#009!reader

You're like Eleven, he realises. His eyes drop to your wrist, checking, looking, and there he sees — nine, tattooed on the inside of your left wrist. The word 'experiment' flashes in his mind like a warning siren.

"You're safe," he says, softer this time, trying to infuse his voice with all the calm he doesn't feel. "My name's Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm not with them. Whoever hurt you, I'm not with them."

You blink up at him, looking so impossibly scared. Your gaze flickers from his face to the dark woods behind him, searching for a threat.

"It's just me," he assures you quickly. "Just me. You're soaking wet. You must be freezing." He's stating the obvious, but he's scrambling. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, then another. You flinch, but don't run. "I have a car. It's not far. It's warm and dry. Can I take you there? Just to get you out of this rain?"

He watches the internal war play out on your face. Fear versus the desperate, primal need for warmth and safety. Finally, you give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Okay. Good. That's good." He shrugs off his letterman jacket, ignoring the rain that instantly soaks his sweater. He holds it out to you. "Here. Put this on."

You look at the jacket, then at him, confusion in your eyes. Like the concept of someone giving you something, offering warmth, is utterly foreign.

"It's for you," he coaxes gently. "To keep you warm. Can I put it on you?"

You nod again, and his shoulders relax. He moves with exaggerated slowness, not wanting to spook you away. He drapes the jacket over your shoulders. It swallows you up. He carefully pulls the collar up around your neck, his fingers barely brushing your cold, wet skin.

"My car's this way," he says, pointing. "You gonna be okay to walk? Do you want me to... carry you?"

The idea seems to startle you. You shake your head, pushing yourself up on shaky legs. You sway, and Steve instinctively reaches out to steady you, his hand hovering just by your elbow, not quite touching.

"Whoa, easy. Take your time."

You make slow progress through the woods. You stumble often, your bare feet cut and bruised. Steve aches to just pick you up and carry you, but he's terrified of scaring you. He keeps up a low, one-sided conversation, just the sound of his voice a tether in the dark.

"You're doing great. Almost there. See that clearing? Just past those trees." He points. "It's a BMW. Not as tough as it looks in this weather, but the heater's a dream. My dad will complain about the mud I track in, but who cares, right?"

He's rambling, and he knows it, but your eyes, when they flicker to him, seem a little less terrified.

He opens the passenger door and helps you inside, his hand finally, gently, on your arm to guide you. You sink into the leather seat slowly, wide eyes blinking up at him. Steve leans down to buckle your seatbelt for you himself. He wonders whether you'd ever even been in a car.

He jogs over to the driver's side to crank the engine, letting the heater start up. He looks over at you. You've pulled his jacket tighter around yourself, your face tilted towards the vent, your eyes closed. 

"Better?" he asks. You give him another tiny nod.

Steve doesn't know what to do. Take you to a hospital? The police? His mind races. If you're like Eleven, the lab will be looking for you. He can't take you anywhere official. There's only one person he can think of. One person who might know what to do.

"Okay," he says, putting the car in drive. "I'm gonna take you somewhere safe. To a friend. His name's Hopper. Jim Hopper. He's the Chief of Police, but he's a good guy. He helped Eleven. Do you know who Eleven is?"

Your eyes widen with a flicker of recognition.

"Yeah," Steve confirms. "He helped Eleven, and he'll help you. But right now, just try to get warm, okay?"

The drive to the cabin is tense and silent. Every few seconds, Steve glances over at you. You're huddled in the seat, watching the rain-streaked trees pass by with a look of wonder. This is all new to you. The world. The car. The warmth.

When he pulls up to Hopper's cabin, the lights are on. He helps you out of the car, keeping a protective hand hovering at your back. You're so close to him now, you're almost pressed against his side, your cold hand reaching out and gripping a fistful of his damp sweater. It's the first time you've initiated contact, and it makes his heart clench.

Hopper must have heard the car. The door swings open, his large figure filling the frame, rifle in hand. His eyes go wide when he sees you both, taking in you, the gown, your bare feet.

"Harrington? What the hell…" His voice trails off as understanding dawns.

"She was in the woods, Chief," Steve says, his voice low and urgent. "By the old oak. Just… curled up. She's like Eleven, I think. She's really hurt. Can she stay here? Please?"

Hopper's gaze softens as it lands on you, now practically hiding behind Steve, your face pressed into his back, your grip on his sweater like iron. He lowers the rifle.

"Get her inside," he says, his voice gruff but gentle.

The cabin is warm, and it smells like coffee and woodsmoke. Steve guides you inside, your hand still fisted in his sweater, and he can feel how hard you're trembling. "El's at Max's for a sleepover," Hopper explains as he watches you enter, brow furrowed in worry.

He closes the door, the lock clicking into place with a sound that makes you flinch. You press closer to Steve, and he feels your forehead bump against his shoulder blade.

"Hey, hey," he murmurs, twisting slightly to look at you. "It's okay. That's just the door. We're inside now. Safe, remember?"

You don't answer. You just keep holding onto him, the only safe you've ever known.

Hopper sets the rifle down by the door and turns to face you both. His expression is careful, measured. "Okay," Hopper says quietly. "First things first. We need to get her warm. Clean her up. Those feet look bad."

Steve looks down. He hadn't really let himself look before, not properly. Your feet are a mess — cut up from the forest floor, caked with mud, bruised purple in places. There's a gash on the bottom of one that's still seeping blood, mixing with the dirt. His stomach turns.

"Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Yeah, okay. Shower first?"

Hopper nods. "Bathroom's through there." He jerks his chin toward a door off the main room. "Towels are in the closet. I'll find her something to wear. Something of El's will fit. She's into the whole... oversized craze, now. At least it'll be comfy."

Steve turns to face you properly. You're looking up at him now, your eyes huge, and he can see the tears still wet on your cheeks. You look like you're waiting for something. For him to tell you what comes next. For him to hurt you, maybe. The thought makes something hot and angry twist in his chest.

"Okay, sweetheart," he says softly, and the endearment slips out before he can stop it. "We're gonna get you cleaned up, alright? Get you warm. There's a shower in there, with hot water. Do you know what a shower is?"

You stare at him blankly. Of course you don't. God, what did they do to you in that place?

"It's like rain," he tries, gesturing vaguely. "But warm. And inside. It'll feel really good, I promise. Get all the mud off. Then we can put you in clean clothes and you can sleep. How does that sound?"

You don't respond, but your grip on his sweater loosens just a fraction. He takes that as a win.

"Come on," he says, starting to move toward the bathroom. You move with him, still holding on, and he realises with a pang of something he can't name that you're not going to let go. Not yet. Maybe not for a while.

Steve flicks on the light in the bathroom, and you both blink in the sudden brightness. He lets go of you gently to turn on the shower, testing the water with his hand the way his mom used to do for him when he was little. When it's warm, he looks back at you.

"Okay," he says. "So you just… get under the water. Let it run over you. There's soap and shampoo in here." He points to the bottles on the edge of the tub. "Do you… do you need help?"

The question hangs in the air. You're still in that thin hospital gown, plastered to your skin, shivering. Your arms are wrapped around yourself now that you're not holding onto him, and you look so impossibly small and lost that Steve wants to cry.

You look at him. Then at the shower. Then back at him. And slowly, so slowly it breaks his heart, you reach out and take his hand again.

"Oh," he breathes. "Okay. Okay, yeah. I can… I can stay. If you want. I won't look, I promise. I'll just—I'll be right here. So you're not alone."

He doesn't know if you understand all the words, but you understand enough. You don't let go.

Steve's mind is racing as he stands there, your cold fingers wrapped around his. This is insane. He's in Jim Hopper's bathroom with a girl who escaped from a secret government lab, a girl who might have powers like Eleven, a girl who's trusting him with her safety when she has no reason to trust anyone.

But standing here, feeling your hand in his, watching you try to figure out how to shower with one hand because you won't let go of him — none of that matters. Nothing matters except making you feel safe.

"Hey," he says softly. "You gotta let go for a second. Just to get the gown off. Then you can take my hand again, okay? I'll be right here. I won't move."

You look at him with those huge, terrified eyes, and for a terrible moment he thinks you're going to refuse. But then you nod, just a tiny movement, and slowly release his hand.

Steve turns his back immediately, facing the door. He hears the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of the gown falling to the floor. Then the shower curtain opens, and he hears you step into the shower stall.

You inhale sharply when the water washes over you.

"You okay?" he asks quickly, not turning around. "Is it too hot? You can adjust the handle—"

Then he hears you. You're crying. Not the silent tears from before, but real sobs, wracking your whole body, and underneath them, words. Broken, gasping words. You're talking.

"Warm. It's—it's warm. It's—"

Steve's hands curl into fists at his sides. He doesn't turn around. He promised. But god, he wants to. He wants to see your face, make sure you're okay, tell you it's alright to cry, that warm is good, that warm is how it's supposed to be.

"It's okay," he says instead, his voice cracking. "It's okay to cry. You're safe here. Nobody's gonna hurt you. I'm right here."

