given him the ocean and its waves. 

“I’m going to the Turnbow’s.”

Your tone remains definitive. There is no room for arguments or discontent. 

Bittersweet worry infiltrates Steve’s mouth. He understands that there isn’t any way he can change your mind or convince you to place yourself first. The bags underneath your eyes have only grown worse these last few days. He doesn’t think they will ever get better. 

And while Steve wants nothing more than to encase you into his chest and keep you away from everything that could ever hurt you, yourself included, Jonathan’s obnoxious voice leaks into his mind and reminds Steve that he can’t sideline you.

You’d never forgive him if he did. 

Exhaling the last of his doubts, Steve caresses your lower back and you watch his eyes soften. He will always love you and your selfish desire to be needed. You will always love him and his inability to resent you for it. 

Even if it means one day you’ll burn yourself up, leaving Steve to bury your ashes. 

“What are you guys doing?”

Dustin’s arrival forces you to pull away from your boyfriend. Stuffing your hands behind your back, feeling like a little kid caught, you clear your throat and face your brother. “We’re getting the van set up. Mike’s orders.”

“But why even bother?” Dustin kicks at one of the many discarded objects outside of the vehicle, which all lay haphazardly on the grass. “This van is a lost cause, anyways.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve rolls his eyes. “Take it won’t help us, then. Like usual.”

The throwaway comment causes you to stiffen while Dustin narrows his eyes. But rather than bite back at Steve’s bark, your brother surprises you.

“No, what I mean is that this piece of shit once stalled out chugging up Pickett Road.” Dustin clarifies, tone neutral. “It’s not fast enough to keep up with a Demo without serious modifications.”

“And this is us modifying.” Steve gestures between you and him before pointing towards the discarded pile. “A lighter van is a faster van.”

“We’ll also be attempting to fit an entire family inside,” you remind him. “But sure. I guess we’re making it faster, too.”

Steve nods. “And if we’re just tracking, we won’t need half the shit that’s in here. Speaking of, can you go to the front and empty out the window washer fluid?”

You tilt your head. “The… window washer fluid?”

“I’m sure emptying it will work wonders. Good job, Steven.” Dustin claps his hands, emphasizing his nasally and cruel words. 

“Dustin!” 

He ignores your warning. “No, truly. I’m stunned by Steve’s intellect. Who knew your boyfriend could think?”

You’re about to snatch Dustin’s hat off his head and show him exactly how little patience you have left, but Steve puts a hand in front of you, blocking him.

“You know what, Henderson? I think we should do what your sister suggested yesterday.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dustin frowns, unused to Steve’s delay in the fight.

“It means we should both just shut up.” And with that, Steve shushes your brother and goes back to clearing out the van.

You’re so stunned by Steve’s uncharacteristic diplomacy that you don’t notice Dustin’s greedy eyes landing on a drill. He grabs it, investigates it with a terrifying smirk, before walking away with a pep in his step.

“Where the hell is he going with that?” Steve asks you, annoyance and slight fear tainting his voice. 

“I have no idea.” You quickly climb out of the van and follow after your brother. “Dustin, what are you–” 

Your words die in your throat when you realize he’s walking straight towards Steve’s car.

Nothing ever ends well when Dustin is given a power tool.

“Steve’s right, Y/N.” He climbs up onto the car’s roof and tilts his hat at you. “We don’t need half of the crap in there for our mission. In fact, the only thing we really need is a telemetry tracker, which I can affix to any vehicle.”

“You little shit!” Immediately understanding what Dustin intends, you lunge towards the car and attempt to climb it, but Steve’s hands force you down. “Let me go!”

He winces at how violently you thrash around, but his grip on you remains firm. While he’s worried about his car, he’s even more worried you’ll wind up getting hurt. “I really don’t want you accidentally impaling yourself with a power drill.”

You ignore his concern and flail your legs around, trying desperately to free yourself. “Dustin Henderson, put down your obnoxious ego so we can talk about this–”

“Thought you told me and Steve to shut up?” Your brother laughs like a deranged child at his own joke before bringing the tip of the power drill down to the roof.

Even Steve can’t keep his composure as Dustin switches the tool on, inches away from his beloved car. “Woah, hey! Don’t make me let your sister go!”

As if to emphasize his threat, you seethe at Dustin, “I’m going to kill you!” 

But Dustin knows that Steve would never, ever put you in a situation where you could potentially harm yourself, and it’s with this knowledge that he happily punctures the BMW with the drill. 

The unnecessary attack on the car you fell in love in only causes you to writhe in Steve’s grasp harder, almost animalistic as you shout threats and curses at your infuriating little brother.

“I’m telling mom you ruined Steve’s car!”

“Then I’m telling her you told me to shut up!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“Where do you think I get it from?”

Soon both of your voices get drowned out as you and Dustin bicker back and forth with no end in sight. For a moment you’re just two little kids tattling on each other and throwing around harmless insults from when you were children. 

Steve would find it endearing if your screeching and the roar of the power drill weren’t seconds away from deafening him. 

So much for the Henderson charm. 

– 

Because Mike hates you, he shoves you, Dustin, Jonathan, and Nancy into Steve’s car before anyone can process what’s happening.

“Good luck,” he said with a smug smile. “You’ll all make a fantastic lookout squad.”

Mike then slammed the car door shut and ran away before Steve could run him over.

Which is how you find yourself stuck in between Jonathan and Nancy in the backseat of Steve’s now ruined car parked outside of the Turnbow house.

Somehow Dustin winds up in the passenger seat, which you resent him for.

The nighttime air is unusually warm, doing nothing to help abide the tension in the car as you all sit stiffly beside one another with too much unspoken history.

You twist your fingers together in your lap, unable to say anything as Dustin peers out the window with binoculars held up to his eyes to watch for Erica.

“She’s in,” he finally says into the walkie, alerting the others. 

“Thank god,” you exhale the breath you’d been holding. The sooner you’re out of the car, the better.

Jonathan shifts next to you, awkwardly adjusting himself so that he doesn’t press too deeply against your side. “It’s… a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”

Both you and Nancy turn to him, unsure which of you he’s talking to.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Jonathan seems to sense the confusion and clears his throat. “Nancy, why don’t we wait outside? Get some fresh air?”

Nancy frowns at the offer and looks at you, silently asking what she should do. All you can give her is a helpless shrug. “A walk sounds nice.”

This doesn’t seem to be the answer Nancy wants. Her frown deepens. “But what about keeping a lookout for Erica’s signal?”

“We’ll stay here,” you gesture towards Dustin and Steve. “We’ll get you guys when it’s time to go.”

Nancy bites her lip and considers this. Steve watches her hesitation through the rear mirror. You’re not the only one who’s noticed the bizarre shift between her and Jonathan.

“C’mon, Nance.” Jonathan reaches over you to grab her hand, squeezing it gently. “Who knows how long until Erica knocks the Turnbows out?”

“Fine,” she finally gives in, unbuckling her seatbelt. “But we aren’t going far, alright?”

Jonathan nods, happy just to have gotten Nancy out of the car, and quickly the two of them close the doors behind them. 

Their departure eases the tension in the vehicle slightly, and you allow yourself a second to enjoy the small moment of peace. 

But Dustin and Steve waste no time ruining it.

“What the hell is going on between them?” Your brother asks the second Jonathan and Nancy leave.

You open your eyes and find both boys turned towards you with like two curious street cats. You’re immediately defensive, weary of their intentions. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Y/N.” Steve scoffs. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that they’re clearly miserable.”

“They’re one awkward hug away from becoming depressing to look at.” Dustin adds. 

You stare at them both, stunned. While you can’t say that Jonathan and Nancy have been their normal selves recently, you’re surprised that even Dustin and Steve have caught on.

“I don’t really think now is the best time to be talking about this,” you hiss at them, nervous that the couple in question could be right outside the car listening. “This feels incredibly wrong and invasive–”

“So there’s definitely something wrong with them.” Dustin concludes from your uncomfortable reaction. 

Steve nods. “I bet it’s all Byers’ fault.”

“Duh.”

“And I bet Y/N knows more than she’s willing to let on.”

“Correct again, Harrington.”

Suddenly Dustin and Steve gang up against you like brothers, nosey and annoying, and watching them fall back into their easy connection that you’ve missed so much makes you helpless against their interrogations. 

You’ll do anything for one more minute of their friendship. 

“Fine,” nervously you look out the window, making sure neither Nancy nor Jonathan are close by. “I’ll admit that there’s… something wrong with them.”

“Aha!” Steve exclaims, pointing an excited finger at you. “I knew it!”

Mortified, you push his finger away. “Shhh!”

Dustin leans forward, eager for more. “Go on. We’re listening.”

You push your hair back, suddenly too warm. “Look, I really don’t know much more than you guys. All I can tell you is that Jonathan has been really weird lately and Nancy has been incredibly distant.”

“I still think Jonathan did something.”

You glare at Steve. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks, ready to tease you even more, but he’s cut off by Jonathan’s quick taps on the windshield to catch everyone’s attention. “Erica gave the signal. Let’s go.”

The bright mood in the car dims once again, and without saying another word the three of you exit the car and follow after the others into the Turnbow house.

–

Hiding the bodies is the easy part, as horrifying as that sounds. 

Joyce backs the van into the Turnbow’s garage while you help Robin wrap the family in sheets. Their sleeping bodies look too similar to corpses, making your stomach twist at the thought. 

“It concerns me how many felonies I’ve committed with minors.” You choke back a gag, wrapping Tina’s small body up.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Y/N.”

Once you have every family member safely inside the van, you knock three times on the vehicle to signal to Joyce that she can now drive off. Once she’s gone, everyone immediately gets to work. 

Rearranging the house becomes a harder task than anticipated. It’s huge, filled to the brim with expensive items and large pieces of furniture with limited time to get rid of it all.

Everyone has a designated job as you all work in silence together. You stick with Steve, Dustin, and Mike and help them set a trap for the Demogorgon. As you hammer nails into a piece of plywood, a sickening sense of deja-vu overwhelms you. 

Years ago you were in the Byers’ home doing this very same thing, preparing to face a creature you didn’t yet have a name for and you were in way over your head. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Back then you had been naive to the monsters that lay hidden beneath Hawkins. 

Now, as you help set a trap for a Demogorgon you’ve faced before, you still can’t help but feel that you’re biting off more than you can chew. That your naivety still haunts you. 

Once the trap has been laid, Dustin gathers everyone into the garage and hands out the necessary weapons. While none of you hope you’ll have to use them, you all recognize the reality of what may come. 

You choose to stick with your knives. They bring you comfort in a way no other weapon can. As you go upstairs and sit in a corner to sharpen the blades, a loud, metallic sound pierces your eardrums. 

“What the fuck?” You turn in your seat and find Steve wielding a large, far too dangerous chainsaw. 

“Like it?” He waves the chainsaw around as he laughs like a kid in a candy store. “Don’t I look badass?”

Mike visibly groans while you cover your ears and shout, “Turn that thing off!”

Steve obliges, though not without pouting. “Admit it, angel. I look hot carrying this.”

“Kill me.” Dustin and Jonathan gag. 

“I prefer men with all five fingers, Steve.”

Nancy snickers, holding her hand out for a high-five which you readily accept. Steve visibly deflates at your disapproval, but when Mike orders him to cut through the Turnbow’s living room floor with the chainsaw, he’s all too happy to help. 

“This is by far the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” you stare down at the gaping hole in the floor, which leads directly into a nest of barbed wire. “And we’ve fought evil Russians before.”

“Just savor the moment, Y/N.” Dustin pats your back roughly. “We’re about to successfully trap a Demogorgon.”

–

Your feet tap nervously against the floor of Steve’s car, anxious as ever with your eyes glued to the skyline for any sign of danger. There are so many aspects of the plan that could go horribly wrong. 

Lucas could get hurt distracting the creature, or Mike could trip over his own two feet and fall into the barbed wire pit himself. 

The Demogorgon could completely run past the faux floor and not fall in, leaving you trapped in a house with it.

Or worse, Nancy could miss her only shot at the Demogorgon and fail to implant the telemetry tag, meaning all the work you put in and all the laws you broke would be for nothing.

“This is gonna work.” Dustin reassures the doubts that you don’t voice. 

You stare out the window. “It better work.” 

Holly and El are depending on the plan. 

Their lives are on the line and you’re helpless against the forces that separate you if something goes wrong tonight.

They’re just kids. 

Steve senses your worry and tries to get you to smile. “If this plan doesn’t work and I drilled a giant antenna into my car for nothing, I’m gonna kill Wheeler.”

Despite yourself, you manage a small laugh. “I think it adds character.”

“Hey.” Robin’s voice floats through the walkie. “Talk to me, guys. How’s it looking out there?”

You reach over for the device and respond. “It’s quite over here. How are the Turnbows holding up?”

“They’re still in their ‘food comas’, but I swear to god, this Demo better show up.” Robin huffs out. “If we took out an entire family for nothing, I don’t think my conscience will recover.”

“I’m really tired of committing felonies.”

Robin laughs at this. “Isn’t your boyfriend, like, super well connected with a ton of rich lawyers? I doubt Steve would ever let you anywhere near a jail cell. You’ll be fine, pretty girl.”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Damn right.”

You ignore him and continue talking to Robin. Her ability to soothe you with her soft humor comforts you. “His uncle is a lawyer, actually.”

“Even better! Although I do hope that Steve isn’t related to some douchebag who defends rich criminals, even if white collar crime sounds like a Harrington thing to do.” Robin rambles on. “I do think in this case, however, the rich douchebags would be coming for us.”

You think for a moment before responding. “Technically, I think his uncle his legally required to take a few cases pro bono, so maybe he can help us–”

“Shh!” Dustin harshly shushes you, eyes glued to his binoculars.

Your body springs to attention, leaning forward so that you can get a better look at whatever the hell he’s spotted. You squint your eyes, straining to see something, until you finally find it.

The streetlamps are flickering. 

Your fingers find your knives, pressing the base of its handle into your palm. Adrenaline courses through your veins, it rips through your ribcage and sets every cell in your body on fire. 

It’s time.

“I fucking hate doing this.” You spit out, body bracing for an impact yet to come. 

Dustin ignores you while Steve grabs the walkie from your hand.

“I think we’ve got company. It’s going south down Arlington, T-minus thirty seconds.” He informs the others. “Status check. Taggers?” 

“In position and set.” Nancy confirms. “Launcher?” 

Lucas confirms as well. “Set. Catcher?”

“Set.” Mike’s voice crackles through the walkie. “Trackers?”

You, Dustin, and Steve all look at each other. Anticipation hangs in the air.

“Set.” Steve confirms. “Let’s do this thing already.”

The channel goes quiet as everyone prepares for what’s to come. 

One by one the streetlamps flicker to life, a trail of light that slowly ebbs its way to the Turnbow’s house until suddenly the house itself begins to flash wildly. Shadows dance across its porch and windows as the lights rapidly fade in and out.

“It’s inside.” Dustin reveals to Steve. “Minimize chatter.”

He quickly relays the information to the others inside the house. “It’s inside. No one talk.”

You get out of the car, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Your muscles pull taut, aching to be released. 

Will had been right. There’s no turning back now. 

Through the window you’re able to faintly see the outline of the Demogorgon creep inside of Derek’s room. It sniffs the air, head low as it hunts for the prey you know it won’t find. The minute it reaches the foot of Derek’s bed and claws at the decoy, you run. 

Someone has to be the one to ensure Lucas makes it to the living room in time, and you’ve spent all your life running. 

Within seconds you fling the front door open and shout as loud as you can, “Run!”

You hear Lucas attacking the Demogorgon upstairs with gasoline waterballoons. You anxiously wait for him, heart in your throat, and remain on high alert as the kid comes flying down the stairs, narrowly dodging the trip wire as the monster chases him.

Its pained screams tell you the trip wire has worked, and Lucas lands next to you with a loud thud and you quickly scan his body for any injuries. “Are you alright?”

“No time to talk,” he grabs your arm and pulls you towards the living room. “We need to go!”

Just as you start to run, the Demogorgon jumps over the stair’s railing and nearly crushes you both with its body. You scream, shoving Lucas behind you and stab at it with your knives all while Lucas narrowly manages to navigate the two of you to where Mike awaits. 

Then you’re flying through the air, jumping over the carpet that hides the trap beneath it, and somehow, miraculously, the Demogorgon falls into it just as you’ve landed on the couch across. 

Only its claws grip onto the wooden floor, scratching at the panels as it fights its way back up. Mike bludgeons the monster with a shovel in an attempt to get it to surrender to the inevitable. 

“Get him!” You shout alongside Lucas, hands braced on your knives in case you need to use them. 

With one last blow, Mike sends the Demogorgon down into the Turnbow’s basement where the barbed wires and Nancy and Jonathan await. It writhes in pain, stuck in the painful wire, and in its torture it doesn’t see the shotgun that Nancy aims at its defenseless body. 

The shot echoes within the house and embeds the tracker into its thick skin. The Demogorgon doesn’t have time to register its pain before Jonathan throws a lit flare at it, devouring the monster in flames. 

Just as you think the Demogorgon will finally succumb to its wounds, it thows its body back up towards you, Mike, and Lucas as it screeches in pain. The heat of its flame infested body sears your skin as Mike pushes you out of its way, attacking it with his shovel.

“Get him, Mike!” Lucas screams from the other side, unable to do anything else but watch. 

You lunge at the creature, slicing through its armoured skin as you try desperately to ignore the burning sensation that coats the whites of your knuckles. All you focus on is protecting Mike. Nothing else matters.

The Demogorgon unexpectedly throws its body towards Lucas, and you scream his name so loud that it tears through your vocal chords. He only just barely dodges the monster’s attack before a gate tears open in the wall and the Demogorgon slips inside, making its escape.

“It flipped! I repeat, it flipped!” Mike screams into his walkie before frantically turning to you. “Go follow it, now!”

You flee the house with Nancy and Jonathan right behind you. The three of you throw yourselves into the back of Steve’s car, long past the uncomfortable sensation of being so close together as adrenaline eats you alive. 

“Where is it?” Jonathan demands the second he slides into the seat.

Dustin waves his arm around. “Give me a second!”

Everyone shuts up as he carefully angles the antenna to catch any signal he can find. “Bearing northwest and fast.” Dustin tells Steve, signaling him to start driving.

Steve turns the key, but the engine sputters and groans. “C’mon, work with me here.”

“The Demogorgon is tagged and released.” Dustin clings onto the antenna, radioing everyone your every move. “Trackers in pursuit. Repeat, trackers in pursuit.” He gestures wildly at Steve, who still hasn’t gotten the car to start. “Hit it!”

Your body gets thrown against the seat as Steve accelerates down the road far faster than he should. One more law broken tonight.

“Signal is holding. Keep steady… Holding…” Dustin’s eyes never leave the decibel meter until he abruptly instructs, “Turn right!”

“Right?” Bewilderment covers Steve’s face. There isn’t any road to the right.

“Right! Turn right!” A crazed glint overtakes Dustin’s eyes. “Now!”

Not having any time to argue, Steve blindly jerks the steering wheel and barrels through several fences and mailboxes. The car jumps and lurches at every collision and you have to cling desperately onto Nancy and Jonathan to avoid flying through the windshield. 

“Sorry!” Steve shouts over and over with every bush and curb he hits.

Your stomach twists into painful knots as nausea overwhelms you.

You really didn’t miss the car chases. 

“We’re going to crash!” Jonathan wraps you in his arms, barely clinging onto his own seat as Steve hits yet another fence. “Jesus!”

“Dustin said turn right!” Steve screeches back, hitting his head against the roof after the car runs over something else. 

But Dustin ignores the pained screams and panic. Instead he studies the decibel meter and when the signal suddenly seems to weaken, he silences everyone in the car. “Shut up! Stop! We need to stop right here!”

