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☕︎ currently working on: happening all along - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite.

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HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

MASTERLIST

- ,, very slow burn childhood friends to lovers, best friend!steve and henderson!fem oc.

⭑.ᐟ authors notes: GUYS!! this is fr my fav chapter so far. so much yearning and angst on both ends. they need to just kiss already!!1!11!! but i think i will torture them some more >:)

⭑.ᐟ warnings: underage drinking, angst, slight ptsd, mention of nightmares, and implied sex if you SQUINT

⭑.ᐟ chapter summary: Halloween this year starts with Andi just trying to survive and pretend everything is fine, but by the time she ends up at a crowded party with her friend, Jessica, too many drinks and too many memories start catching up to her. And the last person she would think would be there is there to save her after a year of radio silence. What begins as a messy night quickly turns into something heavier as old wounds, stubborn pride and feelings neither her or Steve ever really let go resurface, despite both of their relationships.

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

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CHAPTER EIGHT: THINGS WE DON'T SAY

. . . . . ╰──╮

October 30th, 1984 Andi Henderson 8:32 am. 

The hallways at Hawkin’s High have always been crowded, but lately they feel suffocating. Like the walls inch closer every time the bell rings.

Back when I used to orbit the people who ran this place, it was different. The noises softened when we walked by. The crowds split open. Now, I have to wedge myself between couples pressed against lockers and dodge the basketball guys who think a crumpled sheet of loose-leaf paper is peak entertainment. 

It’s funny though, I don’t mind being invisible. I never liked being in the spotlight the way everyone I assumed I did. The constant eyes, the whispers that floated just a little too close to my ears. Being unseen is quieter. Safer. It’s one of the only perks of Steve not being able to look at me.

No one really looks at me at all. 

Life has slowed down since then. Each day feels like I’m scratching another line into a concrete wall, counting time until some kind of release that never comes. There’s no big breakthrough, no light at the end of the tunnel. It’s been almost a year, and somehow Steve feels just as far away as he did the day we fell apart. 

I told myself I’d move on. 

Tried is the key word. 

I started dating Matthew. He’s nice. 

He’s steady in a way that doesn’t shake you. He listens when I talk. He opens the car door like it matters. He calls me beautiful in a tone that sounds practiced, but sincere. He calls every night, even when he’s exhausted from track. My mom adores him. He’s polite, charming, and I’m comfortable. 

And yet my eyes wander.

At lunch. In the halls. They find the back of Steve’s head without me trying. They trace the slope of his jaw, the line of his stupid crooked nose that I still know by heart. I have to only pray Matthew doesn’t notice the way my gaze follows Steve out of a room like it’s tied to him with an invisible string. 

I smile and lace my fingers with Matt’s. I kiss him in his car because I refuse to stay frozen in this miserable in-between forever. Even if I feel like I’m just going through the motions. 

Steve moved on. He and Nancy look happy. He keeps an arm around her like it belongs there, and she leans into him like magnets. She kisses his cheek and he smiles at her in that effortless way.

It makes something bitter curl in my stomach. 

Sometimes I’m lying next to Matthew, his room dim, his hand slipping under my shirt, and I tell myself I could learn to love this. Learn to love him. That if I just tried hard enough, I could reshape my heart into something that fits. But when I sink down beside him and close my eyes, I replace him. I imagine it’s Steve’s warmth pressed against me. Steve’s breath at my neck. And Matthew disappears. 

I want to love him. I want to give him everything.

I want to feel the sharp stab of guilt that would at least easily prove I’m fully here.

I know it’s unfair. I know it’s wrong. But my mind slips away before I can stop it, drifting back to someone who doesn’t even look at me anymore. 

I wish there was a button I could press, something clean and final to erase Steve completely. Delete the memories, the feelings, the way my chest tightens when I see him laughing without me.

Especially without me. 

I hate that he still has that kind of power. That he can occupy every quiet second of my day without even trying. 

A hand squeezes my shoulder gently, snapping me back. I hadn’t even realized I’d be staring blankly at my locker. I glance up to the space beside me, the place where Steve stood every morning, complaining about second period like it was the end of the world. Some stupid, stubborn part of me expected him to be there. Expected this whole year to fade away like some bad dream. But there is no one. Just empty space. And somehow that feels heavier than the crowd surrounding me. 

I spin around and find Jessica standing there, her brows pulled together like she’s been watching me for longer than I realized. 