He listens to you cry under the spray of the water, and he cries a little too, silent tears running down his face that he wipes away quickly with the back of his hand. He doesn't even know you. He found you an hour ago in the woods.

But somehow, he'd die for you. Because you trust him, and he's not planning on letting you down.

You take a while in the shower. Steve doesn't mind. He can't imagine — this must be your first one in a long time, and he'd want to scrub himself clean too.

He stands there, with his back to the shower, listening to the water run and your sobs slowly quiet to sniffles.

Finally, the water shuts off. He hears the curtain pull back.

"There's a towel on the rack," he says, keeping his voice steady. "Right next to you. Can you reach it?"

More rustling. Then a soft sound that might be acknowledgment.

"Good. Okay. I'm gonna turn around now, but I'll keep my eyes closed, alright? I just need to make sure you're wrapped up so you don't get cold again."

He turns slowly, eyes squeezed shut. "You covered up?"

Nothing.

"Sweetheart? You gotta tell me yes or no so I know it's safe to look."

A pause. Then, so quiet he almost misses it. "Yes."

It's the first word you've spoken to him. Directly, at least, meaning to. Just one word, small and rough and barely there, but it's a word.

Steve's eyes open, and there you are, wrapped in a big towel that swallows you just like his jacket did, your wet hair plastered to your face, your eyes red from crying. You're still shivering a little, but less than before. And you're looking at him.

"Hi," he says softly, a smile tugging at his mouth. "There you are. You did so good, sweetheart. So good."

You blink at him. Then, slowly, very slowly, you reach out your hand. Steve takes it without hesitation.

Steve leads you out of the bathroom, your hand still clasped in his. You're looking around the cabin with huge, wary eyes, but at least you're not trembling anymore.

Hopper's on the couch, and he stands when you enter, a pile of clothes in his hands. "Found some stuff," he says quietly, holding them out. "Sweatpants, t-shirt, socks."

Steve nods, taking the pile with one hand, holding onto yours with the other. "Come on, let's go change," he coaxes you softly, guiding you over to El's room.

It's the first bedroom you've ever been in, you think, but you don't have words for that, to explain those feelings. It's weird.

He closes the door halfway, leaving it open just a crack so you can still see the light from the main room. Then he turns to you, and his eyes are so gentle.

"Okay, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Same thing as before, alright? I'm gonna help you get dressed, but I won't look. You just tell me when you're ready. Squeeze my hand."

You nod, and he turns his back, still holding your hand.

But you don't move, not yet. You stand there, looking at his back, at the way his shoulders curve, at the dark hair at the nape of his neck. And something rises in your chest, a question you've been holding since the moment he found you in the rain.

"W-what..." you start, your voice cracking from disuse.

Steve tenses, but doesn't turn around. "Yeah? What is it, sweetheart?"

You swallow hard, forcing the words out one by one. "What... is your name?" You try so hard to get the question out, because you want to know.

He turns around, slow, eyes wide and shining. "You want to know my name?"

You nod, a tiny movement, your eyes fixed on his face.

Steve's mouth opens and closes. He looks almost overwhelmed, like he doesn't know what to do with the feeling moving through him. Then he smiles at you, and you wonder if you could pocket this moment forever. "Steve," he says, his voice thick. "My name is Steve. Steve Harrington."

"Steve," you repeat carefully, tasting it.

He makes a noise, something like a wet laugh. You feel something warm bloom in your chest. You made him make that sound. You did that.

Then Steve's looking at you with those gentle eyes, and he points to himself. "Steve," he says again. Then he points to you, his finger hovering in the air. "What's your name? What do I call you?"

You understand the question. But you don't know how to answer. Your eyes drop to your wrist, to the number tattooed there. Nine. That's what they called you. That's all they ever called you.

Steve follows your gaze and his face falls. "Oh," he says quietly. "Is that... is that what they called you? Nine?"

You nod, but something in you rebels at the thought. That's not your name. That's what they gave you. That's what they used to summon you, to control you, to remind you that you were a thing and not a person.

You shake your head quickly, frantically. "No. Not—not name. That is... what they... called me. But not—" You struggle, frustration building. "Not my... name."

Steve's eyes soften even more, if that's possible. "Okay," he says gently. "Okay, it's okay. I get it. That's not your name." He squeezes your hand. "So what is your name? Your real name? Do you remember?"

You do remember. A whisper from so long ago you'd almost forgotten. A woman's voice, soft and sweet, humming in the dark. A word she used, over and over, before they took you away. Before everything.

You murmur it softly, barely above a whisper. The name she gave you. The name they tried to erase.

Steve's breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at you, his eyes bright and wondering. Then he says it back to you, your name in his voice for the first time, and it sounds like the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

"That's your name," he repeats softly, reverently, like he's holding something precious. "That's you. That's who you are."

He says it again, slower this time, shaping each syllable with care. "It's the prettiest name I've ever heard," he tells you softly, entirely earnest.

"Steve," you whisper, because you need to say his name too. You need him to know that he matters, that he's not just some random person, that he's Steve, the one who found you.

"Yeah," he breathes, still in wonder. "Yeah, sweetheart. That's me."

"Come on," he says, his voice still thick. "Let's get you dressed. Then we'll go see Hopper, and you can tell him your name too, if you want."

You nod, and this time when he turns his back, you let go of his hand long enough to drop the towel and pull on the clothes. They're big and soft and they smell like the cabin.

When you're done, you take his hand again and squeeze. Give him a smile, the first one he's seen on you, and his heart squeezes.

It's like all the air has left the room, like someone's reached inside him and squeezed. You're smiling at him. You, who have every reason to never smile again, who spent god knows how long in that place being hurt and used and broken — you're looking at him like he's something good, and you're smiling.

He wants to give you everything. He wants to wrap you up in every soft thing he can find and never let anyone near you with harmful intent again. He wants to learn your name's every syllable, wants to whisper it to you in the dark when the nightmares come.

He would burn down the entire world for that smile.

"Hi," he whispers, because he can't find any other words. Just hi, like you haven't just destroyed him in the best possible way.

You squeeze his hand again, and your smile doesn't fade. It stays, small and tentative, like you're not sure you're allowed to have it. Like you're waiting for someone to take it away.

No one's ever taking anything from you again. Not while he's breathing.

Last night comes back in fragments.

After the shower, after the clothes, after you told him your name and he said it back like it was something precious — you'd sat on this couch together, and he'd talked to you. Softly, slowly, teaching you things.

"Couch," he'd said, pointing to where you were sitting.

"Couch," you'd repeated.

"Good." He'd smiled, and something warm had flickered in your chest. "Blanket." He'd touched the blanket covering your legs.

"Bla... ket," you'd tried.

"Yeah. Close. Blanket." He'd said it slower, letting you see his mouth. "Blank-et."

"Blanket," you'd tried again, proud when it came out better.

His smile had grown. "Perfect, sweetheart. You're so smart."

You hadn't known what to do with that. Smart. No one had ever called you that. They'd called you numbers, called you subjects, called you things. Never smart. Never sweetheart, either.

He'd kept going. "Lamp." Pointing. "Window." Pointing. "Door." Pointing.

You'd repeated each one, your voice getting stronger, and every time you got one right, he'd praise you. "Good girl," he'd say, and you'd wondered why your chest felt all warm on the inside.

Eventually, your eyes had gotten heavy. You'd fought it, because you didn't want to sleep, didn't want to close your eyes and risk waking up alone in the dark again. But Steve had noticed.

"Hey," he'd said softly. "It's okay. You can sleep. I'll be right here."

You'd shaken your head, small and frantic. "No go?"

His face had softened. "No go. I stay. Promise."

You'd looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, you'd pointed to his lap. He'd understood immediately. "Yeah, sweetheart. You wanna lay here? Go ahead."

"Close your eyes, angel," he'd murmured, when you'd laid down, your head in his lap. "I got you."

And you had.

Now it's morning, and his hand is still in your hair, and you've never felt anything like this. You don't want to move. You don't want this to end.

But eventually, he stirs above you. You feel his hand tighten slightly in your hair, feel him shift, hear him make a soft sound as he wakes. Then he stills, clearly realising where he is. Where you are.

"Morning," he whispers, his voice rough with sleep.

You tilt your head back to look at him. His eyes are soft, a small smile on his face.

"Hi," you manage.

His smile grows. "Hi yourself, sweetheart. You sleep okay?" He mimes the action of sleeping — putting two clasped hands next to his ear and tilting his head a little, closing his eyes. You like that he doesn't assume you know what he's saying, that he helps explain.

You nod in response to his question.

"Good." His hand moves in your hair, stroking gently. "That's good. You need more sleep? Or you hungry?" He rubs his stomach a little.

Your eyebrows furrow and then something clicks in realisation. "Food?" you try.

His face lights up like you've just done something miraculous. "Yeah," he breathes, smiling so wide. "Yeah, food. You want food? Breakfast?"

