echo

Sure, controlled, practiced chaos, but chaos all the same. 

Everyone moves faster. Sharper. Like if they slow down for even a second, the weight of what they’re about to do might actually catch up to them. No one wants to think about the fact that this might actually be the last plan. 

At the back of the station, past the noise and the bodies and the flood of adrenaline, the supply room sits half-open, dim and quiet. It is almost untouched by the storm raging through the rest of the building. You slip inside without thinking. 

The door creaks softly as it swings shut behind you. 

The room smells like dust, oil, and old cardboard. Crates are stacked along the back wall—ammo, rope, harnesses, climbing hooks, flashlights. A coil of climbing line sits half-unraveled on the table like someone abandoned it mid-plan. The single overhead bulb flickers faintly, casting everything in a dull yellow haze.

You lean over the table, tightening the straps on a harness that definitely wasn’t designed for climbing a radio tower into another dimension. Your fingers move automatically, muscle memory from years of improvising survival gear in Hawkins. Still, exhaustion drags at your bones.

Footsteps sound in the doorway behind you.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Steve pauses there for a second before stepping fully inside. The door creaks shut behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you in the quiet.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Steve grabs a bundle of rope from a crate and starts checking the knots, movements slower than usual. He moves carefully, but he seems distracted. You finally manage to meet his gaze, a little shyly. 

“Ready to go save the world again?” You ask, lightly. 

Steve huffs out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters, “just another Friday night.”

You smile faintly and reach for a flashlight, testing the switch. It flickers to life. The silence stretches again, thick and tense this time. Steve sets down the rope he’s holding a little harder than necessary. 

“Hey.”

You look up at him. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to decide whether or not to say something. The moment lingers just long enough for your stomach to twist.

“You didn’t mean that, right?” He finally asks.

Your brows knit together slightly.. “Mean what?”

Steve gestures vaguely with one hand, frustration creeping into his voice. “The  just friends thing.”

Your fingers freeze around the flashlight instantly. A wave of emotions you can’t quite articulate bloom painfully in your chest, heart thundering. 

Of course that’s what he wants to talk about.

Of course.

For a second, you seriously consider pretending you don’t know what he’s referring to. But Steve is looking at you with that stubborn, searching expression that’s always made lying to him feel impossible.

“I was just shutting the kids down.” I try, quietly. “You know how they get.”

Steve nods once, but he doesn’t look convinced.“Yeah, I know.”

A beat.

“But that’s not really what I asked.”

Your throat tightens. Steve leans back against the supply table, arms crossing loosely over his chest. He looks casual, but there’s something tense in the way his shoulders hold.

“Just friends,” he repeats, softer this time, “that what we are?”

You stare down at the harness in your hands. Because the truth is sitting right there on the tip of your tongue. And saying it would ruin everything.

“Steve…” You start.

He waits. Always patient when it comes to you. Always giving you space to speak first. Your fingers tighten on the nylon straps.

“The word friend,” you say slowly, carefully, “never really felt like enough for what we are.”

Steve stills. The room feels suddenly smaller. You force yourself to keep going before you lose your nerve.

“But that doesn’t mean we should complicate things right now.”

His gaze sharpens immediately. “Complicate things?” 

“Yeah.” You gesture vaguely toward the door, toward the war happening just outside it. “We’re about to climb a radio tower into another dimension to fight Vecna and save Holly. This is not exactly the time to unpack whatever—” you motion weakly between the two of you, “—this is.”

Steve studies you for a long moment. “You’re really good at that, you know.” He says, finally.

“Good at what?” 

“Pretending stuff doesn’t matter.” He retorts, his words hitting harder than you’d expect. 

“That’s not fair.” You look up sharply.

“No?” Steve tilts his head slightly. “Because it kind of feels like you showed up after eighteen months, turned my brain inside out, almost kissed me, and then told everyone we’re just friends.”

Your heart thunders painfully in your chest. For a split second, you hesitate.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” His question hangs there between you. Heavy and dangerous.

Your eyes drop to the floor because meeting his gaze right now might break something inside you.

“I meant,” you say quietly, “that if we start talking about this now we won’t stop.”

Steve doesn’t move.

“And if we don’t stop, then someone’s going to get hurt.” You continue, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. He pushes away from the table and narrows the space between you with a few steps.

Your pulse jumps.

“Y/N.” He says. And the way he says your name feels like the beginning of a confession. You open your mouth to answer him. 

You really do.

Because Steve is standing there looking at you like the answer actually matters. Like the word you choose might change something between you forever.

Your chest tightens. “Steve, I—”

The supply room door slams open hard enough to rattle the metal shelving. Dustin skids to a stop in the doorway, eyes flicking rapidly between the two of you.

There’s a beat.

Then another.

His expression slowly twists into something deeply unimpressed.

“Why,” Dustin says slowly, “do I always seem to walk in on tense moments between you two?”

“Guess we’re just lucky like that.” Steve mutters dryly, exhaling sharply and dragging a hand through his hair. 

You take a step back from Steve, heat crawling up your neck. “Nothing’s happening.” You try. Dustin snorts. 

“Yeah, real lucky. Whole town’s about to implode, Vecna’s opening the world like a can of tuna, and you two are in here having whatever this is.” He gestures vaguely between you.

You grab the harness off the table a little too quickly. “We were getting gear.”

“Sure.” Dustin says. “That’s definitely what this looked like when I walked in.”

Steve shoots him a look. “You done?”

“Almost.” Dustin shrugs, completely unbothered. “Hopper’s losing his mind, by the way. Apparently Operation Beanstalk is really actually happening and we’re all supposed to climb a giant radio tower into hell.”

A beat passes.

“Well,” you say, slinging the harness over your shoulder, “when you put it like that, it sounds incredibly reasonable.”

Dustin points toward the hallway.

“Come on. The others are already heading out.” He turns and disappears down the hall.

You and Steve are left standing there again for one last second. The unfinished conversation hangs heavy in the air. Steve glances at you. You look away first.

“After you,” he says quietly.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November 6, 1987. 8:37 PM. WSQK Radio Tower, The Upside Down. 

The radio tower groans as it breaks through the membrane between the Upside Down and the Abyss.

The metal shrieks like something alive, the entire structure shuddering as reality resists it. The sky fractures above you, inky black bleeding into sickly red, lightning crawling across clouds that don’t move like clouds should. Wind howls up the length of the tower, hot and wrong, carrying the distant, wet echo of something screaming far below.

The long metal antenna at the top of the tower cracks, and swings straight for the platform. 

“Look out! Look out! Look out!” Steve moves before he really knows what he’s doing, body lunging forward to shove you out of the way. You eyes widen. 

And suddenly, the world tilts.

Not a little. 

Not gradually. 

No, the entire tower lurches sideways like it’s being yanked by a god with a cruel sense of humor. The antenna splits and falls forward, ripping the railing right off the edge of the platform.

“STEVE!” You scream, throat burning.

One second, Steve’s solid, grounded. The next, his footing disappears and his stomach drops out from under him as gravity suddenly remembers him. He goes tumbling over the side of the platform, reaching out to grip the edge one-handed.

But his hand slips. 

The void yawns beneath him, an endless red-black abyss, wind roaring up from below, the taste of iron and ozone in the air.

For a split second, Steve is weightless.