Steve slams on the brakes and Nancy has to catch your body before you face plant into the center console. “Fuck!”

“Goddamn it, Henderson!” Steve hits the steering wheel in frustration. “What are we doing?”

“We lost the signal!” Dustin erratically steers the antenna in every possible direction.

Dread fills your lungs with every passing second. Have you gotten it all wrong? Did Vecna manage to win again? Will Holly’s blood stain your hands the way her mother’s did? The way Max’s stain still lingers?

“I got it!” Dustin’s voice breaks you from your terror. “It’s headed southeast now.”

“Southeast?” That’s the complete other way you were originally going. “Why would it go–”

You’re unable to finish your sentence before Steve propels the car into reverse, following the signal before it’s lost again. “Hang on!”

“But why would it turn around?” You lean forward as far as you dare, hands gripping the seat tightly as you force Dustin to look at you and reckon with the question that haunts you. “Where is it going?”

“I don’t know,” your brother confesses, risking looking away from the decibel meter to catch your eye. “I’m sorry, Y/N. But I don’t know where the hell this thing is going.”

None of it makes sense. “There’s nothing east except…”

Hawkins urban development predominately took over the west side of the city when it was first established. The west is where all the stores, houses, and schools are. 

But east of Hawkins has remained untouched, rural ever since your mother was a child. While the rest of the city grew and expanded, the east kept its trees and farmland.

Then it hits you like a truck. “The farm!”

The Demogorgon is leading you straight towards the McCorkle farm, where Will and others are. It was supposed to be a refuge for them. A place to hide the Turnbows. A place to be utterly defenseless. 

And now there’s a Demogorgon hunting for blood, running right towards them.

-

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Faint whispers trickle through your eardrums. They’re soft, quiet at the rounded vowels, and the hushed words almost go undetected. 

“Do we just let her sleep?”

“What other choice do we have?”

A third hushed voice breaks through your haze of sleep. “Or we could just wake her up, dipshits.”

“Real nice, Henderson.” 

“You asked for my input, so I gave it.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be such an asshole about it.” 

Suddenly the voices rise in volume as Steve and Dustin break out into yet another exhausting argument. Faintly you register Jonathan’s soft voice pleading with them to be quiet, fearful of waking you up, but the fear has long since come to pass.

Your eyes open and your gaze lands on Steve and Dustin in the front seat, bodies facing away from each other in a tense standoff with Jonathan next to you, a worried hand on the base of your ankle as he anxiously endures the conversation. 

“Listen, if we don’t wake Y/N up then she’ll wring our asses.” Dustin says, rolling his eyes at Steve’s dismissive huff. 

“But this is the first time she’s slept in days,” the older boy reminds your brother. “Like hell am I waking her up. She needs the rest.”

The reminder of the events from the last forty-eight hours settles into your bones. Forcing yourself to sit up, ignoring every fiber of your body that begs to be laid to rest, you look out through the van’s window and realize you’re parked in front of the radio tower. 

Daylight surrounds itself around you. A deep, dull ache sits in your back. 

You must’ve slept the entire night on the van’s floor. 

“Unfortunately I’m already up.” 

All three boys whip their heads to look at you, staring down at you as if you’re some science experiment they haven’t quite figured out. 

Steve clears his throat sheepishly, now red. “Did we wake you?”

“Of course you woke her up.” Jonathan snaps, removing his hand from your ankle as if it has stung him. Although the movement doesn’t go unnoticed by either you or Steve, whose eyes narrow dangerously. 

He sucks in a breath, reeling for another fight, but you fling your hands out in annoyance and beckon towards the radio station. “I’d prefer if someone explained to me why we’re back here.”

Both Dustin and Jonathan turn to Steve expectantly, forming an unspoken alliance against him. Steve’s face pinches together as he waves his middle finger at them before turning to you. “Robin radioed us while you were asleep.”

Immediately you sit up properly. “What’d she say? Is everyone okay?”

“She’s with Will and Joyce,” Steve continues, fingers brushing over yours to quell the sting of your rapidly building hope. “But that’s all she told us before demanding that we meet here to discuss a new lead she has.”

While the information remains vague, it’s enough to snag at the remaining fragments of hope inside your chest as it expels the remnants of your exhaustion. Scrambling to your knees, you frantically crawl out of the van before anyone can stop you. 

Early morning birdsong greets you as your feet touch the grass. Time almost seems to stand still as you take in the rolling hills and green meadows before you. In the sunlight the red of Karen Wheeler’s blood on your clothing burns to brown and the kiss of the sun’s warmth masks the multitudes of grief that you can never seem to outrun. 

Yet in the distance Nancy’s car sends billows of smoke signals into the air and the minute she steps out of the vehicle her legs carry her to you. 

“Y/N.” Nancy’s small frame shudders against your chest as you hold her in your arms. Her eyes are as bloodshot as yours.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathe into her neck, apologizing for the unfair hand she’s been dealt as you hold onto her so tightly that her skin becomes yours. “How is she–?”

You’re unable to utter Karen Wheeler’s name, though her daughter understands anyways. “She made it to the hospital. That’s all we know.”

You exhale at her words, your fingernails dig into her back and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen Nancy so frail. A heavy hand falls on your lower back, accompanied by a gruff voice, “let me see her.”

If it were anyone else you’d bare your teeth and spit foul words, but for Jonathan Byers you lessen your grip on Nancy Wheeler and watch, silently, as she melts into his embrace. They come together like water, melting into one, and for a moment they’re just two kids in love. 

“You look like hell.” Mike steps out of the car and bypasses all formalities upon noticing you. Lucas stands next to him and both boys look about as well as you feel.

Though try as he might, Mike can’t hide his hurt from you. Traces of dread etch his face, and you’re pulling him into your arms before he can escape. “How’re you holding up?”

He stiffens at the unexpected embrace, but after everything he’s been through the last sixteen hours, he can’t bring himself to pull away. His chest rises slowly, exhales even slower as he says, “I-I don’t really know what I’m doing–holy shit.”

Suddenly Mike shoves you away and rushes towards your brother, eyes narrowed at the onslaught of bruises and blood that stain his face. 

“You look like hell, dude.” Mike lets out a low whistle, studying Dustin’s face.

“Bike crash.” The lie comes out of Dustin’s mouth with a practiced ease that makes you uncomfortable. 

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Flew headfirst into a light post.” 

You feel Steve bristle next to you. Everyone knows that Dustin is lying.

Sharp pain coats your mouth as you bite the inside of your cheek. There’s nothing you can say that would change anything. 

“Look, I’m sorry about missing the crawl, and about… Everything.” Dustin averts everyone’s gaze. The guilt eats him alive. You know how painful the sensation of its hunger can be. 

“It’s not your fault,” Mike’s quick reassurance to comfort his friend leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that you find hard to swallow. “Don’t beat yourself up.”

“Looks like he already did.” Lucas steps closer to your brother and grimaces at the injuries that scatter his face. 

He reaches to Dustin’s nose, as if about to grab it, before you slap him away like a mother scolding a child. “Please don’t make the injury worse.”

Lucas glares at you, immediately defensive. “I just wanted to see if it was broken!”

“By touching it?” Dustin takes several steps back, alarmed at the idea of Lucas prodding at his still sore nose. 

An argument starts to break out between the two boys, but it quickly comes to an end when Robin flings the radio station’s door open and gestures wildly for everyone’s attention.

“Hey, this isn’t a social call, guys.” Her tone borders on annoyance and the manic glint in her eyes tells you that she hasn’t had a pleasant night, either. “Let’s go!”

Slowly everyone settles back into the realization of where they are, of why they’re in the middle of an abandoned field running on exhaustion and paranoia. Mike is the first to follow Robin inside, followed by Lucas and Dustin, and eventually even Nancy manages to break herself out of her grief long enough to grab Jonathan’s hand and guide him inside. 

You’re left with Steve and a silence that presses into your ribcage. 

You’ve never known how to survive in the silence. 

But then Steve’s arms wrap themselves around your waist, uncaring of the torn clothing and bloodstains. He holds you to his chest, cradles your head so that you can hear every beat of his heart, and in his embrace you find a solace that not even silence can bring.

“I can feel you slipping away,” Steve whispers, arms tightening around you with every word. His steady breathing gets interrupted by a sharp inhale, as if bracing for impact, before he says, “It scares me.”

You stiffen in his embrace. The unwavering way that Steve has always managed to see right through you still sends shockwaves through your system. It isn’t fair. 

“I’m not trying to.” You wish there was more you could say to reassure him, but exhaustion has long clouded your mind and you’re not sure how to piece together the fragments that are left.

“I know you aren’t,” Steve’s thumb traces the crest of your cheek. His eyes shine down on you soft, familiar and warm, though through the years they’ve weathered with worry. “But I need you to stay, angel.”

You’ve become a border edge of the silhouette you once were. A ghost that inhabits an abandoned body. 

“Stay here in the present with me, alright?” Steve pinches your nose and smiles bashfully when it elicits a small laugh from you. “I can’t have you getting lost in the past or stuck in a future that nobody can control. No shutting down. I won’t allow it.”

And you? You’re here. You’re here, stuck in the present with me and the party.

Lucas’ words remain etched into your mind. You haven’t forgotten them, though you suppose you haven’t quite figured out how to remain present, given how tirelessly the past tries to drown you. 

“Are you done lecturing me now?” You brush Steve’s hand away and encase it within your own, tugging him along. “Because I’m not sure how much longer we have before Robin sends a search party after us.”

But Steve doesn’t move. Instead, he remains in place and stands before you, arm extended with your hands still intertwined. His boyish face changes for a moment, flickers into something more real, more serious. “We have all the time in the world, Y/N.”

Time has always been a dangerous promise to keep, yet somehow its liminality morphs into something finite as it falls from Steve’s lips as he pulls you in.

He spins you around, holds you close to his chest as you dance together for only a brief second, before he seals his promise with a kiss that not even time itself could ever take away from you. 

– 

A distinct sense of horror freezes over your body when Robin reveals why she brought everyone to the radio station. 

Vecna has a new target. A little boy, not much older than Will had been. 

You’ve been here before.

“Derek? As in, Derek Turnbow?” Steve’s voice carries your own disbelief as he sits next to you on the couch, weight pressed to your side as a way to ground your ever growing nerves. “From the Turnbow Realty family?”

“The one and only.” Robin affirms, body hunched over in her own exhaustion. 

Your eyes close and the sensation of your nails digging into your palms provides enough of a sting to abate the panic swelling in your chest. 

“The whole family’s a menace.” Lucas says unhelpfully.

You bite back your disdain for the comment, knowing that Lucas doesn’t mean any harm. You understand why he said it, having spent a rather awful night babysitting Derek for a few hours when you were fourteen. He had been nothing but cruel, obnoxious, and vindictive. Ultimately you declined Mrs. Turnbow when she asked if you’d be willing to babysit him in the future.

Yet despite how terrible Derek Turnbow may be, he’s still just a kid. 

And you’re still marked. Vecna’s curse. It still resides in your bloodstream.

You’ll do anything to remain his sole victim. 

“How do you know it’s Derek who’s next?” You’re careful to keep your voice level, calm. The less emotion you show, the better. “I mean, as far as we know, I’m still marked. Who’s to say it isn’t me that Vecna’s looking for?”

Steve inhales sharply and Dustin drops his head to his hands. You refuse to look at them, instead choosing to aim your gaze at Robin.

Only it’s Will who answers.

“Because I saw Derek,” he says softly, almost regretful. “Not you, Y/N.”

His words confuse you. “I don’t think I understand what that means.”

“I’ve learned that when I’m close enough to the hive mind, I can tap into it. I can tap into Vecna’s mind.” Will explains, eyes regretful as he delivers the news he knows will upset you. “I can see who he’s targeting.”

Your stomach twists painfully as a new wave of horror washes over you. Will was once called a spy and declared a traitor who was forcibly locked away in a cabin in the woods in an attempt to expel the monsters inside of him. 

Now, years later, Will has become the very thing you promised him he wouldn’t.

Vecna’s spy. A weapon against his will. 

“But were you seeing through the eyes of Vecna or of Derek?” Steve rubs his temple, trying desperately to keep up.

“Both.” Will clarifies. “I-I was Vecna, but inside of Derek’s mind.”

“And you’re absolutely sure that you didn’t ‘see’ Y/N in that hallucination of yours?” Steve questions, adamant he ensures that there isn’t a hint of a possibility of you being in danger. 

Will shakes his head. “All I saw was Derek.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, eager to find an answer that involves your life on the line. “I was Vecna’s last target. It should be me he comes after next. Not Derek or Holly.”

“Vecna’s a psychic serial killer. Nothing he does makes sense.” Robin reminds you gently. “I mean, he stalks his victims by invading their minds. That’s what he did with Chrissy and Max and you–”

Then Robin seems to remember just how close she came to losing you, and her mouth snaps shut immediately. “Sorry.”

You shift away from the others, uncomfortable with the sudden mournful expressions on everyone’s face. Their pity only builds resentment within your chest.

Memories from last year haunt you. Sometimes you can still feel Vecna’s claws in your membrane, but that doesn’t mean it makes you any more willing to be mourned over. Not when it was Max who suffered the consequences that should’ve been yours. 

Steve’s hand falls to your thigh as he tries to comfort you, yet Nancy, sharp as a knife, doesn’t shy away from your past.

“Vecna stalked Holly before he took her.” She looks only at you. “Only he stalked her as Henry, befriended her, for weeks.”

Nancy clenches her fists, exhales slowly, before asking the question that she dreads the most. “Were there any signs before he attacked you?”

A phantom sensation of dandelions choking you constricts your breathing. The memory of them slices your tongue, tangles your airway, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop the memory from drowning you. 

“The summer before Vecna attacked… I had a nightmare.” The words get stuck in the grooves of your teeth, forcing you to spit them out like a dirty confession. “I was in a field of dandelions before they suddenly swarmed around me and I was suffocating.”

The room stands still. Unable to look at anyone, you look down at your bloodied palms instead. “Then, when Vecna showed me and Nancy our visions, he told me I've become fragile… like a dandelion.”

You steady your breathing. You don’t know why this feels as if you’re confessing something terrible. Maybe you are. 

“That’s when I realized he’d been watching me for months.”

A cacophony of reactions overtakes the room. 

Steve nearly topples out of his seat due to how fast his body turns to yours, talking a mile a minute and demanding to know more about the nightmare. “Are you serious–”

But his worries get lost in Dustin’s stunned confusion. “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve used this information sooner!”

“Was there anything else in your dream?” Mike is quick to ask his own investigative questions, knocking his elbows into your side in his hurry to get closer to you. “I mean, anything useful besides stupid dandelions?”

The voices begin to overlap in a way that dizzies you. Seeing your discomfort, Nancy places a hand on her brother’s chest and pulls him away from you while simultaneously flicking Dustin’s hat. “Give her some space.”

Mike makes a face and Dustin grumbles under his breath, but without another word the boys go back to their seats. Thankful for the breathing room, you smile appreciatively at Nancy. “Thank you.”

She smiles back, soft, tired, before it falls into a broken frown. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to cast the attention onto you.”

“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I want to help however I can. If it means finding Holly and protecting Derek, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

“Do you… know why Vecna gave you evil dandelion nightmares?” Mike asks cautiously, unsure how much you’re willing to disclose.

“No,” you admit, regretful. You’re the only person alive who was marked by Vecna and the only source of information available. You despise how little you’re able to help. “I never understood why. All I can remember is that the field felt familiar, like I’d been there before. I…” You clear your throat and cast a nervous glance towards your brother. “I think he was showing me Virginia. Where I grew up.”

Dustin’s spine goes pin straight at the revelation, though he remains quiet. Mike, however, narrows his eyes. “Nancy and I think that Vecna was trying to earn Holly’s trust. That’s why he befriended her. Maybe he was trying to earn yours, too?”

A sarcastic laugh falls from your mouth. “Yeah, well if his long-term goal was forming a friendship, then giving me a nightmare where I suffocate in dandelions was a pretty shitty attempt.”

“Maybe he was shy?” Robin suggests with a wince.

Steve shakes his head in disappointment while you huff lightly. “Unlikely.”

“Well whatever Vecna’s plan is,” Will recenters the group, silencing the room once more. “We have to stop him, and we have to save Derek.”

And the rest is decided.

–

Will herds everyone downstairs and instructs you to stand in front of the projector. Within minutes he has a pointer aimed at the map of Hawkins as he explains his plan with a confidence that surprises you.

“The Turnbows live here.” Will points to a neighborhood on the map. “We wait in a van across the street.”

For as long as you’ve known Will, he has always been a follower rather than a leader. Now, as you watch him command the room, you’re confronted with just how much he’s grown, and it fills you with warm, pleasant pride. 

Then Will proposes kidnapping a child and you’re reminded all over again just how naive and insanely young he still is.

“As soon as they’re asleep, we move in, we grab Derek, and we take him to the McCorkle farm. It’s completely abandoned and isolated.”

“Oh absolutely not.” You gawk, baffled. “There’s no way I’m kidnapping another kid.”

Lucas’ eyes widen. “‘Another kid’?”

“Unfortunately Erica counts as the first.”

“We’ll be using a blindfold.” Will waves his pointer at you. “So technically it isn’t kidnapping if Derek never finds out who we are or where he is.”

“That’s literally the definition of kidnapping.”

“Better than Vecna kidnapping him.” Robin snaps her fingers. “I’d consider us a much better option.”

While she’s right, you still wholly dislike the plan. “Can’t we do something a little less… extreme?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan agrees, looking over to his mom who has been silent the entire time. “Are you alright with just kidnapping a child?”

“Robin’s right. We’re saving a child via kidnapping. So it’s fine. I think.” Joyce shrugs, though she grimaces at her own words and quickly backtracks. “Alright. Now’s not the time to play it safe, Jonathan.”

You step forward, casting an apologetic look towards the woman. “With all due respect, Mrs. Byers, I think now is the exact time to be playing it safe. We’ve already lost El and Hopper and Holly. We can’t just blindly run into whatever Vecna has planned for us.”

Dustin nods. “I’m not morally opposed to the plan, but I agree with Y/N. There’s a few holes in it.”

“Like what if Derek falls asleep before the Demogorgon attacks him?” Lucas suggests.

“That’s one.” Your brother agrees. 

“Or what if Derek wakes up before we grab him and alerts his family? We’ll go to jail.” Nancy points out.

“And there’s another.” Dustin nods again. “But the third, most gaping hole is that even if by some miracle this plan even works: saving Derek won’t bring us any closer to finding Vecna and the others. It just buys us some time. That’s it.”

The atmosphere turns somber at the reminder of just how much none of you know. Without El and her powers, you’re practically helpless against Vecna and locating him. 

But just as the silence becomes deafening, Mike breaks it.

“Not necessarily,” he slowly looks up at the others. “There might be a way to save Derek and find Holly.”

In a heartbeat he stands up and rummages around the basement, mumbling under his breath with every passing second. No one interferes, either too confused or too worried it will only set the kid off more.

Then Mike lunges towards a small, blue bag and he lets out a small victorious cheer. “Yes! Okay, everyone around the table, now.”

Curious, you do as he says and watch as he dumps the bag out, revealing a multitude of old, worn D&D pieces. 

“This is Derek,” Mike holds up one of the pieces, silently instructing everyone to follow along. He sets the piece down and arranges the others into a circle. “And this is the rest of the Turnbow family. We’re gonna need to recruit someone that the family trusts and can gain access to the house.”

“And this person will do what? Ask the Turnbows not to call the cops?” You ask, uncertain of the plan. 

“No, the person is going to knock the family out so we can extract them from the house.”

Mike’s words cause you to sigh. “Right. Should’ve assumed that.”