You nod, a tiny movement, but you don't move from his lap. Don't let go of his sweater. Because moving means leaving this warmth, leaving his hand in your hair, leaving the only safe you've ever known.

Steve seems to understand. He doesn't push you up, doesn't make you move. He just keeps stroking your hair, so gentle, and looks down at you with those soft eyes.

"We can stay here a minute," he murmurs. "No rush, angel. Food'll wait."

You don't know what angel means. But the way he says it — soft and warm, like you're something good — makes it seem like a good hing.

You lie there a little longer, your head in his lap, his fingers in your hair.

After a while, your stomach makes a sound. A loud one. You flinch, embarrassed, but Steve just laughs — a quiet, gentle laugh that doesn't make you feel bad.

"Okay, okay," he says softly. "I hear you, stomach. We'll get you fed."

He helps you sit up slowly, his hand on your back the whole time, and you immediately press yourself against his side, your hand finding his sweater and holding on. He doesn't seem to mind. He just puts his arm around you, warm and solid.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go see what Hopper's got."

Hopper's in the kitchen when you emerge from the living room. He's standing at the stove, and when he looks up and sees you, his eyes soften a little around the edges. "Morning," he says. "You two sleep alright?"

You press closer to Steve, your eyes on Hopper. He's big. Much bigger than Steve. But Steve said he was safe. Steve said he helped Eleven.

"She slept good," Steve answers for you, his voice warm. "Didn't move all night."

Hopper nods. "Good. That's good." He looks at you, and something in his face softens just a fraction. "You hungry? I'm making eggs."

You look at Steve. He nods encouragingly. "Eggs are good. You'll like them."

You look back at Hopper. "E...eggs?" you try.

Hopper grins down at you. "That's right," he says. "Eggs. Good job, kid."

You turn to Steve, beaming up at him at the praise, and Steve thinks his heart might actually explode.

Hopper puts a plate in front of you with eggs and toast and something called bacon that Steve calls "the best part." You eat slowly, carefully, still holding Steve's hand under the table. Every few bites, you look up at him to make sure he's still there. He always is. He always smiles at you.

"More?" you ask when your plate is empty, pointing at his bacon.

Steve's face lights up. "Yeah, angel. You want more?"

You nod, and he gets up to get you more bacon, and when he comes back, you're waiting for him, your hand reaching out automatically to take his again.

There's a sound at the front door, which makes you freeze. The noise of something being unlocked.

A girl comes in — red hair, freckles, sharp eyes. She's wearing a jacket and carrying a bag. She sees you and stops.

You've already moved. One second you're sitting next to Steve, and the next you're behind him, pressed against his back, your face buried between his shoulder blades, your hands gripping his sweater so tight your knuckles hurt. A sound comes out of you — small, scared, like an animal caught in a trap.

"Hey, hey, hey—" Steve's hands are on yours, gentle, not prying, just covering. "It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart. It's just Max. She's a friend. She's safe."

You don't move. You can't.

"She's Eleven's friend," Steve continues, his voice so soft, so patient. "She won't hurt you, angel. Promise. You trust me, yeah?"

You nod against his shoulder blades.

"Good girl," Steve murmurs. He pauses. "Do you wanna say hi? You don't have to. Only if you want."

You look at Max again. She's still not moving. Still not being scary.

"Hi," you whisper, so quiet it's barely a sound.

Max's face softens. "Hi. You know El?"

You're about to open your mouth to respond when she appears. Small. Pale. Short, dark, curly hair, dark eyes. She steps through the door, and her eyes find you immediately, and something happens to her face.

You step out from behind Steve without realising you're doing it. Your hand slips from his sweater. You take one step, then another, your eyes locked on hers.

"El?" you whisper.

"Nine?" Her voice breaks on the word.

And then you're moving, and she's moving, and you meet in the middle of the cabin, and you're holding each other so tight you can't breathe.

"El," you sob into her hair. "El, El, El."

"Nine," she cries back, her arms like iron around you. "Nine, I thought—they said you—" She hiccups. "I thought you were dead."

"I run," you gasp. "I run and run. And then—" You pull back, just enough to look at her face, to touch it, to make sure she's real. "Steve find me."

El pulls back, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs brushing away tears you didn't even realise were falling. She looks at you like she's trying to memorise every detail, like she's afraid you'll disappear if she blinks.

"You're here," she whispers. "You're really here. I missed you."

"I missed you too." You press your forehead to hers. "Every day. I think of you every day."

You're guided back to the couch. El refuses to let go of your hand, and you refuse to let go of Steve's, so there's a chain — El, you, Steve — stretched across the cushions. Max pulls up a chair close by, her sharp eyes soft and wet. Hopper stands by the fireplace, arms crossed, watching.

"Tell me," El says quietly. "Tell me what happened. After I left."

You look down at your hands. At the number on your wrist. At El's hand in yours.

"When you go," you start slowly, "they... angry. Papa angry. Guards angry." You pause, swallowing. "They want to know where you go. They hurt people. Try to find you."

El's grip tightens. "Did they hurt you?"

You're quiet for too long.

"Nine." El's voice is sharp, scared. "Did they hurt you?"

You look at her, and something in your face makes her go still. "They want to know where you go," you whisper. "I no tell. I never tell. So they—" You stop. Your throat closes. "They do things. Bad things. To make me tell. But I no tell. I never tell."

El's eyes are wet again. "What things?"

"I tell them," you continue, your voice barely a whisper, "to leave you alone. I say—don't touch El. Don't hurt El. She just little. She just baby." You pause, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "You can—" You stop. Swallow again. "You can do what you want to me. But not El. Never El."

A sound comes from somewhere. A sharp inhale. You look up, and it's Steve.

He's gone pale. His face is frozen, but his eyes are wet, and bright, and full of something that looks like fury and grief all tangled together.

"Sweetheart," he says, and his voice cracks. "Angel. What do you mean?"

You look at him, confused. You don't understand why he looks like that. Why his hand, still holding yours, is shaking.

"They want to hurt someone," you explain, because he asked, because you want him to understand. "They always want to hurt someone. And El is small. El is little. So I tell them — hurt me. I bigger. I can take." You pause, frowning. "Some guards — they want different things. Not just hit. Other things. Bad things. But is okay. Because El safe. El no get those things."

Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

You look at him, alarmed. "Steve?"

He shakes his head, can't speak, but his hand squeezes yours tightly.

Beside you, El makes a small, broken sound. You look at her, and her face is crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She's crying silently, the way she always did in the lab, when she learned that making noise only made things worse.

"El," you whisper, reaching for her. "El, it's okay—"

But Max is already there. She's off her chair and on the couch in a second, her arms wrapping around El, pulling her close. El goes willingly, burying her face in Max's shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs.

"I got her," Max says quietly, looking at you with wet eyes. "I got her. You talk. We're right here."

You nod, grateful, and turn back to Steve. He's still holding your hand, still looking at you with those devastated eyes, and you don't understand why he's so upset. You're the one who was supposed to protect El. You did your job. Why is he sad?

"Steve?" you try again, smaller this time. "You okay?"

He makes a sound — something between a laugh and a cry — and shakes his head. "No, angel. I'm not okay. But that's not—" He stops, swallows. "That's not your fault. I'm just..." His voice breaks. "I'm just so angry. And so sad. For you. For what they did to you."

You tilt your head, confused. "But I'm okay. I'm here. El safe. That good, yes?"

Steve's face crumples. He lifts his free hand, then pauses. Hovers in the air near your face.

"Sweetheart," he says, his voice so soft, so careful. "Can I touch you? Can I hold you?"

Your heart does something strange. He's asking. He's asking. No one has ever asked before. They just took. They just grabbed. They just did what they wanted.

But Steve is asking.

"Yes," you nod.

He moves slowly, so slowly, giving you time to change your mind. His hand cups your face first, gentle, his thumb brushing your cheek. Then his other arm comes around you, and he's pulling you carefully, carefully, into his lap.

Steve watches you curl into him, and something in his chest cracks open. Your face is pressed so tight against his neck he can feel your eyelashes flutter against his skin. Your hands — one fisted in his sweater, one flattened over his heart — are pulling, pressing, like you're trying to find a way inside.

Like you want to crawl into his chest and stay there.

The thought makes his eyes burn.

You make a small sound against his neck — frustrated, desperate — and shift again, trying to get closer. There's no space left. You're already plastered against him, your legs curled around his hips, your body tucked into every curve of his. But you're still trying. Still reaching for something you can't quite reach.

"Hey," he whispers, so soft. "Hey, angel. I got you. I'm right here."

But you keep pressing, keep searching, and Steve realises with a ache in his chest that you don't just want to be held. You want to be so close that nothing can ever get to you again. You want to live in a place where no one can hurt you.

And God, he wants that too.

He wants you where he can see you, always. He wants you curled against him every night, warm and safe. He wants to be the reason you sleep without nightmares, the reason you learn to smile, the reason you finally believe you're allowed to be happy.

He wants to wrap himself around you like armour and never let anything touch you again.