Falling.

Time stretches thin and ugly.

He thinks, absurdly, of you. Of the way you said just friends. Of the way your eyes looked when you almost kissed him. Of all the words he never said. 

“I got you!” Jonathan’s hand snaps around Steve’s wrist, skin burning where it collides. The jolt very nearly rips Steve’s shoulder from its socket, pain exploding up his arm as Jonathan struggles with the weight.

“I’ve got you!” Jonathan grunts, muscles shaking with the effort. “I’ve got you—don’t let go!” Steve dangles, heartbeat in his throat, the void pulling at his boots like it’s hungry.

“I’m not—” Steve chokes, breath punched from his lungs. His fingers scrabble for purchase, nails biting uselessly into metal slick with condensation.

Then another hand grabs him.

Yours.

Your grip is fierce, desperate, your fingers digging into his jacket, into his arm, into him like you’re afraid the world will rip him away if you loosen even a fraction.

"Don't you dare, Steve Harrington!" You threaten, voice trembling. "Don't you fucking dare let go!"

With a broken sound that might be a laugh or a sob, Steve’s free hand finds the edge of the platform. Jonathan hauls him up from one side, you pull from the other, and suddenly he’s back against solid metal, chest heaving, lungs burning like he’s just been born again.

For a second, no one moves.

Then you surge forward and crash into him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, his shoulders, his back, everywhere. Your grip tight, unthinking, desperate. Steve barely has time to register it before he’s holding you back, hands fisting in your hoodie like he needs the proof that you’re real, that he’s real, that the ground isn’t about to drop out from under him again.

You’re both trembling. Your forehead presses into his shoulder. He can feel your breath, hot and uneven against his collarbone.

“That scared the shit out of me.” You whisper, through silent tears.

Steve swallows hard. “Yeah, me too.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. And there it is again. That space between you. That charged, fragile, dangerous space where the world narrows down to breath and proximity and everything unsaid.

Your hands are still on his chest. His are still on your waist.

For a heartbeat, nothing exists but the two of you suspended above the abyss.

Steve’s gaze drops to your mouth.

Your breath stutters.

It feels like gravity is leaning in, daring him to fall again.

And this time, he does. He closes he distance. 

It’s not smooth or careful, it’s desperate. His hands tighten at your waist as his mouth crashes into yours, like he needs to prove you’re real, like he needs something solid after almost disappearing into nothing. 

For a half a second, you freeze. Then you kiss him back. Hard. Your fingers first the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, like you can’t stand the space between you anymore. Like you’re still trying to drag him back from the edge. 

The kiss is messy. Breathless. All teeth and heat and pure adrenaline. 

Steve makes a broken sound against your mouth, something caught between relief and disbelief. Your lips part just enough to breathe, just enough to realize what you’re doing. 

And that’s what breaks it. 

You pull back first, hesitantly, like you’ve been burned. The world rushes back in all at once, the wind screaming, metal groaning, voices shouting somewhere about you. 

Your chest heaves as you look up at Stevem who continues to hold your waist gently but firmly. He leans down slightly and leans his forehead against yours. 

“Holy shit.” He breathes, smirking. 

Your fingers loosen against his jacket, but you don’t step away immediately. “Yeah, holy shit.” You mutter. For one dangerous second, it contemplate leaning back in. 

You don’t. 

Instead, you forced yourself back, jaw tightening. You create space where there shouldn’t be any. 

“We, uh, we should keep moving.” You say softly, like you’re trying to convince yourself. 

You answer what you can while Dustin refuses to let go of you for longer than three seconds at a time. He clings to you like you’re an anchor, like if he loosens his grip you’ll disappear.

Robin keeps staring at you like she’s waiting for you to wink and reveal a prank. Nancy looks like she’s doing mental math. Max is watching you with something like relief, like your presence proves that miracles still happen in this shitty town, even if they’re exhausted and wearing an old hoodie.

Steve can’t stop looking at you.

It’s not exactly intentional, he doesn’t mean to. But his eyes keep dragging back to you like a magnet, like the rest of the room is a blur and you’re the only sharp thing left. His old hoodie hangs off your shoulders in a way that makes something in his chest go tight and painful. The sleeves swallow your hands. The worn gray fabric is faded at the elbows. It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

Because it’s proof. Proof that you were real before. Proof that you’re real now. Proof that some part of you carried him across two thousand miles after all this time.

Dustin finally gets hauled into the chaos again, pulled by Lucas and Will and sheer necessity, because the world is ending and he’s the one who knows the most about it. Someone calls his name, and he looks back at you like he’s afraid to leave you unattended.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dustin.” You promise, soft but steady.

Dustin nods like he’s trying to memorize your words. “Please don’t.” He says anyway, somewhere between a warning and a plea.

Then he’s gone, swallowed by voices and maps and Hopper’s marker screeching against glass.

You exhale slowly. For the first time since this all started to unravel, you actually feel like you might collapse. Steve sees it. The way your shoulders sag the second no one is tugging on you. The way your face goes slack with exhaustion. The way you blink like your eyes are full of sand.

He’s moving before he thinks about it.

“Hey.” Steve says, low.

You turn toward him and something inside him shifts, like the world tilts on its axis and decides to make him pay attention. Your gaze catches on his jaw first, still faintly swollen from the fight. Then your eyes track down to his hands. His knuckles are scraped raw, bruised and split. 

You swallow hard.

“Hi.” You manage. It’s just one word, yet it feels like a punch to the ribs. 

Steve clears his throat like it’ll help. “You, uh. You wanna get out of here for a second?” He gestures vaguely toward the back door, toward a sliver of anywhere that isn’t packed with people and panic.

You blink, then nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s not dramatic. It’s not a confession. It’s not anything. But Steve’s heart still kicks hard in his chest as he leads you away.

The back door sticks, briefly, when Steve pushes it open. Cold wind hits your face immediately as you exit, sharp and grounding. The noise from inside muffles immediately and quiets as the door shuts behind you. Out here, it’s near silent. Wider. 

The field behind the radio station stretches long and massive, November grass flattened in patches from foot traffic. Beyond it, the forest rises dark and dense. And just before the treeline, the radio tower rises tall and steady toward the gray Indiana sky. 

You wrap your arms around yourself instinctively, the sleeves of Steve’s hoodie swallowing your hands. A shiver runs down your spine and your eyes briefly flutter closed. For a second, you’re not sure if it’s the weather or the proximity to Steve. 

He notices. 

He’s never been good at this part. The quiet part. The part where he’s supposed to say what he means without hiding behind a joke.

“You look like shit.” He blurts out.

Your mouth twitches. “You too.”

Steve lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh. The wind lifts a strand of your hair and Steve has to shove his hands into his jean pockets to keep from reaching out to tuck it back. 

“I’ve been up for twenty-six hours or so.” You say, voice quiet. “Maybe more. I stopped counting.”

Steve’s eyes flick to the hoodie again. “You kept that.”

You glance down like you’ve forgotten you’re wearing it. For a second, your fingers tighten on the hem, subtle but telling.

“I didn’t pack a coat,” you say, but it’s weak. You know it. Steve knows it. Then you add, softer, “It smelled like home.”

Steve’s throat goes dry. He looks past you, toward the tower, because if he keeps looking at you he might do something stupid. The way he averts his gaze does something wild to your chest.