“Knock them out?” Joyce’s concern reflects your own. 

“Safely,” Mike assures her. “With sleeping pills or something.”

“I might know where we could get some benzos.” Robin supplies. “Those things are like elephant tranquilizers.”

“How would you know?” Steve eyes her wearily.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “There are now multiple felonies included in this plan.”

Robin winks. “Only the two, pretty girl.”

“We’ll take the benzos.” Mike ignores your disdain. “That way, if Vecna spies, he’ll just assume that Derek is fast asleep in bed and he’ll send his Demos to grab him. Only he won’t find Derek. He’ll find us.”

“Wait a minute,” you place your hand in the middle of the table, blocking Mike from putting any more pieces down. “Who is ‘us’?”

“Everyone in this room.” He leans forward, eyes daring you to argue. “Me and the rest of the party included.”

You go to open your mouth to argue, but Dustin interrupts before you can start. “Save your breath, Y/N. You said yourself that we’re missing Hopper and El. Like it or not, we need all the help we can get.”

As much as you want to protest, you know that your brother is right. While you hate the idea of the kids staging an ambush against Vecna, you don’t have any other option. Biting your lip, you reluctantly remove your hand and nod to Mike to continue. 

He flashes you a sarcastic thumbs up and explains that Murray will be supplying the traps that’ll hopefully burn the demogorgon. Then he stuffs his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small device. “But not before we stick him with one of these.” 

The telemetry tag flashes red on the table. “We’ll track the Demo across the Upside Down in the Squawk van just like we did with Hopper, and if we’re lucky the bastard will lead us back to its lair.”

“Where Vecna will be with Holly. Two birds, one stone.” The pieces fall into place and you nod, impressed. “Clever as always, Wheeler.”

“Someone has to be.” 

And when no one voices any complaints or possible flaws within the plan, Mike smirks triumphantly and dismisses the group to prepare for what lies ahead. 

Lucas and Mike set off to the middle school to find Erica, who apparently used to be close friends with the Turnbow’s daughter. You find it ironic that it’s somehow Erica that the plan hinges on, given her history of forced compliance. 

Robin all but drags Will outside with her to secure the benzos needed, despite your many attempts to stop her. 

“Why the hell are you taking Will with you on your drug run?” You grab at her hand and try to use all your body weight to prevent the girl from getting into Joyce’s car, but Robin has somehow become shockingly strong and tugs you away. 

“Because little Byers won’t lecture me!” Robin pokes her tongue out at you and grabs the back of Will’s collar, shoving him into the passenger seat. “See ya, pretty girl.”

Will waves. “Bye!”

You stand in the driveway alongside Joyce, who has watched the whole ordeal as you all but pout, watching as the two drive away in a fit of laughter. Neither you nor Joyce have any idea when they became the best of friends, but you’re starting to hate their newfound friendship.

“Do I have to ask if your friend will keep Will safe?” Joyce nudges her shoulder against yours, breaking you from your moody disposition briefly. 

“Robin will keep him safe,” you reluctantly promise, though you’re a little weary of their relationship. “I just have no idea how she managed to find a stash of drugs in Hawkins.”

Joyce chuckles while Steve walks up behind you and kisses your temple. “I’m sure Robin will tell you all about it the next time she orchestrates a drug deal.”

“I’m never leaving her unsupervised ever again.”

Steve’s chest rumbles in amusement and you allow yourself a moment to sink against him and close your eyes. Your days are slowly blurring together, but here, in his arms, you’re able to breathe.

Sensing the desire to be alone, Joyce gently squeezes your upper arm and places a kiss to your shoulder. The act of affection soothes the open wounds left from the night before. Her presence will always soothe you.

“Anyway, I came out here to tell you that I’ve left a spare change of clothes inside the station.” She says delicately. Her eyes never stray from yours, though you know she struggles against herself not to look down and see the mess of blood that soaks your clothing. 

A piece of your ribcage softens. “How did you–?”

“Jonathan radioed while you were asleep.” Joyce squeezes your arm again, this time with a smile you can’t quite decipher. It appears small, timid, almost nostalgic, but before you can ask her anything else, she lets you go. “I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

And with that, Joyce leaves.

–

Mike hadn’t specified what exactly Murray would be smuggling over for the Turnbow house, but when the man opens his truck and unloads the supplies, for a moment you’re fearful he somehow intercepted a serial killer’s delivery. 

Murray hands Jonathan a hyper-realistic CPR dummy that makes you highly uncomfortable to look at and Nancy an armful of ammo before turning to you with a crazed smile on his face.

“And, for little miss unbearable, I present this,” he stretches out his arm and reveals a misshapen frog puppet. “Mike said it’d help ease your nerves. Unsure why, but I’ve learned not to question the kid.”

Any more useful insight from Kermit the frog?

Jonathan does a poor job of hiding his laughter while Nancy bites back an amused smile. Both Steve and Dustin outright laugh at you. 

Glaring at them, you grab the frog and hold it awkwardly between your hands. “I really hate how funny Mike is sometimes.”

“He’s an odd duck.” Murray jumps down from the truck and walks over to a crate. He throws open its top and reveals a mass of wire. “Speaking of ducks, do take care to keep your precious frog away from the 3,000 feet of barbed wire.”

“That seems excessive. Even for Mike.”

Murray shrugs at you. “It’s what he asked for. Now, onto Bilbo Baggins,” the man hands Dustin a box. “Some sparkling new spark plugs.”

Dustin frowns. “Spark plugs? That’s it?”

By the tone of his voice you know that he’s unamused with the shortchange he’s been given. 

“I’m also giving out free hugs.” Murray smiles. 

Disgust marks your face. “Do not touch my brother.”

Murray bares his teeth at you while Dustin groans. “You didn’t get the turbocharger, either?”

“No.”

“The suspension kit?”

“No.”

Sensing that your brother will only run the man in circles, you leave him to deal with Murray and go follow after Steve. Mike heroically left him the job of clearing out the van in order to smuggle the Turnbows away. While he withheld his complaints, you know that Steve will enjoy the company as he wrestles with the vehicle and its contents.

You hear Steve before you see him,

“Lousy piece of shit!” A loud thump follows his exasperated groans, proceeded by a pained yelp when he inexplicably drops whatever heavy item he’d been carrying on his foot. “Fuck!”

Turning the corner, you find your boyfriend hunched over his knees amongst an endless sea of wires and leather seats gutted from the Squawk van. Sweat drips down his forehead and his flushed skin tells you he’s one stumble away from driving the van into Mike Wheeler’s house. 

“Need some help, honey?” You brace a hand on his back, steadying his disheveled body as you carefully step inside the vehicle, careful not to fall.

Steve grabs your wrist and kisses it, his overly warm skin cools at the sensation of yours. “Have I ever told you how much I hate Mike?”

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“I mean,” he kicks at a loose bolt, upending yet another seat from the van’s floor. “Why am I the one tasked with cleaning out this hunk of metal? Do we even need the entire bed of this thing, anyways? Can’t we just squish everything inside and call it a day?”

You snort. “You do realize that we’re throwing an entire family back here, right?”

“They’ll be too knocked out to care.”

“You’ve always had such a way with words.”

Steve chuckles and reaches for your waist. Once he has you where he wants you, he pulls your body down onto his and lands on the last remaining seat within the van. The old leather cracks beneath your bodies, but neither you nor Steve pay any attention to it.

Steve’s head buries itself into your chest and you feel him exhale slowly. Your fingers find his hair, entertaining themselves within the strands you’ve long since have claimed as your own, and he presses himself deeper into your touch. 

“Miss you,” he mumbles, hands roaming down to your thighs as he pulls them over his lap so that you’re seated flush against him. It’s been so long since Steve has had you this close.

And though he’s been at your beck and call ever since yesterday morning, you understand the ache that Steve feels in his longing for you. “I miss you, too.”

You haven’t been alone, truly alone, with Steve in nearly three days. Once, the absence would’ve gone unnoticed. It was you who insisted on spending an entire summer ignoring him and his stupid boyish charm. Now, with the knowledge of just how lovely it is to be Steve Harrington’s, you feel devoid of any pleasure whenever he’s gone.

Steve’s stomach presses against yours as he inhales deeply. Light, butterfly-soft kisses litter themselves along your collarbones. Your breathy laugh accompanies the tender admiration, which Steve smiles in response to as well. 

“I’m sorry about Dustin,” the apology falls between each kiss. “I know I can be a massive dick to him sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” You look down at him with a teasing smile, though you both know you mean it. 

“More than I’d like to admit.” Steve relents, placing a kiss to the base of your throat. You hum at the sensation, and your satisfaction gives him the confidence to find the rest of his words. “I know I should be more patient with him, but I just… I hate the way he treats you.”

“It isn’t your responsibility to defend me. I don’t want you to defend me.” Your fingers dance over Steve’s, intertwining them together. “Not when I understand Dustin’s anger better than anyone else.”

“That still doesn’t make it fair to you, Y/N.”

You can’t help but laugh at this. “And when has anything in my life been fair?”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t find your words as funny as you do. 

But rather than continue to try and convince you of all you deserve, knowing it to be a useless endeavor, he instead accepts what he knows you can offer him. “How’re you holding up?”

Though he can’t bring himself to say Vecna’s name, you know that Steve’s question resides in how everyone’s eyes fell on you when you revealed he’d been watching you for a long time.

“I’m fine.” Neither you nor Steve can tell if you’re lying.

“You know that you can always step away, right?” His fingers grow restless in yours. The unease that follows his question makes you wonder just how long his worry has festered. “Let Mike and the others handle the Turnbows if you need the break. I mean, no one would blame you.”

Though you know he means well, you fervently shake your head at what Steve has said. “I promised Nancy I’d bring Holly back to her, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Now Steve is the one who shifts uncomfortably. “Y/N, you just had to relive your worst nightmare in front of an entire group of people. You had Mrs. Wheeler’s blood all over you not even an hour ago. I-I can’t imagine what you must be feeling–”

“However I’m feeling doesn’t matter.” You cut off Steve’s concerned rambling. “Nancy and Mike lost their sister, Steve. Their parents are laying in hospital beds. Whatever I may be feeling, I can promise you that what they’re going through is even more painful, even more debilitating.”

You straighten your back and look down at the man beneath you. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs and despite the fact that you’re solidifying every fear that Steve has, he still gazes up at you as if you’ve given him the ocean and its waves. 

“I’m going to the Turnbow’s.”

Your tone remains definitive. There is no room for arguments or discontent. 

Bittersweet worry infiltrates Steve’s mouth. He understands that there isn’t any way he can change your mind or convince you to place yourself first. The bags underneath your eyes have only grown worse these last few days. He doesn’t think they will ever get better. 

And while Steve wants nothing more than to encase you into his chest and keep you away from everything that could ever hurt you, yourself included, Jonathan’s obnoxious voice leaks into his mind and reminds Steve that he can’t sideline you.

You’d never forgive him if he did. 

Exhaling the last of his doubts, Steve caresses your lower back and you watch his eyes soften. He will always love you and your selfish desire to be needed. You will always love him and his inability to resent you for it. 

Even if it means one day you’ll burn yourself up, leaving Steve to bury your ashes. 

“What are you guys doing?”

Dustin’s arrival forces you to pull away from your boyfriend. Stuffing your hands behind your back, feeling like a little kid caught, you clear your throat and face your brother. “We’re getting the van set up. Mike’s orders.”

“But why even bother?” Dustin kicks at one of the many discarded objects outside of the vehicle, which all lay haphazardly on the grass. “This van is a lost cause, anyways.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve rolls his eyes. “Take it won’t help us, then. Like usual.”

The throwaway comment causes you to stiffen while Dustin narrows his eyes. But rather than bite back at Steve’s bark, your brother surprises you.

“No, what I mean is that this piece of shit once stalled out chugging up Pickett Road.” Dustin clarifies, tone neutral. “It’s not fast enough to keep up with a Demo without serious modifications.”

“And this is us modifying.” Steve gestures between you and him before pointing towards the discarded pile. “A lighter van is a faster van.”

“We’ll also be attempting to fit an entire family inside,” you remind him. “But sure. I guess we’re making it faster, too.”

Steve nods. “And if we’re just tracking, we won’t need half the shit that’s in here. Speaking of, can you go to the front and empty out the window washer fluid?”

You tilt your head. “The… window washer fluid?”

“I’m sure emptying it will work wonders. Good job, Steven.” Dustin claps his hands, emphasizing his nasally and cruel words. 

“Dustin!” 

He ignores your warning. “No, truly. I’m stunned by Steve’s intellect. Who knew your boyfriend could think?”

You’re about to snatch Dustin’s hat off his head and show him exactly how little patience you have left, but Steve puts a hand in front of you, blocking him.

“You know what, Henderson? I think we should do what your sister suggested yesterday.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dustin frowns, unused to Steve’s delay in the fight.

“It means we should both just shut up.” And with that, Steve shushes your brother and goes back to clearing out the van.

You’re so stunned by Steve’s uncharacteristic diplomacy that you don’t notice Dustin’s greedy eyes landing on a drill. He grabs it, investigates it with a terrifying smirk, before walking away with a pep in his step.

“Where the hell is he going with that?” Steve asks you, annoyance and slight fear tainting his voice. 

“I have no idea.” You quickly climb out of the van and follow after your brother. “Dustin, what are you–” 

Your words die in your throat when you realize he’s walking straight towards Steve’s car.

Nothing ever ends well when Dustin is given a power tool.

“Steve’s right, Y/N.” He climbs up onto the car’s roof and tilts his hat at you. “We don’t need half of the crap in there for our mission. In fact, the only thing we really need is a telemetry tracker, which I can affix to any vehicle.”

“You little shit!” Immediately understanding what Dustin intends, you lunge towards the car and attempt to climb it, but Steve’s hands force you down. “Let me go!”

He winces at how violently you thrash around, but his grip on you remains firm. While he’s worried about his car, he’s even more worried you’ll wind up getting hurt. “I really don’t want you accidentally impaling yourself with a power drill.”

You ignore his concern and flail your legs around, trying desperately to free yourself. “Dustin Henderson, put down your obnoxious ego so we can talk about this–”

“Thought you told me and Steve to shut up?” Your brother laughs like a deranged child at his own joke before bringing the tip of the power drill down to the roof.

Even Steve can’t keep his composure as Dustin switches the tool on, inches away from his beloved car. “Woah, hey! Don’t make me let your sister go!”

As if to emphasize his threat, you seethe at Dustin, “I’m going to kill you!” 

But Dustin knows that Steve would never, ever put you in a situation where you could potentially harm yourself, and it’s with this knowledge that he happily punctures the BMW with the drill. 

The unnecessary attack on the car you fell in love in only causes you to writhe in Steve’s grasp harder, almost animalistic as you shout threats and curses at your infuriating little brother.

“I’m telling mom you ruined Steve’s car!”

“Then I’m telling her you told me to shut up!”

“You’re so annoying!”

“Where do you think I get it from?”

Soon both of your voices get drowned out as you and Dustin bicker back and forth with no end in sight. For a moment you’re just two little kids tattling on each other and throwing around harmless insults from when you were children. 

Steve would find it endearing if your screeching and the roar of the power drill weren’t seconds away from deafening him. 

So much for the Henderson charm. 

– 

Because Mike hates you, he shoves you, Dustin, Jonathan, and Nancy into Steve’s car before anyone can process what’s happening.

“Good luck,” he said with a smug smile. “You’ll all make a fantastic lookout squad.”

Mike then slammed the car door shut and ran away before Steve could run him over.

Which is how you find yourself stuck in between Jonathan and Nancy in the backseat of Steve’s now ruined car parked outside of the Turnbow house.

Somehow Dustin winds up in the passenger seat, which you resent him for.

The nighttime air is unusually warm, doing nothing to help abide the tension in the car as you all sit stiffly beside one another with too much unspoken history.

You twist your fingers together in your lap, unable to say anything as Dustin peers out the window with binoculars held up to his eyes to watch for Erica.

“She’s in,” he finally says into the walkie, alerting the others. 

“Thank god,” you exhale the breath you’d been holding. The sooner you’re out of the car, the better.

Jonathan shifts next to you, awkwardly adjusting himself so that he doesn’t press too deeply against your side. “It’s… a bit warm in here, don’t you think?”

Both you and Nancy turn to him, unsure which of you he’s talking to.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Jonathan seems to sense the confusion and clears his throat. “Nancy, why don’t we wait outside? Get some fresh air?”

Nancy frowns at the offer and looks at you, silently asking what she should do. All you can give her is a helpless shrug. “A walk sounds nice.”

This doesn’t seem to be the answer Nancy wants. Her frown deepens. “But what about keeping a lookout for Erica’s signal?”

“We’ll stay here,” you gesture towards Dustin and Steve. “We’ll get you guys when it’s time to go.”

Nancy bites her lip and considers this. Steve watches her hesitation through the rear mirror. You’re not the only one who’s noticed the bizarre shift between her and Jonathan.

“C’mon, Nance.” Jonathan reaches over you to grab her hand, squeezing it gently. “Who knows how long until Erica knocks the Turnbows out?”

“Fine,” she finally gives in, unbuckling her seatbelt. “But we aren’t going far, alright?”

Jonathan nods, happy just to have gotten Nancy out of the car, and quickly the two of them close the doors behind them. 

Their departure eases the tension in the vehicle slightly, and you allow yourself a second to enjoy the small moment of peace. 

But Dustin and Steve waste no time ruining it.

“What the hell is going on between them?” Your brother asks the second Jonathan and Nancy leave.

You open your eyes and find both boys turned towards you with like two curious street cats. You’re immediately defensive, weary of their intentions. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Y/N.” Steve scoffs. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that they’re clearly miserable.”

“They’re one awkward hug away from becoming depressing to look at.” Dustin adds. 

You stare at them both, stunned. While you can’t say that Jonathan and Nancy have been their normal selves recently, you’re surprised that even Dustin and Steve have caught on.

“I don’t really think now is the best time to be talking about this,” you hiss at them, nervous that the couple in question could be right outside the car listening. “This feels incredibly wrong and invasive–”

“So there’s definitely something wrong with them.” Dustin concludes from your uncomfortable reaction. 

Steve nods. “I bet it’s all Byers’ fault.”

“Duh.”

“And I bet Y/N knows more than she’s willing to let on.”

“Correct again, Harrington.”

Suddenly Dustin and Steve gang up against you like brothers, nosey and annoying, and watching them fall back into their easy connection that you’ve missed so much makes you helpless against their interrogations. 

You’ll do anything for one more minute of their friendship. 

“Fine,” nervously you look out the window, making sure neither Nancy nor Jonathan are close by. “I’ll admit that there’s… something wrong with them.”

“Aha!” Steve exclaims, pointing an excited finger at you. “I knew it!”

Mortified, you push his finger away. “Shhh!”

Dustin leans forward, eager for more. “Go on. We’re listening.”

You push your hair back, suddenly too warm. “Look, I really don’t know much more than you guys. All I can tell you is that Jonathan has been really weird lately and Nancy has been incredibly distant.”

“I still think Jonathan did something.”

You glare at Steve. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks, ready to tease you even more, but he’s cut off by Jonathan’s quick taps on the windshield to catch everyone’s attention. “Erica gave the signal. Let’s go.”

The bright mood in the car dims once again, and without saying another word the three of you exit the car and follow after the others into the Turnbow house.

–

Hiding the bodies is the easy part, as horrifying as that sounds. 

Joyce backs the van into the Turnbow’s garage while you help Robin wrap the family in sheets. Their sleeping bodies look too similar to corpses, making your stomach twist at the thought. 

“It concerns me how many felonies I’ve committed with minors.” You choke back a gag, wrapping Tina’s small body up.

Erica rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Y/N.”