He thinks about what you said. About the guards. About the things they did. About how you traded yourself for El, over and over, because you thought that's what you were for. Because no one ever told you that you deserved to be protected too.

No one ever told you that you were precious.

Well. He's going to tell you. Every day. Until you believe it.

He presses his lips to your hair, then your temple, then the corner of your eye where a tear is slipping out.

"You're safe," he whispers against your skin. "You're so safe, angel. I've got you. And I'm not letting go. Not ever."

Across the room, Hopper catches his eye. The Chief's face is wet, and he doesn't bother to hide it. He just nods at Steve and Steve nods back.

He looks down at you, curled in his arms, finally still, finally peaceful. He's never wanted anything the way he wants this. Not popularity, not Nancy, not any of the stupid things he used to think mattered. Just this. Just you. Just the chance to be your safe place forever.

You look up at Steve, and for the first time, you feel something you don't have a word for. Something warm and full and terrifying and wonderful.

The hours without him are filled with small things.

Hopper teaches you how to make coffee. You don't like the taste, but you like the way he smiles when you bring him a cup. You like the way he says "thanks, kid."

One morning, you bring him his coffee and he's sitting at the table, looking at something on paper. Maps, maybe. You don't know. You know he is head of the police. Steve taught that word to you last week. He says Hopper keeps people safe.

"You're getting good at that," Hopper says, nodding at the cup.

You feel your face warm. "Steve showed me. How much... how much coffee you like."

His eyes soften. "Steve's a good kid."

You nod fiercely. You stand there for a moment, unsure. Then, because something in his face looks kind, you ask, "You have... kids?"

Hopper goes still. For a second, you think you've said something wrong. But then he looks at you, and his eyes are sad in a way you recognise. "I had a daughter," he says quietly. "A long time ago. She died."

Your chest hurts. You know about death. You've seen it. You reach out, hesitating, then touch his hand.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

He looks at your hand on his, then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "Me too."

El teaches you words, too. She's patient, the way Steve is patient, and she never gets frustrated when you struggle. She just waits, her dark eyes soft, and helps you try again.

"Tree," she says, pointing out the window.

"Tree," you repeat.

"Good." She smiles, small and shy. "You're good at this."

You shake your head. "Steve good at this. Steve teach me."

El's smile grows. "Steve is good. But you are good too. You learn fast."

You don't know about that. But you like when she says it.

Sometimes you sit together and she tells you about her friends. Mike, who she loves in a way that makes her face go soft. You tease her about it a little, nudging her shoulder playfully. She tells you about Lucas and Dustin, who are loud and funny. Max, who you met, who is sharp but kind underneath.

"They are my family now," El says. "Like Hopper. Like you."

You look at her. "I am your family?"

"You are my sister." She says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You always were. You always will be."

You feel tears prick your eyes. You don't cry — you're still learning that it's allowed. "Sister," you murmur quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Steve comes in the afternoon, as promised. You hear his car before you see him — you've learned the sound, the way his engine rumbles different from Hopper's truck. You're at the door before he knocks, your hand already reaching for the handle.

He's there. Smiling. Alive. "Hey, angel," he says softly.

And then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear if you let go. He holds you just as tight, his lips pressing to your hair, his arms wrapping around you like a shield.

"Missed you," you mumble against his sweater.

"Yeah?" His voice is warm, soft. "I missed you too, sweetheart. So much."

He stays for hours. You sit on the couch together, your head on his shoulder, your hand in his. He pulls out the picture book again, pointing at things, teaching you words.

"Book," he says, pointing at a small red item.

"Book," you repeat.

"Good girl." He grins, and your chest does that warm thing again. "What's this one?"

You look at the picture. A big yellow thing in the sky. You remember this one. He taught it to you last time.

"Sun," you say proudly.

His whole face lights up. "Yes! That's right, angel. You remembered!"

You beam at him, and he pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. "So smart," he murmurs into your hair. "My smart girl."

My. You know what that pronoun means now. Hopper explained it when you heard Steve use it the first time. It means belongs to. It means special to.

You like it. You like being his.

"Okay," Steve says, flipping to a new page. "Let's try something harder."

You look at the page. There are sentences now — longer ones, with more words. He's been teaching you grammar, the way words fit together, the rules that make sentences make sense.

"Read this one," he says, pointing.

You concentrate, sounding out each word. "The girl... is... walking... to the store."

"Good. Now this one."

"The boy... is running... to the park."

"Perfect. You're getting it."

You feel warm inside. Not because he's praising you — though that's nice — but because you can feel yourself understanding. The words are starting to make sense, the way they fit together, the way you can use them to say what you mean.

After a while, you get an idea. You shift against his side, turning to look up at him. "Steve?"

"Yeah, angel?"

You point at his lap. "I think... I better when here."

His eyebrows go up, amused. "My lap?"

You nod, keeping your face serious. "You lap."

He grins, and you watch his mouth shape the word. "Your," he murmurs, correcting you gently, without malice. "Your lap."

You repeat it, feeling the shape of it. "Your lap."

"Good girl." His eyes are warm, teasing. "So you learn better in my lap?"

You nod solemnly. "Is science."

Steve laughs and you feel your own mouth twitching in response, giving you away. "Science," he repeats, amused. "Is that right?"

You nod again, but you can't keep the straight face anymore. A grin breaks through, wide and bright, and you duck your head to hide it against his shoulder.

"Oh no," Steve says, still laughing. "Don't hide. Let me see that smile."

You shake your head, pressing your face harder into his shoulder, but you're still grinning and he can probably feel it against his sweater.

"Angel." His hand comes up, gentle, trying to tilt your face toward him. "Come on. Let me see."

You resist for a moment, then peek up at him through your lashes. He's looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the world, and it makes your chest do a warm, fluttery thing that you don't have words to explain. Maybe Steve will teach you someday.

"There she is," he says softly. "There's my girl."

Before you can react, he shifts, his hands finding your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted — gently, carefully — and settled right in his lap. Your legs curl to the side, your back against his chest, his arms around you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You blink up at him, surprised.

"What?" He grins innocently. "You said you learn better here. I'm just following the science."

You feel your face go warm with heat. A giggle escapes you before you can clamp your mouth closed — when was the last time you laughed? You can't remember — and you press a hand over your mouth.

Steve lets out a delighted laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple before pulling away a fraction to beam down at you. "Okay. Where were we?"

He teaches you about pronouns next. I, you, he, she, we, they.

"I," he says, pointing to himself. "You," pointing to you. "He," pointing to a picture of a boy. "She," pointing to a girl.

Then he teaches you about possession. My, your, his, her, our, their.

"My book," he says, holding up the picture book. "Your hand," touching yours gently. "His dog," pointing to a picture. "Her cat."

You watch his mouth, the way it moves, the way the sounds come out. You're learning more than just words — you're learning him. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. The way his voice goes soft when he talks to you. The way his arms feel around you, solid and safe.

"My," you repeat, touching your chest. "Your," touching his.

He nods, pleased. "Yeah. That's right."

You think for a moment, then point to the book. "Your book?"

Steve grins then. "My book, yeah. But I'm sharing it with you. Sharing. Means I have and you have. Together."

You nod, understanding. Then point to yourself. "My... what?"

He tilts his head. "What do you want to be yours?"

You think. Really think. There are so many things you want. Safety. Warmth. Someone who stays. Someone who looks at you like you're not broken.

You point at him.

His eyes soften at the edges. "Me?" he asks quietly. "You want me to be yours?"

You nod then. "My Steve."

He swallows. You feel it against you, the way his throat moves. "Yeah," he says, his voice a little thick. "Yeah, angel. I'm your Steve."

You practice more sentences. He teaches you about putting words together, about making them flow the right way.

"I am hungry," you try.

"Perfect."

"She is tired."

"Good."

"We are happy?"

He smiles. "Are you happy, angel?"

You think about it. You're in his lap, warm and safe. El is in the other room, alive and real. Hopper is in the kitchen, making coffee. No one is hurting you.

"Yes," you say quietly. "I am happy."

His arms tighten around you. "Good," he whispers into your hair. "That's all I want. For you to be happy."

You reach up and touch his face, the way he's always touching yours. Your fingers brush his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth. "Are you happy, Steve?" you ask softly.

His breath catches. "Me?"

You nod. "You make me happy. I want... I want you happy too."

He makes a sound — something small and a little bit broken — and for a second you're afraid you've said something wrong. But then his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and he presses his face to your hair.

"I'm happy," he whispers, and his voice is thick. "I'm so happy, angel. Because of you."

You pull back just enough to look at him. "Really?"

"Really." He cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. "You know what I was doing before I found you? Fighting with my dad. Driving around. Being angry at everything." He shakes his head. "And now? Now I get to come here and see you. Teach you words. Watch you smile. Hear you laugh." His voice cracks. "You have no idea what you've done for me."

You don't understand all of it. But you understand enough. You lean forward and press your forehead to his, the way he does with you. "I am happy you are happy," you murmur.