“You look different.” He says. 

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah? That’s what happens when you leave Hawkins. Your hair grows.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve says, and his voice comes out rougher than he expects.

You still. He stills too. Because there’s something dangerous in that sentence. Something that could crack open if either of you pushes it. Steve forces himself to meet your eyes.

“You look…” He starts, then stops. His hand drags through his hair. “You look beautiful.”

You blink, surprised. It doesn’t come off like a line or teasing. And it definitely doesn’t sound like Steve Harrington being Steve Harrington. It’s honest and raw. And it hits you like it hurts.

Your gaze drops, dark lashes brushing against your cheeks. When you look back up, your eyes glitter in a way they hadn’t a second ago.

“Steve…” You say quietly, not exactly sure how to react. Your body urges you toward him, like you’ve always belonged to him. But your mind keeps you planted firmly.

Steve’s heart is hammering now, louder than the wind. He can hear his pulse in his ears, escalating steadily the longer he’s alone with you. 

He gestures vaguely around him, helpless. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You lift a brow. “That’s your opening line? Hello, you look beautiful, you shouldn’t be here?”

“Yeah. I’m—” He exhales hard. “I’m not very good at this.”

“At what?”

Steve stares at you like you’ve asked him to explain the gravity.

“At you.” He says, his words almost a confession.

You go still again, breath catching. For a second, neither of you moves. And then you step closer.

Finally.

Not much. Just enough that Steve feels it in his skin, like your warmth is a gravitational pull.

“You called my dorm.” You say quietly. Steve’s stomach drops.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“I—”

“You left a message.” You continue, softer now. “About the Turnbows. About Dipshit Derek.” A flicker of a smile. “About how you needed my opinion.”

Steve swallows, dryly.

“And about wanting to hear my voice.” You add.

Steve’s chest aches. He should deny it, make a joke, turn it into something easy. But he can’t. His eyes drop to your mouth before he can stop himself.

You notice.

Your breathing changes. The space between you becomes charged, humming, like the seconds are building toward something inevitable.

Steve’s hand lifts, slow and cautious, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you too fast. His fingers hover near your wrist, near the cuff of his hoodie. He doesn’t grab. He doesn’t pull. He just waits. Like he’s giving you the choice.

Your entire body hums in anticipation as you realize the choice Steve is giving you. You don’t move away. How could you? Instead, you tilt your head up, just slightly, and Steve’s entire world narrows down to the distance between your mouth and his.

It’s not even an inch.

It’s everything.

Steve’s breath shudders out of him like a prayer. Your hands tremble anxiously. He leans in—

The back door slams open, brutally.

“Y/N!”

You jerk back like you’ve been burned. Steve nearly falls over his own feet. Dustin barrels out to the field, eyes wide, frantic, half-angry and half-relieved, until he sees you.

Then he sees Steve.

Then he sees the way you’re both standing too close, breathing too hard, staring like you’re trying to remember how to be normal. Dustin’s face does something complicated.

“Oh.” He says, flatly.

You clear your throat. “What’s wrong?”

Dustin blinks like he’s rebooting. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Hopper just wants—” He looks at Steve again. Looks at you again. “He wants everyone. Like, now. Because apparently we’re doing a thing.”

Steve drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “We were coming.”

“Uh-huh,” Dustin says. His tone is too casual to be real. “Sure.”

You step forward first, desperate to break the moment before it breaks you. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Dustin falls into step beside you immediately, shoulder bumping yours like a silent reminder that you’re here, that you’re solid, that you’re his big sister.

Steve follows behind, silent. 

The ache in his chest is back, worse than before. He can almost taste the air where you were, where you almost kissed. It lingers tauntingly on his lips. 

The room snaps back into motion the second you, Steve, and Dustin walk in.

Hopper is mid-argument with Murray about rotor blades and “basic physics,” Lucas is pacing like a caged animal, and Nancy is tapping her pen against a legal pad so hard it’s threatening to punch through the paper. The glass behind Hopper is still covered in half-formed plans, arrows that lead nowhere, circles around words like wormhole, Abyss, and Vecna.

Everyone looks up when you reappear.

There’s a beat of collective recalibration, like the room has to remember that you exist now, that you’re real, that you’re here to be factored into the math of survival.

Hopper jerks his chin toward the board, overwhelmed and exhausted by the chatter. 

“Everybody, shut up! Look, if somebody else has some magic bean that I don’t know about, I’m all ears. If not, it’s a risk we gotta take. We fly, or we die.”

“Fly or die!” Murray repeats. 

“Then I guess we die.” Dustin snorts. 

Immediately, the arguing starts back up again. Voices are overlapping, growing louder and angrier.

Steve doesn’t mean to speak.

He’s still half-stuck in the field. Still replaying the almost of it. Still trying to get his heart to slow the hell down.

But the words come anyway.

“Magic bean…” He whispers, face flashing with something like realization. You stand behind him, watching as he scrambles to his feet, rushes out of the room, and returns with a slinky.

“Steve? What are you-”

“We don’t need a magic bean.” He chuckles, then repeats, louder. “We don’t need a magic bean!”

The room goes quiet.

“Sorry, just… we don’t need a magic bean. We got a beanstalk right here.” Steve straightens a little as he addresses everyone, adrenaline kicking in now that his brain has something solid to latch onto. 

Realization flashes across your features, too. A bright, genuine smile breaks across your lips.  

“The radio tower.” You say, breathless and half-chuckling. 

“Exactly, there’s one in the upside down.” Steve is smiling too as he watches you catch on. 

“Max said that Vecna is trying to draw our worlds together, right?” You ask, gaze locking with Steve’s. 

“We’ll never reach the abyss from the tower. So we let Vecna draw the worlds together-” Steve continues.

“And as he draws it closer and closer, the tower will breach into the abyss.” You interrupt, positively giddy.

“Exactly!” Steve winks at you and you momentarily forget how to breathe. “And then bam! El makes her move, she does her meditation thingy and enters Vecna’s sick mind. She ambushes him.” Steve is just facing you now, as you formulate the plan in perfect synchronization.

“Presumably, when she does, it would halt the worlds from moving. We climb from the tower into the abyss, save the children, climb back down.” Your smile is wide, eyes glittering as you watch Steve in sheer adoration. 

“It’s genius.” Steve smiles back, wide and genuine. 

Dustin’s eyes flick between the two of you, sharp in that way that means he’s registering more than he’s saying. He opens his mouth.

Steve feels it coming. The little shit-eating grin. The inevitable commentary.

“Wow.” Dustin says slowly. “You two planned that fast.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, Harrington. Since when do you collaborate without arguing for twenty minutes first?”

Steve bristles. “We’re literally just problem-solving.”

“Uh-huh.” Robin says. “Sure you are.”

Dustin squints. “Did you guys kiss out by the radio tower earlier?”

“What? No—” Steve chokes on air. 

Nancy makes a choked sound, Max snorts, and Robin slaps a hand across her mouth to keep from giggling.

“Wait, what?” Lucas asks, entirely confused.

“You guys kissed?” Mike repeats the question.

Your jaw tightens, just slightly.

“We did not kiss.” You say flatly, before anyone can push it further. “And we’re not going to. We’re just friends. That’s it. Can we please stay focused?”