Once you have every family member safely inside the van, you knock three times on the vehicle to signal to Joyce that she can now drive off. Once she’s gone, everyone immediately gets to work. 

Rearranging the house becomes a harder task than anticipated. It’s huge, filled to the brim with expensive items and large pieces of furniture with limited time to get rid of it all.

Everyone has a designated job as you all work in silence together. You stick with Steve, Dustin, and Mike and help them set a trap for the Demogorgon. As you hammer nails into a piece of plywood, a sickening sense of deja-vu overwhelms you. 

Years ago you were in the Byers’ home doing this very same thing, preparing to face a creature you didn’t yet have a name for and you were in way over your head. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into. Back then you had been naive to the monsters that lay hidden beneath Hawkins. 

Now, as you help set a trap for a Demogorgon you’ve faced before, you still can’t help but feel that you’re biting off more than you can chew. That your naivety still haunts you. 

Once the trap has been laid, Dustin gathers everyone into the garage and hands out the necessary weapons. While none of you hope you’ll have to use them, you all recognize the reality of what may come. 

You choose to stick with your knives. They bring you comfort in a way no other weapon can. As you go upstairs and sit in a corner to sharpen the blades, a loud, metallic sound pierces your eardrums. 

“What the fuck?” You turn in your seat and find Steve wielding a large, far too dangerous chainsaw. 

“Like it?” He waves the chainsaw around as he laughs like a kid in a candy store. “Don’t I look badass?”

Mike visibly groans while you cover your ears and shout, “Turn that thing off!”

Steve obliges, though not without pouting. “Admit it, angel. I look hot carrying this.”

“Kill me.” Dustin and Jonathan gag. 

“I prefer men with all five fingers, Steve.”

Nancy snickers, holding her hand out for a high-five which you readily accept. Steve visibly deflates at your disapproval, but when Mike orders him to cut through the Turnbow’s living room floor with the chainsaw, he’s all too happy to help. 

“This is by far the weirdest thing we’ve ever done,” you stare down at the gaping hole in the floor, which leads directly into a nest of barbed wire. “And we’ve fought evil Russians before.”

“Just savor the moment, Y/N.” Dustin pats your back roughly. “We’re about to successfully trap a Demogorgon.”

–

Your feet tap nervously against the floor of Steve’s car, anxious as ever with your eyes glued to the skyline for any sign of danger. There are so many aspects of the plan that could go horribly wrong. 

Lucas could get hurt distracting the creature, or Mike could trip over his own two feet and fall into the barbed wire pit himself. 

The Demogorgon could completely run past the faux floor and not fall in, leaving you trapped in a house with it.

Or worse, Nancy could miss her only shot at the Demogorgon and fail to implant the telemetry tag, meaning all the work you put in and all the laws you broke would be for nothing.

“This is gonna work.” Dustin reassures the doubts that you don’t voice. 

You stare out the window. “It better work.” 

Holly and El are depending on the plan. 

Their lives are on the line and you’re helpless against the forces that separate you if something goes wrong tonight.

They’re just kids. 

Steve senses your worry and tries to get you to smile. “If this plan doesn’t work and I drilled a giant antenna into my car for nothing, I’m gonna kill Wheeler.”

Despite yourself, you manage a small laugh. “I think it adds character.”

“Hey.” Robin’s voice floats through the walkie. “Talk to me, guys. How’s it looking out there?”

You reach over for the device and respond. “It’s quite over here. How are the Turnbows holding up?”

“They’re still in their ‘food comas’, but I swear to god, this Demo better show up.” Robin huffs out. “If we took out an entire family for nothing, I don’t think my conscience will recover.”

“I’m really tired of committing felonies.”

Robin laughs at this. “Isn’t your boyfriend, like, super well connected with a ton of rich lawyers? I doubt Steve would ever let you anywhere near a jail cell. You’ll be fine, pretty girl.”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Damn right.”

You ignore him and continue talking to Robin. Her ability to soothe you with her soft humor comforts you. “His uncle is a lawyer, actually.”

“Even better! Although I do hope that Steve isn’t related to some douchebag who defends rich criminals, even if white collar crime sounds like a Harrington thing to do.” Robin rambles on. “I do think in this case, however, the rich douchebags would be coming for us.”

You think for a moment before responding. “Technically, I think his uncle his legally required to take a few cases pro bono, so maybe he can help us–”

“Shh!” Dustin harshly shushes you, eyes glued to his binoculars.

Your body springs to attention, leaning forward so that you can get a better look at whatever the hell he’s spotted. You squint your eyes, straining to see something, until you finally find it.

The streetlamps are flickering. 

Your fingers find your knives, pressing the base of its handle into your palm. Adrenaline courses through your veins, it rips through your ribcage and sets every cell in your body on fire. 

It’s time.

“I fucking hate doing this.” You spit out, body bracing for an impact yet to come. 

Dustin ignores you while Steve grabs the walkie from your hand.

“I think we’ve got company. It’s going south down Arlington, T-minus thirty seconds.” He informs the others. “Status check. Taggers?” 

“In position and set.” Nancy confirms. “Launcher?” 

Lucas confirms as well. “Set. Catcher?”

“Set.” Mike’s voice crackles through the walkie. “Trackers?”

You, Dustin, and Steve all look at each other. Anticipation hangs in the air.

“Set.” Steve confirms. “Let’s do this thing already.”

The channel goes quiet as everyone prepares for what’s to come. 

One by one the streetlamps flicker to life, a trail of light that slowly ebbs its way to the Turnbow’s house until suddenly the house itself begins to flash wildly. Shadows dance across its porch and windows as the lights rapidly fade in and out.

“It’s inside.” Dustin reveals to Steve. “Minimize chatter.”

He quickly relays the information to the others inside the house. “It’s inside. No one talk.”

You get out of the car, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Your muscles pull taut, aching to be released. 

Will had been right. There’s no turning back now. 

Through the window you’re able to faintly see the outline of the Demogorgon creep inside of Derek’s room. It sniffs the air, head low as it hunts for the prey you know it won’t find. The minute it reaches the foot of Derek’s bed and claws at the decoy, you run. 

Someone has to be the one to ensure Lucas makes it to the living room in time, and you’ve spent all your life running. 

Within seconds you fling the front door open and shout as loud as you can, “Run!”

You hear Lucas attacking the Demogorgon upstairs with gasoline waterballoons. You anxiously wait for him, heart in your throat, and remain on high alert as the kid comes flying down the stairs, narrowly dodging the trip wire as the monster chases him.

Its pained screams tell you the trip wire has worked, and Lucas lands next to you with a loud thud and you quickly scan his body for any injuries. “Are you alright?”

“No time to talk,” he grabs your arm and pulls you towards the living room. “We need to go!”

Just as you start to run, the Demogorgon jumps over the stair’s railing and nearly crushes you both with its body. You scream, shoving Lucas behind you and stab at it with your knives all while Lucas narrowly manages to navigate the two of you to where Mike awaits. 

Then you’re flying through the air, jumping over the carpet that hides the trap beneath it, and somehow, miraculously, the Demogorgon falls into it just as you’ve landed on the couch across. 

Only its claws grip onto the wooden floor, scratching at the panels as it fights its way back up. Mike bludgeons the monster with a shovel in an attempt to get it to surrender to the inevitable. 

“Get him!” You shout alongside Lucas, hands braced on your knives in case you need to use them. 

With one last blow, Mike sends the Demogorgon down into the Turnbow’s basement where the barbed wires and Nancy and Jonathan await. It writhes in pain, stuck in the painful wire, and in its torture it doesn’t see the shotgun that Nancy aims at its defenseless body. 

The shot echoes within the house and embeds the tracker into its thick skin. The Demogorgon doesn’t have time to register its pain before Jonathan throws a lit flare at it, devouring the monster in flames. 

Just as you think the Demogorgon will finally succumb to its wounds, it thows its body back up towards you, Mike, and Lucas as it screeches in pain. The heat of its flame infested body sears your skin as Mike pushes you out of its way, attacking it with his shovel.

“Get him, Mike!” Lucas screams from the other side, unable to do anything else but watch. 

You lunge at the creature, slicing through its armoured skin as you try desperately to ignore the burning sensation that coats the whites of your knuckles. All you focus on is protecting Mike. Nothing else matters.

The Demogorgon unexpectedly throws its body towards Lucas, and you scream his name so loud that it tears through your vocal chords. He only just barely dodges the monster’s attack before a gate tears open in the wall and the Demogorgon slips inside, making its escape.

“It flipped! I repeat, it flipped!” Mike screams into his walkie before frantically turning to you. “Go follow it, now!”

You flee the house with Nancy and Jonathan right behind you. The three of you throw yourselves into the back of Steve’s car, long past the uncomfortable sensation of being so close together as adrenaline eats you alive. 

“Where is it?” Jonathan demands the second he slides into the seat.

Dustin waves his arm around. “Give me a second!”

Everyone shuts up as he carefully angles the antenna to catch any signal he can find. “Bearing northwest and fast.” Dustin tells Steve, signaling him to start driving.

Steve turns the key, but the engine sputters and groans. “C’mon, work with me here.”

“The Demogorgon is tagged and released.” Dustin clings onto the antenna, radioing everyone your every move. “Trackers in pursuit. Repeat, trackers in pursuit.” He gestures wildly at Steve, who still hasn’t gotten the car to start. “Hit it!”

Your body gets thrown against the seat as Steve accelerates down the road far faster than he should. One more law broken tonight.

“Signal is holding. Keep steady… Holding…” Dustin’s eyes never leave the decibel meter until he abruptly instructs, “Turn right!”

“Right?” Bewilderment covers Steve’s face. There isn’t any road to the right.

“Right! Turn right!” A crazed glint overtakes Dustin’s eyes. “Now!”

Not having any time to argue, Steve blindly jerks the steering wheel and barrels through several fences and mailboxes. The car jumps and lurches at every collision and you have to cling desperately onto Nancy and Jonathan to avoid flying through the windshield. 

“Sorry!” Steve shouts over and over with every bush and curb he hits.

Your stomach twists into painful knots as nausea overwhelms you.

You really didn’t miss the car chases. 

“We’re going to crash!” Jonathan wraps you in his arms, barely clinging onto his own seat as Steve hits yet another fence. “Jesus!”

“Dustin said turn right!” Steve screeches back, hitting his head against the roof after the car runs over something else. 

But Dustin ignores the pained screams and panic. Instead he studies the decibel meter and when the signal suddenly seems to weaken, he silences everyone in the car. “Shut up! Stop! We need to stop right here!”

Steve slams on the brakes and Nancy has to catch your body before you face plant into the center console. “Fuck!”

“Goddamn it, Henderson!” Steve hits the steering wheel in frustration. “What are we doing?”

“We lost the signal!” Dustin erratically steers the antenna in every possible direction.

Dread fills your lungs with every passing second. Have you gotten it all wrong? Did Vecna manage to win again? Will Holly’s blood stain your hands the way her mother’s did? The way Max’s stain still lingers?

“I got it!” Dustin’s voice breaks you from your terror. “It’s headed southeast now.”

“Southeast?” That’s the complete other way you were originally going. “Why would it go–”

You’re unable to finish your sentence before Steve propels the car into reverse, following the signal before it’s lost again. “Hang on!”

“But why would it turn around?” You lean forward as far as you dare, hands gripping the seat tightly as you force Dustin to look at you and reckon with the question that haunts you. “Where is it going?”

“I don’t know,” your brother confesses, risking looking away from the decibel meter to catch your eye. “I’m sorry, Y/N. But I don’t know where the hell this thing is going.”

None of it makes sense. “There’s nothing east except…”

Hawkins urban development predominately took over the west side of the city when it was first established. The west is where all the stores, houses, and schools are. 

But east of Hawkins has remained untouched, rural ever since your mother was a child. While the rest of the city grew and expanded, the east kept its trees and farmland.

Then it hits you like a truck. “The farm!”

The Demogorgon is leading you straight towards the McCorkle farm, where Will and others are. It was supposed to be a refuge for them. A place to hide the Turnbows. A place to be utterly defenseless. 

And now there’s a Demogorgon hunting for blood, running right towards them.

-

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He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

The walk through Central Park had become a habit for the two of you. Dinner somewhere new, then a slow stroll through the park afterward. By the time you reached your usual bench near the path, the sky was already turning deep blue and the lamps had begun to glow.

A few people passed by, bundled against the evening chill. One family wandered past with a little girl trailing behind her parents. The girl suddenly stopped in front of you, eyes fixed on your bag. “I like your keychain,” she said shyly.

You looked down and smiled. “This one?” You held up the little My Melody charm. She nodded immediately.

“Do you want it?” Her eyes widened and she quickly nodded.

You unclasped it from your bag and handed it to her. “Here you go.”

Her parents immediately started apologizing. “Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” her mother said. “She was only admiring it.”

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “I have plenty at home.”

Joe sat beside you, quietly watching the whole exchange with an expression that looked dangerously close to adoration.

The little girl turned the keychain over in her hands like it was treasure. “What’s her name?”

“My Melody,” you said. “She’s kind of a bunny version of Little Red Riding Hood.”

The girl’s face lit up. “I love Little Red Riding Hood! She loves her grandma and I love my grandma.”

Something softened in your expression. You reached over and gently patted her head. “you must be a very good kid.”

The parents thanked you again before continuing down the path, their daughter still clutching the keychain.

For a moment, you and Joe sat in silence, watching them disappear into the crowd. Then Joe turned toward you with a small, incredulous smile. 

You looked away, suddenly interested in the path ahead of you. “It was just a keychain.”

“To her, it wasn’t.”

Joe let the silence settle for a beat before speaking again, more carefully this time. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced back at him. “Depends.”

“Where are your parents?” he asked gently. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just realized you’ve never really talked about them.”

The teasing ease in your posture faded. Your fingers curled together in your lap as your gaze drifted toward the darkening park. When you finally answered, your voice was soft.

“They’re fine.”

Flashback

When your mother finally recovered after giving birth to you, she returned to work almost immediately. Your father would drop you off at your grandmother's house every morning before heading to work himself. As a baby, you didn't know the difference. A warm arm was a warm arm, a lullaby was a lullaby, but as the years passed, the first face that felt like home wasn't your mother's. It wasn't your father's. It was your grandmother's.

She was the one who remembered you hated peas and would hide them beneath mashed potatoes. She was the one who sat beside your bed whenever a fever kept you awake. She was the one who braided your hair before preschool. To a little girl, love looked a lot like your grandmother.

One evening, when you were four, you padded into the living room holding a worn copy of Little Red Riding Hood.

"Mom, can you read me this?"

Your mother glanced over her shoulder. A phone was tucked between her ear and shoulder while her fingers flew across paperwork spread over the dining table.

"Not tonight, sweetheart. Mommy has to finish this call."

"Oh."

You waited for ten to thirty minutes. The story never got read. So you wandered into the living room instead. Your father sat on the couch watching television, a can of beer balanced on his knee.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"Can you read it instead?"

He didn't even look away from the screen. "Maybe tomorrow, kiddo."

Tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. You learned how to sound out the words yourself before either of them ever read the story to you. 

Summer was different. Summer meant Grandma. Summer meant mornings spent watering flowers on her tiny balcony and afternoons grandma baking cookies for you and your playmates. Summer meant sitting side by side at the kitchen table while she taught you how to read properly.

You were slower than most children your age. You stumbled over words, mixed up letters. Got frustrated easily but your grandmother never rushed you.

"Again," she'd say gently. Until eventually the words stopped looking like strange little symbols and started becoming stories.

At four, your grandmother became your entire world.

Maybe that's why you noticed when things started changing. The arguments began first at night behind closed doors, whispers that slowly became shouting. You'd sit at the top of the staircase, hugging your stuffed rabbit while listening to words you didn't fully understand.

"How could you do this to us?" Your mother's voice cracked. "You barely spend time with me or your daughter, and now you got your coworker pregnant?"

Your stomach twisted.

Then your father's voice. "Oh, you're one to talk."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're always working."

"I'm doing this for us."

"No, you're doing this for yourself."

"You know what? Let's just get divorced."

A long silence followed, then your father laughed. 

"Finally." Your mother's breath caught. "I'm not happy in this marriage." another pause. "Or this so-called family."

The words echoed through the house. 

You didn't understand divorce. You didn't understand affairs. You didn't understand broken marriages. Somehow, your chest still hurt. That night, you pretended to be asleep. Through half-open eyes, you watched your father kneel beside your bed.

For the first time in months, he looked tired, not work tired. "Hey, bug." His voice was quiet. "Did I wake you?"

You shook your head and he smiled. It looked broken. "Daddy has to go away for a little while."

You sat up immediately. "Where?"

"Just somewhere else."

"When are you coming back?"

Your father froze for a second but children notice everything. "Soon."

A small smile returned to your face. "Promise?"

He swallowed then nodded. "Promise."

He kissed your forehead. You grabbed his hand before he could stand. Tiny fingers wrapping around two of his.

"Don't go." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

For a moment, your father looked like he might stay. Like he might climb into the empty space beside you and tell you everything would be okay.

Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his. "I love you, bug."

The following week, your mother arrived at Grandma's house carrying three suitcases.

Yours.

At four, you didn't understand why that realization made your stomach hurt.

"You're staying with Grandma for a little while, okay?"

You nodded. "Until tomorrow?"

Your mother smiled. The kind of smile adults wear when they don't know how to answer. "Something like that." She kissed your forehead and promised she'd visit soon.

Tomorrow turned into a week, a week turned into a month. And the month turned into a year.  Your mom never fully neglects you, she visits with lots of gifts and gives your grandma money to support you. At first, your mother visited every weekend, but the visits became once a month.  Eventually, the gifts started arriving without her.

At seven, your grandmother found you crying on the front porch. The sun was beginning to set, painting the neighborhood gold and orange, but you barely noticed.

You sat on the steps hugging your knees, tears soaking the sleeves of your sweater.

"Little cherry?" Your grandmother immediately hurried toward you. "Aw poor girl, what happened? Are you hurt?" Her hands checked your arms, your face, your knees to see if there’s cuts or bruises—none. 

Just tears, lots of tears. The moment she crouched in front of you, you broke completely. "I saw Dad." The words came out between hiccups.

Your grandmother froze. "Oh."

You nodded rapidly. "He was at the park."

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. "He had a little girl." Your voice cracked. "and a new wife." The silence that followed hurt more than anything. Your grandmother pulled you into her arms immediately.

You buried your face against her shoulder. "Grams?"

"Yes, cherry?"

"Why don't they want me?"

You didn't see the tears gathering in her eyes. You only felt her arms tighten around you. "Little cherry, look at me." Reluctantly, you lifted your head. Your grandmother cupped your face gently.

"Do not ever say that again."

"But—"

"No."

Her voice trembled. "They didn't leave because you weren't lovable."

More tears slipped down your cheeks. "Then why did they leave?"

For a moment, your grandmother didn't answer because no answer could make sense to a seven-year-old or even to her. Finally, she brushed away your tears. "Sometimes adults make selfish choices." You stared at her. "That's not your fault."

Your bottom lip trembled. "Am I hard to love?"

Your grandmother's face crumpled. She kissed your forehead. Then your cheeks. Then your nose. As if she could erase the question. "This world is lucky to have a girl like you."

"You are kind."

"You are funny."

"You have the biggest heart I've ever seen."

You started crying again. This time, because of how much she loved you. And your grandmother cried too, quietly. No child should ever have to wonder whether they're worth loving. No child should have to ask that question at all.

The years passed.

At eight, your grandmother taught you how to bake. Your first batch of cupcakes came out salty, you cried. Your grandmother ate two of them anyway and called them perfect.

At nine, she taught you how to ride a bicycle. You scraped both knees, threatened to quit. Yet spent the rest of the afternoon racing up and down the street.