Steve laughs wetly, tugging you closer to his front. "I'm happy you're happy, too."

The light starts to fade outside, and you feel the shift in him. The way his body tenses slightly, the way he glances at his watch.

You don't want him to go. You never want him to go. But you also know he will come back. He always comes back.

"Steve," you say quietly.

"Yeah?"

You point at the window. "Dark soon."

He follows your gaze. "Yeah. It's getting late."

You look up at him, eyes wide and sad. "You go?"

His face twists with regret. "I have to, angel. My parents—"

"I know." You cut him off gently. "You will come back?"

"First thing tomorrow. I promise."

At the door, you cling to him the way you always do. He holds you just as tight, his lips in your hair, his arms around you.

"Tomorrow," he whispers.

"Tomorrow," you repeat.

He pulls away slowly, and you watch him walk to his car. He waves before he gets in, and you wave back.

You stand at the door for a long moment, staring at the empty driveway. The cold creeps into your chest, but it's smaller now. Less sharp. Because you know he'll be back.

"Come on, kid." Hopper's hand is on your shoulder, warm and solid. You let him guide you away.

Dinner is nice.

Hopper makes stew, and you eat at the table with El. She's telling you about her day, about Max and Mike and the others. You listen, nodding, asking questions when you can find the words.

"You're talking more," El says at one point, surprised.

You think about it. "Steve is teaching me. He is a good teacher."

"He's good at teaching."

You nod. "He is patient. With me."

El smiles, small and knowing. "He likes you."

You feel your face warm and you take a sip of water to hide the way you want to smile. "He is my Steve."

"Your Steve?" She raises an eyebrow, teasing.

You nod firmly. "My Steve."

She laughs, and the sound is light and happy. You like making her laugh. After dinner, you help Hopper clear the table. You're getting better at it, knowing where things go, not dropping anything. Hopper's cabin feels a little more like home.

El has gone to her room to draw, and you're left in the living room with the fire crackling softly. You curl up on the couch with the blanket that still smells like Steve, and you watch the flames dance. The cabin is warm. Quiet. Safe.

But something nags at you. You can't explain it. A feeling. Like a thread pulling tight in your chest.

You get up slowly, your bare feet padding on the hardwood floor, and you move to the window. The one that faces the trees. The one Steve always looks out before he leaves, checking the sky, checking the dark.

You press your hand to the glass and look out.

At first, you see nothing. Just the dark shapes of trees against the deep blue of the night sky. Just the moon, pale and distant. Just the wind moving through the branches, making them sway.

You're about to turn away when you see it.

A light. Small and quick, darting between the trees.

Maybe it's an animal. Maybe it's nothing. You've seen deer at night before, their eyes catching the moonlight.

But then another light appears. And another. And behind them, shapes. Dark shapes. Moving with purpose. Moving toward the cabin.

Men.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, too fast, too loud, pounding in your ears like a drum.

You know those shapes. You know the way they move. You've seen it a hundred times, a thousand times, in the halls of the lab, in the rooms where they did things to you, in the moments before the worst happened. They move like hunters. Like predators.

Your breath fogs the glass. Your hand leaves a print on the window. You can't move. You can't breathe.

Then one of the shapes looks up. Looks directly at the cabin. At the window. At you.

You stumble back, a sound catching in your throat.

Hopper is there in an instant. He must have seen your face, heard something in your silence. He's at the window before you can speak, looking out, and you watch his whole body go rigid.

"Hopper," you whisper. "They found me. They—"

"I see them." His voice is low, calm, but his hand is already moving to the shelf where he keeps his gun. "How many did you count?"

"Eight," you breathe. "I am sorry, Hopper, I—"

"Hey." His hand lands on your shoulder, firm but not harsh. "None of that. You didn't do anything wrong. You hear me?"

You look up at him, your eyes wet, your chest heaving. "But they come because of me. If I was not here—"

"If you weren't here, they would have come for El," he says firmly, but not unkindly.

He crouches down so he's at your level, his eyes boring into yours. "Listen to me. You're going to take El, and you're going to go to the back room. The one with no windows. You remember?"

You nod, frantic.

"Good. You're going to go in there, and you're going to be quiet. So quiet. Not a sound. And you're not going to come out until I come for you. Do you understand?"

"But—"

"No buts." His hand squeezes your shoulder. "You're brave. You're smart. You've survived worse than this. And I'm not gonna let anything happen to you or El. You got that?"

You want to believe him. You need to believe him. "Yes," you whisper.

"Good girl. Now go."

You run. El's door bangs open and she looks up, startled, her pencil slipping from her fingers

"What is it?" she whispers, even though you can see in her eyes that she already knows.

"They are here." You grab her hand, pull her toward the door. "The men from the lab. They find us."

Her face goes pale, white as bone, but she doesn't scream. She doesn't cry. She just holds your hand tighter and follows you into the dark hallway.

The back room is small and windowless, filled with boxes and old furniture and things Hopper doesn't use anymore. You pull El inside and close the door behind you, pressing your finger to your lips.

You find the darkest corner, behind a heavy dresser that smells like mothballs, and you pull El down with you. You curl around her, your back to the wall, your body between her and the door.

The cabin is silent for a long moment. Then you hear it — loud, angry voices. Men shouting.

"Hopper! We know she's here! Number Nine. Hand her over and no one gets hurt!"

You hear Hopper's voice, low and hard. You can't make out the words, but you hear the tone. Defiant. Refusing. Protecting.

There's a crash. Glass shattering. Furniture breaking. A thud that shakes the floor beneath you, rattles the boxes around you, makes dust fall from the ceiling.

El makes a small sound against your hand. You hold her tighter, press your face to her hair, breathe her in.

Then—

Gunshots.

Three of them. Loud and terrible, echoing through the cabin, through your bones, through everything. They sound like the end of the world.

El shakes against you, a sob trapped in her throat. You press your face to her hair, your eyes squeezed shut, your heart pounding so loud you're sure they can hear it. You pray. You don't know who to, but you pray. Please let Hopper be okay. Please let El be safe. Please let Steve—

You hear footsteps, coming closer, heavy boots on the wooden floor.

The door handle turns.

The trail winds through the trees, up a small rise, down into a hollow. And there, almost invisible against the darkness, is a cabin.

He moves forward, careful, quiet, his heart pounding so loud he's sure they can hear it. He doesn't know who else might be out here — the men who attacked the first cabin, maybe, or worse.

He keeps his hand ready, though he doesn't have a weapon. He didn't think to bring one. He only thought of you.

The cabin door is old, solid. He raises his hand to knock—

And then it opens. Hopper is standing there.

For a second, neither of them moves. Then Hopper's face shifts — relief, maybe, or something like it. "Took you long enough," he says quietly.

Steve laughs, a shaky, breathless sound. "Is she — is she okay?"

"She's inside. Asleep." Hopper steps back, letting him in. "Go on."

Steve doesn't need to be told twice. The cabin is small, warm, lit by a single lamp. A kitchen in the corner, a little sofa, a door that must lead to the bedroom. He's halfway across the room when said door opens.

And there you are. You're standing in the doorway in bare feet and the sweater he gave you — his sweater, you're wearing his sweater — and your eyes are wide and wet and fixed on his face. "Steve?" you whisper.

He can't speak. He can't move. He can only stand there, drinking you in, alive and whole and real.

You cross the room so fast you nearly fall, and then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear. He holds you just as tight, his face pressed to your hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I found you," he breathes. "I found you, angel."

"You came," you breathe. "You came, you came, you came."

"Of course I came." He pulls back just enough to look at your face, to cup it in his hands. "I'll always come. Always."

You look up at him — your face wet, your eyes shining, your smile so bright it hurts — and then you're practically climbing at him. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms lock behind his neck, and you press yourself against him like you're trying to crawl inside his skin, like you always have been trying so.

Steve stumbles back a step, catching himself, and then his arms are under you, holding you up, holding you close. You stay like that for a long time. Steve doesn't mind. He could hold you forever.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hand comes up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw, his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes.

"You look tired," you whisper.

He laughs. "I've been walking all night. I couldn't sleep. I had to find you."

"You found me." Your smile is small and soft and everything. "You always find me."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Always."

Hopper clears his throat gently from the kitchen. "Maybe sit down before you fall down, kid."

Steve laughs again and carries you to the couch, settling down with you still in his lap. You don't seem inclined to move, and honestly, he doesn't want you to. He just wants to hold you and never let go.

Hopper pours two cups of coffee — black for himself, lighter for Steve — and brings them over. He sits in the armchair across from you, his eyes tired but alert.

"We need to talk about what happened," Hopper says quietly.

Steve feels you tense against him. His arm tightens around you. "I know," Hopper continues, his voice gentle, "that you've been through a lot. But there are things I need to understand. Things that might help us keep you safe."

You nod against Steve's chest, but you don't look up. Steve's hand finds its way into your hair, stroking gently, the way he knows you like. You relax against him just a fraction.

