pairing | jonathan byers x Henderson!reader
summary | Jonathan honestly doesn’t like you — but one night, you get drunk at a party, and god… he would never leave you alone.
warnings | enemies to lovers, fluff & angst, slow burn, overprotective jonathan byers, season 2 jonathan, reader is dustin henderson’s sibling, found family, family issues, mentions of smoking, mentions of drug use, emotional hurt/comfort, protective behavior, quiet jealousy, mutual pining, it takes forever and it hurts
note: English isn’t my first language (remember). I wrote this listening to be my mistake from the 1975, so I believe this is the vibe. thank you <3
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Your eyes opened in an almost mechanical way, without you even managing to blink and return to consciousness: they simply opened, feeling the sunlight burn your corneas.
Your head ached in a way that didn’t feel like just another hangover. You were hard to knock down — it wasn’t as if this were your first time getting drunk, but you knew your limits. Still, that morning, your brain seemed determined to remind you just how broken you were. Opening your eyes in the morning was always an act weighed down by guilt for you, but that day your chest sank so deeply you could feel your heart on the other side of the sheets.
The first unrecognizable thing was the smell. Wet grass, mint, and men’s cologne. It felt as if a small elf had invaded the room and slept with you overnight. So when your eyes finally scanned the space and you managed to make sense of the shapes in front of you, confusion took over your face.
The bedroom was small, a thin curtain covering the window. A few music posters hung beside the bed, and a worn-looking turntable sat next to it, decorating the room. You frowned, wondering what the hell you had gotten yourself into this time. A normal headache was completely manageable, but waking up in some guy’s house — a guy you probably had no idea who he even was — could turn into a much bigger headache.
Your eyes locked onto the figure in a white T-shirt and worn-out jeans standing in front of you. Shock crossed your face, and you were absolutely certain you were trapped in a very vivid, very strange nightmare.
The sound of your own hand slapping your face made Jonathan’s eyes widen in panic.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks, one hand grabbing yours as it prepares to fly back to your face.
“This has to be a nightmare. I need to wake up,” you huff, awkwardly climbing out of bed and making Jonathan step back. “Don’t tell me we—” You shoot him a desperate look, pointing quickly between yourself and Jonathan. “Oh my God. We slept together.”
“What? No!” Jonathan waves his hands in denial, as if you had desecrated a grave by even suggesting it. A grimace twists his face, like he’s trying way too hard to make his thoughts clear. “That’s disgusting.”
“Disgusting? Byers, you’re literally a virgin,” you scoff, fixing your clothes and slipping on your shoes. “The closest you’ve ever gotten to sleeping with a girl like me was today.”
“Never say that again or I’ll throw up,” he replies, wrinkling his nose. He doesn’t hold your gaze for long — he never does. His feet tap impatiently as he looks down at the floor, the same way he always does when someone stares at him for more than three seconds.
Jonathan’s hair is a mess, like he woke up only minutes ago. The pile of blankets at the foot of the bed, lit by the faint light slipping through the thin curtain, gives away what you fear most: Jonathan Byers had been kind. For the first time in years, you had fallen victim to the endless kindness Nancy Wheeler talked about so much.
Oh, you hated remembering that feeling.
In your first week in Hawkins, when exhaustion carved dark circles beneath your eyes and nightmares refused to leave you alone, Jonathan had offered to help you carry some books to your locker, as if he sensed something was wrong. You walked in silence that morning, exchanging only “thank you” and “you’re welcome.” Your heart fluttered slightly whenever he passed through the hallways, always staring at the floor and never accompanied by anyone. It hurt to look at Jonathan because you saw a reflection of everything you were: hollow eyes, lowered head, a voice never louder than necessary to go unnoticed. Jonathan was the blind embodiment of all the courage and maturity you dreamed of having one day.
You never truly understood what the root of the problem between you and Jonathan was. Maybe your voice was too sharp for him in the same way his voice was too quiet for you. You were equally opposite — that was why you would never be in sync. But after killing Demogorgons and closing interdimensional gates, some things just are what they are, and you stop questioning them.
“Well, you’re not exactly the room service of my dreams, Byers,” you scoff. “But thanks.”
Jonathan crosses his arms, irritated. That thin line appears above his eyebrow — the one that always shows up when he’s annoyed.
“I just remembered that, one,” he raises a finger, “I didn’t invite you to stay here. You invited yourself last night when you were drunk.” He raises a second finger. “Two, you’re [s/n] Henderson, so I think you can have breakfast at your own house.”
You open and close your mouth a few times, frozen in front of him by the door.
“You practically begged,” he replies. “So, you’re welcome for saving your stupid ass from your dad.”
That morning felt like some kind of seven minutes in hell, and Jonathan Byers was your personal demon. Your eyes drift slowly over him, taking in the boy in his natural state: eyes on the floor, arms crossed. He was irritatingly predictable — from the colors of his jackets to the décor of his room. You bite down hard on your lower lip, a silent, unconscious habit that makes your thoughts stumble for a moment.
The only reaction you manage is brushing past him at the bedroom door, still fixing your clumsy boots as you stomp quickly toward the front door. Jonathan mutters something under his breath, as if even the sound of his own voice were now a provocation.