At ten, you discovered Ella Fitzgerald through your grandmother's old records. Soon the house was filled with jazz music and your off-key singing while kneading bread dough.

At eleven years old, you started helping customers at the bakery. You wrapped pastries counted pennies, and gave away far too many free cookies. Your grandmother always pretended not to notice.

At twelve, something changed. You stopped asking when your parents were coming back. Your grandmother noticed immediately. Neither of you talked about it. But that night, she held you a little longer than usual as if she understood what that silence meant.

At sixteen, you came home from school and heard shouting. The moment you stepped onto the porch, your stomach dropped. The voices were coming from inside. One of them belonged to your grandmother. The other, you hadn't heard in years.

"No." Your grandmother's voice shook. "You don't get to show up after all this time and take her away from me."

"I'm her mother." Your mother's voice echoed through the house. "...and she's my daughter."

"No." The word came sharp as glass. "You stopped being a mother the moment you chose to abandon her." Then your grandmother continued. "Every day I ask myself what I did wrong raising you."

Your mother's breath caught. "What?"

"What did I do wrong that my own daughter grew into someone capable of leaving her child behind?" Tears immediately filled your eyes. Your grandmother's voice cracked. "As your mother, you've broken my heart."

You pushed the front door open both women turned. For the first time in years, you saw your mother. Your grandmother was clutching her chest.

You rushed toward her instantly. "Grams?" You dropped your backpack. "Grandma, are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "I'm alright, little cherry," but you could see she wasn't.

Then slowly, you turned toward your mother. She looked older, tired and nervous like she wasn't sure what to say. Neither were you.

For years, you'd imagined this moment. Wondered what you'd tell her. Wondered if you'd cry. Wondered if you'd run into her arms. Instead, you felt strangely empty.

"Hi." Your mother's voice barely came out.

You just stared at the stranger wearing your face. "Come home with me."

The words hung between you, your grandmother went rigid.

You didn't even think. "No."

Your mother's eyes widened. "No?"

You shook your head. "I already am home." The room went silent. You moved closer to your grandmother, instinctively like you'd done your entire life. "I don't want to go."

Your mother's eyes filled with tears. "Please."

For a second, your heart cracked because part of you still wanted a mother. Part of you always would but she had missed everything.

So you wiped your tears and stood your ground. "You weren't there." The words came out shaking. "but Grandma was."

Your mother closed her eyes as if the truth hurt. Good. You hoped it did.

You immediately dropped to your knees beside your grandmother. “Grams?” Your voice shook. “Grams, are you okay?” Her hand was still pressed against her chest. Not enough to frighten you, but enough to make your stomach twist. You wrapped both of your hands around hers. “Do you need water? Should I call someone?”

Grams smiled softly despite everything. “No, little cherry. I'm alright.”

You weren't convinced. The room still felt heavy from the argument. Your mother stood near the doorway, silent now, watching the two of you for a moment and left. 

Your grandmother looked between you and her. Then she asked quietly, “Are you sure about your decision?”

For a second, you blinked.

Then you laughed. A small, disbelieving laugh. “Grams.” You squeezed her hand. “Why are you asking me that?”

Your grandmother didn't answer.

You looked at her for a moment before your expression softened. “Where would I even go?” Your voice was gentle. “I already have everything I need.”

“You taught me how to read.” Your grandmother's eyes immediately filled with tears. “You taught me how to ride a bike.” You smiled weakly. “You taught me how to bake.” Another tear slipped down her cheek. “And whenever I thought something was wrong with me...” your voice cracked slightly, “you were always there telling me there wasn't.” You swallowed hard. “There isn't a day that goes by that I ask myself if I'm worth loving anymore.”

Your grandmother covered her mouth, she remembered the little girl, that little girl was gone now. Not because the hurt disappeared, but because she had been loved enough to heal.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around her. “I learned that from you.”

Your grandmother hugged you so tightly it almost hurt. “Oh, little cherry,” she whispered.

You buried your face in her shoulder. Then, after a moment, you pulled back and wiped your eyes dramatically. “Okay, that's enough crying for one afternoon.”

Your grandmother laughed through her tears. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

You pointed toward the backyard. “You're going to sit outside and watch your plants.”

“Bossy.”

“Very.”

“And what are you going to do?”

You grinned. “Make you tea.” Then you paused, your nose twitched. “Also, unless I'm imagining things, somebody's cinnamon rolls are ready.”

Your grandmother's laugh finally returned, warm and familiar. “There she is.”

“Of course, there I am,” you said, offering her your hand. “Now come on. You raised me. You should know I'm impossible to get rid of.”

The years that followed were some of the happiest of your life. There was laughter echoing through the bakery before sunrise. There was jazz playing from the old radio while your grandmother kneaded dough.

There were afternoons spent tending her garden, evenings spent sharing tea on the porch, and countless mornings where she greeted you with flour on her cheek and a cinnamon roll already waiting.

And then, one day, there wasn't. The house became unbearably quiet. No humming from the kitchen. No gardening gloves left by the back door. No voice calling you little cherry.

The first week without her felt impossible. You tried to keep the bakery open because that's what she would've done, but grief followed you into every recipe. The cookies came out too salty. The cakes too dry. The bread underproofed. You forgot ingredients you'd known by heart since childhood.

One afternoon, an elderly customer watched you pull a tray of burnt pastries from the oven with tears streaming down your face. He gently placed a hand on yours. "Go home, sweetheart," he said softly. "The bakery will still be here next week."

You found yourself standing in your grandmother's room. The scent of lavender still lingered on her blankets. Her reading glasses still rested on the nightstand. Everything looked exactly the same. As if she had simply stepped out for a walk and would return any minute.

That illusion shattered when you opened her bedside drawer. Inside was a cream-colored envelope. Your name written across the front in familiar handwriting.

Beside it sat dozens of photographs. Pictures of climbing trees. . Your dress she sewed for your prom. Holding your first tray of cupcakes and sleeping beside Ponkan as a kitten.

Every version of you.

Your hands trembled as you opened the envelope.

My little cherry,

If you're reading this, then I'm probably no longer sitting in my favorite chair by the window, pretending not to watch you burn another batch of cookies.

First of all, stop crying. Yes, I know you're crying. You've always cried when your heart feels too full. You cried when your first loaf of bread came out flat as a pancake. You cried when that orange cat followed you home and refused to leave.

And if I know you at all, you're crying right now with tears falling all over this letter. Please stop that, my handwriting is beautiful. I would hate for you to ruin it.

Now that I've hopefully made you laugh a little, let's talk. I don't know how to begin a goodbye. Truthfully, I don't think this is a goodbye at all. Because how could I ever leave you? You are in every beautiful memory I have.

When I close my eyes, I still see the little girl who followed me around the bakery carrying a wooden spoon twice the size of her hand. I see the little girl who insisted on reading recipes out loud even when she could barely pronounce half the words.

I see the little girl who brought home every stray animal, every lonely friend, every broken thing she found because she believed everything deserved to be loved.

Little cherry, the day you were born changed my life. Not because you fixed anything. Not because you gave me purpose. You never owed me that. I loved you because you were you. Because you had the biggest heart I've ever seen. Because your laugh could fill an entire room. Because even when life wasn't kind to you, you somehow remained kind anyway.

That is something I have always admired about you. There were days when I wished I could protect you from every hurt this world had to offer. The nights you cried yourself to sleep. The questions you asked that no child should ever have to ask. The moments you wondered whether you were difficult to love.

If I could go back and change one thing, it would be that because the answer has always been so simple. You have never been hard to love.

The truth is, loving you has been the easiest thing I've done in my entire life. I need you to remember that. There will be days when you miss me so much your chest aches. Days when you reach for the phone because you want to tell me something before remembering you can't. Days when the bakery feels too quiet. Days when the world feels unfair.

On those days, I want you to be gentle with yourself. Drink water. Eat something. Open the curtains and please stop trying to work through your sadness. You've never been very good at hiding it.

Now listen carefully, because this is important. I need you to keep going. I need you to chase every dream you've ever told me about. Build that little café you've been sketching in your notebooks. Fill it with flowers. Fill it with books. Fill it with silly decorations and mismatched chairs. Learn new recipes. Travel somewhere you've never been. Buy yourself pretty things without feeling guilty. Adopt another cat if you want to, though perhaps not too many. One orange troublemaker is already enough.

And sweetheart, leave this town. I know you'll argue with me about that. I can practically hear it now. "Grams, I don't want to go." Yes, you do. You've simply forgotten that you're brave. You're too big for this town, you always have been.

Don't stay because you're afraid of leaving me behind. I'm coming with you. I'll be there in every cinnamon roll you bake. Every cup of tea you make. Every flower you plant. Every person you help. Every recipe card stained with butter and flour. You'll find me in all the places that love lives.

And one more thing, someday, someone is going to love you very, very much. Not because you're beautiful, though you are. Not because you're kind, though you are. Not because you take care of everyone around you, though you do. They're going to love you because you're you. The same way I always have.

When that person arrives, let them love you. Don't push them away. Don't convince yourself you're asking for too much and don't spend your whole life carrying everything by yourself.

You were never meant to. The strongest people still deserve someone to lean on. Promise me you'll remember that.

Thank you for being my granddaughter. Thank you for every birthday. very burnt cookie. Every late-night conversation. Every hug. Every laugh. Every Ella Fitzergerald. 

Thank you for letting me be your grandmother. If I had a thousand lives, I would choose you in every single one.

Now wipe your tears, feed the cat. And go live the beautiful life that's waiting for you. I'll be cheering for you the whole time.

Forever and always,

Grams

P.S. The secret ingredient was always a little more vanilla than the recipe called for. Don't tell anyone and don’t forget to eat breakfast. 

One year passed.

The moving truck pulled away from the curb with a low rumble, carrying the last boxes that remained of your life in this town.

You stood in the driveway for a long moment. The house looked the same. Your fingers tightened around the car keys. "Okaaay," you whispered to yourself.

Then, after a moment, "Okay, you got this." The second time sounded more convincing. Beside you, Ponkan meowed from inside his carrier as if reminding you he was still waiting. You laughed softly. "Right. Sorry."

You glanced back at the house one last time.

For a second, you could almost picture your grandmother standing on the porch waving you off with that familiar smile. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared. You smiled anyway. "Love you, Grams."

You got into the car, next stop was the bakery. The woman who had purchased it was already waiting when you arrived. The little bell above the door chimed one final time as you stepped inside.

"I promise I'll take good care of it."

You looked around the bakery one last time. A lump formed in your throat. "I know you will."

The woman stepped forward and hugged you. "Good luck on your journey."

You hugged her back. "Thank you." When you finally pulled away, you realized your eyes were wet.

A few minutes later, you climbed back into the driver's seat. Ponkan immediately stretched across the passenger seat like he owned the car.

You started the engine, the road ahead stretched farther than you could see. You rested a hand on top of Ponkan's head. "Ready to see New York?"

issy talks again: every comment, reblog, message, and like genuinely makes me want to keep writing this series. sometimes i'll be staring at a blank document wondering what to write next, and then i read your comments and messages, and suddenly i have ten new ideas. thank you for making my heart so full 🫶🏼💗🍪💐

the girl next door (is not a grandma)

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check out the playlist!!

fluff 🎐 angst 🏹 personal favorites 🧺

one shots time present and time past 🧺🏹

situationship!reader contemplates einstein's theory of relativity and wishes she could stop time as she watches spencer sleep—3.4k words

joy sneaks in 🎐

bau!reader and spencer try their best to hide their relationship from the team during a christmas party—3.9k words

the cup holds the tea 🎐

bau!reader has too much to drink and its up to bf!spencer to get her home, puke on shoes and all—3k words

in eternal lines 🎐🏹

student!reader has an essay due and her fever isn't helping. the fact that she has a genius for a boyfriend doesn't do much for her self confidence either—5.2k words

the garden is growing 🧺🎐

bau!reader catches up with an old friend leading her and spencer to have a contemplative talk about their relationship—2.2k words

the fox and her hound 🧺🎐🏹

a love story told through the allegory of a fox and a hound—2k words

empty my soul 🎐

spencer compares the pull of his desire and devotion toward you against the seven deadly sins—1.8k words

your hand in my hand 🎐

bau!reader and spencer are forced to embark on a 4 hour train ride together much to their disdain (at first)—3.1k words

like a lover 🎐🏹

student!reader gets drunk after a brutal final and spencer is beyond mad—3.8k words

a perpetual possibility 🧺🏹

situationship reader stays over at spencer's for the first time and breaks down in his bed—3.6k words

sun makes the day new 🎐

bau!reader has too much to drink (again) and the team calls upon spencer for backup to wrangle their beloved running drunk home—3.8k words

the earth was made for lovers 🎐

bau!reader and bf!spencer spend a rare day out filled with domestic fluff—2.3k words

between the sand and the stardust 🎐

reader is up contemplating what life would be like if her and spencer had never met. spencer has a few reassuring things to say about it—1.8k words

it's dry january 🎐

flirty bau!reader renders spencer reid a bumbling idiot on a night out—1.1k words

to get it anyway 🎐

bau!reader gets hurt during a case and spencer is worried out of his mind (worried enough to confess his feelings for her)—2.2k words

thanks to the light you shower🎐 🏹

reader spirals during a friendship breakup and spencer is there to comfort and reassure her—3.3k words

your star next to mine 🧺🎐

spencer simply loves waking up to bau!reader in the morning—1k words

petals and frost 🏹

spencer falls a little too hard when you join the team for a temporary attachment—2.8k words

to be an accountant of the heart🎐🏹

bau!reader feels insecure about how strongly she feels for spencer—5k words

little hearts everywhere🎐🏹

bau!reader experiences a panic attack on a case and spencer helps her both through it and after it—2.2k words

in my dream, i'm fixing your crutch🧺🎐🏹

bau!reader and spencer deal with the aftermath of guilt and forgiveness after he takes a bullet for her—2.8k words

suddenly, here it is🎐

bf!spencer just wants reader to spend the sunday in bed together—1.8k words

series burnt norton; the masterlist

you've waited, you've stayed, you've stayed in the waiting. more pathetic than poetic if you're being honest. situationship core x avoidant spencer

little red cap; the masterlist

spencer tries, always, to keep that part of his life separate from you. from this brief glimpse, you’re not sure if you’re ready for it after all. lit student reader helps spencer with a clue he missed.

with more to come ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Return to Directory

✨ - Ophelia’s Favourites ; 👑 - Ophelia’s Favourite

❤️ - Season 10 ; 🤍 - Season 7

One Shots:

little light ; dysphoria

reader suffers from post-coital dysphoria after her and Spencer's first time together - 3.9k words - angst, fluff

the bolter ; cannibal

exhausted reader can't communicate her feelings to Spencer - 4.1k words - angst, fluff

fuzzy chemicals ; tramp

reader shows Spencer her tattoo - 3.1k words - fluff

the theory of love : intimacy (18+ MDNI) ✨❤️

reader feels insecure about measuring up to Spencer's intelligence, Spencer tells her about Plato's Theory Of Love, and we all learn what intimacy is - 6.1k words - fluff, angst, smut (minimal)

nature versus nurture ; tsunami (18+ MDNI)

reader has a panic attack during sexy time with Spencer - 5.1k words - fluff, angst, smut (minimal)

the macabre threnody of doctor spencer reid ; junkie ✨❤️

Spencer is hospitalised during an altercation with an unsub and comes clean to reader about why he won't accept pain medication - 4.9k words - fluff, angst

oh, he knows ; aurora ✨🤍

in reader's final moments, she has a confession for Spencer - 5.4k words - angst, fluff

the enigma and the conundrum ; lobotomy ❤️

both awake at midnight, Spencer and reader try to solve each other, and learn there's nothing to be solved - 5.4k words - fluff

the storm chaser ; heaven-sent 👑🤍

tensions rise following Emily's return to the BAU, and Spencer and reader face the pain of trauma, grief, and deceit, finding comfort in love, neuroscience, and eastern philosophy - 9.2k words - angst, fluff

good things ; magic 🤍

love blossoms like magic at JJ's wedding for Spencer and reader - 3.8k words - pure fluff

the act of finding peace ; stardust

Spencer helps Autistic!Reader navigate her feelings and doubts after an altercation at work - 2.7k words - fluff

the patzer's gambit ; serendipity ✨

Spencer and reader navigate their relationship issues over a chess game - 5.0k words - angst, fluff

monsters and demons ; camellia

Spencer comforts reader through an episode of sleep paralysis - 2.0k words - comfort

symbolic interactionism ; harlot (18+ MDNI)

Spencer and reader confront their complicated feelings around sexual intimacy - 5.2k words - comfort, angst

the goodness, love, i still carry for you ; 101

Spencer contemplates the future of your relationship after the death of Haley Hotchner - 5.5k - angst, comfort

selfish gene theory ; zero

Spencer comforts you after a break up - comfort, healthy pinch of inner angst, some fluff - 2.2k

fear of god ; hit 🤍

After Spencer and reader's Saturday off is ruined when The Face Cards attempt to rob Colonial Liberty Bank, Spencer takes care of reader when she's concussed 5.7k - comfort

everywhere i go leads me back to you ; autopsy (18+ MDNI) ✨❤️

when reader returns from her nine months away at Interpol, she and spencer are forced to reckon with their 'situationship' - 7.2k words - angst, comfort

Series:

tramp ; the series masterlist (ongoing / open)

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.

the complex dynamic between season two Spencer Reid and emotionally-unavailable, completely infatuated reader.

monster ; the series masterlist (ongoing / open)

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

dark / unsub / morally ambiguous reader can't help but fall in love with doctor spencer reid in every universe. a collection of one shots / AUs.

honey ; the series (smut) masterlist (18+) (ongoing / closed)

We are afraid to be known because at some deep level we fear that the truth about us, when out in the open and reflected back to us through someone else’s eyes, will be shocking to ourselves.

a collection of smut works for our special doctor spencer reid - please note this entire masterlist is to be considered 18+ MDNI

decompose ; the series masterlist (upcoming, closed)

so don't tell them what you told me don't hold me like you know me i would rather burn forever

how committed are you to decomposing?

the apartment had felt too quiet the second joe left.

not actually quiet, because the baby had been babbling in your arms while joe pulled his jacket on, tiny fingers grabbing for him immediately the second she noticed him moving toward the door. but quiet in the way the air changed after he was gone, like something warm had been pulled out of the room.

“i’ll be back later,” he promised softly, kissing your forehead before leaning down to kiss the baby’s chubby cheek. “be good for mama, okay?”

she immediately burst into tears the moment he stepped outside.

at first, you laughed.

not because it was funny exactly, but because this had become normal lately. she was attached to joe in a way that was almost ridiculous. the second he walked into a room, her entire face lit up. she reached for him constantly, cried when he left, settled instantly in his arms. everyone said it was just a phase. babies did this. it didn’t mean she loved you less.

still, after weeks of barely sleeping and constantly feeling like you were somehow doing everything wrong, it was hard not to let it get to you a little.

“i know, sweetheart,” you murmured, bouncing her gently against your chest. “daddy’s gone. i know.”

and for a while, she was okay.

fussy, but okay.

you sat with her on the couch, rubbed her back, turned on some kiddy show neither of you were watching. she eventually calmed enough to suck lazily on her pacifier while blinking sleepily at you.

you thought maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

then an hour passed and something shifted.

it started small. little whines. squirming. her tiny face screwing up unhappily every few minutes before she let out another cry.

you checked her diaper. clean.

you made a bottle. she barely drank any of it before crying harder.

you walked her around the apartment until your arms ached. bounced her. rocked her. sang softly against her head even though your throat felt dry and scratchy from exhaustion.

nothing worked, her cries only got louder.

more desperate.

and after a while they stopped sounding like normal baby cries and started sounding painful. sharp. heartbroken. each one clawing its way right into your chest.