The room stills for half a beat.

It’s not cruel. It’s not dramatic. It’s practical. Controlled. Mission-first. But the words land harder than they should.

Steve feels it anyway.

A dull, stupid ache blooms in his chest. The kind that has nothing to do with Vecna and everything to do with the way you said just friends like it was a rule you were setting for yourself. For both of you.

“Okay, okay. Just… noting the teamwork.” Robin lifts her hands in surrender. 

“Okay.” Nancy taps her pen, happy to change the subject. “Tower entry. Operation, what are we calling this?”

Steve hesitates. “Operation Beanstalk.”

“Because we’re climbing into the clouds and fighting a monster?” Robin’s face lights up. 

“And maybe stealing something valuable.” Dustin adds.

“Small children, to be exact.” Murray mutters.

“Fine. Operation Beanstalk. We climb. We enter the Abyss. We end Vecna. We get the kids.” Hopper exhales. 

The room goes quiet again. He looks around at all of you. 

“This is it.”

You feel Steve’s shoulder brush yours. Just barely. The room shifts naturally back into logistics, ropes, harnesses, climbing order, contingencies if the tower starts to fail.

Steve nods along, contributes where he can, forces his brain back into the plan. But some traitorous part of him keeps replaying the words you’d said.

We’re just friends. That’s it.

About forty-five minutes outside of Hawkins, Dr. Owens finally speaks up.

“This is as far as I can go.” 

He pulls into a gravel run-off, tucked behind a row of tress and hidden by a bend in the road. A non-descript, government SUV waits ahead, anonymous, half-swallowed by shadow. The moment feels rehearsed. 

Heavy. 

“If I cross the perimeter,” Owens says quietly, “I don’t come back out.” 

You nod. You already knew that. 

“So I go in alone.” You respond, tightly.  

“You don’t have to do this.” He reminds you. 

The words land soft and sharp all at once. You’ve heard them repeatedly since the day you had decided to leave Hawkins. Obligation has never been logical. Neither is grief. Neither is love. 

“I know, but I am.” You say, sliding into the driver’s seat. Owens hands you a manila folder. It contains your credentials, your clearance, your lifeline. 

“Stick to the script, but if they push-”

“I turn around.” You finish. He hesitates, then passes you the keys. 

“Be careful,” he adds lightly, “your mom scares me more than any monster I’ve ever met.” You laugh, thin and brittle. He does, too.

Finally, Owens squeezes your shoulder once, then turns away. You sit there for a moment longer than you should. Then, you start the engine. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November 6, 1987. 2:04 PM. The Perimeter - Hawkins, Indiana.

The fog thins as the road crests a shallow hill and Hawkins finally comes into view. 

Or what’s left of it. 

The town sits in the distance like a wound that never closed. Entire blocks are swallowed by military barricades and fencing, floodlights glaring against the gray sky. Where familiar rooftops once clustered together, there are now dark, gaping holes. The remnants of collapsed structures, blackened ruins, streets that seemed to vanish into nothing. A faint haze hangs over the skyline, smoke or ash or something worse, drifting lazily upward as if the town itself is still smoldering. You catch sight of the water tower, its paint flaking and faded, a section of it wrapped in caution tape. 

This isn’t the Hawkins you remember. 

This is something hollowed out. Gutted. A town that’s still breathing, somehow, but only just.

Your chest tightens painfully. The boys had told you it was bad, bad roads, bad damage, bad vibes. But none of their words could have prepared you for this. For the way your hometown looks like it’s been half-erased from the map. Replaced by the special effects from one of Dustin’s favorite sci-fi movies. It feels less like a town and more like a disaster zone pretending to be one. 

Your hands tighten around the steering wheel before you realize they’re shaking.

And then the road narrows, concrete barriers come into view. The perimeter around Hawkins emerges out of the fog like an ugly scar across the land. Floodlights wash the checkpoint in harsh white, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Armed soldiers move with practiced precision, radios crackling at their shoulders.

Your stomach twists. A soldier steps forward, one hand in the air. 

“Stop here.”

You roll down the window and pass over the folder. The soldier takes it without a word, flipping through pages slowly. Deliberately. His eyes flicker up to you, then back down to the credentials.

“Biomedical engineering intern,” he reads, “Stanford University.” His gaze lingers on your face. Too long to be comfortable. “You look young.”

You force yourself not to flinch. “I am. But I’m qualified.”

“Define qualified.”

Your mouth goes a little dry, stomach churning unpleasantly. Still, you manage. “I specialize in biomedical systems and trauma-response tech. Equipment calibration, emergency triage support, ventilator maintenance, monitoring systems. I’ve logged over four hundred clinical lab hours and assisted in disaster-response simulations.”

The words sound rehearsed even to your own ears. Because they were. You’d been practicing them for hours.

“You’re aware this is an active quarantine zone.” The soldier hums noncommittally.

“Yes.”

“And civilians aren’t being allowed in.” He adds.

“I’m not a civilian on this assignment.” You say carefully. “I’m federal emergency support, approved through Dr. Owens.”

His brow twitches at Owens’s name. Not recognition, skepticism. He closes the folder but doesn't hand it back.

“Why Hawkins?” He asks, almost curiously. The question knocks the breath from your lungs.

“I—what?”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You could be placed anywhere. There are other quarantine zones. Other hospitals. So why here?”

Your heart stutters. You could lie, give him the clean answer he’s probably looking for. A rehearsed one. Something about strategic placement, proximity to critical infrastructure. But something in his tone makes you hesitate.

“I’m from Hawkins, it’s my hometown.” You say, quietly. The words taste strange in your mouth, almost acidic.

The soldier’s expression shifts, slightly. “You’re a local.”

“Yes.”

“And you left.”

Your jaw tightens. “Yes.”

“Then why come back?”

The floodlights buzz overhead, your heart hammers painfully in your chest.

“Because people I love are still here.” You say, voice is steadier than you feel. “Because I know what Hawkins is like when it’s not this. And because if there’s even a small chance I can help someone survive, I’m not staying behind a fence pretending I don’t care.”

Silence stretches. The soldier stares at you for a long moment. Long enough for doubt to bloom in your chest. Long enough for the certainty to settle in that you’ve said too much.

“This isn’t closure.” He says, finally. “This is a war zone.”

“I know.” You shoot back. “But it’s my war zone, too.”

Another pause. He turns slightly, murmuring indistinguishably into the radio at his shoulder. Static answers. Indistinct voices murmur in response. Your pulse roars in your ears. For one terrible second, you are sure he is going to hand the folder back and tell you to turn around. To go home. To be smart.

He steps back from the car. Then he lifts a hand.

“Kill the engine.”

You do.

“Step out of the vehicle.”

Your stomach drops. You push the car door open on shaky legs, sneakers crunching against gravel as you stand beneath the floodlights. The cold cuts straight through your hoodie, chilling you to the bone. The soldier approaches, eyes sharp, unreadable.

“Hands where I can see them.”

You comply.

“Once you cross that perimeter, you’re not a hometown kid coming back to help. You’re a liability. If you break protocol, if you put anyone at risk, I will personally escort you back out in cuffs.” He says flatly, devoid of emotion.

“I understand.” You say with a curt nod.