Hopper leans forward, his voice careful. "I'm not trying to scare you, kid. I'm trying to understand. The lab — they don't send that many men for just anyone. They want you bad. Worse than they've ever wanted anyone." He pauses. "I need to know why."

Steve feels you tremble. His hand slides from your hair down to your back, slipping just under the edge of his sweater — your sweater now — and rests against the warm skin at your side. He rubs slow circles there, soft, soothing.

"You don't have to tell us everything," Steve whispers against your hair. "Just what you can. Just what you want to. We're not going anywhere."

You turn your face into his neck, and he feels your breath against his skin. "In the lab," you start, your voice so quiet he has to strain to hear, "they test me. For everything. Telekinesis, like El. Pyro..." You try to remember. "Pyrokinesis. Many times." You pause. "I fail. Every time."

Steve keeps rubbing your side, slow and steady. His other hand stays in your hair.

"They said they are going to terminate me," you continue. "Kill. I think." Steve's jaw tightens, but he doesn't let it show in his touch. He just holds you closer. "Before I run... ran away," you correct your tense, which makes Steve press a kiss to your temple, "they said they are going to terminate me."

"But they didn't," Steve whispers. "They didn't terminate you. You got out."

You shake your head against his neck. "Before I left. The night I left. They found out."

Hopper leans forward, his face carefully neutral but his eyes sharp. "What do you mean, kid?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve can feel you gathering yourself, feel the way your fingers grip his shirt tighter.

"There was a guard," you whisper. "His name was Raymond. He was... bad. The worst." You swallow. "He hurt El once. A long time ago. I made him forget. Made him tired. Made him go home."

"But that night — the night I left — he came back. To my room. He was angry. He said he remembered. He said he didn't know how, but he remembered what I did. He remembered me... pushing into his head."

Your voice breaks a little. Steve holds you tighter.

"He said he was going to tell Dr. Brenner. He said they would finally know what I could do. That I wasn't a dud. That I was maybe the most powerful one of all." You pause. "He laugh. He said they will use me forever. That I would never see sun again."

Hopper's jaw is tight. Steve can see the anger in his eyes, but his voice stays gentle. "What happened then?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve feels your fingers twisting in his shirt, feels the way your whole body has gone tense.

"Angel," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "You're okay. You're safe. Take your time."

You take a shaky breath. "I was so scared," you whisper. "He was so big. So angry. And he was going to tell them. He was going to—" You stop, swallowing hard. "I did not think. I just... reached out. Inside his head. And I told him—" Your voice breaks.

"Told him what?" Hopper asks gently.

You press your face harder into Steve's neck. "I told him to stop. To go away. To never hurt anyone again." A pause. "But it came out wrong. Or right? I do not know. I was so scared. I just — I pushed so hard. And I told him—" You stop again, and Steve feels you shaking.

Steve's hand keeps moving on your side, slow circles, warm and steady. "It's okay, angel. Whatever it was, it's okay."

You shake your head. "I told him to die." The words come out in a rush, barely audible. "In his head. I told him to die. And he—" You gasp, a sob catching in your throat. "He reach for knife and..." You stop, your whole body shaking now.

You can't finish. You don't have to.

Across from you, Hopper has gone rigid in his chair. His face is pale, his eyes fixed on you with an expression Steve can't quite read.

"He killed himself," Hopper says quietly. It's not a question.

Steve goes completely still beneath you. For a second, he doesn't breathe.

Mind reader.

You're a mind reader. You can get inside people's heads. You can make them do things. You can make them—

You've been in his head.

The realisation hits him so hard he feels dizzy. All those times he held you. All those whispered endearments. All those moments when he thought you were just learning to trust him — you were listening. You knew every thought. Every feeling. Every stupid, embarrassing, vulnerable thing that passed through his mind.

Did you know he was falling for you? Did you know he lay awake at night thinking about your smile? Did you know he'd already started imagining a future where you were his?

Did you know everything?

His heart is pounding. His palms are sweating. He can feel his own panic rising, a wave of it, unstoppable—

"Steve?"

Your voice. Small. Terrified. He looks down.

You're staring up at him with eyes so wide, so wet, so scared that it punches the air out of his lungs. Your lower lip is trembling. Your whole body has gone rigid in his lap.

"You're — you're scared," you whisper. "I can feel it. Your heart is beating so fast. You're—" A sob catches in your throat. "You're scared of me."

"What? No, angel, I—"

But you're already shaking your head, frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I did not read your thoughts. I promise. I swear. I would never — I never—" You're gasping between words, your hands clutching his shirt like a lifeline. "Sometimes feelings slip through. I cannot help it. But I never — Not on purpose."

He stares at you. At the absolute terror on your face. At the way you're looking at him like he might push you away, like he might leave.

"You're my Steve," you sob. "I would never — I could never — please. Please do not be scared of me. Please."

Something in his chest cracks wide open. He thinks about everything you've been through. All the people who used you. All the people who hurt you. All the people who looked at you like you were a thing instead of a person.

And now you think he's going to be one of them.

"Angel." His voice comes out rough, broken. He cups your face in his big hands, forcing you to look at him. "Sweetheart, stop. Stop. Look at me."

You look at him with those huge, terrified eyes, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

"I'm not scared of you." He says it slowly, clearly, so you can see the truth in his eyes. "I was — for a second, I panicked. Because I thought about all the embarrassing things you might have heard. All the stupid thoughts I have when I'm around you." He laughs, wet and shaky. "But I'm not scared of you. I could never be scared of you."

Your bottom lip trembles. "But you — your heart—"

"My heart was racing because I'm an idiot who panics before he thinks." He presses his forehead to yours, his thumbs still gently wiping away your tears. "I'm not scared of you. I'm not going anywhere. You're my angel. You hear me?"

You stare at him, searching his face for lies. For pity. For fear. Your breath comes in short, shaky gasps, your whole body still trembling in his lap.

"I love you," you whisper, so quiet it's almost lost. You've never said it to anyone before, but here, with Steve, you can say it. "I love you so much. I would never — I would never hurt you. I would never—"

"I know." He pulls you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face gently into the curve of his neck. "I know, angel. I know."

You cling to him, your fingers twisting in his shirt, your breath hot and uneven against his skin. He can feel your heart pounding, rabbit-fast, terrified.

"Shh," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "Shh, I've got you. I've got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe."

Steve holds you through it. Through the shaking, through the tears, through the gasping breaths that slowly, slowly begin to steady. His hand never stops moving on your back, slow circles, warm and soothing. "I love you," he murmurs against your hair.

"I'm gonna step outside," Hopper says quietly, already standing. "Check the perimeter. Give you two a minute." He pauses at the door, looking back at you both with something soft in his eyes. "I'm glad you found each other."

Then he's gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

"You... you love me?" you whisper then, like you can't quite believe it. Like the words are too big, too heavy, too good to be real.

Steve's heart cracks open all over again.

"Yeah, angel." His voice is soft, steady, sure. "I love you. I've loved you since—" He laughs, a little shaky. "I don't even know when. Maybe that first night, when you took my hand in the shower. Maybe when you smiled at me for the first time. Maybe just... always. Like I was always waiting for you."

"I love you too," you murmur. "I did not know what it was. I did not have a word. But it is—it is like sun. In my chest. In my head. Every time I see you."

Steve's eyes sting. He presses his forehead to yours again, breathing you in. "Like sunshine," he replies gently, tucking you closer to him.

You give him a wobbly smile, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Then you look back at the front door, checking Hopper's okay. Your eyes flit back to Steve. "He is... he is good. Hopper."

Steve nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering on the underside of your chin. "Yeah. He is."

"He is like... a dad." You say it slowly, testing the word. "I never had a dad. But I think... he is like that."

Steve's heart swells. "Yeah, angel. I think he is."

You're quiet for a moment, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Then you look up at him again, shy and hopeful. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You are... my Steve." You say it like it's the most important thing in the world. "Forever?"

He cups your face, so gentle, and kisses your forehead, your nose, the tip of your chin. You giggle — actually giggle — and the sound is so bright, so free, that Steve thinks he wants to bottle the sound and put it in his pocket, never let it fade away.

"Forever," he promises. "And ever and ever. You're stuck with me, angel."

You smile and curl back into his chest, your hand over his heart, your breath warm against his skin.

"Good," you murmur. "I want to be stuck."

Later, after Hopper comes back and the fire has burned low, you talk.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let me make sure I understand. You can read minds — thoughts, feelings, memories. And you can also... plant things. Suggestions. Images. And if you push hard enough, they'll act on them."

You nod. "Like seeds. Small at first. Then they grow. They think it is their own idea."

Hopper leans forward in the armchair. "And Raymond — you didn't just plant a seed. You pushed hard. Made him see himself doing it. And then..."

Your face crumples slightly. "I did not mean to. I was so scared. I just — I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to never hurt anyone again. And he—" You stop, swallowing.

Steve's hand rubs your back gently. "It's okay, angel. You don't have to go over it again."

