#experiment!reader

Growing up in Hawkins lab, there was a lot in life you did understand.

You knew a whole lot about science and the ways the human mind could be bent. You understood how to use your telapathy powers and the amount of strength needed. You understood the inner workings of machinery that many people didn't even know existed.

But ever since you got out of the lab and met the various groups in Hawkins, you found there was a lot more about life that you didn't know.

When you were helping your sister, Eleven, and her little friends in a basement, things had been…easier. Stressful, but not too different from life at Hawkins lab.

But now Eleven was gone, and you were left alone in a world where you didn't know how some of the most basic things worked: no matter how much others tried to teach you.

You didn't know the appropriate amount of eye contact to make. You didn't know how money worked. You didn't understand why adults kept asking you why you weren't in high school.

And most of all, you didn't know why the Henderson boy was always yelling.

“What took you so long?” The boy yelled at you as he jumped out of an unfamiliar car. You tilted your head. From your perspective, you had been the one waiting for him for 30 minutes.

“I called you on the Walkie Talkie like 5 times."

”I heard.” You spoke simply, gesturing to the fact that you had, in fact, come to help the boy with his problem.

Despite your clear logic, Dustin threw up his arms in frustration. “Then why didn't you respond? I've been running around looking for people cause I thought you missed the message.”

You paused for a moment, quickly relaying in your mind everything Dustin had taught you about using a walkie-talkie. Your face dropped ever so slightly as you released your mistake, “I forgot about that part.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, sighing as he dropped his backpack in front of you. Ultimately, he was thankful you had arrived. When you had been the only one of Hawkins' lab experiment to remain in town, Dustin had made sure he always had a point of contact with you.

Part of it was just so he could ask you questions about your powers (questions you often answered willingly but shortly), but more importantly, so he had someone who could protect him. Dustin was smart enough to know you were more of a use than most people in town - even those with a nail-covered baseball bat.

“Whose she?”

You looked up to see a tall boy with a distinctive hairstyle that you did not recognise walking towards you, two bats in hand. Your hands tensed instantly as you prepared to protect yourself and the younger boy from any danger.

“She’s here to help, Steve,” Dustin spoke sassily, clearly annoyed that the Harrington teen was there at all. If you had just responded to his message, he would have never had to invite the douche.

In hearing the name and seeing that Dustin recognized the teen, you lowered your hands. You remember Nancy talking about her boyfriend, or 'ex-boyfriend', Steve "The Hair" Harrington. Though you still didn't fully understand the purpose of a boyfriend, or why Steve's hair mattered, you did understand the most important thing.

Steve had helped Jonathan and Nancy survive a demogorgon attack, which meant to some extent he was on your side.

Steve turned to you, looking you up and down with a clearly judgmental face. “She’s going to help us?” From Steve’s seemingly judgmental tone, it was clear he had not been informed about your existence. Feeling a glare from Dustin and a lightly furrowed look from you, Steve quickly shook his head. “I mean no offence, just… does she even know about the..dogs"

He lowered his voice as he spoke to Dustin, who just groaned. "Yes, Steve, she knows about the demogrogan. She probably knows much more about it than you."

Steve nodded, his gaze going back to you. You just stared at him blankly, causing him to let out an awkward chuckle. "I really mean no offence by it. I've just fought one of these things before, and they handle a lot of force."

"I know," You spoke, before turning your attention back to Dustin. You wanted to actually do what you came here to help with. "So where is it?"

Happy to finally be back on track, Dustin led you to his backyard. Pointing almost wearily, he gestured to the doors leading to his basement. "I managed to get it in there."

You tilted your head as you looked at the weak wooden doors. "That's not a very secure facility,” You pointed out.

“Well, it’s all I had,” Dustin defended himself angrily. "I didn't have time to develop a lab with a containment room."

"You could have at least put a lock on it," Steve scoffed as you continued to assess the situation. Deciding it was safe, you began to step forward.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." You were quickly stopped by an arm, as Steve stepped out in front of you. "May I remind you I'm the only one here with a weapon. I'll go first."