“please,” you whispered at one point, voice trembling. “please, baby, i’m trying.”

you sat on the edge of the bed with her against your shoulder, tears stinging your own eyes while she screamed into your ear. you tried another bottle. another diaper change. you gave her a warm bath, hoping maybe it would soothe her.

she cried through all of it.

hours passed like that, hours.

the apartment slowly darkened around you while you paced from room to room with her in your arms. your hair stuck to the back of your neck. your shirt had spit-up on the shoulder. your head pounded from the constant crying and lack of sleep and the awful growing feeling that maybe she really didn’t want you.

every time she cried harder when you held her, your chest tightened more.

because what if you were doing something wrong? what if she could tell you were tired? frustrated? overwhelmed?

what kind of mother couldn’t calm her own baby?

by the time you looked at the clock again, your hands were shaking.

you stared at your phone sitting on the counter for a long moment.

you didn’t want to call joe.

you knew he didn’t want to be at this meeting in the first place. joe barely slept either. he looked exhausted when he left that morning, dark circles under his eyes, stress sitting heavy on his shoulders. you knew work had been nonstop lately. interviews, meetings, calls. he was stretched thin.

and the last thing you wanted was to make his day worse.

so you tried one more time.

you dimmed the lights, held her against your chest, walked slow circles around the living room while quietly humming.

she screamed harder.

your vision blurred instantly.

before you could stop yourself, you grabbed your phone and called him.

it rang twice.

then his voice came through, hurried and slightly breathless. “hey- is everything okay? i just stepped out of my meeting.”

the sound of his voice nearly broke you immediately.

you opened your mouth, trying to explain calmly, but the words came out tangled and messy instead.

“i- she won’t stop crying,” you said quickly, your voice shaking. “joe, i’ve tried everything, i don’t know what to do anymore. she won’t eat, she won’t sleep, she just keeps crying and i think she wants you and-”

the baby let out another sharp wail in the background.

you swallowed hard.

“she always cries with me lately,” you whispered, voice cracking completely now. “i don’t know what i’m doing wrong-”

there was a pause, then you heard joe exhale sharply.

not tired, annoyed.

your stomach dropped instantly.

“what do you want me to do?” he snapped.

you froze completely.

your grip tightened around the baby automatically while your mind struggled to catch up with the sudden harshness in his voice.

“i-” you started weakly.

“i’m in the middle of something right now,” he said, frustration bleeding through every word. “i don’t have time for this.”

your throat tightened painfully.

the baby kept crying.

you couldn’t say anything, could barely breathe, and then his voice came again, sharper this time.

“you have to figure it out yourself, okay? i have to go.”

the line went dead.

silence.

not real silence, because the baby was still crying in your arms, but the kind of silence that rang in your ears anyway.

you slowly lowered the phone from your ear.

your face burned hot instantly, tears filling your eyes so fast you could barely see. it felt stupid, honestly. pathetic. you knew he was stressed. knew he was exhausted. knew he probably regretted snapping the second he said it.

but it still hurt.

god, it hurt.

especially because you already felt like you were failing.

the baby cried harder against your shoulder and you sucked in a shaky breath before locking your phone and setting it down carefully on the counter.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, even though your voice barely worked. “it’s okay.”

you weren’t even sure if you were talking to her or yourself anymore.

you held her close against your chest, one hand cradling the back of her tiny head while you walked slowly through the apartment.

back and forth.

back and forth.

your tears slid silently down your cheeks while you rocked her gently.

“i know,” you whispered shakily into her hair. “i know, sweetheart. i know.”

eventually, somehow, her cries started softening. little hiccuping sobs replacing the screaming. then quiet sniffles.

your own breathing trembled as you kept walking, too scared to stop in case she started crying again.

but she didn’t. instead, her tiny body slowly melted against yours, warm and heavy with sleep.

you looked down carefully.

her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, her little fist curled loosely against your shirt.

finally asleep.

a broken sound nearly escaped your throat from pure relief.

“okay,” you whispered weakly. “okay.”

you carried her into the nursery carefully, terrified every creak of the floor might wake her. your arms ached as you leaned over the crib, lowering her down inch by inch.

for one horrible second, she stirred, you froze completely, but then she settled again with a soft sleepy sigh.

still asleep.

you stood there for a moment, staring at her then your knees finally gave out.

you slid slowly down the side of the crib until you were sitting on the floor beside it, arms wrapped around yourself tightly.

and the second you were down there alone in the quiet, you started crying.

silent tears at first, then shaky breaths. your hand covered your mouth immediately so you wouldn’t wake the baby, shoulders trembling as you cried into your palm.

because you were exhausted. because you missed your husband even though he’d only been gone a few hours. because his words kept replaying in your head no matter how hard you tried to push them away.

you have to figure it out yourself.

you squeezed your eyes shut hard. you knew he hadn’t meant it, you knew joe loved you, knew he was tired and overwhelmed and probably stressed out of his mind, but sitting there alone on the nursery floor, cheeks wet with tears while your baby finally slept above you, it was impossible not to feel painfully alone anyway.

-

after a while, you forced yourself to stand.

your legs felt stiff from sitting curled up on the nursery floor for so long, eyes sore and heavy as you wiped at your cheeks one last time before looking down at the baby sleeping peacefully in her crib.

you watched her for a second just to make sure she was really settled.

then you quietly left the room.

the apartment was still a mess.

bottles in the sink. tiny baby clothes draped over the couch. blankets tossed everywhere from pacing around with her for hours. the whole place looked as exhausted as you felt.

so you decided to clean.

mostly because you didn’t know what else to do.

you kept the baby monitor beside you at all times, volume turned high enough that every tiny shuffle came through the speaker while you moved around the apartment picking things up quietly.

you folded laundry, washed bottles, wiped down the counters, anything to keep your mind busy. anything to stop replaying the phone call over and over in your head.

you kept hearing his voice.

i don’t have time for this.

you knew joe. knew he hadn’t meant it, but it still sat heavy in your chest anyway.

after cleaning for a while, you checked the time and realised it was getting late enough for dinner. you weren’t really hungry, honestly, but you knew you had to eat, so you made pasta.

nothing fancy. just something quick and easy because you barely had the energy to stand upright anymore. the pasta boiled quietly while you heated up a jar of ready-made sauce on the stove, eyes flicking toward the baby monitor every few seconds automatically.

you even made enough for joe too.

despite everything, despite still feeling hurt. because loving him was annoyingly easy even when you were upset with him.

the sauce was finishing heating when you finally heard the front door unlock.

your whole body froze instantly.

you stared down at the stove for a second, fingers tightening slightly around the wooden spoon in your hand while the sound of the door opening echoed through the apartment.

then silence.

you could practically picture him standing there listening.

probably waiting for crying, waiting for chaos. instead, the apartment was quiet.

you heard him slowly take his shoes off then the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor, and suddenly all the emotions you’d barely been holding together all evening came rushing right back up your throat again.

your eyes burned instantly.

you blinked hard, trying to stop it, but tears spilled over anyway.

god, you were so tired.

you quickly wiped at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie just as footsteps approached the kitchen.

then stopped completely.

you turned slightly and saw joe standing in the doorway. his eyes landed on you immediately. on the stove, on your trembling hands, then finally on your face.

his expression crumpled.

completely.

“oh, honey” he said softly.

the guilt in his voice was immediate.

he walked toward you carefully like he was scared you might pull away from him, stopping beside you while his eyes searched your face.

when he noticed how red your eyes still were, his whole face fell.

his heart visibly broke right there in front of you.

“i’m really sorry for how i spoke to you”

you swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

couldn’t, really.

instead you just reached over and quietly switched the stove off.

and before either of you could say anything else, soft crackling noises came through the baby monitor.

little sleepy fusses.

tiny whines.

you instinctively moved immediately, but joe gently spoke first.

“i’ll get it” he said quietly.

you stopped, then looked at him, and before you could stop yourself, the hurt slipped out anyway.

“no,” you said softly. “i have to figure it out by myself, right?”

the second the words left your mouth, guilt flashed across his face so hard it almost looked physical.

“baby-”

but you were already walking past him toward the nursery.

it was petty, you knew it was. and honestly, a part of you already felt bad because you knew he was exhausted too.

but he’d hurt your feelings and right now you couldn’t fully pretend he hadn’t.

the nursery door creaked softly as you pushed it open.

the baby was awake now, squirming slightly in her crib with sleepy little noises leaving her lips.

“hey, sweetheart” you whispered immediately.

you leaned down and lifted her carefully into your arms. the second she settled against your chest, her fussing eased. completely.

your chest tightened instantly with relief.

“there we go” you murmured softly, kissing the top of her head.

you held her close while gently swaying back and forth around the room, humming quietly under your breath.

and somehow no crying, no screaming, just sleepy little sighs against your shoulder. you could’ve cried from relief all over again honestly.

you checked her diaper quickly before realizing she was probably just hungry.

so you turned around and froze slightly. joe was standing quietly in the doorway holding a bottle.

his eyes were glassy, watery enough that your chest immediately ached at the sight.

he held the bottle out toward you silently.

and god, you hated seeing him look sad.

you sighed softly before nodding toward the chair in the corner.

“sit.”

he obeyed instantly.

you walked over slowly, still holding the baby close to your chest while joe sat heavily in the chair.

then, without really thinking too hard about it, you carefully lowered yourself into his lap.

the second you did, his arms wrapped around you tightly, like he needed to hold you, like he’d been waiting to breathe again.

you took the bottle from him and guided it gently toward the baby’s mouth, smiling faintly when she immediately started drinking sleepily.

joe buried his face against your hair.

his arms tightened around both of you.

“i love you so much,” he whispered shakily. “god, i’m so sorry.”

you stayed quiet, listening.

“i regretted it the second i said it,” he continued softly. “i swear i did. i tried to leave early and come home but the meeting just- fuck- it was important and-”

you sighed quietly before turning your head enough to press a small kiss against his neck.

he melted instantly.

when you pulled back slightly, you noticed his eyes still looked watery.

“i hate seeing you cry,” he whispered. “i feel sick knowing i made you do it.”

your own eyes stung again immediately at the honesty in his voice.

joe lifted one hand carefully to your face, thumb brushing softly across your cheek before he leaned down and kissed your forehead gently.

then his hand moved lower, resting softly against the baby while she drank her bottle.

he looked down at both of you for a long moment.

then smiled weakly.

“you two are my whole world.”

your heart squeezed painfully.

you smiled a little too, looking down at the baby.

“you guys are mine too”

joe huffed a tiny laugh before resting his chin lightly against your shoulder.

“no matter what, i love you, okay?” he murmured quietly. “even when i’m grumpy as shit.”

you immediately frowned slightly.

“don’t swear in front of the baby.”

he rolled his eyes tiredly and you couldn’t help smiling a little more this time.

the room finally felt soft again.

you looked back down at the baby still sleepily drinking her bottle before speaking quietly.

“i’m sorry i called-”

“never.”

joe interrupted you instantly, firmly.

you looked up at him in surprise, his eyes were serious now. completely serious.

“never be sorry for calling me,” he said softly. “you always call me when you need me. always.”

your throat tightened slightly.

“joe-”

“i mean it,” he whispered. “i’m sorry for reacting how i did. i was stressed and tired and i took it out on you and that wasn’t fair. but i need you to promise me you’ll still call me first. every time.”

you stared at him for a second before nodding slowly.

“i promise.”

he held your gaze another second longer, making sure you meant it, then finally nodded too.

his head rested back against yours again while his arms stayed wrapped tightly around you and the baby, holding both of you close like he never wanted to let go again.

-

the apartment had felt too quiet the second joe left.

not actually quiet, because the baby had been babbling in your arms while joe pulled his jacket on, tiny fingers grabbing for him immediately the second she noticed him moving toward the door. but quiet in the way the air changed after he was gone, like something warm had been pulled out of the room.

“i’ll be back later,” he promised softly, kissing your forehead before leaning down to kiss the baby’s chubby cheek. “be good for mama, okay?”

she immediately burst into tears the moment he stepped outside.

at first, you laughed.

not because it was funny exactly, but because this had become normal lately. she was attached to joe in a way that was almost ridiculous. the second he walked into a room, her entire face lit up. she reached for him constantly, cried when he left, settled instantly in his arms. everyone said it was just a phase. babies did this. it didn’t mean she loved you less.

still, after weeks of barely sleeping and constantly feeling like you were somehow doing everything wrong, it was hard not to let it get to you a little.

“i know, sweetheart,” you murmured, bouncing her gently against your chest. “daddy’s gone. i know.”

and for a while, she was okay.

fussy, but okay.

you sat with her on the couch, rubbed her back, turned on some kiddy show neither of you were watching. she eventually calmed enough to suck lazily on her pacifier while blinking sleepily at you.

you thought maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

then an hour passed and something shifted.

it started small. little whines. squirming. her tiny face screwing up unhappily every few minutes before she let out another cry.

you checked her diaper. clean.

you made a bottle. she barely drank any of it before crying harder.

you walked her around the apartment until your arms ached. bounced her. rocked her. sang softly against her head even though your throat felt dry and scratchy from exhaustion.

nothing worked, her cries only got louder.

more desperate.

and after a while they stopped sounding like normal baby cries and started sounding painful. sharp. heartbroken. each one clawing its way right into your chest.

“please,” you whispered at one point, voice trembling. “please, baby, i’m trying.”

you sat on the edge of the bed with her against your shoulder, tears stinging your own eyes while she screamed into your ear. you tried another bottle. another diaper change. you gave her a warm bath, hoping maybe it would soothe her.

she cried through all of it.

hours passed like that, hours.

the apartment slowly darkened around you while you paced from room to room with her in your arms. your hair stuck to the back of your neck. your shirt had spit-up on the shoulder. your head pounded from the constant crying and lack of sleep and the awful growing feeling that maybe she really didn’t want you.

every time she cried harder when you held her, your chest tightened more.

because what if you were doing something wrong? what if she could tell you were tired? frustrated? overwhelmed?

what kind of mother couldn’t calm her own baby?

by the time you looked at the clock again, your hands were shaking.

you stared at your phone sitting on the counter for a long moment.

you didn’t want to call joe.

you knew he didn’t want to be at this meeting in the first place. joe barely slept either. he looked exhausted when he left that morning, dark circles under his eyes, stress sitting heavy on his shoulders. you knew work had been nonstop lately. interviews, meetings, calls. he was stretched thin.

and the last thing you wanted was to make his day worse.

so you tried one more time.

you dimmed the lights, held her against your chest, walked slow circles around the living room while quietly humming.

she screamed harder.

your vision blurred instantly.

before you could stop yourself, you grabbed your phone and called him.

it rang twice.

then his voice came through, hurried and slightly breathless. “hey- is everything okay? i just stepped out of my meeting.”

the sound of his voice nearly broke you immediately.

you opened your mouth, trying to explain calmly, but the words came out tangled and messy instead.

“i- she won’t stop crying,” you said quickly, your voice shaking. “joe, i’ve tried everything, i don’t know what to do anymore. she won’t eat, she won’t sleep, she just keeps crying and i think she wants you and-”

the baby let out another sharp wail in the background.

you swallowed hard.

“she always cries with me lately,” you whispered, voice cracking completely now. “i don’t know what i’m doing wrong-”

there was a pause, then you heard joe exhale sharply.

not tired, annoyed.

your stomach dropped instantly.

“what do you want me to do?” he snapped.

you froze completely.

your grip tightened around the baby automatically while your mind struggled to catch up with the sudden harshness in his voice.

“i-” you started weakly.

“i’m in the middle of something right now,” he said, frustration bleeding through every word. “i don’t have time for this.”

your throat tightened painfully.

the baby kept crying.

you couldn’t say anything, could barely breathe, and then his voice came again, sharper this time.

“you have to figure it out yourself, okay? i have to go.”

the line went dead.

silence.

not real silence, because the baby was still crying in your arms, but the kind of silence that rang in your ears anyway.

you slowly lowered the phone from your ear.

your face burned hot instantly, tears filling your eyes so fast you could barely see. it felt stupid, honestly. pathetic. you knew he was stressed. knew he was exhausted. knew he probably regretted snapping the second he said it.

but it still hurt.

god, it hurt.

especially because you already felt like you were failing.

the baby cried harder against your shoulder and you sucked in a shaky breath before locking your phone and setting it down carefully on the counter.

“it’s okay,” you whispered, even though your voice barely worked. “it’s okay.”

you weren’t even sure if you were talking to her or yourself anymore.

you held her close against your chest, one hand cradling the back of her tiny head while you walked slowly through the apartment.

back and forth.

back and forth.

your tears slid silently down your cheeks while you rocked her gently.

“i know,” you whispered shakily into her hair. “i know, sweetheart. i know.”

eventually, somehow, her cries started softening. little hiccuping sobs replacing the screaming. then quiet sniffles.

your own breathing trembled as you kept walking, too scared to stop in case she started crying again.

but she didn’t. instead, her tiny body slowly melted against yours, warm and heavy with sleep.

you looked down carefully.

her eyelashes rested against her cheeks, her little fist curled loosely against your shirt.

finally asleep.

a broken sound nearly escaped your throat from pure relief.

“okay,” you whispered weakly. “okay.”

you carried her into the nursery carefully, terrified every creak of the floor might wake her. your arms ached as you leaned over the crib, lowering her down inch by inch.

for one horrible second, she stirred, you froze completely, but then she settled again with a soft sleepy sigh.

still asleep.

you stood there for a moment, staring at her then your knees finally gave out.

you slid slowly down the side of the crib until you were sitting on the floor beside it, arms wrapped around yourself tightly.

and the second you were down there alone in the quiet, you started crying.

silent tears at first, then shaky breaths. your hand covered your mouth immediately so you wouldn’t wake the baby, shoulders trembling as you cried into your palm.

because you were exhausted. because you missed your husband even though he’d only been gone a few hours. because his words kept replaying in your head no matter how hard you tried to push them away.

you have to figure it out yourself.

you squeezed your eyes shut hard. you knew he hadn’t meant it, you knew joe loved you, knew he was tired and overwhelmed and probably stressed out of his mind, but sitting there alone on the nursery floor, cheeks wet with tears while your baby finally slept above you, it was impossible not to feel painfully alone anyway.

-

after a while, you forced yourself to stand.

your legs felt stiff from sitting curled up on the nursery floor for so long, eyes sore and heavy as you wiped at your cheeks one last time before looking down at the baby sleeping peacefully in her crib.

you watched her for a second just to make sure she was really settled.

then you quietly left the room.

the apartment was still a mess.

bottles in the sink. tiny baby clothes draped over the couch. blankets tossed everywhere from pacing around with her for hours. the whole place looked as exhausted as you felt.

so you decided to clean.

mostly because you didn’t know what else to do.

you kept the baby monitor beside you at all times, volume turned high enough that every tiny shuffle came through the speaker while you moved around the apartment picking things up quietly.

you folded laundry, washed bottles, wiped down the counters, anything to keep your mind busy. anything to stop replaying the phone call over and over in your head.

you kept hearing his voice.

i don’t have time for this.

you knew joe. knew he hadn’t meant it, but it still sat heavy in your chest anyway.

after cleaning for a while, you checked the time and realised it was getting late enough for dinner. you weren’t really hungry, honestly, but you knew you had to eat, so you made pasta.

nothing fancy. just something quick and easy because you barely had the energy to stand upright anymore. the pasta boiled quietly while you heated up a jar of ready-made sauce on the stove, eyes flicking toward the baby monitor every few seconds automatically.

you even made enough for joe too.

despite everything, despite still feeling hurt. because loving him was annoyingly easy even when you were upset with him.

the sauce was finishing heating when you finally heard the front door unlock.

your whole body froze instantly.

you stared down at the stove for a second, fingers tightening slightly around the wooden spoon in your hand while the sound of the door opening echoed through the apartment.

then silence.

you could practically picture him standing there listening.

probably waiting for crying, waiting for chaos. instead, the apartment was quiet.

you heard him slowly take his shoes off then the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor, and suddenly all the emotions you’d barely been holding together all evening came rushing right back up your throat again.

your eyes burned instantly.

you blinked hard, trying to stop it, but tears spilled over anyway.

god, you were so tired.

you quickly wiped at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie just as footsteps approached the kitchen.

then stopped completely.

you turned slightly and saw joe standing in the doorway. his eyes landed on you immediately. on the stove, on your trembling hands, then finally on your face.

his expression crumpled.

completely.

