Your family owns the Hawkins local zoo. Ever since you were a little girl, you've been part of the zookeeper life, helping your parents keep the habitats, feeding the animals. Your whole life, you've been home-schooled, up until last year, your parents finally let you get a taste of public school.

And if it wasn't for your begging and pleading... you wouldn't have been able to meet the love of your life.

Steve. The popular, grade A student who somehow made everyone in school laugh without even trying, the guy with the perfect hair and that unmistakable confidence, had somehow become completely... human to you. Not just the glossy, untouchable version the whole school drooled over.

You first noticed him when your school group visited the zoo last fall. He'd been loud, joking with his friends, leaning against his shiny BMW parked just outside the entrance.

And then he stopped.

Right in front of the otters. Watching. Not just looking. Really watching, as if he noticed every tiny movement, every twitch and squeak.

And then he turned. And your eyes met. You'd never believed in love at first sight, but that moment? It was... close.

He grinned at you, that charming, boy-next-door-but-with-an-edge grin that made your stomach do flips, and your cheeks heat up. "Hey, do you... like, work here?" He asked, gesturing vaguely at the flamingos flamingos behind you.

You swallowed, trying to play it cool. "Yeah. I uh- yeah." You said, shrugging, hoping your voice didn't betray how fast your heart was racing.

Steve's grin widened. "That's... actually really cool. Most of us are stuck staring at textbooks all day. You get to hang out with flamingos and... lions? Tigers?"

You laughed. "Lions, tigers, bears... and otters. Mostly otters." You added, watching him raise a brow at your enthusiasm.

"No kidding. I love otters." He replied, his grin spread into a wide smile.

And that was it. The first spark. The first conversation. The first time you've met someone who wasn't another co-worker or pet specialist.

Now, you sit in your last class of the day, excitedly talking with Robin who sat next to you, wondering what homework you had to turn in and what was given out just because.

"Wait, your in a band?" You ask, reiterating what she just told you.

"Well... I'm in the school band. I play the French horn." She smiles, cheeks flushing just the slightest bit.

"You sound like the smart one of the group," you chuckle.

Before she can respond, someone clears their throat behind you.

"I'm actually the smartest," Dustin says, raising his hand up. "She's just artsy. We all know I'm the one who saved us from the mall." He says, voice filled with pride and reason.

"You did not, that was all Erica and Ms. Byers." Robin backs, eyes narrowing in Dustin's direction.

You glance between the two as they start bickering back and forth, the growing noise making heads turn in your direction. Robin's arms are crossed tightly over her chest while Dustin stands beside her, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"I'm serious." Dustin insists. "Without me, we'd all be dead."

Robin lets out a dramatic laugh. "You hid in a movie theater for half the summer."

"I was gathering intelligence."

"You were eating popcorn."

"It was tactical popcorn."

A laugh slips past your lips before you can stop it. The two immediately glance toward you, both look equally offended that you'd found the other one funny.

Before either ca continue arguing, the final bell rings overhead.

The loud buzz echoes through the classroom, cutting through dozens of conversations at once. Around you, students immediately begin shoving books into backpacks and scraping chair across the floor, eager to escape before the teacher can assign anything else.

Robin groans as she gathers her things.

"I swear, if I have to listen to him explain how he save Hawkins one more time, I'm transferring schools."

"You'd miss me." Dustin says.

"I absolutely would not."

You shake your head, smiling as you slide your notebook into your bag. Even after nearly a year of public school, moments like this still feel strange in the best way possible.

"Earth to zoo girl."

You blink, pulling yourself from your thoughts.

Dustin waves a hand dramatically in front of you face before slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

"You were staring into space."

"I was thinking."

"Same thing."

A familiar voice cuts through the conversation before you can argue back. "There you are."

Your heart instantly betrays you. The warmth that spreads through your chest is immediate and entirely out of your control.

You turn toward the doorway just as Steve steps inside the room.

The afternoon sunlight spilling through the hallway window catches against his hair, making the familiar brown strands appear almost golden. His basketball jacket hangs open over a gray shirt, car keys pinning lazily around one finger as he scans the room.

The second his eyes land on you, he smiles. Not the smile he gives teachers. Not the smile he gives strangers. A real smile.

The kind that always makes your stomach flip despite how many times you've seen it.

Robin notices immediately. "Oh, gross."

Steve's grin only widens. "What?"

"The look."

"What look?"

Robin points dramatically between the two of you. "That look. The one where you stare at each other like you're the only people in the room."

Dustin nods in agreement. "It's honestly disturbing."

You feel your cheeks grow warm. Steve, meanwhile, doesn't look embarrassed in the slightest.

Instead, he casually walks over and takes your bag from your shoulder before you can stop him.

"Steve."

"Yes?"

"I can carry my own bag."

"I know that."

The answer comes so quickly that it almost catches you off guard. His shoulders lift in a small shrug as he adjusts the strap over his own shoulder. "I just want to."

Something soft settles in your chest. Because that's how Steve always was.

For all the confidence and charm everyone else saw, there were moments like this that belonged only to you. Small things. Quiet things. The version of Steve Harrington that nobody else seemed to notice.

Robin pretends to gag in the background, and Dustin looks equally disgusted.

"You see?" Robin says. "This is exactly what I'm talking about."

Steve rolls his eyes before extending a hand toward the classroom door. "Come on."

You smile despite yourself and fall into step beside him.

The hallway is packed with students pouring toward the exits, conversations bouncing off the lockers and tiled floors. Weekend plans are shouted between friends while teachers attempt to direct traffic through the crowd, though nobody seems particularly interested in listening.

You and Steve walk slowly out to the school parking lot, letting others rush around you to get home for the weekend. The shiny burgundy BMW sits alone toward the back of the parking lot, away from all of the other cars like it was designated to have its own space.

Steve shuffles around to the passenger side door, quickly opening it for you. You murmur a quick "Thank you," before sliding in, eyes glancing around as he rounds the front of the car to the driver's side.

Silence fills the small space around the two as you watch the line of cars rolling out of the parking lot, each one impatient to get home.

"Alright," Steve mutters, turning the key in the ignition as he watches the last car slowly roll by.

The engine roars alive, but Steve doesn't move forward. Instead, he peers over at you, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping aimlessly on the center console.

"Are you coming over to my place?" He asks, words smoothed and practiced like he's said them a hundred times before. There's a small glint of hope hidden behind his eyes when he asks, like he knows the answer but is still in need of confirmation.

You tilt your head slightly before meeting his gaze. "I have to work soon."

He points a finger slightly in defeat, nodding his head before putting the car in drive. As he pulls the car out of the parking lot, a small smirk forms on his lips. "Gotta go feed the otters."

"They're your favorite animal," you back playfully, giving him a knowing look.

The car smooths out onto the road, the city blurring by in a quick blur as Steve speeds up. "No-" he says suddenly, holding a hand up. "No. Tha- no. They are... my least," he shakes his head in despair. "Fucking demons." He mutters.

A soft giggle escapes you. "Come on, they're so cute and fluffy."

"No." He says, voice playful but firm. "Bubbles bit me," he shrugs, one hand on the wheel while the other rolls up his sleeve. "He left a mark, and now we're no longer friends."

You shift in your seat, glancing at his arm before rolling your eyes. "'Cause you got in his personal space."

"You said they like to cuddle!" He exaggerates, voice breaking out into a high pitch tone. "I cuddled. And he- he hurt me..."

"Yeah they like to cuddle, Steve." You reiterate. "You can run up to them with your arms open like a child."

"I absolutely can." Steve argues, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while pointing toward you with the other. "That's literally how cuddling works. You open your arms and then you cuddle." The look of confidence on his face only makes your smile grow wider.

"That's not how animals work."

"Well somebody should've told Bubbles that before he attacked me."

You laugh softly, the sound filling the small space between you as Steve continues muttering under his breath about "vicious zoo creatures" and "unprovoked assaults." The conversation drifts easily after that, bouncing between school, Robin's latest obsession at the video store, and Dustin's endless need to remind everyone he was apparently Hawkins' greatest hero.

Outside the windows, familiar roads begin replacing the crowded streets near the city. The farther Steve drives, the more recognizable everything becomes. The old gas station on the corner, the weathered grocery store your parents always stopped at, and the long stretch of road lined with trees all slowly come into view.

The second the large wooden zoo sign appears ahead, something warm settles in your chest. No matter how many years passed, seeing it always felt the same. It was home.

Steve notices your expression almost instantly.

A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he glances between you and the road ahead. "You do that every time."

You tear your eyes away from the window and look over at him. "Do what?"

"Smile like that." His grip loosens on the wheel as he shrugs. "Every single time we com here. It's like you're seeing the place for the first time."

You feel your cheeks warm slightly. "I'm not smiling."

"You are."

"I am not."

Steve laughs quietly and shakes his head. "You're impossible."

The gravel crunches beneath the tires as he pulls into the small parking area near the front entrance. The afternoon sun hangs high above the trees, casting long golden shadows across the pathways that wind the zoo grounds. Visitors continue moving between exhibits while children point excitedly toward animals hidden behind fences and glass.

For a moment, neither of you gets out.

The engine hums softly beneath you while Steve glances toward the entrance and then back at you. His expression is relaxed, comfortable, like being here has become almost as normal for him as it is for you.

"You gonna survive without me?" He asks.

You laugh softly as you reach for the door handle. "I think so."

"Good. Because I have important things to do."

You mouth drops open in shock. "More important than me?"

Steve pushes open his door and climbs out. "No! Never! I just..."

"Just...?"

"I have to recover emotionally from the trauma Bubbles caused me."

You shake your head as you follow him from the car, immediately greeted by the familiar sounds of the zoo. Somewhere nearby, birds call to one another from the trees while visitors chatter as they make their way down the paths. A faint scent of hay and fresh grass hangs in the warm air, instantly making you feel like you've stepped back into your own world.

The old wooden porch creaks softly beneath your feet as you climb the few stairs leading to the front door. Steve follows close behind, one hand lightly brushing against yours before his fingers finally slip between them. The gesture is simple and familiar, yet it still sends warmth rushing through your chest.

You stop near the front door and turn toward him. The afternoon sunlight filters through the surrounding trees, casting shifting patches of gold across the porch. A warm breeze moves through the property, carrying the scent of fresh grass, hay, and the faint smell of animal feed somewhere deeper within zoo grounds.

Steve squeezes your hand gently. "I'll come back later."

The promise is spoken so casually that anyone else might've missed how genuine it sounded.

"You don't have to."

"I know." His answer comes immediately, thumb brushing across the back of your hand as his eyes meet yours. "I want to."

Something soft settles in your chest. Maybe it shouldn't affect you as much as it does. Maybe hearing your boyfriend say he wants to spend time with you shouldn't make your heart beat any faster.

Yet somehow it does.

Every single time.

Before you can say anything else, Steve steps closer and slides his arms around your waist.

The movement is natural. Effortless. Like he's done it so many times that neither of you has to think about it anymore.

You lean into him, your arms finding their place around his shoulders as he pulls you against his chest. The familiar scent of his cologne mixes with the warm summer air around you, and for a few seconds you allow yourself to simply enjoy being there.

His chin briefly rests against the top of your head. "You smell like otters."

A laugh escapes you so suddenly that it nearly startles both of you. "I do not."

"You kind do."

You pull back just enough to glare at him.

His grin grows wider.

"You are so annoying."

"That's not a denial."

You smack his arm lightly, earning another laugh from him.

The sound is warm and familiar, filling the porch as sunlight glints against his eyes.

For a moment, neither of you let go. Steve's hands remains settled comfortably against your sides while yours rest around his shoulders. It would be easy to stay like this for another ten minutes if neither of you acknowledged the fact that you both had things to do.

Unfortunately, reality eventually catches up. You glance toward the zoo grounds visible beyond the yard.

"I have to work."

Steve groans dramatically and lets his forehead fall against yours.

"I know."

"I have animals to feed."

"I know."

"I have responsibilities."

"I know."

His eyes close briefly. "You're ruining my afternoon."

You laugh. "Go home, Harrington."

A reluctant smile tugs at his lips as he finally takes a step back. "Fine."

The word is drawn out dramatically, earning another eye roll from you. He points toward you while slowly backing toward the porch steps. "But I'm coming back."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

The confidence in his voice makes you smile despite yourself.

Steve descends the steps and begins making his way toward the driveway. Halfway there, he glances back over his shoulder and catches you still standing on the porch watching him.

His grin returns quickly as he climbs into the burgundy BMW. A few minutes later, the engine starts, and the car disappears down the driveway, leaving you standing alone on the porch with a smile you can't seem to get rid of.

The next several hours pass in a blur of responsibilities.

You help prepare food for afternoon feedings, refill water stations, and answer questions from curious visitors who seem convinced you know absolutely everything about every animal in the zoo. At one point, a little girl spends nearly ten minutes asking whether flamingos get lonely, while another child insists one of the monkeys stole his hat through telepathy.

By the time the crowd begins thinning, your feet ache and your shirt is covered in enough dirt and animal fur to prove you'd actually been working. Still, none of it bothers you. The zoo had been your entire life for as long as you could remember, and even the busiest days felt comforting in a strange way.

The afternoon sun still shines brightly overhead as you slowly make your way toward the front gates. Most of the visitors have already left, leaving the pathways quieter than they had been earlier. Long stretches of golden sunlight spill across the pavement while the occasional animal call echoes through the grounds.

You reach for the wooden sign hanging beside the gate and carefully flip it from OPEN to CLOSED.

The metal hook gives a soft break as it settles into place.

Just as you're about to turn away, the distant sound of an engine catches your attention.

The familiar burgundy appears at the end of the gate, sunlight reflecting off the windshield as it slowly makes its way toward the entrance. Your heart gives an immediate flutter before you can deny it.

Steve.

The smile spreading across your face appears long before the car comes to a stop. The car rolls into its usual spot before the driver's door swings open. Steve steps out a second later, one arm resting casually on the roof of the car as he looks toward you.

"Told you I'd be back."

You cross your arms, trying to hide your smile. You failed.

"Congratulations. You kept a promise."

"I know." Steve places a hand dramatically against his chest. "it's a huge accomplishment for me."

A laugh slips free before you can stop it. "I still have a few things I need to finish before I'm done." You admit, shifting your weight onto one foot. :Just some last minute checks."

Steve groans, but there's no real annoyance behind it. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. "Translation... you're going to spend another two hours working."

"It won't be two hours."

"That fact that you didn't say no is a little concerning."

A laugh slips from your lips as you begin walking toward one of the staff-only pathways. Steve falls into step beside you without hesitation, matching your pace as gravel crunches beneath your shoes.

"You don't have to follow me around you know."

"I know. But I came all the way back here. I might as well see some cool zoo stuff."

You glance over at him. "What if it's boring zoo stuff?"

Steve looks genuinely offended. "There's no such thing as boring zoo stuff."

The pathway gradually narrows as you make your way farther into the zoo. without crowds filling every corner, the entire place feels quieter than it had earlier. The occasional chirp of birds carries through the trees overhead while leaves rustle softly in the afternoon breeze.

Eventually, the familiar hippo enclosure comes into view.

A smile immediately spreads across your face.