“Hey…” she says slowly, her eyes flicking past me to my locker, still shut, untouched. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” the smile I give her feels stretched too thin. “Just super stressed about this Gov test.” 

It’s automatic, the excuse. Easy and believable. I turn back to my locker so I don’t have to hold her gaze, finally spinning the dial and pretending like that’s what I’d be doing this whole time. Metal clanks as it opens, and I busy myself with my books. 

“Right,” she says, in a tone that I know means she doesn’t buy it for a second. “Well, I know just the perfect thing to get your mind off tests of all kinds.” 

Before I can ask what she means, she dramatically slaps an orange flyer on top of the U.S Government textbook I have in my arms. 

Tina’s Halloween Bash. 

There’s a wonky ghost underneath it with a crooked smile, holding what very clearly looks like a bottle of booze. Underneath it, in messy black letters: Come get sheet faced. 

My head is already shaking before I look at her. “No,” I say immediately. “Absolutley not.” 

“C’mon,” she groans, dragging the word out as her face twists into exaggerated heartbreak. She presses a hand to her chest like she’s been personally wounded. “Simon already ditched me.”

Her boyfriend, Simon. The same Simon I’m ninety percent sure has been sneaking off with Sarah H behind the bleachers at lunchtime. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. The way they disappear at the same time. But the thought of breaking that to her, of adding another crack to someone’s life when mine already feels like it’s splintering, exhausts me. I don’t have the heart for it.

Or the energy. 

“Fine,” I sigh, guilt creeping in as I shove the flyer between my textbooks. “I’ll think about it.” 

Her whole face lights up. She actually jumps a little, clapping her hands in front of her. It’s ridiculous and dramatic and so Jessica. 

“I’ll see you later,” I laugh, nudging her shoulder with mine as we part ways at the doorway of my classroom. 

I slip into my usual seat in the back, the same one I claim in almost every class. Close enough to hear, far enough to disappear. I set my books down, the edge of the orange flyer peeking out from the pages like it’s waiting for me to change my mind. 

☄. *. ⋆ Lunch is the only part of my day that doesn’t feel like I’m dragging cinder blocks behind me by my ankles. The cafeteria is still loud, trays clattering, people shouting across the table, someone laughing too hard at something that probably isn’t that funny, but it’s easier to breathe here. I spot Jonathan tucked away at a table as far from the chaos as humanly possible, like he’s allergic to it. 

He doesn't even look up when I sit across from him. His Walkman’s on, headphones snug across his ears, nose buried deep in Ham and Rye. The faint buzz of The Talking Heads leaks from the spongy speakers. He looks completely absorbed, like the world could burn down around him and he’d still be turning the page. 

I grab a grape from my tray and toss it at him. 

He startles, eyes snapping up, panic flashing across them before he realizes it’s just me. Relief floods behind them. He slides the headphones down his neck. 

“We’ve got, like, fifteen minutes before Matthew finds me,” I say, pushing half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich toward him. He huffs, taking the triangular half, taking a bite like he hasn’t eaten anything all day. 

“Great,” he asks around his bite, shaking his head. 

“He’s nice,” I shrug, the response sounds weak even to me. 

“He’s insufferable,” Jonathan mutters, shuddering slightly. “He keeps asking me to join the track team. And if I’ve seen Saturday Night Fever.” 

I laugh despite myself. “He likes that movie way too much.” The familiar taste of peanut butter and grape jelly fills my mouth. 

“Speak of the devil,” Jonathan groans under his breath. 

Before I can even turn around, two arms snake around my waist. Matt’s face presses against the crook of my neck, and I let out a small, startled laugh as I pull away. I’ve never been one for PDA. Even now, with my first real boyfriend it feels preformative. Too much, too public.

Or maybe it’s just him. 

“Matt,” I groan, shaping it into something that passes for playful. 

“Hey babe,” he swings his legs over the benches beside me. “Byers.” 

“Brooks,” Jonathan replies flatly. 

“Can’t stay for too long, babe,” Matthew pouts, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. I think I have to remind myself to frown when he pulls back. 

Lately, I can’t escape him. He’s at school. He’s at my house every weekend. Last Saturday, I woke up to the sound of him laughing with my mom downstairs like he already lives there. Sometimes I feel suffocated with how present he is. So yeah, a selfish part of me is relieved that this lunch is going to be just me and Jonathan. 