“oh, honey” he said softly.

the guilt in his voice was immediate.

he walked toward you carefully like he was scared you might pull away from him, stopping beside you while his eyes searched your face.

when he noticed how red your eyes still were, his whole face fell.

his heart visibly broke right there in front of you.

“i’m really sorry for how i spoke to you”

you swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

couldn’t, really.

instead you just reached over and quietly switched the stove off.

and before either of you could say anything else, soft crackling noises came through the baby monitor.

little sleepy fusses.

tiny whines.

you instinctively moved immediately, but joe gently spoke first.

“i’ll get it” he said quietly.

you stopped, then looked at him, and before you could stop yourself, the hurt slipped out anyway.

“no,” you said softly. “i have to figure it out by myself, right?”

the second the words left your mouth, guilt flashed across his face so hard it almost looked physical.

“baby-”

but you were already walking past him toward the nursery.

it was petty, you knew it was. and honestly, a part of you already felt bad because you knew he was exhausted too.

but he’d hurt your feelings and right now you couldn’t fully pretend he hadn’t.

the nursery door creaked softly as you pushed it open.

the baby was awake now, squirming slightly in her crib with sleepy little noises leaving her lips.

“hey, sweetheart” you whispered immediately.

you leaned down and lifted her carefully into your arms. the second she settled against your chest, her fussing eased. completely.

your chest tightened instantly with relief.

“there we go” you murmured softly, kissing the top of her head.

you held her close while gently swaying back and forth around the room, humming quietly under your breath.

and somehow no crying, no screaming, just sleepy little sighs against your shoulder. you could’ve cried from relief all over again honestly.

you checked her diaper quickly before realizing she was probably just hungry.

so you turned around and froze slightly. joe was standing quietly in the doorway holding a bottle.

his eyes were glassy, watery enough that your chest immediately ached at the sight.

he held the bottle out toward you silently.

and god, you hated seeing him look sad.

you sighed softly before nodding toward the chair in the corner.

“sit.”

he obeyed instantly.

you walked over slowly, still holding the baby close to your chest while joe sat heavily in the chair.

then, without really thinking too hard about it, you carefully lowered yourself into his lap.

the second you did, his arms wrapped around you tightly, like he needed to hold you, like he’d been waiting to breathe again.

you took the bottle from him and guided it gently toward the baby’s mouth, smiling faintly when she immediately started drinking sleepily.

joe buried his face against your hair.

his arms tightened around both of you.

“i love you so much,” he whispered shakily. “god, i’m so sorry.”

you stayed quiet, listening.

“i regretted it the second i said it,” he continued softly. “i swear i did. i tried to leave early and come home but the meeting just- fuck- it was important and-”

you sighed quietly before turning your head enough to press a small kiss against his neck.

he melted instantly.

when you pulled back slightly, you noticed his eyes still looked watery.

“i hate seeing you cry,” he whispered. “i feel sick knowing i made you do it.”

your own eyes stung again immediately at the honesty in his voice.

joe lifted one hand carefully to your face, thumb brushing softly across your cheek before he leaned down and kissed your forehead gently.

then his hand moved lower, resting softly against the baby while she drank her bottle.

he looked down at both of you for a long moment.

then smiled weakly.

“you two are my whole world.”

your heart squeezed painfully.

you smiled a little too, looking down at the baby.

“you guys are mine too”

joe huffed a tiny laugh before resting his chin lightly against your shoulder.

“no matter what, i love you, okay?” he murmured quietly. “even when i’m grumpy as shit.”

you immediately frowned slightly.

“don’t swear in front of the baby.”

he rolled his eyes tiredly and you couldn’t help smiling a little more this time.

the room finally felt soft again.

you looked back down at the baby still sleepily drinking her bottle before speaking quietly.

“i’m sorry i called-”

“never.”

joe interrupted you instantly, firmly.

you looked up at him in surprise, his eyes were serious now. completely serious.

“never be sorry for calling me,” he said softly. “you always call me when you need me. always.”

your throat tightened slightly.

“joe-”

“i mean it,” he whispered. “i’m sorry for reacting how i did. i was stressed and tired and i took it out on you and that wasn’t fair. but i need you to promise me you’ll still call me first. every time.”

you stared at him for a second before nodding slowly.

“i promise.”

he held your gaze another second longer, making sure you meant it, then finally nodded too.

his head rested back against yours again while his arms stayed wrapped tightly around you and the baby, holding both of you close like he never wanted to let go again.

-

The soft hum of the phone line filled the quiet of your room as you lay sprawled across your bed, the long, tangled cord stretched halfway across the floor. One foot kicked lazily in the air behind you while your chemistry textbook sat open in front of you—completely ignored.

“I’m serious,” you said, dragging your pen across the margin of your notebook. “If he puts another balancing equation on that test, I’m walking out.”

Barb laughed on the other end. “You say that every time.”

“Yeah, well this time I mean it.”

“You don’t mean it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, no, I don’t. But I’ll think about it really hard.”

“That’ll scare him,” Barb said dryly.

You shifted onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. “Did you even understand what he was talking about on Friday? Because I swear he lost me five minutes in.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Right around when he started writing numbers.”

You snorted. “Good. Glad it wasn’t just me.”

There was a pause—easy, familiar.

Then Barb spoke again, a little more carefully.

“So… I saw Nancy today.”

You groaned immediately, dropping your forehead lightly against your textbook. “Don’t.”

Barb huffed out a quiet laugh. “I’m just saying.”

“She ditched us. Again.”

“She didn’t ditch us,” Barb said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “She just… had other plans.”

You pushed yourself up, already annoyed. “Yeah. With him.”

Barb hesitated for half a second.

“…Yeah.”

You made a face. “God.”

“I mean—” Barb started, then stopped herself. “Look, I don’t… love him.”

You blinked. “You don’t?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Or his friends. Or the way they all stare at people like they’re deciding whether they’re worth talking to.”

You let out a short, satisfied breath. “Thank you.”

“But,” she added quickly, “Nancy does. So I’m trying to not immediately hate everything about it.”

You flopped back onto your bed. “I’ll hate him for both of us, don’t worry.”

Barb laughed. “I figured.”

“I mean, seriously,” you continued, staring up at the ceiling. “He walks around like he owns the school. And now Nancy’s just—what—making out with him in her spare time like that’s a hobby?”

Barb made a noise like she was trying not to laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m right.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But she seems happy.”

You turned your head slightly, frowning. “…Yeah.”

There was a small pause.

Then you sighed. “I still don’t like him.”

“Noted,” Barb said lightly.

Before you could say anything else—

The front door slammed shut hard enough to echo through the house.

You lifted your head. “Oh my God—”

“What was that?” Barb asked.

You pushed yourself up, already hearing heavy footsteps coming down the hall. “My brother’s back from his geek group.”

Barb laughed immediately. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

A second later Dustin appeared in your doorway, tossing you a quick wave like he hadn’t just stormed into the house like a maniac.

You stared at him.

Then gave him a slow, slightly sarcastic wave back.

He grinned, completely unbothered.

“Okay,” you said into the phone, shifting it against your ear. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Barb said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

You hung up the phone with a soft click, the room settling back into quiet—broken only by Dustin moving around somewhere nearby.

_____________________________

You stayed sitting on your bed for a second after hanging up, listening to the familiar sounds of Dustin moving around the house—heavy footsteps, something being dropped.

You pushed yourself up with a small sigh and headed out into the hallway, padding down toward his room.

His door was already open.

Dustin stood near his desk, shrugging off his backpack and letting it fall to the floor before reaching up to pull his walkie headset off, his hair sticking up in about five different directions like he’d been running his hands through it all night.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely.

“Mom put dinner in the fridge for you,” you said casually. Then, after a beat, “but I’m presuming you just ate stale pizza for the last twelve hours.”

Dustin looked over at you, completely unapologetic.

“I’ll still eat it!”

You laughed, shaking your head as you stepped further into the room. “Of course you will.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow off his bed and tossed it at him without warning. It smacked lightly against his shoulder.

“Hey—!”

“Go to sleep,” you said, already turning back toward the door. “Because Mom and I will both kill you again if you’re up all night talking on your walkie to your geek friends.”

“We are not geeks!” Dustin shot back immediately.

You paused in the doorway, glancing back at him with a small, amused smile.

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced.

Dustin frowned at you, then added quickly, “You’re the one with the weird friend. Nancy’s gotten all bitchy because of Steve.”

You rolled your eyes, the annoyance immediate.

“Don’t need to tell me about it.”

There was a brief beat—shared understanding in the irritation.

Then you exhaled lightly, letting it go.

“Anyways,” you said, softer now, “love you.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile there anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”

You didn’t miss it.

You stepped out into the hallway, heading toward the bathroom. The light flicked on with a quiet click, the mirror catching your reflection as you reached automatically for your toothbrush.

The routine was easy—familiar. Brushing your teeth, rinsing, pulling your hair back out of your face before changing into your pajamas.

Normal.

Everything felt normal.

When you stepped out again, the house had quieted slightly. The soft glow of the living room light spilled into the hallway, and you followed it, finding your mom curled up on the couch.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

She looked up, smiling softly. “Hey, honey.”

You walked over and leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “I’m going to bed.”

“Okay,” she said gently. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

You lingered for just a second before turning and heading back down the hall.

Your room felt cooler when you stepped inside. You slipped under the covers, pulling them up around you as you settled into the familiar comfort of your bed.

For a while, your mind kept moving.

Chemistry test.

You groaned quietly into your pillow.

There was no way you were ready for that.

You mentally ran through what you could remember—formulas, notes, half-understood explanations that all blurred together the more you tried to focus on them. At some point it shifted into other things—classes, homework, whether Nancy would actually show up to lunch tomorrow or disappear again.

You frowned faintly at that, but didn’t linger on it.

It didn’t matter.

It was just school. Just another day.

Just normal.

Your thoughts slowed, the edges of them softening as sleep started to pull you under. The house was quiet, the distant hum of appliances the only sound left as your eyes finally drifted closed.

And somewhere out in the darkness beyond Hawkins—

Something had already begun.

________________________________

The alarm went off with a sharp, obnoxious buzz beside your head, dragging you out of sleep far too quickly. You groaned, blindly reaching over until your hand finally smacked down on it, cutting the noise off. For a second, you didn’t move, just lay there with your eyes still closed, half considering whether you could get away with skipping school entirely. Then you let out a quiet, defeated sigh into your pillow.

Yeah. No chance.

You forced yourself up, pushing your hair back out of your face as you swung your legs over the side of the bed, immediately wincing at the cold floor. 

Bad start. 

You dragged yourself out into the hallway, still half asleep, heading straight for the bathroom out of habit—only to stop when you saw the door already closed.

You stared at it for a second, disbelief settling in.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You stepped forward and knocked hard against the door. “Dustin, I swear to God—hurry up or I’m going to pee on the floor.”

There was a pause before his voice came through, muffled and already annoyed. “Good morning to you too.”

You leaned your forehead against the door, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve been in there forever.”

“I have not!”

“You have,” you shot back instantly. “I woke up and you were already in there. That’s suspicious.”

There was a brief beat of silence before the lock clicked and the door swung open. Dustin stepped out, brushing past you with a look that said he found you deeply unreasonable. “You’re dramatic.”

You didn’t even bother responding, slipping past him and into the bathroom before he could rethink letting you in, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The hot water helped. It always did. You stood under it longer than you probably needed to, letting the heat slowly wake you up properly, your thoughts still sluggish and unfocused. Eventually you forced yourself through the rest of it—quick, routine, familiar—before stepping out and wiping a clear patch into the fogged mirror. You leaned closer, applying just enough makeup to look awake, nothing more. You didn’t have the energy for anything else.

Back in your room, you stood in front of your closet for a moment, scanning before pulling something out that felt like you—comfortable, casual, easy. Not like Nancy, not like Barb. Just you. You got dressed quickly, running your fingers through your hair one last time before heading back out.

The smell of coffee hit you as soon as you stepped into the kitchen.

“Morning,” you said, grabbing a piece of toast off the counter without waiting.

Your mom looked up, smiling softly. “Morning, honey.”

Dustin was already halfway out the door, backpack hanging off one shoulder as he shoved something into his mouth like he was in a race against time.

“Bye!” he called, words muffled.

You didn’t even turn, just lifted your hand in a lazy wave. “Try not to die.”

“Very funny!”

The door slammed behind him.

You took a bite of your toast, leaning back against the counter as your mom poured herself another cup of coffee, the quiet settling back in around you.

“Sleep okay?” she asked.

“Mm,” you nodded. “Yeah.”

She studied you for a moment, then smiled, apparently satisfied with that. You stayed there for a bit, eating, talking about nothing important—school, the day ahead, small things that filled the space.

Normal things.

Eventually you pushed yourself upright with a small sigh. “I should go.”

“Have a good day,” she said.

“You too.”

You grabbed your bag and headed outside, the cool morning air waking you up the rest of the way. Your car sat in the driveway, still cold from the night. You slid into the driver’s seat, tossing your bag onto the passenger side before turning the key.

The engine rumbled to life beneath your hands.

For a second, you just sat there, fingers resting lightly against the steering wheel as you stared out at the quiet street ahead.

Another day.

Just school.

Just normal.

You shifted into gear and pulled out of the driveway, heading toward Hawkins High.

_____________________________

The hallway was already packed by the time you got there, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, the usual morning chaos settling in like it always did. You leaned back against the cool metal, arms loosely crossed, one shoulder pressed into the locker behind you while you watched people pass without really paying attention to any of them.

Beside you, Barb shifted her books against her chest, craning her neck slightly to look down the hallway.

“She’s coming,” she said, like she’d been saying it for the last five minutes.

You let out a quiet hum, not bothering to move. “Mm. You said that already.”

Barb glanced at you, then nudged your arm lightly. “Can you just—be nice?”

You turned your head slowly to look at her, one eyebrow lifting. “I am nice.”

She gave you a look that said no, you’re not.

You exhaled through your nose, tilting your head back against the locker for a second. “Okay, I’m nice to people who deserve it.”

“She deserves it,” Barb said quickly. “And she’s still our friend.”

“I know that,” you replied, your tone softer for half a second before it shifted back, “but that doesn’t mean I have to suddenly love the fact that she’s hanging out with him and his… entourage.”

Barb huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re being dramatic.”

“They literally act like they own the hallway,” you muttered, gesturing vaguely as a group of upperclassmen pushed past without so much as looking at anyone around them. “Sorry if I’m not impressed.”

Barb didn’t argue that part.

“…Just don’t say anything,” she said instead, quieter now. “Please.”

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn’t any real bite behind it this time. “Fine. I won’t start anything.”

“That’s not the same as being nice.”

“You’re asking for a lot this early in the morning.”

Before she could respond, movement down the hallway caught your attention. Nancy was making her way toward you, weaving through the crowd with that slightly distracted look she’d had more and more lately.

You straightened just slightly, pushing yourself off the locker.

Barb noticed her a second later and immediately stepped forward.

“So?” she asked as Nancy reached you. “Did he call?”

Nancy glanced around quickly. “Keep your voice down—”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, looking away for a second, already knowing where this was going.

“Did he?” Barb pressed.

Nancy shook her head as she turned to her locker. “I told you, it’s not like that.”

You shifted your weight, leaning lightly against the locker beside hers, watching her without saying anything yet.

Barb shot her a look.

Nancy hesitated, then gave in with a small sigh. “Okay, I mean, yes, fine, he likes me, you know, but not like that—” she lowered her voice slightly, glancing between the two of you, “we just made out a couple times.”

You couldn’t help it—you let out a quiet, disbelieving huff, glancing down the hallway for a second before looking back.

“A couple times,” you repeated under your breath.

Barb immediately jumped in, mocking, “Jesus, you’re gonna be so cool now it’s ridiculous—”

Nancy shook her head quickly. “No I’m not!”

You watched her for a second, then shrugged lightly. “Hey, I’m not saying anything. If you want to voluntarily spend time with Tommy H. and Carol, that’s your decision.”

Nancy made a face. “I’m not—”

“Because I’ve seen them at lunch,” you continued, not missing a beat. “And that table looks like a nightmare.”

Barb nudged you again, a quiet warning.

You lifted your hands slightly in surrender. “What? I said I’d be nice. That was me being nice.”

“That was not you being nice,” Barb muttered.

Nancy shook her head, trying not to smile despite herself as she opened her locker. “Gross. And I’m telling you, this was just a one-time—” she paused, then corrected, “—two-time thing, alright?”

You hummed quietly, unconvinced but not pushing it further. “Mm. Sure.”

Nancy went quiet as she opened the locker door, and something in the shift of her expression made you pay attention again.

There was a folded note taped to the inside.

Your eyes flicked to it automatically.

Nancy reached up, peeling it off slowly, her fingers hesitating just slightly before she unfolded it.

You leaned in a fraction, close enough to see the writing as her eyes scanned the page.

Then she stilled.

Barb leaned closer. “What?”

Nancy didn’t answer right away. She just turned the note slightly so both of you could see.

MEET ME. BATHROOM. STEVE.

There was a brief silence.

You stared at it for a second, then let out a quiet, unimpressed breath.

“Wow,” you muttered, shaking your head slightly. “Real subtle.”

Barb glanced between the note and Nancy, eyebrows raised. “You were saying?”

You pushed yourself fully off the locker, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah, no, this definitely falls under ‘not like that,’ right?” you added lightly, glancing at Nancy with the faintest hint of a smirk before looking away again.

_____________________________________

You fell into step beside Barb as you moved away from Nancy’s locker, the hallway still loud around you, but not quite as overwhelming now that you weren’t stuck standing in the middle of it. Barb adjusted the books in her arms again as the two of you stopped at her locker, spinning the dial with practiced ease.

“So,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder, “are you actually going to study for this test or just complain about it until it happens?”

You leaned your shoulder against the locker next to hers, watching as she pulled it open. “I can do both.”

“That’s not studying.”

“It is mentally preparing,” you corrected.

Barb snorted, digging through her locker. “You’re going to fail.”

“I’m not going to fail,” you said, though without much conviction. “I just might not do… well.”

She pulled out her notebook and shut the locker with a dull clang. “You said that last time.”

“And I survived,” you pointed out. “Barely.”

Barb shook her head, already smiling a little despite herself. “Come over tonight,” she said, shifting her books into a better grip. “We can go over everything. I actually made notes that make sense.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You made notes that make sense?”

“Shut up.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, pushing off the locker. “Fine. Yeah. I’ll come over.”

“Good,” she said. “Because I’m not failing alone.”

“You won’t,” you replied lightly. “I’ll be right there with you.”

The first bell rang then, cutting through the hallway noise and sending people moving faster, lockers slamming shut in a chain reaction.

You and Barb exchanged a look.

“History,” you both said at the same time, already turning.

The classroom was already half full by the time you got there. You slipped into your usual seat beside Barb, dropping your bag down and pulling your notebook out without much urgency. The room buzzed with low conversation, chairs scraping against the floor, the usual pre-class noise.

Barb sat beside you, already flipping through her notes like she was actually going to study in the two minutes before class started.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, glancing toward the seat on the other side of her.