He studies you one last time. Then he turns back toward the booth, radio pressed to his shoulder.

“Control, I need confirmation on this clearance.”

Static answers once again. The barrier looms behind him, tall and unyielding.

You stand there in the cold, breath fogging the air, waiting to find out whether Hawkins would let you back in.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November 6, 1987. 3:02 PM. WSQK Radio Stations - Hawkins, Indiana.

The small lounge behind the sound booth at WSQK is sheer chaos.  

Bodies are crammed onto outdated couches and chairs, knees bumping, shoulders brushing, the air thick with too many people and not enough space to breathe. Maps and half-erased plans are spread across the table, radios crackling softly in the background like the room itself is holding its breath.  

There are new faces mixed in with the familiar ones -

Erica Sinclair sits perched on the arm of the ugly yellow sofa with her arms crossed defiantly. Mr. Clarke sits beside her, paler than usual, like he still can’t quite believe any of this is real. Vickie Dunne is tucked into the group, just behind Robin. El’s sister, Kali, stands firmly at her side. Even Max is here, pale but upright in her wheelchair, stubborn as ever, refusing to stay behind when the world is ending. Again.  

Everyone looks exhausted. Wired. On edge.  

Everyone’s talking at once, arguing, theorizing, throwing out half-formed ideas about Vecna and rifts and rescue routes. Every voice overlaps, every plan collapses under the weight of how impossible it all sounds. Panic buzzes beneath the noise, sharp and electric.  

This isn’t another crawl.  

This is the plan to end it, once and for all.

Steve sits on the back rest of an armchair he doesn’t remember sitting down in, forearms braced against his knees, jaw tight. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t stopped moving. His knuckles still ache from the fight with Dustin, his ribs a dull throb he’s pretending not to feel. The room feels too loud, too bright, too full. 

Everyone keeps saying when we save the kids. 

Not if.  

Steve doesn’t know if that’s optimism or delusion anymore.  

All he knows is that if this attempt fails, there isn’t another one waiting in the wings. And for the first time since Vecna crawled out of hell, Steve Harrington is painfully aware of how thin the margin between hope and catastrophe really is.

“At the base, in the Upside down there’s a chopper ready for the taking.” Hopper announces confidently, the squeak of the expo marker against glass punctuating his words as he draws out his proposed plan.

He takes a moment to look at everyone over his shoulder before turning back to his rudimentary drawing.

“We fly up to the Abyss, kill the freak, rescue the kids, fly back down.” Hopper finishes, almost triumphantly.

“Who exactly do you expect to fly this thing?” Dustin asks, confusion strewn across his features. His face is still bruised, lips swollen. Steve swallows the guilt that threatens to rise at the mere sight of Dustin. 

“It’s a helicopter. They’ve got pilots.” Hopper reasons, nonchalant as ever.

“Right.” Murray sounds entirely exasperated by the entire plot.

“We force one to fly.” Hopper shrugs.

“Another kidnapping plot? Love it!” Robin chimes in, sarcastically. She’s met with several eye rolls and groans in response.

“Hold on,” Mike pipes up, “how is this pilot gonna fly a chopper into the rift?”

“What do you mean? We just fly through it.” Hopper retorts, like Mike has asked the stupidest question he’s ever heard. Another bout of confusion washes through the room. 

“Idiot.” Murray chuckles humorlessly.

“Just fly through it?” Lucas repeats in utter disbelief before Dustin chimes in again. 

“Those rotors are like 40 feet wide. It’s too big. It’s not gonna fit.” Dustin says simply, ever the voice of reason.

“Steve hears that all the time and he goes in any way. Don’t cha, Steve?” Robin smirks, looking over at Steve with a teasing expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Steve looks over at Robin, head shaking in defeat.

“Statistically,” you say from the doorway, dry as dust, “men tend to exaggerate.”

The entire room goes still. 

Steve’s breath catches.

“More importantly, you’re arguing about rotor clearance when the real problem is lift instability through an interdimensional pressure differential.” You add, stepping fully into the room. “The chopper just won’t work.” 

For half a second, no one moves. No one blinks. It’s like the world fractures at the sound of your voice.

Dustin is the first to react.

“What?! How?! No fucking way?!” He chokes, jumping to his feet in an instant. “Y/N?” Your name comes out like he’s afraid if he says it too loud, you’ll disappear again.

“Holy shit!” Robin breathes, eyes widening in disbelief.  

Murray swears under his breath in Russian. Max lets out a laugh that sounds something like relief and surprise all at once. Nancy stares at you like she’s seen a ghost.  

Hopper slowly lowers the marker, squinting at you as if you’ve personally broken his brain. “Well I’ll be damned.” He mutters, something like hope flashing across his features.  

And then, there’s Steve.

Steve, who has forgotten how to move. Instead, he just stares. For a terrible second, he’s actually convinced you’re just another hallucination grief cooked up to punish him. He blinks, repeatedly, but you don’t disappear.  

You’re standing there, real and solid, his old hoodie hanging off your shoulders like you never quite left. Your hair is longer, now, more vibrant than he remembers. Your eyes are sharper, and there’s something different in the way you carry yourself. You look exhausted. But you look beautiful in a way that immediately and thoroughly alters his brain chemistry. 

It’s too much. 

His lungs forget how to work. His heart starts beating like it’s trying to escape from his chest cavity. 

Dustin is moving toward you before anyone else can stop him, crossing the room in two long strides and slamming into you. The laugh that rips out of him sounds like it might turn into a sob at any second.

“You’re here.” Dustin says into your shoulder, voice breaking. “You’re actually here.”  

You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, tugging him into your frame. “Miss me, little bro?”  

He laughs, wet and ugly and relieved. “Of course I missed you, you asshole.”  

Steve finally blinks, finally breathes.

His eyes track the way Dustin holds onto you like you’re something he’s afraid to let go of. The way your hand comes up to the back of Dustin’s head, grounding him. The way you look around the room, cataloging faces, taking stock of the wreckage of the people you left behind.

Your gaze drifts and lands on Steve.

The world narrows.

For one dangerous, stupid second, Steve forgets about Vecna. He forgets about the chopper, the kids, the war breathing down everyone’s necks.

Later in life, you would realize how much that obsession had shaped the kinds of love you chased, a multitude of situationships and relationships that had hurt you, both physically and emotionally, in the name of "love."

Still, you had begged Steve to rent the adaptation. More than once. Each time, he’d declined, rolling his eyes and muttering that he simply wouldn’t subject himself to another “sad, dramatic romance where everyone needs therapy.”

But he finally caves on a late summer Friday night, after picking up the kids from your mom’s house. He walks into the living room holding the VHS like it was contraband, smirking, eyebrow cocked as he waits for your reaction.

“Is that what I think it is? Steve, no you did not!” You yelp, already half out of your seat.

He sighs theatrically.

"Yes, and yes I did. We can throw it on after the kids are down. But," Steve holds up an accusatory finger, "if this ends with me emotionally scarred, you'll be hearing from my attorney."

Surprisingly, the evening unfolds without a hitch.

Steve shoos Jane and Eddie into the playroom, inventing some ridiculous game involving couch cushions and a dragon that may or may not be a laundry basket. It's entirely ridiculous, but it buys you the quiet you need to throw together dinner. Pasta, meatballs, a jarred marinara sauce you doctor with garlic and olive oil because it makes it feel a little more homemade. You've even got fresh parmesan to garnish.