Hopper nods, understanding. "That's enough. I get it." He pauses, rubbing his jaw. "Here's what I'm thinking. The lab, they know you're a mind reader. Probably. They might have suspected for a while. But they don't know about the planting. The way you can influence people's actions. That's our advantage."

You look at him, curious. "Advantage?"

"Leverage," Hopper says. "If it comes down to it — if they find us, if there's no other way — you might be able to use that. Not to hurt anyone. But to protect yourself, and us. To make them forget they ever saw us. To make them look the other way."

Steve feels you tense slightly in his lap. He squeezes you gently.

"I'm not saying we're going to put you in danger," Hopper adds quickly. "I'm saying — what you can do, it's not just a curse. It's a gift. And if we're smart, it might be the thing that keeps you free."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay," you whisper. "I... I can try. If I need to."

Hopper's face softens. "That's all I'm asking, kid."

The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind has picked up, rattling the windows gently. Everything feels warm, safe, right.

But something nags at you.

You can't explain it. A feeling, deep in the back of your mind. Like everything is too okay, that something is coming.

You shift in Steve's lap, trying to shake it off. His hand automatically soothes down your back. "You okay, angel?" he asks.

You nod against his chest. "Just... tired."

He kisses the top of your head. "Close your eyes, then. I've got you."

You do. You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong. You listen to Hopper's breathing across the room, slow and even. You listen to the wind, the fire, the quiet.

But underneath it all, there's something else.

A presence. Faint. Distant. But there. Like something is crawling under your skin, lingering. You try to reach for it, to identify it, but it slips away like smoke. Every time you get close, it vanishes.

Probably nothing, you tell yourself. Just your mind playing tricks. You're exhausted.

Steve's hand moves in your hair, gentle, soothing. You focus on that. On him. On the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms.

The feeling fades.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding. Relief, maybe.

"Love you," you mumble, already half-asleep.

Steve's arms tighten around you. "Love you too, angel."

Hopper watches from his chair, a small smile on his face. He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and settles deeper into the worn cushions.

For a while, everything is perfect.

You don't know how long you've been asleep when it happens.

A voice. In your head. Not Steve's. Not Hopper's. Not El's. Someone else.

—can hear me, can't you? Number Nine.

Your eyes fly open.

The cabin is dark. The fire has burned low, it is just embers now. Steve is still asleep beneath you, his breathing slow and even. Hopper is slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest.

You didn't think you could really escape, did you?

You know that voice. You've heard it a thousand times, in the white halls, in the testing rooms, in your nightmares.

Dr. Brenner.

You press your hands to your ears, but it doesn't help. The voice is inside your head, not outside.

I'm closer than you think, he says, and there's something like amusement in his tone. Did you never wonder why the headaches never stopped? Why your walls never stayed up?

Your blood runs cold.

I'm inside them, he says. I'm inside your head. Does that scare you, Nine?

You reach up, without thinking, and touch the back of your neck. Just below your hairline. There's a spot there. You've always assumed it was a scar. A birthmark. Nothing to worry about.

But now, under your fingertips, it feels different. Hard. Like something small and smooth, just beneath your skin.

Three years ago, Brenner's voice continues, soft and pleased. A routine procedure. You were asleep. You never even knew.

Your breath catches. Your fingers press harder against the spot, and you feel it—a tiny bump, a foreign object, something that shouldn't be there.

A chip, he explains, like he's teaching a slow student. State of the art. It allows me to — how shall I put this? — visit. Whenever I want. Wherever you are.

Steve shifts beneath you, mumbling in his sleep. You don't move. Can't move.

I've been watching you, Nine. These past weeks. Your little boyfriend. The Chief. Your sister. A pause. You've been busy.

Horror crawls up your spine.

Don't worry, Brenner says, and his voice is almost kind. I'm not coming for you tonight. I just wanted you to know. To understand. You can run, but you can never hide. Not from me.

Sleep well, little ghost. I'll see you soon.

You sit there in the dark, trembling, your hand still pressed to the back of your neck. Steve sleeps on, unaware. Hopper sleeps on, unaware.

No one knows.

No one but you.

You look at Steve's peaceful face, at Hopper's relaxed form, at the door to the bedroom where El sleeps. They think you're safe. Free. You'll never be free, not really, not while he's inside you. A part of you. A little piece of the lab, buried under your skin, whispering in your head.

And he can find you. Always.

You don't sleep for the rest of the night. You just sit there, in Steve's lap, and wonder how long you have before they come.

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You scramble out from behind the dresser so fast you nearly fall, your legs unsteady, your heart still pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. El calls out behind you but you can't stop, can't wait, because Hopper is there, Hopper is alive, and you need to touch him, need to make sure he's real, need to hold onto him because if you don't you might shatter into a thousand pieces.

Your arms wrap around his middle, your face pressing into his chest, and you hold on like he's the only thing keeping you from drowning. You feel his heartbeat — fast but steady — and you press closer, closer, trying to crawl inside his ribs and hide there forever.

"Whoa, kid—" He stumbles back a step, catching himself, and for one terrible second you think he's going to push you away. But then his arms come up around you. Awkward at first, like he's not sure what to do with a crying girl attached to his front. Then they tighten.

"You're okay," he murmurs, rough and quiet. "You're okay. I got you."

You're crying.

You didn't realise until now, but you're crying, heaving sobs that shake your whole body. You can't stop. You don't want to stop. You just want to hold onto him and never let go.

You didn't know. You didn't know how much he mattered. You didn't know that in these few short weeks, this gruff man with the sad eyes had become something so important to you. He taught you how to make coffee. He left the lamp on. He looked at you like you belonged. He let you stay in his home.

And now he's here. He came for you. He saved you.

"You are hurt," you gasp against his chest, your hands patting at him frantically, checking for wounds, for blood, for anything that might mean he's not okay. "Blood—"

"It's not mine." His hand catches yours, stilling it. "It's not mine, kid. I'm okay."

You look up at him, your vision blurry with tears, your face wet and messy and probably ugly. You don't care. "Promise?"

His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears. "Promise," he says quietly.

Behind you, El appears. She's standing in the corner of the room, her face pale as milk, her eyes wide.

Hopper looks at her over your head. Stretches out his arm to make room for her. "Come here, kid."

El crosses the room in three steps and buries herself against Hopper's side, her face pressing into his ribs, her small hands gripping his shirt. Hopper's arm comes down around her, pulling her in. And then he's holding both of you, his two girls, his arms around you like he can shield you from everything.

"You're safe," he whispers, and his voice cracks on the words. "You're both safe. I got you."

For a long moment, none of you move. The cabin is silent except for your sobs and the distant creak of settling wood. The men are gone — dead or fled, you don't know and you don't care. All that matters is this.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breathing evens out. You're still holding onto Hopper, still pressed against his chest, but the desperate panic has faded into something quieter. Something softer.

Hopper's hand is still in your hair, stroking gently the way Steve does. It's different — rougher, more awkward — but it's still warm. Still safe.

"Okay," he says quietly. "We need to move."

You pull back, looking up at him. "Move?"

He nods, his jaw tight. "Three of them are dead. The rest ran, but they'll be back. With more. This place isn't safe anymore."

El looks up at him, her dark eyes serious. "Where will we go?"

Hopper is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "I know a place. Another old hunting cabin, deeper in the woods. Off the grid. No one knows about it except me." He looks at you, then at El. "You'll be safe there. For a while, at least."

"Steve," you say suddenly, your voice sharp with panic. "Steve don't know. Steve will come tomorrow and we will not be here and he will not know where we are and he will think — he think they took us or we are dead or—"

"Hey." Hopper's hands cup your face, gentle but firm, forcing you to look at him. "I'll find a way to let him know. I promise. He's a smart kid. He'll figure it out." A pause. "And when this is over, he'll find you. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper.

Hopper releases your face and stands, pulling you up with him. El rises too, still pressed close to his side.

"Grab what you need," he says. "Clothes. The sweater Steve gave you. Anything important. We leave in five minutes."

You don't have much. You never have. But you grab the sweater — Steve's sweater, the one that smells like him — and you hold it tight to your chest.

El is beside you. She's packed her most important things into a bag. You look at her, and for a moment, she's just your little sister, scared and brave all at once, her dark eyes wet with tears she won't let fall.

You reach out and take her hand.

Hopper appears in the doorway, a duffel slung over his shoulder, his gun holstered at his side. He looks at the two of you, holding hands, and something in his face shifts. Softens. Cracks, just a little.

"My girls," he says quietly, almost to himself. Then he clears his throat. "Ready?"

You follow him out of the room, through the wreckage of the cabin. The living room is destroyed — glass everywhere, furniture overturned, the lamp you love shattered on the floor. The kitchen is worse, dishes broken, food scattered. The front door hangs off its hinges.

You step over the bodies without looking at them. You don't want to see their faces. You don't want to remember.

Outside, the cold night air hits you. Cold and sharp and smelling of pine. The moon is high overhead, pale and distant, and the trees stretch out in every direction like dark walls.