Steve notices.

"Uh oh."

"What?'

"That smile."

"What smile?'

"That smile that means you've spotted your favorite."

You roll your eyes as you approach the gate. "I don't have favorites."

"A thing you say while smiling."

"I smile at all the animals, Steve. maybe you should try too."

"You do not. And I already tried... and got attacked."

A laugh escapes you as you push through the enclosure gate.

The habitat stretches out before you, filled with patches of grass, mud, and a large pool that reflects the sunlight like glass. Near the edge of the enclosure sits daisy, her small chunky gray body partially hidden among the grass.

The second she notices you, her ears twitch. Then she starts moving.

Steve watches as the baby hippo trots toward you.

"Okay..." his eyebrows rise, "that's adorable."

A grin spreads across your face as you crouch down. At only four months old, Daisy is still tiny compared to the adult hippos. She isn't exactly small, but standing beside a fully grown hippo made her look almost miniature.

The baby hippo lets out a small squeaking noise before nudging her nose against your shoulder.

Steve laughs softly. "She knows you."

"Of course she does." You grin.

Daisy nudges you again. Harder this time.

You nearly lose your balance.

Steve's laughter only grows. "Yeah, she definitely knows you."

The warmth of the afternoon sun settles across your shoulders as you grab the bottle you brought with you. The second daisy notices it, her entire attention shifts.

Her ears perk. Her head lifts. And suddenly the bottle becomes the most important thing in the world.

"Oh my God." Steve drops down beside you on the grass. "Look at her face."

You can't help laughing.

The excitement is impossible to miss.

Daisy eagerly presses closer the second you offer the bottle, making soft snorting sounds as she begins drinking. Every few seconds, her stubby tail gives an excited little wiggle that only makes Steve laugh harder.

"This might be the cutest thing I've ever seen."

You glance over. "Really?"

"Yes." Steve answers without hesitation, his eyes never leaving Daisy as she happily drinks from her bottle. A look of complete fascination has settled across his face, the same one he always gets whenever he discovers something new at the zoo. "And I've seen puppies before, so that's saying a lot."

A soft laugh escapes you as you look back down at the baby hippo. Daisy's ear twitch every few seconds while she drinks, occasionally making little snorting noises that seem far too loud for something so small. The entire sight is almost painfully adorable, especially when she begins pushing against the bottle as if she's worried it might disappear.

For a while, neither of you says much.

The silence that settles between you isn't awkward or uncomfortable. It's the kind that comes naturally when two people are content simply existing in the space space.

You find yourself watching Steve almost as much as you're watching Daisy.

Most visitors came to the zoo because the animals were entertaining. They pointed, took pictures, read a few signs, and then moved on to the next exhibit. Even people who genuinely loved animals rarely paid attention to the little things.

Steve always did.

He noticed when an animal seemed nervous. He remembered names. he asked questions most people never thought to ask, and somehow retained every answer you gave him. It was one of the first things you'd noticed about him all those months ago when he'd stopped in front of the otter exhibit instead of rushing through it like everyone else.

The memory makes you smile. Because that was the moment.

Not when he smiled at you.

Not when he started flirting.

Not even when he asked for your number.

It was watching him stand there, completely fascinated by a family of otters, while the rest of his friends had already moved halfway across the zoo.

That had been the moment you realized there was more to Steve Harrington than everyone thought.

A sudden snort pulls you from your thoughts. You glance down to see Daisy sucking determinedly on an empty bottle.

The milk is long gone. But Daisy seems unwilling to accept that fact.

"Sweetheart," you laugh softly, reaching forward to scratch behind one of her ears. "It's empty."

The baby hippo immediately makes a small grumbling noise, almost as if she's arguing with you.

Beside you, Steve points. "See? Even she knows you're wrong."

"I'm literally holding the bottle." You reply sarcastically.

"And yet she's still convinced."

You shake your head, setting the bottle aside while Daisy continues investigating it for another few seconds. Eventually, she seems to realize there truly isn't anything left and wanders off in search of new adventures.

The two of you remain seated for a moment, watching as she explores her enclosure.

Every rock is inspected.

Every patch of grass receives attention.

At one point she discovers a stick, becomes fascinated with it for nearly thirty seconds and then forgets it exists.

Steve watches the entire thing unfold.

"She's kind of dumb."

You gasp. "She's a baby!"

"I'm just saying." His grin widens. "If she were a person, she'd definitely eat crayons."

A laugh escapes you. "That's so mean."

"But accurate."

The baby continues her journey across the enclosure, completely unaware she's being judged. Her tiny tail flicks back and forth slightly while she investigates every inch of her surroundings, occasionally stopping to sniff something that apparently deserves her full attention.

Then her focus shifts, and you notice it immediately.

The pool.

Your smile fades slightly.

The large body of water sparkles beneath the afternoon sunlight, reflecting patches of blue sky across its surface. Daisy stares at it for a moment before beginning to waddle toward it with surprising determination.

Beside you, Steve notices your expression. "What?"

You stand slowly, eyes locked onto the little hippo. Steve follows your gaze just as the baby reaches the edge of the water. For half a second she pauses, then she slides in.

A loud splash echoes through the enclosure as water sprays into the air.

You're already moving before Steve can react. Your feet sink slightly into the muddy bank as you hurry toward the pool. The water is cool against your legs when you step inside, small ripples spreading outward with every movement as your eyes remain fixed on Daisy.

Behind you, Steve stands so quickly that he nearly trips over himself. "Woah- hold on."

Confusion fills his voice as he follows you toward the edge of the pool.

"What are you doing?"

The water rises to your knees as you continue forward. "I'm getting Daisy."

Steve looks from you to the baby and then back again. His brows pull together, confusion brightening his face. "I thought hippos lived in water."

"They do."

"Then why are you rescuing her?"

You glance back briefly before looking toward Daisy again. The baby hippo is paddling nearby, but her movements are clumsy and uneven. Every few seconds, she dips slightly beneath the surface before correcting herself again.

"Because she's only four months old."

The concern in your voice makes Steve's expression immediately change.

"What does that have to do with anything?'

You carefully move closer to Daisy, keeping your movements slow and steady.

"When hippos are babies, they usually stay close to their mothers. The mothers help keep them positioned correctly in the water and make sure they're getting back to the surface when they need air." You glance over your shoulder. "They're not born know how to manage all of that on their own."

Steve's eyes widen slightly.

A moment passes when suddenly realization hits him. "Wait."

"Yeah?"

His gaze snaps back toward Daisy. "They can drown?"

"They can."

Steve stares at the baby with complete disbelief. The expression on his face is almost funny.

Then he slowly points toward the water. "That seems like a terrible design."

A laugh slips from your lips despite the situation. "I don't think evolution asked for your opinion."

"I should've."

Meanwhile, Daisy has completely forgotten there was ever a problem.

The second you reach her, she happily paddles over and bumps her nose against your side, nearly splashing water onto your shirt. She lets out a soft squeaking noise, looking entirely pleased with herself despite the concern she'd just caused.

Once Daisy is safely back in the shallow water, the tension slowly drains from your shoulders. The baby hippo remains glued to your side for the next several minutes, occasionally nudging your leg whenever she decides you aren't paying enough attention to her.

The two of you leave the enclosure together, making your way toward a few of the remaining exhibits that still need checking.

By the time the two of you finish checking on the last few animals, the zoo has become almost unrecognizable from the busy attraction it had been earlier that afternoon.

Long shadows stretch across the walkways while the last traces of sunlight filter through the trees. Every now and then, an animal call echoes from somewhere deeper in the zoo, but otherwise the entire property feels peaceful.

Steve walks beside you as you make your way toward the house, his pace matching yours without either of you thinking about it. Every so often he glances back toward the exhibits, as if he's still expecting visitors to come around a corner.

"It's weird seeing this place like this," he says quietly.

You glance over at him. "What do you mean?"

Steve looks out across the zoo again before shrugging. "I don't know. Usually, there's kids running around everywhere or people pointing at stuff. It's just..." His gaze drifts toward the empty pathways. "Different."

A small smile tugs at your lips.

"Better different or worse different?"

His answer comes after a moment. "Better."

The two of you eventually reach the house, the familiar porch coming into view through the trees. The soft glow from the windows spills onto the yard while the evening air grows slightly cooler around you.

Steve's attention immediately shifts toward the porch swing sitting near the far end of the wraparound porch.

A grin spreads across his face. "Can we sit out here for a bit?"

You laugh softly. "You drove all the way back here just to sit on my porch?"

Steve follows you up the steps. "Maybe."

"You are aware that porches exist literally everywhere, right?"

"Not this porch."

The answer catches you slightly off guard. Steve notices immediately.

A small shrug lifts his shoulders. "I like this one."

Something warm settles in your chest.

Before he can see the smile threatening to appear, you slip inside the house and return a minute later, carrying two blankets and wearing a fresh set of pj's. The evening breeze has started picking up slightly, carrying the scent of fresh grass and distant animal enclosures across the property.

The second Steve sees the blankets, his eyes light up. "Oh, we're using blankets?"

You hand one to him. "It's getting colder."

"This just became significantly better."

A laugh escapes you as the two of you settle onto the swing. The wooden seat creaks softly beneath your combined weight while the chains give a gentle rattle overhead. You drape the blanket across your lap, pulling part of it around your shoulders while Steve does the same.

For a while, neither of you says much.

The swing rocks slowly back and forth beneath you as the sky gradually darkens overhead. The last streaks of pink and orange fade beyond the trees while stars begin appearing one by one across the night sky.

From where you're sitting, you can see portions of the zoo stretching out beyond the yard.

The dark outlines of exhibits. The tops of fences. The occasional movement of animals settling in for the night.

Everything feels calm and safe.

You glance over at Steve. His gaze remains fixed on the zoo grounds while a soft smile rests on his face. "What are you thinking about?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly and looks out across the property for another moment before finally speaking.

"When I first came here, I thought it'd just be some random field trip."

A small laugh escapes you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His smile grows. "I figured I'd walk around, make fun of a couple of animals with Tommy and Carol, then leave."

You roll your eyes. "Sounds about right."

"Exactly."

The swing continues its slow movement as Steve turns his head toward you. "But then I met you."

The words are simple. Casual. But they make your stomach flip.

Steve looks back toward the zoo. "I don't know."

A small shrug lifts his shoulder. "I guess I just didn't expect any of this."

"What, the zoo?"

A laugh escapes him. "No."

His eyes find yours. "You."

The swing continues rocking gently while crickets chirp somewhere in the distance. The sounds of the zoo blend together with the evening air, leaving the two of you in silence.

Your heart beats a little faster.

Steve's smile softens.

And suddenly the space between you feels much smaller than it did a few seconds ago.

Then, a horrific scream erupts somewhere across the zoo.

Steve practically jumps a foot off the swing.

"What the hell was that?!"

The sudden panic in his voice catches you so off guard that you immediately burst into laughter. "It's just Kevin."

"Who's Kevin!"

"The peacock!"

After everything has happened in the small town of Hawkins, you thought the storm was over. That everything was back to normal.

The town was in the process of being rebuilt. Ms. Byers, Will, Eleven, and Johnathan had all moved to California for a fresh start. Hawkins' lab was shut down, and the Russians were kicked out.

All was presumed well again.

Until it wasn't.

The first incident was with Chrissy Cunningham, who was supposedly buying drugs from Eddie and died right in his trailer. Everything went to hell that night. Eddie ran away. Investigations were called. The town was set on a curfew time.

The next night, Fred was found dead, lying in the middle of the road. Ligaments torn and snapped, eyes missing from his head. Police reported his body as a hit-and-run accident. But by then, everyone assumed the worst.

And that's how you met Eddie.

You were working at Family Video with Steve and Robin when all of a sudden Dustin and Max barged into the store, running behind the counter and rushing for an answer about how many phones you had around. And it didn't take long before Eddie Munson's name surfaced, along with the realization that he had gone into hiding after Chrissy's death.

Dustin explained that Eddie's drug supplier went by the name Reefer Rick, someone Eddie had mentioned before. With that lead, Robin used the Family Video computer system to search through old rental records connected to the name. The search revealed a consistent address located far from town, tucked deep in a wooded area near Skull Rock.

Realizing the location could be Eddie's last known connection to someone outside the town's panic, the group decided to check the address themselves. The police were already tightening their grip on Hawkins, and the longer Eddie stayed hidden, the more dangerous things became for him.

The decision led you to Reefer Rick's house, where Eddie Munson was found hiding, terrified, exhausted, and no longer just a name tied to a headline, but a real person caught in something far bigger than himself.

Which somehow led you into the upside-down again, cold, and tired, holding an almost-lifeless Eddie in your arms while Dustin walkies Nancy and Steve for help.

The red and black storm brews over you, loud claps of thunder snapping almost every minute.

"Y/N!" Dustin calls, limping quickly toward them. "They're coming! They're almost here!"

He drops down onto his knees next to you, rushing to take the jacket off that he has on. "T-they said to cover all the marks. It'll stop the bleeding."

You nod, supporting Eddie's head in one arm while you remove your hoodie. Eddie winces at the frantic movement, glancing down as Dustin wraps Eddie's waist, hissing as he does.

"You're going to be okay," you say gently, supporting Eddie's head in your lap. "Steve and Nancy are on their way."

He glances up at you, eyes filling with tears, head shaking in pain. "I-I'm not... dead, right?"

"No." You reply, voice gentle but firm. "No, you're going to be okay. You're not dead, and we are sure as hell not letting you die."

The storm above you feels endless, red lightning crackling across the sky in violent flashes that make everything look unreal. Eddie's weight is heavy against you, his breathing shallow and uneven as your hands press desperately against the makeshift bandages around his waist.

Then you hear them.

Feet pounding against the warped ground.

"Y/N!" Nancy calls out through the thunder, sprinting up to you, the others following behind.

She reaches you, dropping beside Eddie without hesitation. Steve and Robin are seconds behind her, breathless but moving with urgency instead of fear.

"Oh my God," Robin breathes, taking in the sight of Eddie's torn jacket, the deep wounds across his torso.

Nancy checks his pulse, her fingers steady despite the tremor in her breath. "Go through the gate." She says firmly, looking at Robin. "Call an ambulance. Tell them we found him injured on the road if you have. I don't care."

Robin nods once, already rushing inside Eddie's trailer and pulling herself through to the real world.

Steve crouches beside Eddie's other side, taking in the blood with wide eyes before forcing himself to focus. "We move him now."

Together, all of you lift him. Eddie groans faintly at the shift, his body reacting even though he's barely conscious, but now one slows down. The red sky flashes overhead as you make your way toward the trailer, Steve carrying most of the weight while Nancy keeps him steady.

You stay close, one hand never leaving Eddie's shoulder, as if letting go might mean losing him.

The gate in the trailer ceiling still shimmers when you reach it. The plan is wordless. Steve climbs first, and Nancy and Lucas lift Eddie through the tiny opening. You stand on a chair, supporting Eddie's bobbling head as they raise him upward.

Then he's gone through the ceiling.

You follow quickly after, the cold ripping sensation of crossing dimensions stealing your breath before you land on the dusty trailer floor in the real world.