By 6:30, the table is set.

Jane eats more than three bites without protest. Eddie demolishes his entire plate of sweet potato purée like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. You and Steve exchange a look across the table, wide-eyed and disbelieving, before breaking into quiet, over-the-top celebration. High fives. A kiss pressed to your temple. Steve bows theatrically to the children like they’ve just accomplished something monumental.

“Historic night,” he whispers to you, “mark the calendar.”

Bath time goes smoothly, too. Pajamas are negotiated without tears. You work in tandem without thinking, Steve towels damp curls, you find missing socks. When Jane demands the wrong bedtime story, Steve somehow convinces her the dragon book is actually superior, and Eddie falls asleep with his fist curled in the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt.

By the time the house finally settles, it feels less like a miracle and more like muscle memory, two people who have learned each other's rhythm so well it looks effortless from the outside.

And when you finally plop down onto the couch, with an enormous bucket of popcorn and a cozy blanket, it feels like a reward.

Turns out, the 1992 adaptation of Wuthering Heights is moody in the way all period dramas are. There are windswept cliffs, tragic piano music, people staring longingly into nothing like yearning itself might answer them back.

Steve’s on the couch beside you, one arm slung over the back, half-watching, half-dozing. He’s pretending to understand it. You can tell because every time Heathcliff stares dramatically into the distance, Steve squints at the screen like he’s trying to decode Morse code with his eyes.

On screen, Catherine says something dramatic about souls and eternity and love that ruins you.

You hum softly, eyes still on the TV.

“I used to think love was supposed to look like that." You murmur, offhand.

Steve stiffens beside you.

“What, like that?” He asks, a little too fast. “The whole brooding, obsessive, I’d-burn-the-world-down-for-you thing?”

You glance at him. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the screen.

“That’s not really love,” he mutters, “that’s just being miserable and dragging everyone else down with you.”

“You’re missing the point, Harrington.” You tease softly.

He finally looks at you then, something uneasy in his eyes. “Am I? Or are you saying you wish I loved you differently?”

Your chest tightens. “No. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

"That's what it sounds like." He retorts.

You shift closer, tucking your legs beneath you. The movie continues in the background, thunder and piano swelling.

“I’ve seen the dark side of that kind of love.” You admit quietly. “The kind that confuses intensity with devotion. The kind that makes you think being hurt means you’re being chosen.”

“You mean,” Steve hesitates, “before me?”

You nod. You’ve never given him the full details. But you don’t have to. The shadow of it still lives in the spaces between your words.

“I used to think love was supposed to hurt.” Your words come out quieter than you intend. “That if someone wasn’t jealous, or possessive, or overwhelming, then maybe they didn’t care enough. It took me a long time to unlearn that.”

His hand tightens in yours.

“I’m sorry you went through that.” He says softly.

“I am too. But I don’t want that kind of love anymore. I don’t want to be someone’s storm. I want to be their safe place.”

He swallows hard.

“Sometimes I worry that I don’t love you big enough. Loud enough. Like maybe I’m too...” He huffs a humorless breath. “Normal.”

Your heart cracks a little at that.

“Steve,” you say gently, turning toward him, “you yearn in all the ways that count.”

“What does that even mean?” He frowns.

“It means you remember how I take my coffee, even when I’m too exhausted to remember myself. It means you wake up early on Sundays to keep the kids occupied so I can sleep in a little, even though you hate mornings. It means you still look at me like I’m something precious, like I could be lost, even after all these years.”

His eyes glitter, just a little.

"Think about earlier tonight, the way we work in tandem, in perfect synchronization." You can't help but chuckle. "It's not dramatic or painful. But it's love, the kind we practice daily."

"Sweetheart..." Steve tries, but the pet name dies on his lips as you reach out to squeeze his hand.

“You choose me. Every day. That’s yearning. Not the kind that burns everything down. The kind that builds a home and stays.” You whisper, with a soft smile.

As Steve leans forward, you meet him half way, lips pressing together in burning adoration. Your hands cup his face as his hands find your waist to tug you impossibly closer.

On the screen, Heathcliff rages at the sky, grief tearing through him like a wound he refuses to let heal.

Steve pulls back, a little breathless, pressing his forehead to yours. “Guess I’ll take being boring, then.”

You smile, brushing your nose against his.

“You’re not boring. We've fought monsters together, imaginary and inter-dimensional." You laugh. "You're older now and you’re steady. You’re kind. You’re the first love I’ve ever had that didn’t scare me.”

He exhales shakily and kisses you again, slow and grounding, like he’s anchoring himself right where he belongs.

Later that night, when the credits roll and the house is quiet, you wake to the soft sound of the coffee maker in the kitchen.

It’s too early for anyone to be awake.

Now he was here, trudging through the rotting remains of Hawkins National Laboratory, following Dustin down a corridor that smelled like mold and something coppery and wrong. Dustin was rambling about forcefields and containment thresholds and some half-cooked Star Wars metaphor Steve didn't have the energy to parse.

Steve is tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind that makes his thoughts sharp-edged and his patience nonexistent.

And the tension with Dustin has grown into an ugly, living thing.

Dustin stops at the entrance to what looks like an old daycare room, rainbows painted in looping arcs across the walls. Bright once, now dulled and peeling, warped by the Upside Down’s rot. Melted toys litter the linoleum floor like casualties. The room is obscene, in a quiet way. 

Dustin’s shoulders are tight, his posture slumped. He’s trying to look stubborn and failing. 

“You would just love that, wouldn’t you?” Dustin snaps without turning around. “If this theory doesn’t pan out.”

Steve scoffs, folding his arms casually over his chest. “I’m just stating a fact. I think you got it wrong, Henderson.”

“No.” Dustin retorts. “You’re gloating. And if I’m wrong, we don’t get past the wall, and we don’t find Holly or the other kids.” His voice cracks. “Do you understand how gross—how selfish—you’re being?”

Steve feels something unpleasant coil in his chest. “Me? Selfish? You want to talk about selfish?”

The Upside Down breathes around them.

“How about the fact that when we finally reached Hopp and El, we ditched them to chase this bullshit theory of yours?” Steve presses, heat creeping into his voice. “Or the fact that we lost contact with them in the first place because you didn’t show up to the crawl? This whole mess is on you—and I haven’t heard so much as a sorry yet.”

Dustin flinches, hands slapping hard against his sides. “Shit, I was attacked, Steve. It’s not like I just blew it off.”

“No,” Steve snaps, anger sharpening his words. “You wanted a fight, and you got one. Look at your face, man. You’ve done stupid shit before, but this? This takes the cake.”

“You want to talk about dumb shit? How about pining after my sister like an idiot while the world is literally ending?” Dustin turns on him, eyes blazing. 

The words hit Steve square in the chest. For half a second, his mind blanks. Then instinct kicks in, ugly and defensive.

“Y/N is a friend.” He says tightly. “She’s a just a really good friend. You remember what that’s like? Having friends?”

“Yeah. I remember having real friends. The kind who believed in me. Who were actually kind to me.” Dustin’s laugh comes out broken, his eyes brimming with tears.

Something in Steve’s chest twists hard enough to hurt.