“Coach wants extra practice before regionals," Matthew says, squeezing my hand under the table. “Just wanted to see you first.” 

“Aw.” I squeeze back automatically. I hope that was right. I never really know what the right reaction is. Everything with him feels like a script. 

“Jonathan, why don’t you join the team?” Matthew grabs the rest of my sandwich and takes a huge bite. “You’ve got the right build.” 

I choke back a laugh. Jonathan shoots me a look and I have to look down at my lap to keep my composure and not break. 

“Well,” Matt says finally, swinging back off the bench. “I’m off.” 

He kisses me again. Longer and deeper this time. I just sit there and let it happen, hands limp on the table, like I’m watching it from outside of my body. 

I turn as I watch him walk away, smiling because that's what I’m supposed to do. The second the cafeteria doors swing shut behind him, a breath escapes me, shaky and relieved as my shoulders loosen. 

“Happy couple,” Jonathan says dryly. 

“Shut up,” I mutter, taking another reluctant bite of what’s left of my half of the sandwich. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the orange edge of Tina’s Halloween flyer sticking out of my Government textbook I still haven’t put back in my locker. I slide it free and nudge it toward him. 

“I already told Nancy no,” he says, not even looking up from his book. “Right before her and Steve started making out.” 

I pretend that doesn’t make my stomach twist and lose whatever appetite I had left. 

“C’mon,” I groan, dropping my head dramatically on the table. “Jessica is already making me go. Please tell me you’re not leaving me to suffer alone.” 

“You have Jessica,” he says, a faint sarcastic simile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

I lean across the table, blocking his book with my hand, giving him my best exaggerated puppy eyes. He absolutely sees it, despite him pretending not to. 

“I will think about it,” he finally relents. 

I sit up straighter, grinning, popping a couple of green grapes into my mouth. 

“Hey,” I say around them. “That’s what I said.” 

_________________________________________________

October 30th, 1984 Steve Harrington 8:09 am. 

Nancy has my college essay in her hands, and I have to physically stop myself from leaning over every five seconds to study her face. I keep pretending to check the clock on the dashboard instead. Or the packed parking lot. Or anything else. 

Reading people has never been my strong suit. And Nance… She's especially hard. It’s like she exists two steps ahead of where I’m standing. Like there’s this iron gate around her thoughts, tall and locked, and no matter how hard I try to peer through the bars, I can never quite see in. 

It was never like that with Andi.

With her, it felt effortless. One glance and knew. I could read the shift in her eyebrows, the press of her lips, the way her shoulders hunched over. It’s like we spoke a language nobody else understood. 

I have to shove the thought away before it fully forms. 

I’ve gotten pretty good at that lately. Pushing everything remotely reminiscent of her away. Swallowing her name before it reaches my lips. Forcing my brain to change the subject like a bad dog. 

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her. Missing her feels like too small of a word, honestly. It’s more like some part of me was taken away and now there’s just this empty space that nothing fills. An emptiness I carry around like it’s just another limb. 

Some nights, when my house is extra quiet, I think about calling her. 

My parents are never around anymore now that I’m old enough to take care of myself. And when they are, it’s just my dad reminding me about the family business. About expectations and legacy and his usual bullshit.

How I should be grateful I don’t have to figure it out like everyone else.

Andi used to have a way of making all of that seem… manageable. She made the future seem like something I could run toward instead of something chasing and closing in on me. We had plans. Boston. New York. She’d say it casually, like it was already decided. 

It’s moments like these, when everything feels so uncertain, I miss her the most. 

But then I remember last year. 

The shitty lie. 

The way she was ready to sacrifice her life like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.

The way she was ready to leave me here in this town, grieving her. Grieving the only person I felt like really understood me. 

I was terrified. Terrified for me. And for her. And even more terrified by how much it would’ve destroyed me if something actually happened to her. How much she truly means to me. 

I hated feeling so scared. 

That’s why this college essay matters so much. It’s my ticket out of here. 

Every street in Hawkins holds a memory of her. The parking lot at school. The diner. My own damn car. I need distance. Nancy and I can start fresh in Indianapolis. Clean state. 

And I do like Nancy. She’s smart and kind. She’s beautiful in a careful way. She’s exactly who my dad would want standing next to me in every Christmas photo. 

And I think I could love her. 

If she’d let me in. 