The silence is overwhelming. No thunder. No red sky. Just the distant sounds of sirens growing closer.

Eddie is lying flat on the floor. His chest rises shallowly, barely visible. Robin rushes to the phone without waiting for instructions again, nearly tripping over the coffee table as she grabs the receiver. Her fingers shake so badly she has to dial twice before she gets it right.

"Yes, hi- we need an ambulance," she says breathlessly. "He's been attacked. Bleeding a lot. We're at Forest Hills Trailer Park. It's urgent. Please, please hurry."

She slams the receiver down a little too hard and turns back to you all, eyes wide and glassy but determined.

"They're coming."

Nancy doesn't waste a second. She kneels back down beside Eddie and presses fresh fabric to his side, tightening the pressure with careful hands. "We need to keep him conscious." She says quietly, more to herself than anyone else. "Talk to him."

Steve runs a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of dried blood along his temple. He looks at Eddie like he's trying to will him to wake up. "Hey, man," he says, forcing lightness into his voice that doesn't quite land. "You still owe me gas money, remember? You can't bail on that."

Eddie smiles slightly before Dustin kneels closely, so close his knees press against Eddie's arm, like he's afraid the space between them might grow.

You stay where you are, one hand steady over the bandages, the other brushing curls back from Eddie's forehead. His skin feels too cool. His breathing stutters unevenly, and every shallow inhale makes your stomach twist.

"Eddie," you murmur softly. "Stay with me. Just keep breathing. That's all you have to do."

His eyelids flicker faintly at the sound of your voice. It's small, barely there, but it's enough to send a fragile thread of hope through you.

Outside, the night is eerily quiet compared to what you just escaped. The normal world doesn't know how close it came to losing him. A dog's bark comes from somewhere down the road. A porch light flickers on in the distance, curious neighbors peeking through curtains.

Max hovers near the door, arms wrapped tightly around herself, pale but standing. Lucas keeps glancing between the road and Eddie, restless energy building in him with nowhere to go. Erica stands stiffy, jaw tight like she's refusing to let herself feel anything at all.

Minutes stretch longer than they should. Every second feels fragile, like if anyone moves or says something wrong, everything could crumble down again.

Nancy checks Eddie's pulse again, her brows furrowing slightly before she smooths her expression so no one panics. "He's still here." She says, and this time it sounds like reassurance.

Dustin leans closer. "Eddie? It's Dustin. You're not allowed to die, okay? That's not part of the plan." His voice cracks at the end, and he presses his lips together hard.

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. You glance toward the road, straining for any sound of sirens.

A distant wail is heard outside, faint at first.

robin hears it too. Her head snaps up. "That's them."

The sound grows louder, closer, cutting cleanly through the night air. Red and white lights begin to flash against the sides of the trailers, reflecting in the windows and washing over all of you in rhythmic pulses.

Relief hits so hard it almost makes your knees weak. Steve stands immediately, rushing outside and waving his arms to guide them in.

The ambulance turns into the park too fast, gravel spitting beneath its tires as it pulls up in front of the trailer. The siren cuts abruptly, leaving the sudden silence ringing in your ears.

You stand off to the side, guiding Dustin back as the paramedics rush in with their supplies. They drop to their knees beside Eddie immediately, their movements fast but controlled. One of them gently assesses the bandages while the other checks his pulse and shines a small penlight into his eyes.

"How long ago did this happen?" She asks, putting the light back in her bag.

"Not long," Nancy answers quickly. "He lost a lot of blood."

The other paramedic nods, already cutting away what remains of Eddie's torn shirt to properly examine the wounds. Fresh gauze replaces the makeshift wrappings. An oxygen mask is fitted over his face, the elastic snapping softly against his curls as they secure it in place.

"Pulse is weak but present." The other says. "We need to move."

They work with practiced efficiency, sliding a board beneath him and lifting him carefully onto the stretcher. Eddie stirs faintly at the motion, a quiet, pained sound escaping him that makes Dustin flinch.

"It's okay," you say quietly, even though he's barely conscious. "You're okay."

The group follows the paramedics outside, watching as the stretcher locks into place inside the ambulance with a metallic click. One paramedic climbs in beside him, adjusting the IV and checking the monitor, while the other turns toward the rest of you.

"Only one can ride along."

"I'm going," you say immediately.

"I'll go too." Dustin blurts at the same time, stepping forward before anyone can stop him.

The paramedic gives him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, kid. Just one."

Dustin looks between you and Eddie, panic rising fast in his eyes. "He needs me," he insists. "He- he can't just-"

You step in front of him gently, gripping his shoulders the way you did before, grounding him. "Dustin," you say softly but firmly. "I'll go. I'll stay with him."

His face crumples. "But what if- what if he wakes up and I'm not there?"

"He's not going anywhere," you promise, even though your heart is still racing. "And when he wakes up, I'll tell him you're right behind him. I'll tell him everything."

He shakes his head stubbornly. "He needs me."

"And I need you to go with Steve," you reply, voice gentler now. "You're covered in Upside Down... everything. If you show up to the hospital like that, they're going to ask questions. Go home. Clean up. Be ready for when he wakes up."

Steve steps closer, resting a steady hand on Dustin's shoulder. His voice is calmer than it was earlier, grounded in that older-brother tone he slips into without trying. "She's right, Henderson. He'll be fine with her. We'll get cleaned up and meet them there."

Dustin's breathing is uneven, his jaw tight as he looks at Eddie through the open ambulance doors. For a long moment, he doesn't move.

You squeeze his shoulders once more. "I've got him."

Slowly and painfully, Dustin nods. "Tell him... tell him I'm coming."

"I will."

He steps back, and that's when the paramedic gestures for you to get in.

The doors shut with a heavy thud that feels final, sealing you inside with the hum of machinery and the sharp scent of antiseptic.

The ambulance lurches forward.

Inside, everything is close and bright. One paramedic adjusts the IV while the other monitors the steady beeping of the machine beside Eddie. His chest rises shallowly beneath the oxygen mask, fog gathering and fading with each fragile breath.

You sit on the narrow bench beside him, one hand wrapped carefully around his fingers. They're colder than normal, but when you squeeze, there's the faintest response.

"Stay with us, Eddie." The paramedic says evenly, checking his pulse again.

The siren wails as the vehicle speeds through Hawkins, the sound echoing through the metal walls. Streetlights flash across Eddie's face in streaks of gold and shadow.

You lean closer so he can hear you over the noise.

"You're doing fine," you whisper. "Just keep breathing. That's all you have to do."

His eyelids flutter faintly, not fully opening, but enough to show he hears something.

The paramedic nods at the monitor. "He's holding on."

You let out a shaky breath you didn't realize you were holding.

Outside, houses blur past. The familiar streets of Hawkins feel strangely distant, like you're watching them from underwater. The siren begins to shift in pitch as the ambulance slows.

Through the front window, bright white hospital lights come into view. The vehicle turns sharply, then eases to a stop.

Then the back doors swing open to the glare of the emergency entrance.

The cold night air disappears the second the paramedics wheel Eddie through the sliding glass doors of the emergency entrance. Bright fluorescent lights flood everything in harsh white, and the smell of antiseptic hits you all at once.

You don't let go.

You walk beside the stretcher as they move quickly down the hallway, your fingers still wrapped around his. Nurses fall into step with the paramedics, asking rapid questions. His age, allergies, how long he's been unconscious. Words blur together. You answer what you can.

"He lost a lot of blood."

"He was attacked."

"He's been in and out."

They push through double doors, the wheels rattling loudly against the tile floor. Eddie's head shifts slightly with the motion, curls brushing against the thin hospital pillow. You keep your pace, your shoulder nearly brushing the metal railing of the stretcher.

"You're going to be okay," you murmur, even as they turn another sharp corner.

A nurse jogs ahead and pushes open another set of doors labeled SURGERY.

That's when a gentle hand touches your arm/

"I'm sorry," the nurse says softly, stepping slightly into your path. Her voice isn't cold, but practiced. "You can't go past this point."

Your grip tightens instinctively around Eddie's fingers.

"I'll stay out of the way," you insist quietly. "I won't- I just-"

"I know," she says quietly, lowering her voice. "But we need space to work. He's in good hands."

You hesitate for a beat. Then Eddie's hand slips from yours as they wheel him through the doors. They swing shut with a muted thud, sealing him on the other side.

The nurse guides you toward the waiting area, reassuring you that someone will update you as soon as they can. You nod automatically, but the words barely register.

The waiting room is painfully normal. A muted television plays in the corner. A vending machine hums softly. A clock ticks steadily above the front desk, each second stretching longer than it should.

You sit down, but it doesn't help. Your hands are still faintly stained with dried blood, and you rub them together absentmindedly as if you can somehow undo the last few hours.

After what feels like forever, you stand and approach the front desk.

"Hi," you say, trying to sound calm. "I'm waiting on Eddie Munson. He just went into surgery. I was wondering if there are any updates?"

The receptionist types without looking at you for a moment. "Yes. He's still in surgery. It's only been about ten minutes."

You nod quickly and step back, returning to your seat.

The waiting is worse than the chaos was.

Another ten minutes crawl by. You stare at the surgery doors every time they open, hoping someone will walk out and call his name. And when they don't... you find yourself standing again, walking back to the desk almost without realizing it.

"Sorry," you begin, voice thinner now. "I just wanted to check again."

The receptionist exhales quietly, irritation slowly starting to build. "It's only been a few minutes."

"It's been ten."

She types again, her movements sharper this time. "He's still in surgery."

"But he's okay?" You press gently.

"He's still in surgery." She repeats, clearly wanting the conversation to end.

You return to your chair, heart pounding harder with every passing minute. The fluorescent lights feel too bright. The air feels too thin. You replay the way his finger twitched in the ambulance, the way he asked if he was dead.

Another ten minutes pass.

This time, when you approach the desk, the receptionist looks up immediately, her expression already guarded.

You open your mouth to speak, but before you can get the words out, a nurse steps up beside you.

"Are you hear for Eddie Munson?" She asks gently.

Your breath catches. "Yeah."

She offers a small, reassuring smile. "He's out of surgery," she says, tapping the back of her clipboard. "He did very well. He lost a significant amount of blood, but the surgeons were able to stabilize him."

"He's alive?" You ask.

"Yes," she says softly. "He's alive and in recovery."

The tension that's been holding you upright finally loosens. The nurse hands you a small card with a room number written neatly across it.

"Third floor." She explains. "Room 312. They're moving him there now. You can head up."

You clutch the card tightly, nodding your thanks before turning toward the elevators. You press the button, fingers still unsteady, and watch the numbers above the doors light up one by one as it descends. The hallway behind you is quiet except for the distant squeak of cart wheels and the soft murmur of nurses changing shifts.

When the doors finally slide open, you step inside, the metal walls reflecting back a pale, exhausted version of yourself.

The ride up feels longer than it is. You stare at the growing floor numbers as they climb, your heart beating in a steady, anxious rhythm. Now that you know he's alive, the fear hasn't disappeared, but just changed shape.

The elevator dings softly at the third floor.

When the doors open, the air feels calmer. dimmer lighting. Soft footsteps. A nurse's station sits at the center of the hallway, and you glance at the small card in your hand before following the signs toward the numbered rooms.

You walk slowly, the hallway seemingly endless as each door looks identical until you finally reach the one with Eddie's number printed beside it.

You pause before pushing it open.

Just for a second.

Then you step inside.

The room is dim, lit mostly by the faint glow of monitors and the soft light above the bed. Eddie lies still against thin white sheets, bandages wrapped securely around his torso.

Many machines surround the bed. One tracking his heart rate. Another monitoring his oxygen levels. The soft rhythm of the beeping fills the space. An IV line runs from his arm to a hanging bag beside him.

You stand by the door for a moment, taking in the sight of him after everything that's happened before moving closer to the bed, gently pulling the chair closer and lowering yourself into it carefully so you don't make too much noise.

Slowly, you reach for his hand, fingers slide into his, minding the IV carefully taped to his skin.

He doesn't stir.

You sit there quietly, thumb brushing faintly over his knuckles, letting the stillness settle around you. The adrenaline from earlier worn off, leaving behind exhaustion and relief.

A few minutes pass of stillness.

Then gradually, his fingers twitch.

It's subtle at first, just the faintest movement beneath your hand. His brows shift slightly, lashes fluttering before his eyes open slowly, blinking against the dim light.

It takes a second for recognition to settle in. He looks all around the room, at the pale white walls, at the monitors around him.

And then, his gaze finds you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The machines continue their quiet rhythm around you.

"You're... still here," he says slowly, his voice rough but stronger than before.

"I'm still here." You say, a small smile twitching on your lips.

His gaze moves past you, and then down at himself, confusion drawing over his face. "What..."

"You were attacked by demobats." You reiterate.

He nods slowly, unevenly, moving his hand down to feel the bandages wrapped around him. "Wow. That's cool."

"Cool?"

He looks back up at you, pausing and narrowing his eyes. "Do I look skinny to you? I feel more... light."

You chuckle softly. "You lost a lot of blood on the way here. That could be why."

"I'm skinny, though."

You nod helplessly, smiling despite yourself. "You're skinny."

-

Every day after that, you visit Eddie in the hospital, sometimes bringing Dustin along too.

At first, it's easy to blame everything on recovery. He's tired. He's sore. He drifts in and out of sleep while nurses check his vitals and adjust his IV. The bruising along his ribs darkens before it fades, and the stitches pull slightly whenever he laughs too hard.

You stay anyway.

Sometimes you sit quietly beside him while he sleeps, doing homework or flipping through one of the magazines Robin brings. Other days, Dustin tags along, talking nonstop about how metal the whole thing was and how Eddie technically survived an interdimensional bat swarm, which automatically makes him legendary.

Eddie laughs at that.

But not the way he used to.

It's softer. Quieter. Like he's measuring the sound before letting it out.

At first, you tell yourself that makes sense. He almost died. Of course, he's different.

Still, you start to notice little things.

He stares at the ceiling more often now. Not in a bored way, but in a distant way, like he's listening to something no one else can hear. Sometimes you'll be mid-sentence and realize he hasn't responded, his eyes unfocused until you gently say his name.

When he does snap back, he always smiles but brushes it off.

"Sorry," he'll mutter. "Zoned out."

One afternoon, Dustin can't make it, so it's just you and Eddie. The hospital room is quieter than usual, late sunlight spiling in through the blinds and casting soft gold lines across the sheets.

Eddie's sitting up a little more now. The bandages are smaller. The worst of the swelling has gone down. But he's staring down at himself again, fingers tracing the edge of one of the newer scars just visible beneath the collar of his hospital gown.

"You okay?" You ask gently.

He shrugs. "Yeah. Just... weird."

"Weird how?"

He hesitates before answering, jaw tightening slightly. "I don't feel... right. In my own skin, I guess." he exhales through his nose. "Like I left that night as one person and came back as someone else. And I don't recognize this version yet."

There's no drama in his voice. No joke to soften it. Just confusion.

"It's not that I think I'm possessed or anything." He adds quickly, almost embarrassed. "I just... everything feels different. When I look in the mirror. When I move. Even when I think. It's like... I'm relearning myself."

Your chest tightens at that.