Hopper leads you away from the cabin, into the woods. You follow without question, your hand still clutching El's, your other hand holding Steve's sweater.

The path is rough, uneven, full of roots and rocks. You keep walking, following Hopper's broad back through the dark.

After what feels like hours, he stops.

There's a shape ahead. Small. Wooden. Almost invisible against the trees. The hunting cabin. It's much like the one you're coming from — only a little smaller, more hidden in the trees.

Hopper pushes open the door and gestures you inside. It's warmer than you'd expected, tiny but cozy, with a worn sofa that's seen better days, a kitchenette in the corner, and a single door that probably leads to a bedroom.

"Not much," Hopper says, dropping his duffel by the door. "But it's safe. No one knows about this place."

El moves further inside, her dark eyes scanning everything, cataloging exits and hiding places the way she was trained to. You watch her and feel a pang of something — sadness, maybe. That she had to learn that. That both of you did.

"Bedroom's through there," Hopper says, nodding toward the door. "One bed. You two take it. I'll take the couch."

You look at the couch. It's small. Too small for a man his size.

"No," you say.

He turns, eyebrows raised. "No?"

You cross the room and take his hand. He looks down at it, surprised, but doesn't pull away.

"You stay with us," you say quietly. "Bed is... bed is big enough. For three." You struggle for the words, but your eyes say the rest. Please. Don't leave us. Not tonight.

His face does something complicated. For a moment, he looks like he might argue. Then his eyes flick to El, who's watching him with the same hopeful expression, and something in him softens.

"Yeah," he says roughly. "Yeah, okay, kid. I'll stay."

The bedroom is small, barely big enough for the bed and a dresser. But the bed is bigger than you expected — a full, at least, with thick blankets and soft pillows. You climb in first, still holding Steve's sweater, and El curls against your side immediately, her head on your shoulder.

Hopper stands in the doorway for a moment, looking awkward. Then he toes off his boots and lies down on the other side of El, his back to you, his body taking up as little space as possible.

You lie there in the dark, listening to the wind outside, to El's breathing evening out, to Hopper's steady heartbeat.

It's crowded. It's awkward. It's nothing like sleeping alone.

It's the safest you've ever felt, you think, as you rest your head on Hopper's chest and let his arm come around you.

You must have fallen asleep, because the next thing you know, soft grey light is filtering through the curtains. El is still curled against you. Hopper is already up — you can hear him moving around in the main room.

You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake El, and pad barefoot into the living room.

Hopper is on the phone.

It's an old one, rotary, mounted on the wall near the kitchen. He's speaking in low tones, his back to you, but you catch enough.

"—need you to listen. Don't come here. It's not safe. But I need you to know they're okay. Both of them. We're at—" He pauses, listening. "No, I can't say. Lines might be tapped. Just... wait. She wants to talk to you."

He turns, sees you, and holds out the phone. "Steve," he says quietly.

Your heart stops. Then it starts again, faster than before. You cross the room in seconds and take the phone, pressing it to your ear.

"Steve?" you whisper.

"Angel." His voice crackles through the line, rough and frantic. "Oh god, angel, are you okay? I came to the cabin this morning and it was destroyed and there was blood and I thought — I thought they took you, I thought you were—"

"Steve." You cut him off, because you can hear him falling apart and you need him to be okay. "I am okay. El is okay. Hopper is okay. We are safe."

A shaky breath on the other end. "Where are you? Tell me where you are, I'll come get you, I'll—"

"I cannot say." You glance at Hopper, who nods grimly. "The phone... the phone might be... listen to. They might hear."

"Tapped," he supplies. "The line might be tapped."

"Yes. Tapped." You repeat the word, memorising it. "So I cannot say where we are. But—" You think, your mind racing.

Steve found you by the oak tree, three weeks ago, in the woods. That same oak tree is only a hundred meters, give or take, away from the cabin. You remember a tiny heart, etched on the inside of the wood.

"Heart," you breathe quietly. "Heart. Remember?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear Steve breathing, can hear him thinking.

"Heart," he repeats slowly. "The—"

"No." You cut him off quickly, your voice urgent but quiet. "Do not say. They... hear."

Another pause. Longer this time. You can almost hear him putting it together, trying to connect the dots in his head.

"Okay," he says finally, his voice careful. "Okay, angel. It's okay."

You clutch the phone tighter, wishing you could reach through it and touch him. "Good. That is... that is good."

"But I can't — I don't know where you are, exactly. I can't protect you if I don't know—"

"You will find me." You say it with certainty, because you believe it. "You always find me."

A shaky breath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You glance at Hopper, who's watching you with something soft in his eyes. "You found me in the rain. You will find me again."

"Okay." His voice is steadier now. "Okay, sweetheart. I'm gonna figure this out. I'm gonna find you."

"I have to go," you whisper. "Hopper says—"

"I know." He sounds like he's trying to be brave. "Go. Be safe. I'll find you."

You hang up the phone and stand there for a moment, your hand still on the receiver, your heart pounding. Hopper is watching you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft.

"That was smart," he says quietly. "The heart. He'll know what it means."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Come on." He gestures toward the bedroom. "Get some more sleep. It's still early."

You pad back to the bedroom, crawl into bed beside El. She shifts in her sleep, curling closer to you, and you wrap an arm around her.

But you don't sleep.

You lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, and you think about Steve. About the heart carved into the oak tree. About the way he looks at you.

You wonder if he'll look at you the same when he finds out what you've been hiding.

Your powers.

You could slip into someone's mind like slipping through an unlocked door. You could walk through their memories, their fears, their deepest secrets, and they would never even know you were there. You could feel what they felt, see what they saw, know what they knew.

And if you wanted to — if you really wanted to — you could change things. Plant a thought. Twist a memory. Make them believe something that never happened.

You remember the first time you did it on purpose. You were seven. A guard had been rough with El — shoved her against the wall for not moving fast enough. You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And you reached out, found the edges of his mind, and you pushed.

Nothing dramatic. Just a tiny suggestion, buried deep where he'd never notice. You're tired. So tired. You should go home. You should sleep.

He'd yawned. Rubbed his eyes. And then he'd left, muttering about pulling a double shift.

El had looked at you with those big dark eyes, and you'd just shrugged. You didn't tell her what you'd done. You didn't tell anyone.

Because if they knew what you could really do — if they knew you could rewrite a person's thoughts like editing a page — they'd never stop using you. They'd never let you be anything but their weapon.

In the lab, they tested you for telekinesis like El. They tested you for sensory abilities, for pyrokinesis, for every power they could think of. And you failed. Every single time.

They called you a dud. A waste of resources. They were going to terminate you — you heard them talking about it once, through the thin walls of your room. Number Nine is non-functional. No viable powers detected. Recommend reallocation of resources.

You were seven years old, and you knew they were going to kill you.

But then something happened. A scientist — Dr. Ellis, his name was — left his journal in the testing room by accident. You picked it up, just to look at the cover, and suddenly you could hear him. Not his voice. His thoughts. Loud and clear, like he was standing right next to you.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Brenner will have my head if I lost that data. Where did I put it? Think, Ellis, think—

You dropped the journal like it had burned you.

After that, you learned to control it. To reach out and listen without anyone knowing. You learned which guards were kind (none of them) and which ones were scared of their own shadows (most of them). You learned that Dr. Brenner dreamed about his mother, that he cried in his sleep sometimes, that he was just as broken as the children he tortured.

You learned that knowledge was power. And you kept your power hidden.

When they tested you, you gave them nothing. You stared at the cards, at the objects, at the people behind the glass, and you let your mind go blank. You let them think you were nothing. A dud. A waste.

Even if they were to kill you, at least you wouldn't be their tool. A weapon for mass destruction.

Not even El knows. You've never told her. You've never told anyone.

You've kept your walls up so tight for so long that sometimes you forget there's anything behind them at all.

But lying here in the dark, with El warm against your side and Hopper's steady heartbeat somewhere in the other room, you feel the walls shifting. Cracking. Just a little.

It happened by accident, a few days after you arrived at Hopper's cabin. You were sitting at the kitchen table, watching him make coffee, and your mind just... slipped. Just for a second. Just long enough to catch a flicker of something.

Sara.

Her name. His daughter. You saw her — a flash of pigtails and a gap-toothed smile, a laugh that sounded like the chiming of bells. And underneath it, a grief so vast and so deep it nearly drowned you.

You'd pulled back so fast you'd given yourself a headache. But it was too late. You'd already seen. You'd already felt.

You didn't mean to. You never mean to. But sometimes your mind just reaches out on its own, like a hand stretching in the dark, searching for something to hold onto.

You haven't tried to read Steve. You've made sure of it. Every time he's near, you keep your walls so tight it hurts, because you're terrified of what you might find. Terrified that deep down, he might be like the others — pitying you, using you, secretly afraid of the broken girl he found in the woods.

You just hope — you pray — that when he finds out what you really are, when he finds out what you did to escape... You hope he'll still look at you the same way.

You hope he'll still want you to be his angel.