My gaze drifts past my steering wheel to the parking lot in front of me and like some cruel joke, there she is. 

Andi, walking past the car. Her cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold, because she refuses to wear a jacket till November, even though she is the first one shivering. She tucks a loose strand of loose hair behind her ear, the morning sun catching it along with her eyelashes. For a second she almost looks like a dream I used to have as a kid. 

I force myself to look away, back to Nancy. 

Back to reality. 

She’s chewing on her pen, eyes scanning the last paragraph of my essay. Her brows slowly pull together, the corners of her mouth pulling down. 

“It’s crap,” I mutter before she can even speak. My hands tightening around the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. “I know.” 

“No.” She shakes her head but her voice raises, that people use when they’re softening a blow. “It’s not crap.” 

I tap my fingers against the wheel, staring straight ahead. I don’t really want to look at her face right now. I don’t want to see the pity or the disappointment. 

“It’s not good.” I say quietly 

“It’s going to be,” she insists, giving me a small, encouraging smile. Eyebrows raised, like she’s trying to get me to believe her. 

I finally glance over, at the paper in her hands. I nod, even though I’m not convinced. 

“Just…” she flips through the pages again. “It needs some reorganizing.” 

I let out a deeper sigh this time. The kind that sinks all the way into you. Reorganizing doesn’t sound good. Reorganizing sounds like I’m still stuck here. 

_________________________________________________

October 31st, 1984 Andi Henderson 7:24 pm. 

I’m stuck in Jessica’s bedroom, splayed out on her bed, watching her pace from her closet to her bed and back again, like the entire fate of the world depends on what she’s going to be tonight. She’s teetering between a fortune teller and Madonna, holding up scarves in one hand and lace gloves in the other.

It’s riveting work. Truly life altering.

One day you’re hunting monsters the next you’re picking between accessories. It feels surreal sometimes. 

I, for one, have decided to just go as a witch and call it a day. Low effort and easy.

This is the first Halloween where I haven’t gone all out with my costume, but without Steve it doesn’t feel like Halloween anyway. It just feels like another cold October night where I’m being forced out of the safe, quiet confines of my home, pretending this day still means something different than every other day. 

While Jessica continues to throw the entirety of her closet onto her bed, I slip into her bathroom to change. The black dress she coaxed and practically bullied me into cutting the hem shorter hugs my body. The hemline brushes higher up my thighs than I’m used to, and even though I have sheer nylon tights on and the neckline is high enough, I still feel exposed. 

I stare at myself in the mirror for a long second before fixing my makeup that’s faded throughout the day. A light touch of powder. A little more blush to bring back some life back into my face. I swipe mascara, watching my lashes darken and lengthen. A slight gloss on my lips. I give my hair a small zhuzh, fluffing it so it doesn’t look as flat as I feel, placing the pointy black hat Jessica had lying around on top of my head. 

When I come back out, the disaster in her room has only grown worse, but Jessica is standing in the middle of it like she’s already on stage. Lace gloves climbing up her wrists, layered necklaces clinking together, her hair teased to I think impossible heights. 

“Holiday-y,” Jessica sings, skipping around the room and jumping over discarded blouses. “Celebrate!" 

A small laugh escapes me when she nearly eats it over a pile of denim. “Okay, c’mon Madonna. I want to be home before The Twilight Zone comes on so I can stuff my face with candy until the sun comes back up."

She giggles and shoves me toward the door, pulling it shut behind us so her mom doesn’t witness the crime scene she’s leaving behind.

We decide to walk to Tina’s. It’s only a block away, and that way nobody has to drive drunk. Not that getting inebriated sounds particularly appealing tonight. 

We can hear the music before we even turn on Tina’s street. It’s loud enough to rattle the windows of the houses next door. Jocks are already passed out on the lawn and toilet paper drapes the trees in white streamers that flutter in the wind.

Shout at the Devil blares as I push through the crowd just to get inside. The bass thumps against my ribs. Somewhere in the backyard, there’s a loud counting chant, and through the double doors I catch a glimpse of an upside down Billy Hargrove, the new kid. His jacket rides up, revealing his bare chest, as someone holds him by the legs. Everyone around him is grinning that stupid, reckless teenage grin. 

The memory hits before I can stop it. Steve being held up by Tommy and the rest of his basketball team, inhaling an ungodly amount of beer while I stood off to the side pretending I wasn’t worried. He’d always wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and throw me a wink when he’d finish, like what he did was impressive instead of incredibly stupid. I’d roll my eyes every time, but I’d still be the one guiding him home when he stumbled, his weight heavy against him. 