You shift your chair closer to the bed, close enough that your knee brushes the side of it. "That makes sense," you say softly. "You went through something awful. Of course you're going to feel different after."

He studies his hands for a moment. "I don't know if I like the different."

You reach forward and gently take his hand again. His fingers are warmer now, stronger when they curl around yours.

"You don't have to like it yet," you tell him. "You just have to give yourself time to understand it."

His shoulders relax just slightly at that.

"You're still you," you continue. "You're still sweet. Still dramatic. Still the guy who risked everything for a bunch of kids because you care too much."

His mouth twitches faintly, and he looks at you then, like he's trying to decide whether he believes that.

The room settles into a softer quiet after that. Eddie doesn't pull his hand away, and you don't either. The steady beeping of the monitor fills the space between you while the sun dips lower outside the window.

After a minute, he huffs lightly. "You know what I miss?"

"What?"

"My guitar." He says immediately. "Like, actually miss it. My fingers feel weird without it. I keep tapping like I'm holding a pick." He lifts his hand slightly to demonstrate, flexing his fingers. "And the amp feedback. and that one stupid riff I could never quite get right."

You smile. "The one you played seventeen times in a row?"

"Twenty-three," he corrects automatically. "It was almost perfect."

"Of course it was."

He grins faintly, and for a second it's the most normal he's looked all week.

"I miss hellfire too," he continues, looking up at the ceiling. "I miss arguing about dice rolls. I miss pretending to be the villain for once instead of..." his voice trails off.

Instead of being the one everyone thinks is the villain.

You don't say it. You don't have to.

He swallows and looks down at his arm, at the fading bruises and the jagged line of a healing scar that disappears beneath the hospital gown.

"And I keep thinking about that night," he admits quietly. "About standing on the trailer. About the bats. I can still hear them sometimes when it's quiet." He pauses, then adds with a shaky half-laugh. "Metallica probably didn't expect their music to be used as demon repellent."

"You made it iconic." You say softly.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Until I didn't."

Your grip tightens slightly.

"You stayed." He corrects himself after a moment. "I didn't run. For once, I didn't run."

There's something fragile in his voice when he says it, like he's testing the memory, trying to decide if it counts something.

"It counts." You say immediately.

He glances at you.

"It counts that you stayed. It counts that you fought." You say. "It counts that you protected them."

His jaw shifts, and he looks away again, blinking a little too hard.

"I don't feel brave," he admits. "I felt terrified."

"You can be both." Your eyes drift to the tattoos lining his arm. The bats inked to his skin, the swirling dark lines, the pieces of him that always felt larger than life.

Your fingers brush lightly over one near his wrist. "You've always looked kind of fearless." You tell him. "All dramatic and intense."

He snorts softly. "That was mostly bluffing."

"Maybe, but you know what I see?"

He raises a brow.

"I see someone who cares too much. who makes big speeches and pretends he's this dark, scary cult leader type, but then gives middle schoolers extra dice because they're nervous."

A faint blush creeps up his neck.

"You're not some criminal mastermind." You continue, your thumb tracing the edge of one of his tattoos. "You're a silly guy who likes loud music and fantasy games."

He huffs a quiet laugh.

"And those?" you add, your gaze lowering to the scar near his ribs. "They make you look broken. They make you looks brave."

He goes still.

"They're proof you stood your ground," you say softly. "Proof you fought for people. That's not something a murderer does."

His eyes flick back to yours, sharp and searching.

"I never thought you were a killer," you finish gently, because he's the one who brought it there. "And I definitely never thought you were some satanic cult leader."

He studies you for a long moment, like he's trying to catch even the smallest hint of doubt.

"You didn't?" He asks quietly.

You shake your head. "No. I thought you were dramatic. A little chaotic. Loud. But sweet."

He exhales slowly, something in his shoulders loosening.

"I don't feel very soft and sweet." He murmurs.

"You don't have to. I know you are."

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s warmer this time. Less heavy.

Eddie looks down at your intertwined hands, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself.

“Guess I’ve got some cool battle scars now,” he mutters after a second, attempting a grin.

You smile back. “Very metal.”

He rolls his eyes faintly, but the corner of his mouth stays lifted.

The sun dips lower until the room is washed in soft orange light, the kind that makes everything feel quieter than it really is.

Eddie’s still holding your hand.

At some point, the conversation fades into something softer, a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling. His thumb traces absentminded patterns over your skin, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing the shape of your hand just to prove you’re real.

“You’re not going anywhere, right?” he asks eventually, voice low and almost careful.

You don’t tease him for it.

“I’m right here,” you answer instead.

His shoulders relax at that, like that was the only answer he needed. He shifts slightly in the bed, wincing a little but still managing a small, crooked smile in your direction.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t be very heroic if I survived all that just to lose my favorite person.”

Your heart stumbles, but you keep your voice steady. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Yeah?” he says, eyes softer now. “Sounds kinda nice.”

The last bell rings for ninth period. Students rush in from the hallway, sitting down as quickly as possible before the teacher begins his instructions. You sit with your head resting on your arms, ready to get the day done and over with.

You look up as you see three familiar figures walk down the aisle.

Dustin and Mike both give you a slight wave, plopping down at the table next to you with a somewhat excited expression on their faces.

Robin follows slowly behind, rounding the table sitting next to you as well, brows furrowing as she looks at all the beakers and glasses set up in front of you.

Robin leans closer, squinting at the line of liquids in front of you. “What… exactly is all this?” she asks, tone somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.

You shrug, glancing at the colorful mixtures. “It’s supposed to be a simple reaction. Something about acids and bases or… something. I forgot the part where it matters.” You give a small, self-deprecating smile.

Dustin nudges you excitedly. “I think it’s gonna work, though! You’ve got the ratios right, right?”

“Mostly,” you mumble, keeping your eyes on a small bubble forming in one of the beakers

Robin tilts her head, crossing her arms. “Mostly isn’t exactly reassuring.” Her voice has that teasing edge, but there’s a weight behind her eyes like she’s trying to figure you out.

You glance up, noticing her studying you. “I’ll be fine,” you say, a little too quickly.

For a second, she just watches, then smirks. “Famous last words.”

"Alright, class!" Mr. Clarke starts, clapping his hands together once. "We've got one last lab before Christmas break, and I think you all are going to like this one." He smiles warmly.

The class groans in unison. You lay your head down on top of your arms, sighing and already giving up.

"I know. I know." Mr. Clarke reassures. "But, this one is different. We are going test different enzyme reactions." He pauses and lifts up a packet from his desk. "You all have this packet on your desks, which you will follow to do this reaction the correct way. I want you working in groups of four since it is a longer experiment."

He turns around, writing different formulas on the chalkboard as everybody rushes to get with their groups. Dustin and Mike walk over to your table, sitting down across from you, and smile widely.

"Hello..." Mike says, giving a small wave.

"Hi," Robin exhales, flipping over her packet.

"So... how we doing?" Dustin asks, particularly close to you.

The three of them go silent, all glancing your way. Dustin puts a hand on your shoulder, making you look up at him slowly.

"Yes?"

Dustin's hand lingers on your shoulder for a moment too long, and you feel a little heat rise to your cheeks. You force a small, awkward smile, trying to act casual.

Robin shifts in her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but her eyes flick toward you for just a second longer than necessary. You catch it, and quickly look back at your packet, pretending to be absorbed in reading.

"So... enzymes." Mike starts, breaking the silence. "We're mixing these and then waiting to see what happens?"

"Yeah," you mumble, still keeping your gaze fixed on the paper. You can feel Robin's presence beside you, and it makes your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the experiment.

Dustin grins. "This is gonna be fun!"

You force a laugh, hoping it sounds genuine. Robin leans a little closer under the table, brushing your hand lightly with hers. You catch it, but move your hand away instantly.

Mike flips through his packet carefully, trying to follow along, while Robin is already measuring liquids with precision, muttering numbers under her breath.

You sit there, arms crossed over the edge of the table, watching them move.

Dustin glances at you and tilts his head, noticing your quietness. He nudges a small beaker toward you. "Here- try this." He says gently, his smile encouraging. "C'mon, it's easy. Just pour it in here, see what happens."

You pour the solution into the main glass, but your movements are slow, almost careless. Your eyelids feel heavy, and the weight in your chest makes it hard to focus. Dustin notices first, his brows furrowing.

"Hey... you okay?" He asks, leaning a little closer. His voice is worried, the excitement from before gone.

You force a small, hollow smile and shake your head. "I'm fine." You lie, keeping your voice light. But as you speak, the lump in your throat makes the words sound empty.

Robin's eyes narrow slightly. She watches you for a moment, then nudges your hand gently under the table. A flicker of warmth hits your skin, but it's bittersweet because she knows.

"Watch it." Mike says suddenly, pointing at Dustin, breaking the tension with a chuckle. But Dustin is still looking at you, concern etched on his face.

Before anyone can see more, you accidentally knock over a small beaker, the liquid splashing across the table.

"Oh-!" Dustin jumps up, reaching for the towel next to Mike. "Careful!"

You just sit there, letting him clean it up while Robin leans close enough for her voice to brush your ear. "Hey... don't worry," she says softly, low enough that no one else hears.

Dustin wipes up the spill quickly, like it's no big deal. "Okay, crisis averted." He declares, putting the towel off to the side. "See? Totally fine. Nothing exploded."

Mike snorts, shaking his head. "Yet."

Dustin straightens, grinning again like the moment never happened. "Hey, if something does explode, at least it's ninth period. Worst-case scenario, we get sent home early."

"Pretty sure that's not how school works." Mike says, glancing back down at the instructions. "Alright, step four-"

Mr. Clarke clears his throat, looking straight at you as he steps up to your table. "Y/N, mind if we talk in the hall for a second?"

He nods toward the door. You sigh, standing up and following him through the rows of experiments.

The hall is quiet, the click of the door echoing throughout. You stand against the lockers, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface. Mr. Clarke stands in front of you, arms crossed loosely, expression drawn with concern.

"What's been going on with you?"

You shrug, glancing down both sides of the hallway before landing on the floor. "...Nothing."

He sighs through his nose, tilting his head. "I'm not going to pressure you into talking." He starts. "And of course, the day before break is always hard for students. But you've been acting off lately."

You shrug again, gaze shifting to a door opening and closing down the hallway.

"I just want to make sure nothing is going on at home that is affecting you."

You nod along slowly, feeling the day catch up to you second by second. "I just... haven't been getting a lot of sleep. And I'm getting a lot of homework from teachers I haven't been able to catch up on."

He nods understandingly, posture loosening just a fraction. "Alright. Maybe this break will do you justice and get some of the energy back in you." He smiles.

Your lips curve into the smallest smile as he opens the door. You walk back in first, dodging all the students who are cleaning up their stations. Robin sits alone at the table as the boys head back to their seats.

"Everything okay?" She asks quietly, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

You nod. "Yeah."

She studies your face like she might say more, then doesn't. Instead, she nods once and zips her bag shut, fingers lingering on the zipper.

Dustin and Mike are half-packed, half-arguing over who forgot to rinse the beaker out.

"I told you I'd do it." Mike mutters.

"You said you'd do it." Dustin counters. "Big difference."

They fall silent for a second, and then Dustin leans closer to Mike, lowering his voice in what is very clearly meant to be a whisper.

"She doesn't just look tired," he says. "She looks like she's holding something and doesn't know where to put it."

You still for a fraction of a second.

Your shoulders tense before you force them to drop, eyes fixed on your bag as you adjust the strap like you didn't hear a thing.

Mike freezes. "Dustin-"

"No, like," Dustin continues, quieter but still very much audible, "that kind of tired where sleep doesn't even help. Like when someone's pretending they're okay because they don't wanna make it weird."

Your fingers curl around the zipper.

Mike glances at you, then back at Dustin. "You're... really bad at whispering."

Dustin winces. "Oh. Oh no." He lowers his voice again, somehow worse. "Okay- I didn't mean it like she's doing anything wrong. I just- she's different lately. Quieter."

You don't turn around. Don't react.

You zip up your bag, slow and steady, like nothing about that hit too close.

The bell shrieks overhead, sharp and sudden.

Everyone jolts into motion at once, chairs scarping back, backpacks slung over shoulders, voices rising as if the room has been holding it's breath all period.

"Alright, everyone- have a good break, get some rest-" Mr. Clarke calls, his voice already being swallowed by the noise.

No one slows.

You're on your feet before you really think about it, bag already on your shoulder. You don't look back. You don't wait.

The hallway floods instantly, bodies moving in every direction, laughter echoing off lockers, someone shouting about plans, someone nearly tripping over a dropped notebook. You move through it on instinct, head down, pace quick.

Behind you, Robin hesitates.

She watches you disappear into the crowd, confusion flashing across her face for just a second before she grabs her bag and pushes after you.

Outside, the cold air hits you hard. You breathe it in like you need it, like it might clear something out of your chest. The parking lot is loud, engines starting, doors slamming, voices calling out goodbyes.

You keep walking.

Keys jingle in your hand as you reach your car. You unlock it and throw your bag into the passenger seat, bracing your hands on the roof for a second longer than necessary.

"Hey."

Robin's voice cuts through the noise. Not loud, but urgent enough.

You straighten slowly and turn.

She stands a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, backpack hanging off one shoulder. She looks like she followed you without stopping to think, like she couldn't let you walk away.

"You didn't wait," she says, not accusing but stating.

You shrug, eyes dropping to the pavement. "Didn't think you'd want to.

She scoffs softly. "Since when?"

The words hang there.

Cars continue to pull out around you, the world moving like nothing's wrong. Robin steps closer, lowering her voice. "You just... left."

"I know," you say quietly. "I didn't mean to."

She studies you for a moment, expression unreadable, then exhales. "You don't have to run."

You don't respond. Your fingers tighten around your keys.

Robin glances back toward the school, then back at you, like she's weighing something. Finally, she shakes her head and steps closer, close enough that the space between you feels intentional.

She watches you for a second before jerking her chin toward the car. "Come on, it's freezing."

You nod, grabbing your bag and tossing it in the backseat. You round the car, somewhat matching Robin's pace as you shut the door.

The car stays off for a long moment.

You stare at the dashboard, watching the faint reflection of students passing by ripple across the windshield. Your fingers roll the keys back and forth in your palm, metal clicking softly against itself.

Robin watches you from the corner of her eye.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" She asks eventually. Her voice is careful, like she's stepping on thin ice.

You exhale slow. "I'm just tired."

She doesn't respond right away. Not because she believes you, but because she knows better than to push.

"Tired." She repeats quietly, more to herself than to you.

You nod. "Yeah."

The silence stretches again, thicker this time. Robin shifts in her seat, turning more fully toward you now.

"You've been tried a lot lately." She says in an observing tone.

Your jaw tightens. You finally turn the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life like a way out. "It's been a long semester."

She watches you for a beat longer, eyes sharp, thoughtful. She doesn't argue. But the look on her face says she doesn't buy it.

"Okay,"

You pull out of the parking lot, tires crunching under the snow. The school fades behind you, replaced by quiet streets and bare trees blurring past the windows.

Neither of you speak.

The radio stays off. The heater hums quietly. Every stop sign feels longer than it should. You keep your eyes on the road, hand steady on the wheel, while Robin stares out the passenger window, jaw resting against her knuckles.