Dustin looked at you excitedly, waiting for you to finally show off your powers and blow Steve's smug mind. Instead, you just nodded. "Ok. Call us if you need back up."

Steve nodded, moving slowly towards the doors. Dustin's eyes darted between the two of you. "But-"

"Don't worry, kid, I got it," Steve yelled out from over his shoulder.

Dustin turned his attention to you, a panicked look on his face. "Why aren't you doing anything? You're the one who has any actual strength against that thing," He hissed at you, and you turned to Dustin. "You heard him. He's got it."

Dustin made a strangled noise, his brain trying to catch up with the fact that you were allowing Steve to go down there with no reinforcements just because the ass said so.

"Besides, there's nothing down there."

Dustin now looked confused. "What do you mean? I pushed it in there myself."

"I know how they work. There's no way one of those beasts would just stay in that basement."

"But the doors are still intact, how else would it-"

"Hey guys…you should come down here."

Steve's voice called from the basement, bringing your attention away from Dustin. You were quick to move, following the boy's instructions as you descended the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs was no demogorgon, just Steve Harrington standing next to a large tunnel.

"I told you so."

---

You had added to the list of things you didn't understand: Steve Harrington.

Despite the insistence that he didn't want to be a part of this crap, Steve had the habit of putting himself in the hero role.

He was the first to go into the basement, he was the one driving the car, and he insisted on leading the group through the railroad track.

Part of you wondered that even if he did know about your powers, he would still try to take the lead.

You kept your distance from the two boys, throwing chunks of meat as you trailed behind them. The two had taken this quiet time to have a ‘guy talk’ - something they made clear that you weren’t a part of.

That didn't stop you from listening in on their conversation.

“Sure, okay, some girls, yeah, they want you to be aggressive.”

You kept your eyes looking out at the forest around you as Steve rambled on with his advice. You didn't want to appear too abnormal for wanting to understand more about teenage culture.

“You know, strong, hot and heavy, like a…I don't know, like a lion.”

Dustin hummed, taking in the advice.

“But others, you gotta be slow, you gotta be stealthy, like a… like a ninja.”

“What type is Nancy?” Dustin asked, and Steve paused. He and Nancy weren’t quite together anymore; they hadn't been for a while, but he didn't know if he wanted to explain that to the very kid he was trying to sell his advice to.

“Nancy's different. She's different than the other girls.”

Dustin hummed before curiously turning around to you. “How about her?” Dustin gestured at you, to which you blankly stared back. You hadn't expected to be brought into the discussion; you liked just being an observer.

Steve turned around, embarrassed by the fact that he had completely forgotten you were there. “Well, s-she…I don't know enough about her to make a call.” He had gone for the easy way out, though the answer didn't seem to satisfy Dustin.

Taking a moment to think, Steve stopped walking, looking at you more closely. “I actually don't think I’ve seen you around. Do you go to school at-”

“I don't count." You quickly spoke to Dustin, not wanting to answer Steve's inevitable questions of who you were and where you came from. The less he knew about you, the more you didn't mind his company.

Steve tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

You shrugged. "I don't fit in the criteria. I'm not really a…girl." Wanting to avoid the boy's gaze, you used Steve's stillness to overtake the two.

“Hold on, what’s with the negative self-talk?” Steve spoke up as he sped up to catch up with you. “You look plenty like a girl to me.”

“Looks are deceiving." You spoke vaguely, only glancing back at Steve. "I’m not an actual girl. Not like Nancy”

“She’s kind of right,” Dustin muttered to Steve. "She's different from everyone."

Though Dustin's statement was true, it didn't stop the pain in your chest. You hadn't met many people since escaping the lab, but you knew you were different from all of them. You didn't have the same experiences that made them people. You were nothing but a lab rat.

Still, Steve was oblivious to any of that.