“Sweetheart?” Joyce’s voice — leaning against the kitchen counter as she places cookies on Will’s plate — hits your ears like a thunderclap, reminding you of every sin you’ve ever committed. You clutch your chest. “Do you want breakfast? I didn’t know you and Jonathan were…” She hesitates, the words coming out like a question. “Close?”
“We’re not,” Jonathan appears behind you, pushing past your shoulders almost rudely. “She just came to pick up some photos for the newspaper. She’s already leaving.”
“Yeah,” you agree. “Photos for the newspaper. At seven in the morning. On a Saturday.” You look at Jonathan like he just invented the worst excuse in history, while Joyce and Will — clearly uncomfortable — exchange glances.
You feel the urge to grab his head between your hands and gouge his eyes out when Jonathan drags himself to the front door, defeated, grabbing the car keys and motioning for you to go first. He slips into an old coat and shuts the door as you head as far away from that nightmare as possible.
“Get in the car, Henderson.” You glance at Jonathan, leaning against the car door.
“Thanks, but I think I’ve spent more than enough time with you today.”
“It’s seven kilometers to your house. And in those boots, you’ll only get there by Christmas.”
You plant your feet firmly on the ground, feeling the cold morning wind burn your nose. Your eyes harden on Jonathan, who doesn’t look at you — he hasn’t looked at you once since you woke up.
You huff and get into the car, the smell of gasoline turning your stomach.
You watch Jonathan’s hands out of the corner of your eye. His nails, bitten down to the flesh, betray someone who doesn’t know where to put the words he never says. You know this because he brings them to his mouth the entire drive, even as the exposed skin bleeds. You think maybe you shouldn’t find comfort in someone else’s scars and turn your gaze to the car’s old windshield.
“Thank you,” you break the silence, even as a hard, waxy knot forms in your throat, fighting to keep your hateful posture and your mouth shut.
Jonathan doesn’t answer, only nodding slightly, still not looking at you. You bite the inside of your mouth for the twentieth time that morning, already tasting the metallic tang of blood between your teeth. Never having his eyes on you is killing you — it’s like never being seen by anyone at all.
The car stops in front of your house. The clock reads exactly 8:09 a.m. You wonder what wish you would make if the numbers ever matched — but you never catch them. Maybe you were born cursed.
“You’re welcome, [s/y],” Jonathan cuts through your thoughts. “I wouldn’t leave you alone,” he says simply, realizing the weight of his words a few seconds later. His brows knit together. “I—I mean, I’d do that for anyone,” he corrects himself.
“Of course you would,” you reply, slamming the car door and heading toward your house before Jonathan has a chance to respond.
Jonathan slams the metal locker with strange force, shoving a few old books inside. A heavy sigh escapes his nose. He glances sideways at a group of students whispering something that doesn’t spark even the slightest curiosity in him.
School has been a hostile environment for Jonathan since before high school. Hawkins as a whole has. Things improved after his father finally left, but the town still feels like it pins Jonathan to the ground like malignant roots. He doesn’t mind. Following the script is easier than thinking about it.
A sudden movement pulls Jonathan’s attention out of his own head. Five students by his locker are laughing at him — but it doesn’t sound like a joke he would be laughing at. His chest sinks. It’s 7:00 in the morning. Will had nightmares all night. He just wanted to rest his face for a moment.
“Hey, Byers, watch what people are saying about you behind your back, man,” Tommy H mocks. The sarcastic tone makes Jonathan look at the group, confused.
“I’m surprised you know how to write, Tommy.” Your voice cuts through the hallway, stopping right behind Jonathan’s ears. You slide your hands along his back, tearing off a piece of paper taped there and crumpling it in your fist before Jonathan can read it. Freak. Printed in bold letters. You crush the paper in your palm, step in front of Jonathan, and throw it at Tommy’s face. “Why don’t you hand that in to your English teacher? She’ll love knowing you finally learned how to spell.”
The hallway falls silent for a moment, only to explode into laughter as you finish, a victorious smile spreading across your lips. Jonathan grips the strap of his bag tightly and walks away in long strides, almost running, toward the school courtyard. You hear Tommy mutter something that sounds like “bitch,” but all you can focus on is Jonathan disappearing down the hallway, your feet automatically following him.
When you finally catch up to him, you don’t even have time to form a thought before Jonathan speaks.
“Don’t do that,” he almost begs, eyes glued to the floor.
“What? Humiliate Tommy in front of everyone?” You arch an eyebrow, a smug smile curling your lips. Jonathan nearly chews on his lower lip.
“Defend me.” His voice comes out almost a tone lower than you’re used to hearing. You tilt your head, confused. “I appreciate the attempt, but they won’t stop. Things will only get worse if you do that again.”
He leans back against the wall. His eyes close, head held high as he breathes so deeply you can hear his diaphragm.
“Promise you won’t get involved.”
“With me, [s/n]. Promise you won’t get involved with me.”
His eyes finally lift to meet yours. Two small brown orbs stare back at you. For the first time in years, Jonathan Byers sees you. And he looks at you so intensely, so deeply, that you feel spiritually naked.
For a moment, you wish he would look away.