It's not an angry silence. Just and awkward one. Heavy. Like both of you are aware of something sitting between you that neither of you knows how to move.

At a red light, Robin glances at you again. "You don't have to do everything alone," she says, voice louder than the engine.

You swallow. "I know."

But knowing doesn't make it easier.

The rest of the drive passes in fragments. Turn signals clicking, tires passing over cracks in the road, the quiet weight of each other's presence.

Robin sits with her hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket now. Streetlights pass in slow, steady intervals, flashing across her face and then disappearing again.

"You sure your okay to drive?" She asks after a minute?"

"Yeah," you say. "I'm fine."

She hums quietly, not convinced, but not arguing.

The silence settles back in. Not uncomfortable, but careful. You turn down the familiar streets of Hawkins. The trees and wooded areas blur by quickly as you drive.

Robin shifts in her seat. You feel it more than you hear it.

"Hey,"

You glance over briefly, then back to the road. "Yeah?"

She opens her mouth, closes it. Tries again. "Um... do you wanna come over? To my place?"

Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel. You don't answer right away. The clicking from the indicator fills the silent space as you turn a familiar corner.

She glances at you, hands fidgeting with each other. "It's fine... you don't have to."

"No, no." You shake your head lightly, snapping out of your thoughts. "Sorry, I was concentrating." You say softly. "I'll come over."

A small smile twitches at the corner of her lips as you take another turn, going a different route to her house.

You prop your arm on the door and rest your head in your hand, eyes focused on the road ahead as a small neighborhood comes into view.

Robin shifts in her seat again, glancing out of the passenger window as you drive by.

A familiar white-and-yellow house appears at the end of the road, surrounded by dead trees and a smoking chimney poking out of the roof. You pull ahead into the driveway, parking and letting the car sit for a silent moment before cutting the engine.

The cold bites at your cheeks as you step out of the car, both of you grabbing your bags from the back, slinging them over your shoulders.

Robin leads you up to the front porch, fiddling with her keys as she unlocks the door.

The house is warm and quiet inside, the hum of the tap running before dishes gently clink together. You and Robin slip your shoes off, hanging your coats up, and stepping further inside.

"Mom?" Robin calls out, peering her head around.

"In the kitchen!" Melissa says.

You both step in closer, standing in the doorway of the kitchen as Melissa wipes down the counters. Dishes dry slowly on the drying rack in front of her, and homemade sauce comes to a tiny boil on the stove, letting out a faint smell of garlic and herbs.

"How was school?" Melissa asks gently, drying her hands with a hand towel before leaning back against the counter.

"Good," Robin nods, glancing around the spotless kitchen. "Glad we've got two weeks off at least."

Melissa chuckles, nodding her head understandingly. "Two weeks to lounge around." She reaches for the wooden spoon again, giving the sauce a slow stir. "You hungry?" She asks casually, glancing between the two of you. "Pasta will be done shortly."

"That sounds great." You say automatically, voice polite and practiced.

Robin nods. "Yeah-yeah, pasta's good." She leans against the doorframe, arms folding loosely, rocking back on her heels the way she does when she doesn't know where to put her energy.

Melissa smiles at the two of you, warm and easy. "I'm glad you both came over.. Robin's been cooped up lately, and honestly..." She pauses, turning back to the stove. "I'm really glad you two are friends. It's nice knowing she's got someone she trusts."

The words land heavier than they should.

The kitchen goes quiet in a way where nothing is wrong, but everything feels suddenly too loud. The ticking clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, the bubbling sauce.

You feel it settle in your chest, the familiar tightness. The careful distance. The pretending. Standing right next to each other and acting like that's all it is.

Robin shifts slightly beside you. You can feel her there without looking, close but not close enough.

Melissa keeps her back turned, oblivious, reaching for the lid to the pot. "You two make a good team," she adds lightly. "i like seeing Robin with people who-"

Robin clears her throat a little too loudly. "Uh- hey," she says quickly, glancing at you. "We were gonna head up to my room, if that's okay. Just... homework. And stuff."

You blink, then nod, grateful for the escape even as your chest aches at the reason you need one. "Yeah. That's... fine."

"Of course," Melissa says, waving a hand without turning around. "Dinner'll be ready in a bit."

Robin doesn't wait. She gently catches your wrist, tugging you toward the hallway. Her fingers brush your for the briefest second, accidental and unintentional.

You follow her up the stairs, footsteps quiet on the carpet.

Robin's room is exactly how you remember it. Posters layered over posters, a half-crooked corkboard pinned with random notes and ticket stubs, stacks of notebooks teetering on her desk like they might collapse if someone breathes too hard.

Robin drops her bag by the desk and flops back onto her bed with a soft thump, crossing her legs underneath her. "Okay, so- wow. Today was... a day." She mutters, staring up at the ceiling.

You linger by the door, one hand still on the strap of your bag, eyes drifting over the room like you're seeing it for the first time instead of the hundredth. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with yourself now that there's no hallway noise, no excuses, no moving crowd to hide in.

The silence stretches.

Robin props herself up on her elbows and finally looks over. She clocks it immediately, your stillness, the way you haven't moved. "Hey," she says gently, patting the bed beside her. "You can sit, you know. I don't bite. Usually."

You nod once, not saying anything.

You cross the room and sit down beside her, careful to leave enough space to look normal. Your hands fold together in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere past the opposite wall.

Robin turns back toward her desk, grabbing a notebook and pen. She sits cross-legged on the bed again, flipping pages. "Okay, so Clarke assigning an enzyme lab the last day before break?" She scoffs. "Unhinged behavior. Like sir, read the room."

She keeps talking as she scribbles something down. "And then Dustin- which, by the way, love him, but also? Zero volume control. Like I'm pretty sure the entire tri-country area heard him whispering today."

She snorts to herself, shaking her head. "And Mike trying to act like the responsible one? Please. The boy panics when his pencil breaks."

You stare straight ahead, listening. every word lands. You just don't reach for nay of them.

Robin flips a page, still rambling. "Also, I think our lab result was wrong. Like, scientifically wrong. Like 'we should not have passed' wrong. But Clarke just nodded like, 'Yep. Science.' Incredible."

She pauses, pen hovering. "You're... really quiet."

She finally turns to look at you properly.

"Hey," she says softer. "You okay?"

You blink, like you'd forgotten where you were. Forgotten the room. Forgotten her sitting right next to you.

"Huh?" You inhale sharply, snapping back into yourself. "Yeah- yeah. I'm fine."

Robin studies you, eyes narrowing just a little, not suspicious, just concerned. She doesn't call you out. Doesn't push past. Just nods slowly.

"Okay," she says, not fully convinced.

She sets the notebook aside, turning toward you more now. The joking edge fades, replaced with something careful. "You sure?"

You nod again, a little quicker this time. "Yeah. Just... spaced out."

She hums quietly, accepting the answer for now, even if she doesn't buy it. The room settles again, quieter than before, the weight still there.

She reaches for her notebook again, flipping it open and dragging it closer to her. She writes a few things down, short, quick lines like she's copying notes rather than actually thinking about them. The pen scratches softly against the paper, the sound filling the silence in a way that almost helps.

Almost.

She pauses. Sighs. Drops the pen onto the notebook with a soft tap.

Then she turns fully toward you.

"Okay," she says, calmer now, but more serious. "I'm gonna ask again."

You blink, glancing over at her. "I'm-"

She lifts a hand gently, stopping you mid-sentence. "No." She says quietly. Not sharp. But firm. "Don't answer that yet."

You close your mouth, throat tightening.

Robin shifts closer, her attention completely on you. "You've been quiet. Like... really quiet." She continues. "And I know quiet. I am quiet sometimes. But this?" She gestures vaguely between the two of you. "This isn't you."

You look down at your hands.

She softens her tone, but not her point. "You're usually the one making jokes when things get awkward. Or rolling your eyes. Or saying something sarcastic to break the tension." A small crooked smile flickers across her face. "You don't just... disappear."

Silence.

The kind that presses instead of drifting.

Your breath tightens, chest heaving slightly.

Robin exhales slowly, like she's choosing her words carefully now. "So if you're about to say you're fine," she tilts her head slightly, eyes searching yours, "I just want you to know I'm not really buying it."

Her hand hovers for a second, unsure, before resting lightly on the bed between you. Not touching you. Just there.

"You've been off," she says shortly. "And I don't know why. But I can tell."

You exhale through your nose, the sound coming out unevenly. You don't answer right away.

You just sit there, staring at your hands like they might tell you what to say if you look long enough. Your fingers twist together, then apart, then together again. Your chest feels tight, like every possible answer is wrong.

Robin waits.

She doesn't rush you. She doesn't fill the space this time. She just watches your face, eyes soft but searching, like she's bracing for something she can feel coming.

The silence stretches until its unbearable.

You sigh again, sharp and shaky, and suddenly your on your feet.

"I-I can't do this," you blurt out, words tumbling out too fast as you grab for your bag. "I shouldn't have some over, I just-"

"Hey-!"

Robin moves before you can take a step.

She's up, and in front of the bedroom door in an instant, hands braced against the frame, eyes wide with alarm. "No. No, don't- don't do that."

"Robin," you say, voice strained. "Move."

She shakes her head. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

You clutch your bag tighter, knuckles whitening. "I don't want to talk about it."

"I do." She says, quieter now, but just as firm. "I need you to."

You shake your head, swallowing hard. "Please. Just-just let me leave."

Robin opens her mouth to argue, then stops.

She sees it then. The way your eyes glass over, the way your breathing turns uneven, the way you blink too fast like you're trying to keep something back. Her posture softens instantly.

"Oh," she murmurs.

Her voice drops, gentler than it's been all day. "Hey... hey. You don't have to go anywhere."

You laugh weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. "I do."

"No," she says, stepping closer, not touching you but close enough that you feel her presence. "You don't."

Tears burn at the corners of your eyes now, and you hate it. You scrub at your face with the heel of your hand, but it's already too late.

Robin's voice is barely above a whisper. "What's really going on?"

That's what breaks you.

You let out a shaly breath, shoulders slumping like you've been holding yourself upright for too long. "I can't keep doing this," you say, words spilling out before you can stop them. "I can't keep pretending."

Robin's brows furrow. "Pretending... what?"

"This." You gesture helplessly between the two of you, then toward the door, the house, the world outside her room. "Us. Or- not us. Whatever this is supposed to be."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't interrupt.

You pace a step away, then back, emotions trembling over each other. "I'm exhausted, Robin. Like- not just tired. I'm mentally exhausted. Every day, it's watching what I say, where I stand, who's looking. I can't hold your hand, I can't look at you for too long, I can't even sit too close without wondering if someone's going to notice."

Your voice cracks. "Do you know how hard it is to love someone and act like they're just... nothing?"

Robin's breath hitches, but she just stays silent.

"I feel like I'm splitting myself in half," you continue, tears slipping free now. "One version of me gets you, the real you, and the other one has to lie to everyone else. Your parents. My parents. Our friends. Everyone. And I'm so tired of carrying it by myself."

You wipe at your cheeks angrily. "I don't even know who I'm allowed to be anymore. I'm scared all the time, and I hate that I am, because I don't hate you. I hate hiding."

Your voice drops to a whisper. "I can't keep hiding."

Robin stands there, stunned, watching you fall apart in front of her, really seeing it now. Not just tired. Not just quiet.

Hurt.

"You think I don't feel that too?" She says quietly. Her voice trembles just enough to give her away. "I do. I really do. I just-" she exhales, dragging a hand through her hair. "I thought if we waited a little longer. Just until break. Just until things were calmer."

You shake your head, tears still streaking your cheeks. "That's what we said last time."

Robin winces.

"I'll tell them." She says quickly, urgency bleeding into her voice. "I swear. I will. I just- I need a little more time. Please."

You look at her then. Really look at her.

And it hurts.

"I can't." You whisper. Your voice is steady now, but only because there's nothing left to hold together. "I hate that it's coming to this. I hate that I even have to say it." Your fingers curl into the strap of your bag again. "But I can't keep doing this for someone else. Not anymore."

Robin's chest rises sharply. "You're saying-"

"I'm saying you tell them now," you say softly, painfully, "or I walk out that door and I don't come back. I don't know how to stay without losing myself."

The words hang between you like glass.

Robin looks devastated.

She looks at the door. At you. At the floor. Her jaw tightens, eyes shining as she presses her lips together like she's holding herself back from breaking.

A long, unbearable moment passes.

Then she nods.

"Okay," she says, voice shaking but sure. "I'll do it."

Your breath leaves you all at once.

“Yeah?” you ask, barely daring to believe it.

Robin lets out a nervous laugh that sounds almost like a sob. “Yeah. I- yeah.” She wipes her palms on her jeans. “We’ll do it together. I’ll talk. You don’t have to say anything unless you want to.”

She takes a breath, then another. “We’ll tell them.”

Before you can respond, a voice floats up from downstairs.

“Dinner’s ready!” Melissa calls.

Robin freezes.

You look at each other, panic flickering briefly before Robin nods again, this time firmer. "Now," she says. "Guess now is... now."

You walk downstairs side by side, close but not touching, every step feeling heavier than the last.

The dining room is warm and softly lit, plates are already set on the table, steam rising from the pasta. Richard sits at the head of the table, smiling as he looks up.

"There they are," he says warmly. "Smells good, doesn't it?"

You murmur greetings, sliding into your seats next to each other. Silverware clinks softly as everyone begins eating. The normalcy of it almost makes your chest ache, small talk about school, about break, about nothing important at all.

You chew without tasting. Your hands tremble just slightly as you set your fork down.

Robin goes quiet.

Too quiet.

She clears her throat once. Then again.

"Uh-" she starts, then stops. "Okay. Um."

Melissa looks up immediately, concern flickering across her face. "What is it, honey?"

Robin's hand grips the edge of the table. She glances at you, just once, then back at her parents.

"There's... something we need to tell you."

The room stills.

Richard sets his fork down gently. "Alright," he says calmly. "You've got our attention."

Robin swallows hard. "This is really hard for me to say, so... please don't interrupt."

Melissa nods immediately. "Of course."

Robin exhales shakily. "Y/N and I- we're... we're not just... friends." Her voice cracks. She pushes through it. "We've... uh- we've been together. For a while."

Your heart pounds loudly, so loud you swear they cna hear it.

Silence settles over the table. But not the sharp and scary kind.

Melissa is the first to move.

Her expression doesn't harden. It softens. Her shoulders relax, eyes flicking from Robin to you and back again, like she's seeing something finally click to place.

"Oh," she says gently. Not surprised. Not upset. Just... understanding. "That makes sense."

Robin blinks. "It- it does?"

Melissa smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes. "Yes. It really does."

Richard lets out a quiet breath beside her, leaning back in his chair slightly. He studies Robin for a moment, then looks at you, his gaze steady and kind.

"Well," he says simply, "are you happy?"

Robin's voice wobbles. "Yeah. I am."

Richard nods once, decisively. "Then that's all I need to know."

Robin stares at him. "You- you're not mad?'