“Hey, both of you,” Steve scolded, hitting Dustin lightly in the shoulder. “Just because… just because you're not like Nancy doesn't mean you're not a lady." He gestured to your trousers and buttoned-up shirt that the Byers family had donated to you. "Is this about the way you dress, because that means nothing. We live in a progressive age.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, expecting Steve to be the last guy talking about seeing women progressively. Despite the lack of any enthusiasm from you or Dustin, Steve continued his 'empowering' rant.

“I mean, what truly makes you different from other girls?” Steve pointed out, opening his mouth to make another statement. "Why are you-"

There was a sudden bang as a bush by the tracks exploded, causing both boys to jump.

While steve looked terrified, Dustin began laughing. “I love it when she does that.”

Confused by the boy's statement, Steve turned to you, looking for an answer.

You just stared right back, wiping the blood from under your nose.

“That’s what makes me different” 

---

You glanced over at Steve, who nervously flicked his lighter open and closed.

It was now dark outside as the now grown group took cover in a bus. As your middle school companions kept watch on the roof, you and Steve were left alone on the cushioned seats.

You two sat away from each other, Steve's chatty mood seeming to disappear as soon as the Henderson boy went upstairs. You watched him as his eyes continued to flicker from the lighter to you.

Another thing you had learnt about Steve was that he wasn't good at being subtle.

“It’s ok to be scared of me.” You spoke up, finally getting Steve's gaze to stick to you. “I promise I won't hurt you, but I understand why you might be wary."

“I’m not… I don't think you’re gonna hurt me.” Steve stumbled out, caught of gaurd by the sudden statement. Yes, he was still trying to wrap his head around your existence, but he never once considered you a threat.

“Why do you keep glancing at me then?” You asked, turing fully to the boy, the light from the flame being one of the only things allowing you to see his features.

Steve sighed, straightening himself up as he prepared for the topic he had been thinking about. “You know what you said before was bullshit.”

“What part?” You asked curiously.

“All of it,” He answered confidently, as if he was an expert on women (which, with how Dustin spoke about him, you suspected he might be). “I don't care if you can blow up a bush or not. You're still a girl. Or a woman. Or whatever you want to be called”

“I'm barely a person,” You muttered, crossing your arms over your legs. Steve went to rebut the comment, but you spoke before he could. “Look, Steve, you don't know me. You don't know my past.”

“So?” He instantly responded, and you shook your head, surprised by his insistence.

“So… you don't know what I have done. What I can do. All the things that make you human and understanding and normal: I didn't go through.” You lowered your head. “I’m nothing more than an experiment that got out.”

Steve was silent for a moment as you lowered your head closer to your curled-up legs. You assumed the silence meant you had won the argument.

Instead, you felt the cushion next to you dip as Steve moved to the seat next to you.

"Let me see your hand.”

You looked up at him with a confused look. You were met with the most serious face you had seen the boy give all day. “Seriously, show me your hand.”

You slowly lifted up your hand, and Steve pretended to inspect it against his own. “Just as I thought," He held up both your hands side by side. "The exact same”

You rolled your eyes, gently pulling your hand out of his grasp. “That means nothing.”

“That means everything,” Steve contradicted, looking at you with a hope in his eyes you didn't think you had ever felt. “Look, I know you have been through things that I will probably never understand, and I know that’s a lonely feeling. But that doesn't change the fact that you are human. All the qualities that we have, you are more than capable of having.” He paused before smiling. "And the way that you've been helping all of us, I think you already have some."

You looked up at Steve, and the genuine expression on his face, and all you could do was nod in agreement. No matter how much you wanted to, you couldn't deny the truth in his words. He was too confident to be lying.

Steve nodded back, understanding from his reactions with you that that was probably the biggest reaction he would get from you. He wasn't sure why he was so determined to make you feel better, but he was sure that seeing you accept his words filled him with pride.

You both sat in silence for a moment before you decided to break it. “What’s it like…being a normal teenager?”

Steve took a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders as he tried to think of the right words. “It’s usually fun. You get away with a lot more than adults do, cause this is the time that everyone lets you be dumb and free. You find enjoyment in dumb things like hanging out in the parking lot or ruining your liver with alcohol. But then it starts to come to an end, and everything gets….confusing, you know?"