“Ah-ha! There it is,” Steve barks, lashing out before he can stop himself. “That’s what this is really about. Eddie. And Y/N.”

Dustin stiffens. “Steve, don’t—”

“All this shit? Pushing everyone away?” Steve continues, voice echoing off the rainbow-painted walls. “It’s all because no one could ever be as perfect as Eddie. No one could ever be as smart as Y/N.”

“That’s not—”

“Well if I’m such a goddamn idiot,” Steve snaps, the words spilling out before he could swallow them back, “how come I’m the only one still standing here?”

The room goes still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dustin asks.

“That night, I told you not to be heroes. I told all three of you. And what did Eddie do? He charged into a swarm of killer bats.” Steve’s entire body buzzes with anger, grief, guilt. Frankly, too many emotions to identify.

“To save my life! To save Y/N’s life!” Dustin is shouting now, his voice cracking painfully. 

“He saved no one.” Steve spits back, the venom of his own words bitter on his tongue. 

“He saved everyone!” Dustin screams louder now, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve. 

“Keep telling yourself that, Henderson. Deep down, the reason you’re so god damned pissed is because you know the truth.” Steve half-whispers. “You think surviving makes you special? Like because you’re still here, everyone else just made the wrong choices?” Dustin queries in disbelief.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve shoots back, even as the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“It’s exactly what you said,” Dustin pushes. “You’re acting like you’re better because you didn’t fall apart. Because you didn’t leave.”

“I didn’t have that option.”

“Yes, you did,” Dustin snaps. “You always do. You just don’t take it.”

Steve steps forward on instinct, the space between them tight with something volatile. “Careful.”

“No,” Dustin shouts, eyes blazing. “You be careful. Because you don’t get to act like Eddie was inevitable. Like Y/N leaving was inevitable.”

“Dustin, man, that’s not—”

“Eddie didn’t die because he was stupid,” Dustin cuts in, voice breaking through Steve’s interruption. “He died saving me. He died saving Y/N. He went into that swarm of bats, fearless and determined, because he knew that was the only way to keep us alive.”

The words land like blunt force trauma.

“And Y/N didn’t just disappear,” Dustin continues, relentless now, “Y/N left because everything here broke. Because Eddie died. Because I shut people out.” His voice wavers. “And because you stood there and let it happen.”

Steve freezes.

“Y/N needed someone to tell her to stay.” Dustin says, tears spilling freely. “Someone to say it mattered. That she mattered.”

Steve opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“And Eddie?” Dustin whispered. “Eddie didn’t have to die.”

“Dustin.”

“You could’ve stopped him.” Dustin’s word sound like an accusation that Steve is entirely unprepared for. “You could’ve told him not to act as bait. You could’ve pulled him back.”

Steve’s chest feels too tight to breathe. Adrenaline surges and pumps through him, painfully.

“You could’ve stopped Eddie from dying.” Dustin says quietly. “And you could’ve stopped Y/N from leaving.”

Silence forms thick and suffocating between them. The rainbows on the walls suddenly feel out of place. 

The words hang between them.

You could’ve stopped Eddie from dying. You could've stopped Y/N from leaving.

Steve feels it like a hook under his ribs. He doesn’t answer. He can’t. If he opens his mouth now, something worse than anger will come out, something fragile and damning and far too close to the truth.

Dustin takes one step closer. “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” Steve laughs, sharp and empty.

“I want you to admit it!” Dustin snaps. “That you didn’t even try!”

That does it. Steve shoves Dustin. Not hard enough to knock him down, but hard enough to make a point. Dustin stumbles back, eyes flashing, fury overtaking grief in an instant. 

“Don’t touch me.”

“Then stop running your mouth,” Steve snarls.

Dustin lunges.

The impact is messy and graceless, years of trust and resentment colliding in a burst of motion. They crash into the wall, toys clattering to the floor, fists swinging without strategy or restraint. Steve catches a blow to the jaw, the jolt rattling his teeth. He barely feels it.

All he feels is the heat.

The pressure.

The need to make it stop.

They grapple, slipping on cracked linoleum, Dustin landing a hit to Steve’s ribs that knocks the breath from his lungs. Steve responds on instinct, shoving him back again, harder this time.

“Get up!” Dustin yells, voice breaking. “Fight me!”

And Steve does.

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But anger is easier than grief, and pain is easier than guilt, and anything is better than standing still with that sentence echoing in his head.

You could’ve stopped Y/N from leaving.

Steve swings again, jaw clenched, mind screaming at him to not think about it. Not think about the airport. Not think about the way you had looked at him when you left. Not think about how easy it would’ve been to say stay, or how terrifying it felt to realize you might have listened.

He doesn’t want to think about that. He can’t.

Dustin shoves him back once more, both of them breathing hard now, blood at the corner of Dustin’s mouth, Steve’s knuckles throbbing.

They stop only when there’s nothing left to throw.

Silence settles again, heavier than before. Steve straightens slowly, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the floor. His hands are shaking. Not from the fight. From the truth he’s refusing to touch.

Because if Dustin’s right, if he really could’ve stopped you from leaving, then this isn’t just bad luck or bad timing or another loss Hawkins demanded.

It’s on him.

And Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to live with that yet.

So he turns away.

Lets the anger burn a little longer.

And pretends, just for now, that some things are still out of his control. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

November 6, 1987. 6:58 AM. Indianapolis International Airport — Indianapolis, Indiana

The soft ding of the in-flight announcement systems pulls you from your thoughts.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our final descent into Indianapolis International Airport. The local time is 6:58 AM, and the temperature is a chilly forty-three degrees. I hope you packed coats!”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with what lies ahead.

“Please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has come to a complete stop. When opening the overhead compartments, please use caution, as items may have shifted during the flight.”

Your forehead stays pressed to the small airplane window as the familiar patchwork of Indiana comes into view. Your heart twists, your stomach heavy with anticipation.

“On behalf of the captain and crew, thank you for flying with American Airlines. We wish you a safe journey to your final destination.”

Your final destination. 

Hawkins.

Despite the exhaustion and panic thrumming through you, you keep your expression calm. You move on autopilot, body running on muscle memory and dread.

You gather your belongings, tug on Steve’s old hoodie, and begin exiting the plane. All the while, your mind drifts to the journey that lies ahead. You quickly shove back the thoughts of all the obstacles that you’ll undoubtedly face, choosing to focus instead on the relief of finally being reunited with the people you love the most.  

The scent of stale coffee, jet fuel, and industrial cleaner immediately stings your nose as you half-stumble out of the narrow jet bridge and into the terminal. You’ve been awake for close to twenty-four hours at this point, your body running on nothing but adrenaline and the kind of dread that keeps your heart hammering even when your limbs feel like lead. The terminal lights are too bright, the announcements too loud.

Every sound feels like a reminder that the world is still turning while Hawkins burns.

Your backpack cuts into your shoulder as you speed walk toward baggage claim. Your pager feels heavier than it has any right to, a constant weight against your hip. It sits, silently, reduced to a useless piece of plastic that hasn’t provided any news. 

You find Dr. Owens near the edge of baggage claim 4, posture rigid, eyes scanning the crowd with military precision. He looks older than you remember. More tired. Like the last eighteen months have hollowed him out in the same way they have everyone else.