He gives a small, almost amused smile. "Kiddo, I don't care who you love. I care that you're safe, healthy, and happy." He gestures lightly between the two of you. "And it's pretty obvious you make each other better."

Your chest tightens painfully.

Melissa reaches across the table, placing her hand over Robin's, then extends the other toward you. You hesitate for half a second before taking it.

"I'm really glad you told us," she says softly. "I know that couldn't have been easy." Her thumb rubs a comforting circle against your hand. "You're always welcome here. Both of you."

Robin lets out a broken laugh, half sob, half relief. "Oh my God." She breathes, pressing her palms to her eyes.

Richard chuckles gently. "I was wondering when you'd say something. You two have about as much subtlety as a marching band."

Robin groans. "Dad-"

He smiles wider. "What? It's a compliment. You love loudly."

The weight you've been carrying finally slips off your shoulders.

Robin reaches for your hand under the table, this time openly, deliberately, and doesn't let go.

And for the first time, sitting there under the warm kitchen lights with plates cooling and hearts racing...

It feels like you can finally breathe.

You and Billy have a lot in common.

Bad families.

Bad friends.

Fighting. Pain. All the scare no one talks about.

You learned early on that life didn't hand out second chances. Billy? He wore that lesson like armor. Loud, reckless, untouchable. Everyone knew him as the guy you avoided if you didn't want trouble.

And yet, somehow, you saw through it.

You saw the fear hidden behind the madness in his eyes. And somehow, that made him human.

At your locker, he leans against the metal with that trademark scowl, jaw set, and eyes narrowing like he was daring anyone to come near. To the rest of the hallway, he looked like trouble, like he might snap at the next person who breathes too loud.

But to you, his voice is low and careful, soft enough that no one else could hear.

"You coming over tonight?" A small smile tugs on his lips, soft enough for you and you only.

"Yeah. Max needs my help with something, but other than that, I might be able to." You smile, closing your locker up and twisting the lock.

"I can not believe you are friends with her." He says playfully.

"Just think... if we were friends, me and you wouldn't be together." You back lightly, walking down the hallway.

He stumbles forward, catching up to you. "Woah- woah. No. I think we would be together any other way. Not just through that redheaded little punk."

Your mouth drops open, a small laugh slipping out. "Aren't you just confident?"

"I am. I am also... charming and delightful." He smirks.

You round the corner into the hallway next to the gym, dropping your bag down on the floor. Billy follows closely behind.

"You are charming. I'll give you that." You point, looking around as the class sits in a half-circle. You lower your voice. "But delightful? I mean... a little."

"A little?" He echoes, smirk widening. "Right. Right. We'll see about that."

"Mr. Hargrove! Ms. Y/L/N! Welcome! Glad to see you are late once again!" Coach Thomas shouts, making all heads turn to you.

He walks toward you, away from the demonstration he was performing. "Why are we late again?"

"We were just... talking to a teacher." You deadpan.

"And do you have a hall pass from this teacher?"

"No." Billy says instantly.

"And why not?"

"Because."

Coach Thomas blinks, glancing between both of you. "Points off your grade today. Go sit with the others." He snaps, turning to walk away. "Quickly, please!"

"Yessir." Billy mumbles sarcastically.

You shake your head, silently walking over and sitting behind the crowd of students.

The coach begins his demonstration on basketball, going step-by-step as if the others are actually listening.

"So was that a yes to coming over?" Billy whispers, leaning close into you but keeping his eyes locked on the coach.

"If you sit out of class with me... I'll consider." You tease, leaning back on your hands.

"I will. And when you come over... maybe me and you can work out."

You turn, meeting his gaze, expression flat. "Please... you wish."

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking his head as he faces forward again. The coach's voice fades into background noise as he dismisses everyone from the circle.

You move instantly, walking off to go sit near the main door in the gym. Billy follows closely behind, dropping down against the wall first, legs stretched out, back pressed to the cool cinderblock. You sit beside him, close enough that your arms brush when you shift.

The gym is loud, ball thudding, sneakers screeching, but with the two of you, it's quiet. Billy tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw tight like he's thinking about something he doesn't want to say.

"You still coming later?" He asks, not looking at you this time.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. "I told you. Depends on how long Max's thing takes."

He hums in response, low and thoughtful. "Right. The counselor."

There's something softer in his voice when he says it. A silent protectiveness that he doesn't bother showing to many around him.

"You should try it. Might help." You suggest lightly.

He scoffs, looking at you in amusement. "Says the one who quit. What'd you say again?"

He leans closer, waiting for your answer.

A small smile creeps up on you. "Counselors are a bunch of pricks who take your money for shit advice."

"Thank you. So no." He pauses, tilting his head. "Working out is my counselor. Free therapy right at home."

"Right. Right." You smirk.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head like you're ridiculous, like you always are. He shifts beside you on the floor, stretching his legs out farther until his sneaker nudges yours.

"Careful." He mutters. "That attitude's the reason you got stuck in counseling to begin with."

"Oh please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "That was one chair I threw."

"Across the room." He adds flatly. "That you launched."

"It slipped."

He turns his head just enough to look at you, eyebrow lifting. "You've got a real violent definition of 'slipped.'"

You laugh quietly. Billy doesn't. But when one of the guys glances back your way, Billy's eyes flick over. Just once. Sharp enough to make the guy look away.

And then, he relaxes like nothing happened.

"You ever think about actually going?" You ask. "Like counseling?"

He scoffs without missing a beat. "What, so I can sit in a chair and cry about my childhood?"

You wrinkle your nose. "God, no. Please don't do that."

That gets a real reaction. A short laugh, rough and quiet, just meant for you. He drops his chin, looking at you sideways.

"Christ." He mutters. "You're something else."

"Awe," you tease. "You like me."

"Don't push it." He says quickly, but there's no heat behind it. "I just... don't hate you."

"Wow. I feel honored."

"Yeah," he smirks. "You should."

The bell rings a few minutes later, sharp and final. Relief floods the room as everyone bolts for the hallway. Billy stands, offering you a hand without thinking. You take it, letting him pull you up before either of you realizes how normal it feels.

Someone brushes past you too close.

Billy moves before you can even register it, a firm hand at your back, guiding you forward like it's instinct.

"I'll be home." He says, picking up his bag. "Call me when you're done grabbing Max."

You grin. "Worried about me?"

"Just makin' sure you don't punch another counselor."

He hesitates like he wants to say more, like there's something heavy sitting right behind his eyes, but instead he steps back, hands shoving into his pockets. You watch him go, shoulders squared, armor sliding right back into place the second other people come into view.

You head the opposite direction, toward the quieter hallway near the counselor's office. The noise of school fades with each step until it's just the hum of the quiet fluorescent lights and the dull thud of your heartbeat. You take a seat on the bench outside the door, backpack at your feet.

Students walk by quietly as you wait, all heading out of the building for the day or walking toward the field for whatever practice they have.

You cross your arms, glancing down at your watch before looking over at the door to the counselor's office.

Max steps out slowly, quietly shutting the door behind her before glancing at you.

"You... waited?"

You stand up, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "Figured you need company. And someone to give you a ride home."

She nods and starts walking with you. "Thank you."

Max doesn't talk at first, just syncs her steps with yours. The hallway is quiet, your steps echoing off the floors. You push the door open in front of you, holding it out for Max.

Outside, the evening sun shines brightly, gleaming off all the cars in the parking lot. Yells and chants are heard from the football field off to the side of the school, muffling as you walk in the opposite direction.

You slide your bag into the backpack, grabbing Max's as she slides into the passenger seat, waiting patiently. You round the car, sitting silently before starting the engine.

"How was your meeting?" You ask quietly, pulling away from the school.

"It was... alright." Max shrugs, glancing out the window.

You look over at her, gaze switching between her and the road ahead.

"It's... stupid." She says suddenly.

"What is?"

She shrugs again, head dipping down. "Crying. Talking about my feelings without getting much help."

"She's not doing much for you?"

"No- I mean, I guess she is. But... there's only so much she can say before it gets old." She admits.

There's a long moment of silence between you; the sound of tires against asphalt is the only thing heard.

"Jesus, I sound like my brother." She mutters, glancing back out the window.

You quirk a brow, trying to hide the smile on your face. "What do you mean?"

"He's always saying how counselors don't do much but take your money and give you shit advice." She breathes out. "For once, he might be right."

You tighten your grip on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. “Yeah,” you say after a moment. “He says a lot of things like that.”

Max glances at you, really looks this time, like she’s piecing something together. She doesn’t push it. Just nods, leaning back in her seat as the car hums forward, the weight of unsaid things settling between you.

"Maybe it'd be good for him." She blurts out, surprised at her own words.

You bring your hand up from the wheel. "Trust me. I've already suggested that. And I don't hear the end of it."

Max lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "At least you have some control over him, though. So you're not... totally screwed."

"Me? Having control over Billy?" You pull into the driveway, parking quickly before looking over at her. "What are you smoking?"

"Nothing," she laughs. "But like, ever since he asked you out, he's been so nice to people. Well- us. It kind of... creepy, honestly."

You let out a soft giggle. "Trust me. I don't have control over him. I'm just bossy."

She unbuckles her seatbelt, cracking the door open. "You should teach me how to be bossy. Clearly, it works."

You shut the car door softly, slinging your bag higher on your shoulder. Max shuts hers too, lingering for half a second before glancing toward the front of the house.

"He's probably inside already." She says, like it's obvious.

You hum in response, eyes lifting to the front door. The house looks the same as always. Quiet, still, almost too still. The curtains barely move in the faint breeze. No sign of Neil's car in the driveway. That alone makes your shoulders loosen a fraction.

You walk up the steps together. Max reaches for the door first, pushing it open.

Inside, the house is warm, the TV on in the living room, volume low, some random show playing that no one's watching.

Billy's sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the back, shoes kicked off and tossed near the coffee table. He looks comfortable in that rare, careless way he only ever allows when he's sure no one else is around.

His head turns the second the door opens.

"There you are." He says, voice easy, lips tugging into something close to a smile.

His eyes flick over you quickly, instinctively, checking for something you don't think he even realizes he's looking for. When they settle back on your face, his shoulders loosen the slightest bit.

Max groans, already halfway down the hallway. "I'm going to my room."

Billy barely glances her way. "Shocking."

She flips him off without slowing down, her door shutting with a muted thud.

You drop your bag by the door and kick your shoes off, padding farther into the room. Billy shifts, sitting up slightly and making space beside him without thinking about it.

"You hungry?" He asks, nodding toward the kitchen. "There's pizza. From yesterday. Might still be good."

"Might?" You repeat, eyebrow lifting as you sit beside him.

He smirks. "I said might."

The couch dips under your weight, the warmth from his body bleeding into your side. The TV murmurs in the background, light flickering across his face. Up close, you notice the faint crease between his brows, like he's holding something back.

Your knee brushes against his. He doesn't move away. Instead, he leans in closer, shoulder pressing into yours, comfortable in a way that feels almost domestic. Familiar. His arm comes up to rest loosely around you, thumb brushing against your sleeve once.

"So? How'd it go?"

"Max?" You ask.

"Yeah."

You shrug lightly, eyes staying on the screen even though you're not paying attention. "Same as usual. She's trying."

He nods, jaw tightening just slightly, like the word means more than he wants it to. "Good."

Silence settles between you, not awkward, but full. The TV keeps playing. The sunlight shifts lower, shadows stretching across the room. Billy's fingers tap faintly against his thigh, a restless rhythm that gives him away if you pay attention.

"You're quiet." You murmur.

He exhales through his nose. "Am I?"

"Yeah."

He glances at you sideways, eyes studying your face like he's deciding how honest he wants to be. After a beat, he looks back at the TV.

"Just tired."

You don't push, just simply lean your head against his shoulder. He stills for a second before relaxing, arm tightening around you just barely. The moment stretched, quiet and fragile.

Then he shifts.

Not abruptly. But enough for you to feel it.

"I have to head out." He says suddenly, voice casual but timed too carefully.

You lift your head, blinking as you turn toward him. "What? Why?"

He sits up fully, running a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly like he's tugging at a thought he doesn't want to hold onto. "Just... the store."

"The store?" You echo, skepticism slipping in before you can stop it.

"Yeah." He lets out a short laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Since when is that weird?"

You narrow your eyes. "Since when do you go to the store?"

"Since today." He says quickly.

You stand too, closing the distance between you. "Billy."

He grabs his jacket from the back of the couch, movements suddenly restless. "My dad asked me to pick something up earlier. I forgot."

"Earlier when?" You ask gently.

"When I got home." He replies too fast.

Something twists in your stomach. You watch the way his foot taps against the floor, the way his jaw tightens like he's bracing himself.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says instantly. "I'm fine."

You hesitate. "I can come with you."

He freezes. For a moment, he actually looks at you, and the mask slips just enough to show uncertainty below it.

"No." He says, sharper than he means to. "I'll be quick. Promise."

You search his face, trying to read what he isn't saying. "You sure?"

He nods. "Yeah. Go hang out with Max or something. I'll be back before you know it."

There's a beat where neither of you move.

"Okay," you say quietly.

Relief flashes across his face. He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your temple, lingering just long enough to feel intentional.

"Don't get into trouble." He says.

"You're literally the one leaving." You point out.

He huffs a quiet laugh as he walks toward the door. "Lock it behind me."

The door clicks shut behind him moments later. The sound of the car fades down the street, leaving the house feeling too still again.

You stand there longer than you mean to, staring at the door, unease curling low in your chest.

The lock clicks as you turn it, and you walk back down the hallway toward Max's room.

You stop just outside her door, hand hovering just inches from the wood.

You knock lightly. And Max's voice comes from inside, muffled but not annoyed.

You turn the knob and push the door open.

Her room is dim, curtains pulled shut, sunlight leaking through the narrow gap at the top. Posters line the walls full of bands, skate brands, and old movies. Her window is cracked open, letting in the faint sounds of the neighborhood.

Max is sitting cross-legged on her bed, back against the wall, her skateboard leaned up beside her like it belongs there. She looks up when she sees you, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey." You reply softly, closing the door behind you.

She watches you for a second, eyes flicking over your face like she's checking something. Then she nods toward the empty space on the bed. "You can sit. If you want."

You walk over slowly and sit beside her. The mattress dips under your weight. Not too close. Not far away either. Just enough that your shoulders are almost touching.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Outside, a car passes, filling the space.

You sit for a moment, the quiet stretching until it starts to feel like pressure behind your ribs.

"He didn't go to the store." Max says suddenly.

You blink, turning your head toward her. "What?"

She doesn't look at you. Her gaze is fixed on a chip in the paint on her wall, her jaw set.

"He hates the store." She continues. "He complains the whole time. And he never forgets his wallet." She exhales through her nose. "He didn't even grab his keys."

Your stomach tightens. "How-"

"I was in the kitchen." She answers before you can finish.

You sit silent, mind already going other places. "I didn't notice." You admit, fingers laced together in your lap.

"That's because he didn't want you to." Her voice is flat, practiced. Like this is something she's learned over time.

You shift on the bed, fingers pressing into the mattress. "So where do you think he went?"

Max shrugs, but it's sharp. Defensive. "Could be anywhere."

"That's not an answer."