You gave Steve a look, reminding him that you, in fact, didn't know. Instead of feeling embarrassed for his mistake, Steve just gave you a small smile. “How about I show you.”

You looked around, half expecting to find some surprise in the room that would allow Steve to show you the life of a teenager. The boy chcikled, bringing your attention back to him. "Not right now, but assuming we make it out of this mess, I can give you the classic teenager experience. It's too hard to just explain it.”

You took a moment to think over his words before turning to him. “Really?”

Steve nodded. “Of course. I don;t think you need it, but I can tell you want a taste of the good all-hawkins life."

You smiled lightly at him, the first one you had given him all day. “I would really like that.” 

---

You once again found yourself behind Dustin and Steve, though this time in the back of Steve’s car.

The middle school entrance was decorated with streamers, and the sound of music could be heard muffled from the outside. The whole sight was nothing you had ever seen before, as you leaned slightly into the front to get a clearer view.

Dsutin played with his hair in the mirror, which looked strikingly similar to Steve's "iconic" look. Dustin's attempt to adjust his hair was short-lived as Steve swatted his hand away.

“Hey.” Steve scolded the boy, who gave him a dirty look. “Come on. You look great, okay?”

Stev's gesture for you to join in, to which you nodded and gave a thumbs up, “You're Great.”

Despite your lack of words, Dustin nodded, feeling motivated by the fact that you talked at all. You had warmed up to both boys a lot more, learning and growing from what they showed you. Still, Dustin would tease you for giving all your attention to Steve - though you didn't understand why.

Dustin turned back to Steve, ready for a pep talk.

“Okay? Now you're gonna go in there…”

“Yeah.”

“Look like a million bucks.”

“Yeah.”

“And you're gonna slay 'em dead.”

“Like a lion,” Dustin emphasized his point by making a purring nose.

“Don't do that, okay?” Steve corrected, though you spoke up. “I think it’s cool.”

“Don't listen to her,” Steve teased, pushing you back into the backseat before turning back to Ductin. “Good luck.”

The two of you watched as the boy walked towards the school, his walk filled with a confidence you usually didn't see on the boy: at least not in the school setting.

“I really hope it goes well,” Steve spoke, looking more anxious than Dusin did himself. Your eyes seemed stuck on the building. Steve turned around in his seat, watching you as you stared curiously.

“What’d ya thinkin',” Steve asked, used to this action by now. As promised, Steve had been showing you around Hawkins, giving you the experiences you never had. This often involved allowing you to just stare at sights he saw as mundane. It was kind of beautiful to him: how you saw everything with fresh eyes.

“I’ve just never been to a dance,” You stated simply, watching as the groups of middle schoolers excitedly entered the gym.

Steve sighed. “I mean, I didn't wear my suit, but we could go inside. Share a dance.”

You genuinely thought over Steve's suggestion, but ultimately shook your head. “We should leave Dustin alone to… do his thing.” You spoke, jumping up to the passenger seat of the car.

Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. Cause I do not want to be dancing with a bunch of middle schoolers.”

"Then why did you offer?" You asked, tilting your head at the boy.

Steve shrugged. "Because you're the one who asked."

He spoke so casually, but the statement filled you with so much joy. You gave him your small smile, which he swore got bugger every day, as you buckled yourself in.

"So if we're not dancing, what's the plan for the night?" You asked, turning to your guide of all things Hawkins.

“I was thinking I could take you down to the diner on 5th street. They have the best ice cream sundae; it'll blow your mind. Way better than any you've had before.”

You shrugged at the statement. “I’ve never had one before.”

Steve gave you an astonished look. “Well, I take it back. I don't think I’m taking you there. I know I’m taking you there.”

You watched happily as Steve backed out of the parking lot, already ranting to you about his attempts to apply for a new job.

You still didn't understand everything about Steve Harrington, but you were grateful for him.

Because of him, for the first time in your life, you felt like a normal person.

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.