I blink and I’m back in Tina’s living room. 

I don’t see the appeal and obsession everybody currently has for Billy Hargrove. He is just like every other teenage boy who thinks smoking cigarettes and reading too many porn magazines makes him insanely cool. He catches me staring and throws me a wink, like I’m supposed to melt. 

I roll my eyes and shove past him. 

Steve stands right in the middle of the kitchen.

Nancy by his side. Of course.

He’s dressed as Joel from Risky Business, and I hate how good he looks. Hate how effortless it all looks. His sunglasses and his stupid confidence. 

Something hot blooms in my chest, resentment, jealousy, hurt. I’m not even sure which one it is anymore. It just sits there, heavy and sharp, making the idea of getting completely wasted feel almost reasonable. 

Except, I can’t really drink without seeing Barbara’s face. 

I can’t drink without that night replaying in my head like a nightmare stuck on repeat. It’s bad enough I can’t sleep without dreaming about Barbara and the Demogorgon and the Upside Down. But the thought of me willingly stepping back into that careless, distracted version of myself in Steve’s backyard, that makes my stomach turn. 

“Shots!” Jessica shouts behind me, shoving a tiny red solo cup into my hand. Clear liquid sloshes over the rim. Vodka or tequila. Probably the cheaper one. 

I hesitate, the cup hovering just below my lips. 

Like the universe wants to test me, I see Steve pulling off his glasses and muttering something to Nancy. She leans against the counter, downing punch from a cup she keeps dipping back in the punch bowl like she doesn’t have a care in the world. 

Before I can think about it anymore, I down the shot back. It burns all the way down. Sharp and punishing. Jessica whoops, immediately handing me another. I swallow that too, chasing away the emerging images of Steve’s backyard in my brain. The memories of the taste of beer and pool lights and everything that followed. 

The next hour, or maybe two, dissolves into something hazy and unsteady. I lose track. I’ve had another shot. Two cups of punch. Maybe more. The room tilts slightly when I move, but I don’t care. Everything's loud and bright, and almost even fun. 

Except, every time I spot Nancy and Steve on the makeshift dance floor, laughing like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong, something inside me tightens. And each time it does, I reach for another drink, chasing that warm, buzzing numbness that makes it all feel a little further away. 

As I lean against the kitchen counter, the laminate feels cool through the thin fabric of my dress. I cradle a red solo cup filled to the brim with something equally red and equally questionable. It tastes awful, syrupy and sharp all at once, but it’s doing a spectacular job of making the air feel less heavy in my legs. Less suffocating. 

My eyes drift toward the front door, which has opened and closed so many times tonight it may as well be on a hinge made of exhaustion. On what has to be the hundredth swing inward, I catch a glimpse of Jonathan awkwardly shoving past a wrestler dressed as Cupid, plastic wings bent at odd angles from the crowd, bow and arrow dangling at his side. 

“Jonathan!” I call out, the name stretching as I push myself off the counter and stumble gracelessly through the sea of moving bodies. It feels like swimming upstream, except the river smells like sweat and beer and cheap perfume. 

“Hey,” he laughs softly, steadying me without making a big deal of it. His eyebrows pull together as he takes in my drunken state, and I think I can see the moment in his eyes where he realizes just how far gone I am. I’ve passed the point of pretending to myself that I’m perfectly sober. That ship sailed about three shots ago. “You okay?” 

“Never been better,” I beam up at him, the words wobbling as much as I do. The room tilts unexpectedly and I have to grab onto the wall from toppling over like one of Tina’s decorative pumpkins out front. 

“You’re trashed,” he says plainly, one arm coming up to grip me by my forearms, stabilizing me like I’m some malfunctioning marionette. 

“Not more trashed than Nance,” I emphasize her name, letting it hang between us. I know how it lands. I know the way it hooks into him. The same way Steve’s name hooks into me whenever I hear it leave anyone’s mouth.

We don’t talk about it ever. We don’t talk about them, but we don’t really have to. It’s the quiet thing humming under every conversation we have lately. 

I gesture vaguely toward the dance floor, where Nancy is spinning in the center, Steve hovering close at her side. She’s laughing way too loud to be anywhere close to sober. 