She snorts softly. "Yeah. Welcome to living with him."

She reaches out and drags her skateboard closer, resting it across her lap. Her fingers trace the worn grip tape absentmindedly, grounding herself. "When he leaves like that," she says slowly. "It's usually one of two things."

You hold your breath. "Which are?"

She hesitates. "Either he picked a fight," she says finally. "Or he just... takes off."

"For how long?"

Her shoulders lift, then drop. "A few fours. A night. Sometimes longer."

That sinks heavy in your chest. You lean back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. There's a thin crack running along the corner, easy to miss unless you're looking for something to focus on.

"He didn't seem mad, though." You say more to yourself than to her. "Just... closed off."

Max's mouth twists. "That's worse."

You glance at her. "Why?"

"Because when he's mad, he explodes." She taps her fingers against the skateboard. "When he's quiet like that, it means he's thinking. And Billy thinking usually doesn't end great."

"You scared?" You ask after a beat.

She scoffs. "Of what? Him getting into another fight? Or him not coming back?"

You don't answer. And she takes that as one anyway.

"I'm not scared." She says, though her voice lacks conviction. "I'm just... tired."

You nod understandingly.

"He's not easy." She continues, finally looking at you. Her eyes are sharp, guarded. "I don't want you thinking he's some secret good guy at home. Or that it's somehow... better."

"I don't." You say softly.

She watches you closely now, searching your face. "You sure?"

You think of the way Billy's arm had fit around you on the couch. The warmth of his shoulder. The way his eyes had gone distant before he stood up, like he was already somewhere else.

"Yeah." You say, steady. "I know who he is."

Something in Max's expression shifts, recognition hinting on her face.

"Good."

She looks away again, gaze settling on the floor between her feet.

"Then you won't romanticize it."

The words hang there, heavier than they sound. She doesn't say it harshly. There's no accusation in her tone. It's tired. Honest. Like she's naming something she's seen happen too many times.

"You won't turn it into something it's not." She adds after a beat. "You won't call his anger 'passion' or his disappearing 'freedom.'" Her fingers tighten around the edge of the skateboard. "You won't make excuses just because you care about him."

Your throat feels tight. "I'm not trying to fix him."

"I know." She reassures. "But people try anyway. They tell themselves stories so it hurts less."

She leans back against the wall, head tipping slightly as she stares at the ceiling. "I don't want to be the bad guy for seeing him clearly."

You shift closer without thinking, your shoulder brushing hers.

I'm not going to do that." You promise quietly. "I'm not one who pretends."

She nods once. Both of you sit there, side by side, listening. Waiting.

Time passes in a strange, stretched way.

You and Max don't do anything at first. You just exist in the same space, the quiet thick enough to press against your ears. The sky outside continues to darken, the last of the daylight bleeding out until the room is lit mostly by shadow and the faint orange glow of a streetlamp.

Max eventually shifts, stretching her legs out and kicking her shoes off. She reaches over to her nightstand and flips on a small lamp.

"So," she says, voice casual in a way that doesn't quite work. "You wanna watch something? Or- I don't know. Play cards?"

You hum softly. "Sure."

She digs around in her drawer and pulls out a battered deck of cards, the edges worn soft. You sit cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, shuffling slowly. The sound of the cards sliding together is soothing. Something to focus on that isn't the front door.

You deal lazily, not keeping score. Half the time, you forget whose turn it is. Max calls you out on it once, rolling her eyes playfully, and for a moment, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

And then, the sound hits.

An engine roars into the driveway, loud and abrupt, cutting through the quiet like a knife.

Both of you freeze.

The cards slip from your fingers, scattering across the bed. Max's head snaps toward the window. Your heart jumps so hard it feels like it knocks the breath from your lungs.

The engine doesn't idle. It cuts off sharply. There's a beat of silence.

Then the front door opens. And slams. Hard enough that the walls shudder with it.

Max flinches, shoulders tensing instantly. her jaw sets, eyes darkening with something you can't quite name.

You swallow, already shifting on the bed.

"Stay," Max says quickly, her voice low but urgent as she grabs your wrist. Her grip is tight, fingers cold against your skin. "Don't go out there."

You look at her. "Max-"

"No." She shakes her head, eyes flicking toward the door like she expects him to come storming down the hall any second. "You don't know what kind of mood he's in."

You gently pry your hand free. "That's exactly why I should check."

She scoots closer, blocking you slightly. "He's probably pissed. Or drunk. Or both. He's gonna start yelling and-" she stops herself. "I don't want you getting hurt."

"I'll be fine." You say softly.

"That's what everyone says."

You pause, then meet her eyes. "I grew up with worse. I'll be okay."

That makes her hesitate. "I know. But that doesn't mean you should have to deal with it."

You soften your voice. "I won't let it turn into something. I promise."

She searches your face, fear written all throughout her eyes. "Just... stay here. Please."

You stand slowly, careful not to move too fast, like you don't want to spook her. "I won't be long. Just sit here, okay?"

She hesitates before nodding once. "Yell if you need me."

"I will."

You step out into the hallway, pulling the door mostly shut behind you. The house feels different now. Charged.

You move quietly at first, listening. The living room is empty, the TV dark. Billy's shoes are kicked off near the couch, one of them on its side like it was tossed without care. The air smells faintly of cigarette smoke and something metallic underneath it.

Your stomach twists.

You take another step. Then another.

You hear water running. The sound draws you down the hall, past Neil and Susan's bedroom, past the guest room, until you stop outside the bathroom.

The door is half open. Light spills out onto the hallway floor.

"Billy?" You call gently.

No answer.

You push the door open the rest of the way. And your breath catches painfully in your chest.

Billy leans hunched over the sink, hand gripping the porcelain so tight his knuckles are white. His head is bowed, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Blood runs freely from a cut above his brow, trailing down the bridge of his nose, slipping past his lips, and dripping into the sink.

His shirt is wrinkled, collar stretched, one sleeve torn slightly at the seam. There's a dark bruise already forming along his cheekbone, angry and deep.

When he finally lifts his head and sees you in the doorway, his expression changes instantly. The armor snaps back into place.

"Jesus." He snaps. "What are you doing here?"

You step closer without thinking. "Billy-"

"Go back to Max." He says, turning back to the sink. "I said I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

He scoffs, reaching up and pressing a towel roughly to his face. "I said I'm fine."

Blood soaks through the fabric almost immediately. Your chest tightens, fear and anger tangling together.

"You call that fine?" You say quietly, stepping fully into the bathroom now. "You're dripping blood all over the floor."

He finally turns toward you again, eyes blazing. "I told you to go hang out with Max."

For a second, something flickers in his eyes. Guilt. Shame. Fear.

Then it's gone.

"I got into a fight." He says flatly, like that explains everything. "Big deal."

You don't raise your voice. You don't have to.

"You're not fine." You say quietly, stepping closer. The bathroom light is harsh, catching every cut and bruise in his face. "Sit down."

He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "No. I don't need-"

Your voice drops, firm. "Sit. Down."

That gets a huff of a laugh out of him.

You soak a clean cloth under the faucet, twisting it until it's damp. "Sit."

He hesitates, pride flaring, then exhales hard and does it anyway. The movement is stiff and uncomfortable. He braces his elbows on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them, head tipped forward like he doesn't want to look at you while you do this.

You step between his knees, lifting the cloth slowly. "Stay still."

The second the cloth brushes against the cut above his brow, he flinches sharply, breath hitching in his chest. A low curse slips out of him, teeth clenched, muscles going rigid like his body expects pain to turn into something worse.

"I know," you murmur, keeping your touch light. "I've got you."

You dab instead of wipe, careful and slow. Blood smears onto the cloth, warm and dark. You clean along the edge of the cut first, following its shape. His breathing is uneven now, shallow and controlled like he's trying not to react too much.

"Jesus." He mutters. "You're gentle."

"Don't sound so surprised."

You move lower, cleaning the blood from the bridge of his nose, then along his cheek. Up close, you can see how tense he is, the way his jaw flexes constantly, the way his shoulders stay hunched like he's bracing for impact that never comes.

After a moment, you speak again. "What actually happened?"

He lets out a breath through his nose. "Guy ran is mouth."

"That's not an explanation."

He shrugs, then winces when the movement pulls at his bruised cheek. "I was already pissed. Stopped for gas. he said something about me and you. Didn't really matter what it was."

You pause, cloth hovering. "And... you didn't walk away."

"No."

You go back to cleaning, quieter now. "Why?"

He doesn't answer right away. You reach for peroxide.

His eyes flick to it, narrowing. "You're kidding."

"I wish." You say. "It's going to sting."

"Sting." He echoes flatly. "Great."

You pour a small amount onto the cloth. The sharp smell fills the bathroom instantly, clean and biting. When you press it gently to his skin, he hisses through his teeth, shoulders locking up as his hands grip his knees.

"Fuck-" he mutters, breath breaking.

"I know," you say, steady and grounding. "Just breathe. Look at me."

He doesn't want to, but he does anyway. His eyes meet yours, dark and glassy, jaw trembling as he forces himself to stay still.

"There. You're okay."

The words seem to hit him harder than the sting.

As you clean the last of the cut, you speak softly, carefully choosing your words. "You lied to me about the store."

His gaze drops immediately. "Didn't wanna drag you into it."

"You already did." You say gently. "The second you walked out the door."

He swallows hard. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

Your hand stills, fingers resting lightly against his cheek. "You think telling me the truth would disappoint me more than this?" You ask quietly.

He laughs under his breath, broken and shy. "You don't get it."

"Than help me understand."

He stares at the floor for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling slowly as if he's trying to calm something inside of him.

"I don't know how to be normal." He admits. "Every time something goes wrong, it's like my body just... reacts. I don't think. I don't stop." His voice drops. "I hate it."

You reach for a bandage, carefully pressing gauze to his brow. He flinches again, but less. You tape it into place gently, smoothing the edges with your thumb.

"You're not a lost cause." You say quietly.

He shakes his head automatically. "Feels like one."

You meet his eyes. "You came home."

That makes him pause.

"You could've stayed gone. But you didn't." You continue.

There's a soft beat of silence.

"I don't want to be this person forever." He says, voice rough. "I don't want Max looking at me like she's waiting for something bad to happen." His jaw tightens. "I don't want you looking at me like that either."

"You don't scare me." You say softly. "You worry me."

Something in him breaks at that. You see it before he says anything. The way his eyes gloss over. The way his breath stutters just slightly, like he wasn't expecting that answer.

He shakes his head, turning away from you, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. "Don't."

You don't move back. You don't chase his face either.

"I want to change," he says suddenly, words spilling out faster now, like once they start, he can't stop them. "I swear I do. I just don't know how to rip this out of me without losing everything else."

His voice cracks. He hates that it does.

You step closer, resting your hand on his shoulder, feeling how tense he is under your touch. "You don't have to rip anything out." You whisper. "You just have to let someone help you carry it."

His shoulders hitch once as he drags a hand down his face, smearing at tears he clearly didn't mean to let fall. When that doesn't work, he lets out a shaky breath that turns into something close to a sob.

"I'm so tired," he admits, voice barely holding together. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of being pissed off. I'm tired of pretending it doesn't hurt."

You stay with him, steady and quiet, your hand never leaving his shoulder. And he doesn't pull away.

He leans forward slightly, head dropping, breath breaking as the weight of everything he's been holding back finally catches up to him.

"I don't want to be like my dad." He whispers, the words barely audible. "I'm scared I already am."

"You're not." You say firmly. "The fact that you're scared of it proves that."

He lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, shoulders shaking now, the fight finally draining out of him. He keeps his head bowed for a long moment, shoulders rounded inward like he's trying to make himself smaller, like he's trying to make himself disappear.

You don't rush to fill the silence. You shift closer instead, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you there without you forcing anything from him. Your hand stays steady on his shoulder, grounding, present.

"Billy," you say quietly.

He doesn't look up.

"I know you think you're already too far gone," you continue, voice gentle but firm, like you're speaking the truth you refuse to let him dodge. "But people who are beyond saving don't sit on bathroom floors bleeding and wishing they were better."

His jaw tightens.

"They don't hate the parts of themselves that hurt others," you add. "And they don't cry over the idea of becoming someone they're afraid of."

He squeezes his eyes shut, a tear finally breaking free and sliding down his cheek, catching on the edge of the bruise before dripping onto his jeans. His chest stutters, breath catching painfully, like his body doesn't remember how to do this without fighting it.

"You don't get it." He whispers, voice thick. "I've been like this since I was a kid."

"Then tell me," you say softly. "Tell me what it was like."

He shakes his head at first, slow and stubborn. "You shouldn't hear this."

"I want to." You answer. "And you don't have to protect me from it."

That word makes something twist in his expression. Protect. His fingers curl into the fabric of his jeans, gripping hard, like he needs something solid to keep himself from falling apart entirely.

"My dad," he starts, then stops.

You stay silent.

"He wasn't... it wasn't always loud," He says after a moment. "That's what messes with your head. Sometimes it was quiet. Worse quiet. The kind where you knew something was coming but you didn't know when."

His voice drops lower, almost distant now, like he's speaking from somewhere far away.

"I used to listen for his footsteps," he continues. "The way he'd come down the hall. If they were slow, I knew I had a minute. If they were fast..." he lets out a short, humorless breath. "Didn't matter what I did wrong. Something was always wrong."

Your hand tightens slightly on his shoulder.

"He'd grab me by the arm," Billy says, eyes fixed on the floor. "Not even angry at first. Just cold. Like I wasn't his kid. Like I was a problem he couldn't get rid of."

His breath stutters again. "I learned real quick that crying made it worse." He admits. "So I stopped. Learned how to keep my face blank. Learned how to take it and not give him the satisfaction."

He laughs softly, broken. "Guess that stuck."

"He'd tell me I was weak," he continues. "That I needed to toughen up. That the world would chew me up if I didn't learn how to hit back." His voice tightens. "Sometimes he'd say I reminded him too much of my mom. That scared him."

Tears slip freely now, unchecked, tracing paths down his face. He doesn't wipe them away this time.

"So I did," he says. "I hit back. Not at him. At everyone else. Because it felt better than feeling small."

He finally looks up at you then, eyes red and shining, expression stripped bare.

"I don't know how to turn it off," he admits. "Every time I get angry, it's like I'm thirteen again, standing in that hallway, waiting to see what version of him I get."

You lift your hand from his shoulder and gently cup his cheek, careful of the bruises. Your thumb rests just below his eyes, wiping the tears away. He flinched at first, then leans into your touch without realizing it.

"You survived something that taught you all the wrong rules for staying alive." You say softly.

He lets out a shaky breath.

"But here's the part you don't see," you continue softly, voice steady, unflinching. "You learned how to live through that. You learned how to protect yourself. You learned how to keep going."

You hold his gaze now, making sure he hears every word.

"And those same instincts? They can be unlearned. Redirected. You're not broken. You're just carrying pain you were never supposed to carry alone."

Something in his face crumples completely. He lets out a sound that's halfway between a sob and a gasp, his head dropping forward until his forehead rests against your shoulder. His hands clutch at the fabric of your shirt, fingers trembling, like he's afraid that if he lets go, he'll fall apart completely.