“You made it.” He says quietly when he spots you, relief flickering across his features before it’s tucked away.

“Barely.” You admit. Your voice sounds wrong to your own ears, flat with exhaustion. “I was half-convinced I was going to fall asleep standing up waiting for my connecting flight in Denver.”

Owens gives a tight nod. “Well, I’m glad you’re upright.” He pauses. “Why don’t you take a minute to freshen up? We’re heading straight to Hawkins from here.” 

“I’ll only be a second.” You promise, half-jogging toward the nearest bathroom. 

You use the opportunity to splash some water on your face and change into a fresh set of clothes. You keep Steve’s hoodie, though, because it feels like a tether to what this is all for. You tell yourself that’s the only reason why. 

You meet Owns again by the exit, the late afternoon light washing over the terminal windows. The world outside looked painfully normal. 

Too normal.

You walk in comfortable silence until you reach the rental car.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Owens says, as he unlocks the door, “this is all really delicate.”

You let out a weak laugh. “That seems to be the theme.”

He glances at you as he finishes loading your belongings into the trunk.  

“You’ll be going in under the guise of a biomedical engineering intern. Emergency federal support for Hawkins Memorial, with a start date of this upcoming Monday, November 9th. Your Stanford credentials and your knowledge in the field will get you in the door. Your clearance will come from me.”

“What about Kay? And the military?” You ask. 

“They won’t know the difference unless they look too closely. Which is why you cannot give them a reason to.” Owens says simply, as if the notion isn’t absolutely terrifying. 

“And if they do?” You ask, swallowing dryly. 

“Then I won’t be able to protect you.” He says plainly. “I’ve been entirely removed from this operation. I have no pull, no weight. This is the best I can do. And, once you cross that perimeter, I can’t promise I’ll get you back out.”

You stare at the concrete beneath your feet, at the oil stains and cracks in the pavement. At the invisible line you were about to cross.

“That’s totally fine.” You reassure him, and you actually mean it. “You’ve done so much already.” 

Owens studies you for a long moment. “This isn’t just about helping, is it?”

You think about Dustin’s voice breaking over the phone, about Steve sounding like he was holding himself together with duct tape and stubbornness, about Hawkins cracking open and bleeding into the world again.

“No.” You admit, both to Owens and to yourself. “It’s not.”

“All right. We leave in ten.” Owens nods, offering you a gentle smile. 

You slide into the passenger seat, body sagging into the seat the second the door shuts. The exhaustion finally catches up with you, pressing heavy against your ribs.

Steve had tried to take it down on several occasions to no avail. It had fallen and smacked him right on the forehead. Twice. He'd given up after that.

The store was dead.

The clock ticked loudly. The neon sign buzzed over head. Outside the front windows, couples drifted past in soft-focus silhouettes, scarves tangling together, hands linking like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve leans on the counter, chin in his palm, staring at the door like he could will it to open.

"Get it together, Harrington." He mutters absent-mindedly to himself. "It's just another shift."

The bell jingles. His head snaps up way too fast.

And then.

Oh.

It was you.

Relief floods him, warm and embarrassing. He straightens immediately, attempting casual and landing somewhere closer to obvious.

"Hey. Uh, how are ya?"

"Hi," you smile, lifting the VHS in your hand, "I've come to return this before you charge me enough late fees to inflict emotional damage."

Steve huffs out a laugh, scanning the tape. "You know I don't control the late fees."

"You absolutely do. Robin said so." You shoot back.

"So, big Valentine's plans, huh?" He slides the case across the counter, finally managing to meet your gaze.

You shrug, noncommittally. "Not really. Just another night."

"Yeah, same here. It's an overrated holiday. Too much pressure for uh, stuff." Steve nods too quickly, sounds a little too robotic.

There's a pause.

One of those awkward, fragile silences where everything you don't say sits between the both of you, somehow loud as hell.

Steve clears his throat.

"I'm closing in like, ten minutes. You can hang out if you want. I've got-" He reaches under the counter and produces several candy bars from the vending machine next door at the laundromat. "These. They're probably expired. But they were the last of the good ones."

"And you're sharing them with me? That's really sweet, Steve." Your smile softens in that way that always made something twist in Steve's chest.

He ducks his head, sheepishly, ears warming. "Don't tell anyone, I've got a reputation to maintain."

After hours, Family Video feels different.

The lights are dimmed, the decorations sagging like they're tired too. Steve kicks off his sneakers behind the counter and flops onto the tiny couch in the break room, patting the spot beside him.

"You can pick the movie." He offers. "But if it's another sad one, we're seeking professional help for you."

You grab the closest tape without looking too hard, which happens to be Top Gun. "Here."

"Top Gun? Don't you think I kinda look like Tom Cruise?" He asks, smirking.

"Not at all." You snort, slotting the tape into the player whilst laughing.

The VCR whirs to life, the screen flickering static blue before the previews roll. The couch is arguably too small for the both of you. Your shoulders brush. Then your knees. Then, without either of you really acknowledging it, you shift closer.

The movie plays in the background, cheesy and action packed, mostly forgotten. Steve isn't watching at all. Instead, he's watching the way the light from the screen dances across your face, the way your laugh comes softer now that the store was closed and it's just the two of you.

Steve had spent months telling himself this was normal.

That you were just easy to be around. That the way you laughed at his dumb jokes, the way you always remembered his shifts and showed up, the way the store felt less empty when you were in it. That all of it meant nothing.

It was easier, really, to pretend he didn't notice the little things. How he straightened the displays whenever he knew you were coming in. How he saved the good candy bars under the counter for you. How he caught himself looking for you in every reflection of the front windows when the door didn't open fast enough.

Wanting you felt dangerous.

Not because he didn't trust you. But because Steve had a bad habit of wanting things too hard and too fast, of building whole futures in his head before the present had even agreed to meet him halfway. So he kept it contained. Kept it quiet. Reveled in the small moments.

Until the damned couch feels too small.

Until your knee brushes his for a second too long.

Until the quiet between you feels louder than any confession ever could.

"Hey," Steve says quietly, seemingly out of the blue, "Can I-"

"Yeah?" You look at him.

He swallows, dryly. "Can I do this?"

You don't ask what this is. You know. You close the distance instead.

The kiss is tentative at first, a little clumsy. It's a question more than a statement. Steve's hands hover at your waist like he isn't entirely sure if he's allowed to touch you. In turn, your hands land hesitantly at his shoulders.

When he deepens the kiss, a little more certain this time, you follow. His fingers finally settle at your hips like they'd been waiting for the opportunity all night. Your hands tangle in Steve's hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Your lips are plush, yet still firm against his. And you kiss him with a fervor that sends electric waves coursing through Steve's frame.

The world narrows to the hum of the VCR, the warm, familiar shape of your body pressed close. It's not rushed. It's not perfect. It's slow and a little clumsy and entirely real.

When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, Steve laughs under his breath. His smile is small, a little stunned, like he was afraid to look at the moment too closely in case it disappeared.

"Guess I owe Robin an apology." He murmurs.

You laugh softly. "For what?"

"For calling Valentine's Day stupid." He says, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up again. "Turns out, it's only stupid if you're not around."

The movie swells into some dramatic, over the top kiss in the background. The kind he would usually make fun of. This time, he doesn't roll his eyes.