Empty.

You checked the clock.

Then back at the door.

Barb noticed. “She’ll be here.”

You gave a small, knowing hum. “Mm.”

The warning bell rang, louder this time, and the teacher moved toward the door, hand already reaching for it.

Still no Nancy.

You rolled your eyes slightly, leaning back further in your chair. “Wow. Shocker.”

Barb pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

Just as the teacher started to pull the door closed—

“Sorry!”

Nancy rushed in, slightly out of breath, slipping past him quickly before he could say anything more than a tired sigh. She moved straight for her seat, dropping into it beside Barb and pushing her hair back out of her face like nothing had happened.

You and Barb both turned your heads toward her at the same time.

Then, in perfect sync—

Slow, exaggerated, sarcastic shakes of the head.

Nancy glanced between the two of you, immediately knowing.

“Don’t,” she muttered under her breath.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your chair again. “We didn’t say anything.”

Barb nodded. “Not a word.”

Nancy exhaled, already opening her notebook.

You and Barb exchanged one last look.

Yeah. Sure.

__________________________________

The cafeteria was loud in that constant, overlapping way it always was—trays clattering, chairs scraping, voices bouncing off the walls until everything blurred into one steady hum. You sat across from Barb and Nancy, picking half-heartedly at your food while the three of you talked, the conversation drifting between classes, teachers, and anything that wasn’t remotely important.

“I’m telling you,” Barb was saying, pushing her glasses up her nose slightly, “if he puts another trick question on that test, I’m actually going to lose it.”

“He always does,” you replied, glancing up at her. “That’s like his entire personality.”

Nancy huffed out a small laugh, stirring her drink absentmindedly. “You two are being dramatic.”

“You’re not the one who almost failed the last one,” you pointed out.

“I did not almost fail.”

“You said you ‘weren’t thrilled’ with your grade,” Barb added.

Nancy gave her a look. “That’s not the same thing.”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head as you leaned back slightly in your chair, letting the conversation settle into something easier. It drifted after that—weekend plans, who had what homework, small things that filled the space.

Nancy went quiet for a moment, her eyes flicking toward you like she was thinking about something.

Then, casually—too casually—

“So,” she said, “how was your date with Mark the other weekend?”

You paused mid-bite, lowering your fork slowly as you looked at her.

Barb immediately leaned forward, interest lighting up her face. “Oh my God, yes. You never told us.”

You shrugged like it wasn’t worth mentioning. “It was fine.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“Yeah. Just… but he’s just a guy.” You picked at your food again, completely unimpressed. “Nothing special.”

Barb narrowed her eyes slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

You sighed lightly, glancing between them. “He spent most of the night trying to feel me up, so I told him to get lost.”

There was a beat.

Then both of them rolled their eyes at the exact same time.

“Charming,” Nancy muttered.

“Seriously?” Barb said. “That’s your entire dating life lately.”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Not my fault.”

“You need better options,” Nancy added.

“I need people to stop being weird,” you corrected.

Barb shook her head. “No, you need something interesting to happen so we don’t have to keep talking about chemistry and school like that’s our entire lives.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Nancy smiled slightly, but there was still something in the way she was watching you—like she’d brought it up for a reason.

You didn’t question it.

Instead, you took another bite of your food, letting the conversation drift again—

Until the noise in the cafeteria shifted slightly.

It wasn’t obvious, not at first, but it was enough.

You glanced up instinctively.

And immediately saw them.

Steve. Carol. Tommy.

Walking in like they owned the place.

You didn’t even think about it—you rolled your eyes on instinct, your expression flattening as you looked back down at your tray.

A sharp kick landed against your leg under the table.

You shot Barb a look.

“Be nice,” she muttered under her breath.

“I didn’t say anything,” you whispered back.

“You didn’t have to.”

Across the cafeteria, Steve’s attention had already shifted. His gaze moved over the room, landing on your table—and more specifically, on Nancy.

He gave her a small, easy wink.

You caught it out of the corner of your eye and resisted the urge to make a face, instead focusing very hard on your food.

Nancy, on the other hand, went slightly still before ducking her head, clearly trying to play it off, but not quite managing it. There was a faint flush creeping into her cheeks as she pretended to be interested in literally anything else.

Steve turned away like it was nothing, heading off with Carol and Tommy to their usual table.

You watched him go for half a second, then looked back at Nancy.

Didn’t say anything.

Barb cleared her throat lightly, breaking the moment. “So—do you want to come over after school? We’re going to go over chemistry stuff.”

Nancy blinked, pulled out of whatever was going on in her head. “Oh—um…”

You already knew.

Barb tilted her head slightly. “You can, right?”

Nancy hesitated. “I—can’t.”

Barb’s expression shifted immediately, understanding settling in. “Steve?”

Nancy didn’t answer.

Which was answer enough.

You leaned back slightly in your chair, rolling your eyes again before you could stop yourself.

Another kick landed against your leg.

You looked at Barb.

She didn’t even look at you this time. “Stop it,” she muttered under her breath.

“I’m not doing anything,” you said quietly, though your tone said otherwise.

Nancy busied herself with her food, avoiding both of your eyes now.

Barb sighed softly.

And the conversation didn’t quite go back to normal after that.

________________________________

The final bell had barely stopped ringing when the front of the school filled with people, voices overlapping as everyone spilled out into the afternoon light. You stood just outside the entrance with Barb and Nancy, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder as you squinted slightly against the sun.

“I’ll come by later,” you said to Barb, nudging her lightly with your elbow. “Don’t start without me.”

She huffed. “I won’t. But if you’re late, I’m not re-explaining everything.”

“Wow. Supportive.”

Nancy smiled faintly at the two of you, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Good luck with that.”

You glanced at her. “You could still come, you know.”

She hesitated for half a second, then shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Mm,” you hummed, not pushing it, even if you wanted to. “Alright.”

There was a brief pause before you shifted your weight back. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Barb said.

“Bye,” Nancy echoed.

You gave them both a small wave before turning and heading toward the parking lot, digging your keys out of your bag as you walked. The air felt warmer now, the kind of afternoon that felt easy, normal, like every other day.

You slid into your car, tossing your bag onto the passenger seat before turning the key. The engine came to life, and a second later the radio crackled on—Blondie cutting through the quiet.

Usually, you didn’t mind the drive. Usually, it helped.

Today it didn’t.

The road stretched out ahead of you, familiar turns, familiar streets, but something about it felt… off. You couldn’t quite place it, just a faint, unsettled feeling sitting low in your stomach as you drove.

You turned onto your street and pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine. For a second, you just sat there, the last notes of the song fading out before you pushed the door open and stepped out.

The house was quiet when you walked in.

Too quiet.

You closed the door behind you, slipping your shoes off absentmindedly before heading toward the kitchen.

That’s when you saw them.

Your mom stood near the counter, and Dustin was across from her—but neither of them looked up right away. Both of them had the same expression, something tight and off, like something had gone wrong.

Your stomach dropped.

“What?” you asked immediately, stepping further into the room. You dropped your bag by the door without thinking, your attention already locked on them. “What’s wrong?”

Your mom looked at you, her expression softening slightly. “Will Byers didn’t go home last night,” she said gently. “They’ve said he’s missing.”

For a second, it didn’t fully register.

Then it did.

You turned to Dustin instantly. “Oh my gosh—are you okay?” you asked, stepping closer to him. “He’s probably just—he’s probably with his dad upstate or—”

Even as you said it, it didn’t feel right.

You’d met Will before. Plenty of times. Quiet, polite, always sticking close to the others. He wasn’t the kind of kid who just disappeared.

Your thoughts stalled.

Your mom’s voice cut in gently. “He’ll be okay, Dusty.”

Dustin didn’t respond.

He just shook his head slightly, jaw tight, and turned away, walking straight out of the kitchen. A second later, his bedroom door slammed shut down the hall.

The sound echoed.

You exhaled slowly, turning back to your mom, the unease settling heavier now.

“Is he going to be okay?” you asked, quieter this time.

She gave you a reassuring smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’ll be fine.”

The kitchen fell silent for a moment after that.

You nodded faintly, even if you weren’t fully convinced, your mind still turning it over.

Then, after a beat, you shifted slightly. “Hey—um… is it okay if I go to Barb’s?” you asked. “We have a chemistry test tomorrow, we want to study.”

Your mom nodded easily, the small smile returning properly this time. “That’s fine, sweetie. Just don’t stay out too late. With everything going on.”

“Yeah,” you said, already moving toward her. “I won’t.”

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before stepping back. “I’ll be back later.”

“Okay.”

You grabbed your bag from where you’d dropped it and headed down the hallway to your room, pushing the door open and stepping inside. It felt the same as it always did—your space, your things, everything exactly where it should be.

Normal.

You dropped your bag onto the bed and grabbed what you needed for studying, moving on autopilot more than anything else.

But that feeling didn’t go away.

It stayed there, low and quiet, sitting heavy in your chest as you slung your bag back over your shoulder and headed back out of the room.

Will Byers didn’t go home last night.

You paused for half a second in the hallway, your grip tightening slightly on the strap of your bag.

He wouldn’t just wander off.

You knew that.

Everyone did.

You pushed the thought away, heading for the front door, but it didn’t really leave.

It followed you out into the evening.

And settled somewhere deep in your stomach as you left for Barb’s.

_________________________

By the time you pulled up outside Barb’s house, the sky had already started to darken, the last bit of daylight fading into that dim blue-grey that always came just before night properly set in. The street was quiet, porch lights flicking on one by one, everything looking exactly the same as it always did.

Normal.

You grabbed your bag from the passenger seat and headed up the front path, knocking lightly before letting yourself shift your weight from one foot to the other, waiting.

A second later, the door opened.

“Hi, Mrs. Holland,” you said automatically, offering a small smile.

She smiled back, warm and familiar. “Hi, sweetheart. Barb’s upstairs.”

“Thanks.”

You stepped inside, the house carrying that same lived-in quiet as always, and shut the door behind you before heading toward the stairs. You didn’t need to think about it—your feet already knew the way.

Upstairs. Second door.

You pushed it open without knocking.

Barb was already at her desk, surrounded by notes, papers spread out in a way that looked far more organized than anything you’d attempted all day.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

You dropped your bag onto the floor and flopped down onto her bed like you had a hundred times before. “I’m here,” you replied. “That’s what matters.”

Barb glanced over at you, unimpressed. “We have a test tomorrow.”

“I’m aware,” you said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Are you?” she asked, already turning back to her notes.

You let out a quiet breath, then pushed yourself up onto your elbows. “Okay, fine. Start.”

Barb didn’t hesitate. She grabbed a small stack of handwritten cards from her desk and turned slightly in her chair to face you.

“Alright,” she said, flipping to the first one. “Balance this equation—”

You groaned immediately, dragging a hand down your face. “We just started.”

“And we’re already behind.”

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with your hand as you tried to focus. “Fine. Go.”

She read it out, waiting.

You stared at her for a second.

Then blinked.

“…I have no idea.”

Barb sighed. “You’re not even trying.”

“I am,” you insisted weakly. “My brain just… isn’t cooperating.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying you now instead of the cards. “You’re being weird.”

You shifted slightly on the bed, looking away for a second. “I’m not being weird.”

“Yeah, you are.”

There was a pause.

You exhaled quietly, your gaze dropping to the carpet. “…Will Byers is missing.”

Barb stilled slightly.

“I heard,” she said after a second, softer now. “My parents were talking about it earlier.”

You nodded faintly, your fingers absentmindedly tracing a loose thread on the edge of her blanket. “Dustin’s not… great.”

“That makes sense.”

“He’s trying not to freak out,” you continued, your voice quieter now, more thoughtful than before. “But I can tell.”

Barb turned in her chair a little more, giving you her full attention now.

You hesitated for a second, then shook your head slightly. “I don’t know. It’s just… weird.”

“Yeah.”

You glanced up at her. “Like—he wouldn’t just disappear, right?”

Barb frowned slightly, thinking. “No.”

“Exactly,” you said, sitting up a little straighter now. “I’ve met him. He’s not—he wouldn’t just wander off or something.”

There was a small silence.

Then Barb shrugged lightly, trying to sound reassuring. “He’s probably with a relative or something. People overreact.”

You nodded, even if it didn’t fully settle the feeling in your chest. “Yeah.”

“And stuff like that doesn’t happen here,” she added. “Not in Hawkins.”

You let out a small breath, latching onto that. “Right.”

Because it didn’t.

It never did.

There was another brief pause before Barb tapped the flashcards lightly against her hand.

“Okay,” she said, a little more firmly now. “We’re not failing this test because of small-town paranoia.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, pushing yourself upright properly. “Wow. Harsh.”

“Sit up,” she said, already flipping to the next card.

You adjusted your position, crossing your legs on the bed and forcing your attention back to her.

“Alright,” you said. “Try me again.”

Barb nodded once. “Balance this—”

This time, you actually listened.

And for a while, the conversation faded back into formulas, notes, and half-remembered lessons, the two of you falling into the rhythm of studying like you always did.

Normal.

Because nothing bad would’ve happened to Will.

Not here.

Not in Hawkins.

__________________________

By the time you set your pen down, your brain felt like it had completely shut off.

“Okay,” you said, dragging your notebook a little further away from you like distance alone might help. “If I look at another equation, I’m actually going to lose it.”

Barb glanced up from her desk, then over at the clock. “It’s eight.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

You leaned back slightly on the bed, stretching your arms above your head with a quiet groan. “Okay, that’s… probably enough.”

“Probably?” Barb repeated.

“We did good,” you said, sitting up and reaching for your things. “Good enough.”

Barb gave a small nod, closing her notebook. “Yeah. I think so.”

You slipped your notes into your bag, zipping it up before pushing yourself off the bed. “I should go,” you added, glancing toward the window where the sky had gone fully dark. “My mom wants me home not too late. Especially now.”

Barb’s expression softened slightly, and she nodded. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

There was a small pause before she added, “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” you said easily. “See you tomorrow.”

You grabbed your bag and headed out, giving a quick wave and a polite “Bye!” as you passed through the house. Barb’s parents echoed it back from the living room, the TV casting flickering light across the walls.

The second you stepped outside, the air hit you.

Cold. Sharp.

A storm had rolled in properly now, wind rushing down the street hard enough to tug at your clothes, rain already starting to come down in uneven sheets.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself as you hurried toward your car.

By the time you got inside, you were already damp, quickly shutting the door behind you and turning the key in the ignition. The engine came to life, the windshield wipers kicking in almost immediately as the rain picked up.

The drive home wasn’t long.

But it didn’t feel the same.

The road stretched out in front of you, darker now, the storm swallowing most of the usual comfort of familiar streets. David Bowie crackled faintly through the radio now, but it didn’t quite cut through the noise of the rain hitting the car.

Your grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

Will Byers.

You exhaled, shaking your head a little as you forced your attention back to the road.

Don’t.

There was no point thinking about it. Not like this.

He’d be fine.

He had to be.

And Dustin—

You swallowed lightly.

Dustin was home.

Safe.

You focused on that instead.

By the time you turned onto your street, the storm had picked up even more, rain coming down hard enough now that it blurred the edges of everything. You pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, not even hesitating before grabbing your bag and pushing the door open.

Cold rain hit you instantly.

You rushed up the driveway, head ducked slightly as you fumbled for your keys, already reaching for the front door—

Then you stopped.

Something felt off.

You turned your head slightly.

And looked.

Dustin’s bike wasn’t there.

Your stomach dropped.

For a second, you just stood there, rain soaking through your clothes, your keys clutched in your hand as your brain tried to catch up.

He wasn’t supposed to be out.

Not tonight.

Not when—

You swallowed hard, forcing your thoughts to slow down.

It was fine.

He was probably just with Mike. Or Lucas. Or—

Something normal.

Something completely normal.

Because nothing bad ever happened here.

Right?

-----------------

Somewhere in the distance the sound of your footsteps echo into the dark, bitter night. 

Clenched within your hand are your knives. Their metal glints in the streetlights as you run past every lonesome car, avoiding their collisions. 

One of them slams their horn at you, screeching to a stop just before it collides into your fleeing body, but you hardly even flinch.

You don’t care. 

All you do is run.

Minutes pass. You hardly process any of it. 

The only indication of the passage of time are the ringing in your ears increasing in volume and how badly your chest burns for oxygen as you run as far as your aching legs will allow. 

Up the crest of the hill, the Wheeler’s house shines untouched. Safe. The relief of it being intact  strengthens you to keep going, to run for just a little longer, until a horrible, eerily familiar screech pierces through the silence of the night. 

The mangled sound chokes you. 

Only a Demogorgon’s cry could paralyze you so viciously. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?” your throat strains to be heard over the monster’s cries as you force the last of your sanity into running faster, harder, towards the Wheeler’s front door with your knives at the ready. “Holly?”

But no one answers.

Heart beating of your chest, you fling the door open with more cries on the tip of your tongue, searching through the living room and stumbling back at its disarray, but they all die at the sight of red.

Everywhere. 

The red is everywhere. 

It pools on the floor, drips down the walls, and covers the limp body of Karen Wheeler, leaving her almost unrecognizable.

The red glues your cowardly feet to the floor, rendering you unable to move. For what feels like an eternity you stand in the kitchen’s doorway, horror consuming you as you stare at Mrs. Wheeler’s mangled mess of a body on the ground. 

Her body? Or her corpse?

“Oh my god.” Bile rises in your throat. The sharp smell of blood stings your nose and you choke back grieving gags at the knowledge of who it belongs to.

This woman baked cookies for you every Christmas, always excited to share her recipes with you. She fed you dinners, countless breakfasts, endless snacks for long days with the boys in her basement. 

Karen Wheeler helped soothe your childhood wounds through her unyielding empathy.

Now she lies before you, motionless. 

Yet in your horror, you remember who else the woman fed and soothed. Mike’s teary eyes looking up at his mother and Nancy’s gentle voice and Holly’s small hands all reaching for Karen in your memories. 

They’d be lost without their mother. Her death would ruin them.

The realization forces you to your knees. The blood pooled on the floor soaks through your jeans and onto your skin. Its warmth unsettles you. But when you see Karen’s eyes wide and panic stricken staring back at you, your body moves to hers. 

“Mrs. Wheeler,” you press your hands against her jugular, suppressing a gag at the sensation of her thick blood between your fingers. She stiffens at the touch, tries to get away from the uncomfortable pressure, but you frantically shake your head and keep your grip firm. “It’s okay, I’m right here, alright? Just-just stop moving.”

Karen tries to say something, causing even more blood to bubble over her torn skin, and you’re quick to quiet the woman once more. Her eyes beg you for answers that you can’t give her. All you can do is stroke her cheek and whisper apologies to her over and over again. 

“Nancy will be here soon,” you try to reassure her, ignoring how cold her body now feels. “Just hold on a little while longer. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Her eyes flicker briefly, a question within them. She doesn’t know why you keep apologizing. She doesn’t know that the claw marks on her ribcage mirror the very same ones that mar your own ribcage. 

“Mom!” 

Nancy’s tormented scream haunts you. 

“I-I found her like this.” Your knees slide against the bloodied kitchen tiles in your haste to allow Nancy beside her mother. “The blood–”

But Nancy doesn’t acknowledge your presence. She tears her jacket off and pries your hands away from her mother’s neck before pressing it tightly against the wound. “Don’t try to talk, okay? Just stay calm.”

As she consoles Karen, you follow her daughter’s lead and quickly tear off your own jacket to tie around Karen’s abdomen. As you’re messily dressing her wounds you feel someone’s hand land against your arm. 

“Will she be okay?” El’s soft voice asks. 

You don’t know whether she means Nancy or Karen. Maybe both. 

“We need to get Mrs. Wheeler to the hospital–”