"I don't know how to do this." He admits, voice barely above a whisper.

It's not defensive. Not sarcastic. It's honest.

You feel his fingers loosen when they're gripping your shirt. They don't claw anymore. They just hold.

"I'm not good at this stuff." He continues, words slow, like he has to think about each one before letting it out. "Talking. Letting people see me like this."

You tilt your head just slightly. "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to be real."

That makes him exhale, a long, shaky breath that sounds like relief.

His voice cracks again, softer now. "I hate how mad I get. It feels like it just... happens. Like my body decides before my head does." He swallows hard. And after, I just feel stupid. Ashamed."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes red, lashes wet, face open in a way you've never seen before.

No smirk.

No challenge.

Just Billy.

"I don't wanna scare you." He says quietly.

You reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw. "You're not scaring me right now."

His breath catches, gaze dropping like he doesn't quite know how to accept it.

"I don't feel tough," he murmurs. "I feel... tired. And sad. And I don't know what to do with that."

There's something almost childlike in the way he says it. Not immature. But unpracticed. Like no one ever taught him what to do with feelings that weren't anger.

You guide his hand to rest against your side, grounding him. He hesitates for half a second, then lets it stay there. His thumb rubs faint circles into your shirt, absent-minded and slow.

"That's okay." You tell him. "You don't have to fix it tonight."

His shoulders sag again, another piece of the wall falling.

"Can I just... sit here? For a minute?" He asks, tentative in a way that feels foreign to him. "Without... being anything?"

Your heart aches at how carefully he phrases it.

"Of course you can." You whisper.

He leans into you fully, weight settling, trust given without words. His breathing evens out gradually, no longer sharp or guarded. When another tear slips free, he doesn't bother hiding it. He just lets it fall, forehead tucked against your neck.

"I don't feel like a screw-up when I'm with you," he admits, voice muffled but clear. "That's new."

You wrap your arms around him, holding him like he's allowed to take up space.

He doesn't joke. Doesn't deflect. Doesn't armor back up.

He stays soft, quiet, and vulnerable, letting himself be held for as long as he needs.

The thing about the Party was that it didn't feel like something you joined.

It felt like something that had always existed, quietly and inevitably, the way Hawkins felt like it had always been yours.

You've known the boys so long that it was hard to remember a time before them. Before bikes leaned crookedly against fences. Before scraped knees and grass stains and afternoons that stretched endlessly until streetlights flickered on.

They weren't just friends, they were fixtures. Mike's basement light always on. Dustin's laugh carrying down the street. Lucas arguing for the sake of arguing. Will hovering just close enough to the edge to observe everything.

You fit there the way you always had, naturally, unquestioned.

The Wheeler basement smelled like old carpet and dust and plastic, like soda cans left open too long and the faint ozone tang of electronics. You knew the creak in the stairs by heart. You knew which board would complain if you stepped too hard. You know how to sit cross-legged on the floor for hours without realizing your legs had fallen asleep, because whatever was happening at the table mattered more than discomfort.

It had always been that way.

Even when Steve decided it shouldn't be.

The problem, as Steve saw it, was not the boys themselves. He knew them. He trusted them... mostly. The problem was that they were boys, and you were his younger sibling, and somewhere in his brain, that equation had started setting off warning alarms the older he got.

He liked to say you "hung around them too much," like you were a stray cat that refused to go home.

Which was how you found yourself standing in the Harrington driveway that evening, arms crossed, backpack already slung over your shoulder, staring up at Steve as he leaned against the driver's side of his BMW with the exact expression that meant you were about to lose this argument.

"No."

The word was firm. Final.

You blinked at him. "You didn't even let me finish."

"I don't need to," Steve says, folding his arms. "You're asking me to drive you to the Wheelers."

"Yes." You say immediately. "Because-"

"Because you were just there yesterday." He cuts in. "And the day before that."

"That doesn't- Steve, that doesn't count!"

He snorts. "It absolutely counts."

You shift your weight, the late afternoon sun warm against your back. "Okay, but this is different."

He raises a brow. "You said that yesterday."

"That was a different important thing."

"Oh?" He tilts his head. "Let me guess. Extremely important?'

"Yes!" You whine.

He laughs once, disbelieving. "You said it was extremely important yesterday, too."

You groan, tilting your head back dramatically. "Steve. You don't understand. This is the campaign."

"The what?"

"The campaign." You repeat, like it explains everything. "We're in the middle of it. We literally can not skip tonight."

He pushed off the car, pacing a step before stopping again. "You say that every time."

"Because it's always true!"

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to summon patience. "You went over there yesterday. You were gone for like... five hours."

"Four." You correct automatically.

He stares at you. "Okay, fine, five. But that was different. That was a setup session."

"A setup session." He repeats flatly.

"Yes," you say, nodding hard. "This is the payoff."

"The payoff of what?"

"Of the entire story." You say. "Steve, they might die."

He opens his mouth. The closes it. "...What?"

"In the game." You ask quickly. "In the game. Not in real life. Obviously."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why does everything you do over there sound concerning?"

"Because you don't listen when I explain it."

"That's because it never makes sense."

You step closer, lowering your voice like the secret was meant just for him. "Mike's been planning this for weeks. Will made character art. And Dustin wrote a song."

"A song." He echoes faintly.

"Yes." You say seriously. "You can not miss a session where Dustin writes a song."

He sighs, long and tired, staring out toward the street like it might offer him an escape. "You were just there yesterday."

"And you were just at work yesterday." You back. "And you're still going today."

"That's not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing."

He opens his mouth to argue, then stops.

"No."

Your shoulders slump. "Steve-"

"I'm serious." He says. "You're home tonight. One night."

You look at him, really look, at the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his eyes flick toward the road, restless. You can see the hesitation trying to creep around the edges.

So you press. "Please." You say, softer now. "Just for tonight."

He stays silent.

You tilt your head. "Nancy's there."

He stills.

You watch it, the way his posture shifts imperceptibly, the way his expression changes like he's forgotten to lock something important away.

"Nancy," he repeats.

"Yes." You say carefully. "She's... helping Mike with something. Research."

He clears his throat. "Research."

"Very academic." You say. "Lots of books.

He exhales slowly, staring at the hood of his car like it personally betrayed him. "I said no."

"But you're thinking about it." You say, hopeful."

He glances at you. "Don't push."

You press your lips together, rocking back on your heels, waiting.

After a moment, he sighs again, longer this time.

"Get in the car."

Your face lights up instantly. "Really?'

"I didn't say yes," he says quickly. "I said, get in the car."

You rush over to the passenger side, scrambling into the seat and pulling your seatbelt across you.

"I swear..." he mutters as he pulls out of the driveway. "You're all gonna be the death of me."

He drives through the familiar streets of Hawkins, tires crunching over gravel patches and asphalt. You can hear the faint hum of the engine, the occasional squeak of brakes, the way the city smells right before sunset.

You dig around in your backpack, adjusting your things, trying to seem casual. "So... do you always drive like this?" You ask, glancing sideways at him.

Steve eyes the road. "Like what?"

"Like you're suspicious of every streetlamp and mailbox."

"I'm not suspicious." He replies flatly. "I'm cautious."

"You mean paranoid." You tease, nudging his arm lightly.

He doesn't look at you, but you see the corner of his mouth twitch. "...Maybe a little."

You grin, leaning back, letting the tension slide off your shoulders. "It's just... you know they're waiting for me, right? Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Will... they've probably been pacing in that basement for twenty minutes."

"And?" Steve asks, though the edge in his voice softens.

"And... that's exactly why I need to get there." You say, voice dropping like it's a matter of life or death. "They'll die if I'm late. Figuratively. Maybe literally. Who knows?"

He snorts, shaking his head. "You really exaggerate everything, you know that?"

"You love it." You shrug. "And admit it, you want to see Nancy too."

His grip tightens on the wheel for half a second, then relaxes. "Maybe. But don't think that means I approve of you running off every night."

"Noted." You say, mock-saluting.

The car falls into a comfortable silence for a few minutes. You watch the familiar streets pass by, Hawkins Middle School, the park where you all used to play tag until your legs gave out, the diner with the flickering neon sign. Steve drives with purpose now, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Finally, you turn a corner, and there it is: the Wheeler house.

Steve pulls into the driveway and kills the engine. You're practically buzzing in the seat. "This is it."

He turns, giving you a side-eye. "Don't get too excited."

"Oh, I'm so excited." You reply, hopping out before he even opens the passenger door for you.

The front door swings open before you even knock. "Hey!" Dustin's voice is like a cannonball, pure energy. "You're here!"

He grabs your backpack without warning and almost drags you inside. "We were literally just talking about you!"

Mike and Lucas follow, grinning, voices overlapping. Will lingers slightly behind, shy but smiling when he sees you.

You laugh, barely keeping up as they practically sprint down the stairs. "Wait- slow down!"

Dustin twirls around, holding your hand for balance. "Too late! The campaign waits for no one!"

Mike is already at the table, papers spread out, miniature figures lined up in neat little rows. "Glad you made it," he says quietly, but you can see the relief in his eyes. "We need you for this next part."

You slide down the stairs, careful not to trip, and the familiar feel of the basement wraps around you instantly. It's home. It's chaotic. Exactly where you belong.

Dustin is bouncing in place, practically vibrating with excitement. "Sit! Sit!" He commands, shoving a chair out for you. "You missed the introduction to the ancient dragon thing!"

Lucas rolls his eyes but smirks. "She knows what's going on. Trust me. She's dangerous."

Will gives you a small nod, his quiet presence grounding the chaos around him. You grin at him, sliding into your chair, fingers already itching to pick up your dice.

Mike clears his throat, and suddenly, the basement is silent enough for everyone to hear the subtle creak of the floorboards. "Okay. Your turn."

The dice sit heavy in your palm, cool and familiar, like they're waiting for you to breathe life into them.

Mike leans forward behind his DM screen, eyes sharp, serious in a way that always makes your stomach flip.

"Alright," he says. "You stand at the mouth of the cavern. The air is damp. Cold. You can hear something moving deeper inside."

Dustin immediately scrunches his nose. "I don't like that."

Lucas crosses his arms. "I told you we should've rested."

You grin, already leaning in. "I go first."

Mike looks directly at you. "Of course you do."

You roll your shoulder, fingers brushing the dice before you let them fall. They clatter across the table, loud in the silence.

Dustin leans over. "What'd you get? What'd you get?"

You glance down, heart pounding. "High enough."

Mike sighs through his nose, but you can see the smile he tries to hide. "Fine. You slip into the shadows. Quiet. Careful. You see a narrow path along the cavern wall-"

"I follow her." Will says softly.

"Me too." Lucas adds.

Dustin slaps the table. "I sing a song of course."

"No!" Everyone says at once.

Laughter breaks the tension, filling the basement, bouncing off the low ceiling. It feels warm. Safe. Like the outside world can't touch you.

Upstairs, faint footsteps cross the living room.

Steve lingers at the top of the basement stairs, arms crossed, pretending not to listen. Nancy stands near the kitchen doorway, book tucked against her chest.

"They get like this every time?" She asks quietly.

Steve watches you lean over the table, animated, alive in a way he doesn't always see at home. "Yeah." He mutters. "She's happy down there."

Nancy smiles.

Back in the basement, Mike's voice drops, pulling everyone back in.

"As you move forward, the ground shifts beneath your feet. Rocks tumble. Something wakes up."

You feel it before he even finishes.

Dustin's eyes go wide. "Oh no."

A miniature is placed in the center of the map. Big. Sharp. Mean.

Lucas swears under his breath. "That's not fair."

Mike shrugs. "You chose this path."

You sit up straighter. "I draw my weapon."

Will glances at you. "You don't have to-"

"I know," you say, steady. "But I do."

The dice hit the table again. This time, they roll and spin and stop.

For a second, no one breathes.

Dustin squints. "...Is that-"

"Yeah," you say, already smiling. "It is."

Mike exhales, defeated but impressed. "Fine. You strike first."

The basement erupts. Dustin cheers. Lucas slams his hand on the table. Will's eyes light up, quiet but bright.

"You're insane," Mike says, shaking his head as he describes the hit. "Absolutely reckless."

Steve appears halfway down the stairs, unable to help himself. "Is she winning?"

"She always does," Dustin says proudly.

Steve watches as you laugh, caught up in the moment, and something in his chest loosens.

Nancy steps beside him. "You know... this is good for her."

He nods. "Yeah. I know."

The battle winds down. The creature falls. The cavern grows quiet again.

Mike leans back in his chair. "And that's where we'll stop for tonight."

A collective grown fills the room.

"What?" You protest. "You can't stop there!"

"I can. And I am." He says smugly.

Dustin slumps over dramatically. "Cruel. Evil. Unjust!"

You laugh, leaning back, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. The game might be paused, but the warmth lingers, the kind that sticks in your bones.

Steve clears his throat from the stairs. "Alright. Wrap it up. You've got five minutes."

You glance up at him, grinning. "You watched the whole thing."

He scoffs. "I did not."

Nancy smiles knowingly behind him.

Dustin is still grinning like he personally saved the world. "Did you see that move?" He says, spinning in his chair to face you. "I mean, honestly, legendary."

Lucas snorts, but he's smiling too. "Yeah. Reckless, but legendary."

Will catches your eyes from across the table, offering a small, quiet smile that says everything he doesn't need to put into words. You smile back, something warm settling deep behind your ribs.

Mike is already gathering his notes, carefully sliding paper back behind the screen. He glances up at you once, expression softening just a fraction. "Good call tonight. We wouldn't have survived without you."

It shouldn't mean as much as it does.

But it does.

The creak of the stairs pulls your attention upward.

Steve stands halfway down, one hand braced against the wall, like he's been there longer than he wants to admit. The basement light catches his face differently from above, softer, less guarded. Nancy lingers behind him, arms folded loosely, watching the room with an expression that's thoughtful instead of curious.

"Five minutes." Steve says again, but there's no real bite to it now.

"Relax." You say lightly, standing and slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "We're wrapping it up."

You take one last look at the table, the map smudged with pencil marks, the miniatures knocked slightly out of place, the empty soda cans pushed to the side. It feels like pressing pause on something that never really stops existing.

As you head up the stairs, Steve steps aside to let you pass. For a second, his hand hovers near your shoulder, uncertain.

"You have fun?" He asks.

You nod. "I did."

Nancy meets your gaze and smiles. "You were really focused. It's... kind of amazing."

Steve exhales quietly, something easing in his posture. "She always gets like that." He admits. "I just-" he stops himself, shakes his head. "Never mind."

Outside, the night air is cooler, brushing against your skin like a reset. You climb into the passenger seat, the leather still warm from earlier. The door shuts with a solid thunk, sealing the night in around you.

As Steve pulls away from the driveway, you glance back once, watching the Wheeler house shrink in the distance.

Steve clears his throat. "So," he says, eyes on the road. "You, uh... you can go back tomorrow if you want."

You blink. "Really?"

He shrugs, pretending it's nothing. "Yeah. Just- call me when you're done."

A smile spreads slowly across your face, quiet and full and unshakable.

Because this game night, this acceptance, it stays with you.

And you know, without a doubt, that when the dice roll again, you'll be right there where you belong.