“It’s Halloween,” I add, forcing brightness in my voice, trying to yank both our minds away from that particular image. “Why aren’t you dressed up?” 

“I am dressed up,” he replies dryly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket like he’s presenting himself for inspection. Mustard yellow sweater. Faded jeans. “I’m going as a guy who hates parties.” 

“Original,” I laugh, but it comes out airy and loose. The alcohol has wrapped cotton around my brain. The room feels like it’s spinning, or maybe it’s just everybody else moving and I’m the only one standing still. 

Suddenly and eerily, everything does stop. Like someone played pause on the entire crowd. The only thing that keeps going is the music, Girls on Film by Duran Duran still pulsing through the speakers. 

Everyone’s eyes are on the kitchen, where I was standing just a few moments ago, and where now Steve and Nancy are standing frozen. Across the front of Nancy’s blouse blooms a giant red splotch of punch. It almost looks like blood under the low lights. 

A few seconds pause and the crowd unpauses. Laughter erupts once again and conversations resume. My eyes still glued on them, I watch as Steve follows Nancy in the opposite direction of the crowd. 

“Trouble in paradise,” I mutter mostly to myself but loud enough for Jonathan to hear me above the music. 

I tip back my cup and swallow the rest of the red liquid, ignoring the way it burns. Jonathan’s gaze is locked on the hallway where they disappeared, his jaw tight, concern written all over him in bold, undeniable letters. 

That’s the difference between him and I. When something hurts, I run from it. I drown it and kill it and then bury it. Under all the noise and alcohol and anything loud enough to muffle the ache. 

Jonathan, on the other hand, walks straight toward it. Stares at it dead in the eyes and runs his tongue over the aching tooth, reveling in the pain. It’s self-torture and I’ve tried to talk him out of it before, but he never listens. 

As if summoned by my thoughts, Nancy storms back into view, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed. She can barely keep herself upright as she stumbles toward the front door, muttering something under her breath. 

“Go,” I slur, pointing in the general direction of the door with the hand still clutching my empty cup. 

He looks back at me, hesitation flickering across his face. I can feel my eyelids growing heavier by the second, my balance swaying like I’m on the deck of the ship caught in uneven waters. I straighten up as best, trying to look more stable than I feel. 

“I’m fine, Jonathan.” I insist. 

“You can barely stand straight,” he counters, his voice firm but laced in worry. 

“I’m fine,” I repeat, the words tangle together more than I’d like. Right on cue, I hear Jessica’s unmistakable whoop from somewhere behind me. 

“Plus, I got Jessie,” I say, jerking my head over my shoulder in her direction. The sloppy movement sends a wave of dizziness crashing over me, but I swallow it down and keep smiling.

Jonathan glances past me. 

Jessica is currently pouring straight vodka into the mouth of a shirtless basketball player while lining up even more shots on the counter in front of him. 

“I’m not sure that’s comforting,” he mutters. 

“Go, Byers,” I say, attempting to shove him toward the door. 

It’s less of a shove and more of a gentle nudge, my arms weak and uncooperative. 

He sighs, torn, and looks between me and the door one last time before reluctantly shaking his head and jogging after Nancy. He calls her name as he pushes through the crowd outside. 

I’m left leaning against the wall, cup empty, head spinning, music pounding in my skull, pretending that none of this feels as lonely as it suddenly does again. 

I feel a familiar hand press against my shoulder again as I spin my head, a little too fast, the room lagging behind me. Jessica grins when I finally land on her face, like she just remembered I exist. 

“Drink,” she says, not even asking, just shoving another mini red solo cup into my hand. 

Before I can think too much about it, before I can question whether I should, I tip it back. The burn doesn’t shock me anymore. In the past two hours, me and alcohol have become real close friends and I’ve gotten pretty accustomed to the way the alcohol slides down my throat and settles warm and reckless in my stomach. It feels almost like routine now.

Jessica grabs my free hand and tugs me toward the kitchen counter. I stumble after her, trying to keep my balance in my stupidly short dress. Two boys I’ve never seen before are leaning against the cabinets like they’ve claimed the spot, watching us with lazy, interested smiles. My head tilts toward Jessica and she’s already waving at them, batting her eyelashes. 

So much for Simon. 

“Two drinks for the two ladies,” the taller one drawls with curly brown hair that falls into his eyes. He pushes himself off the counter just enough to reach behind him. He pulls out two regular solo cups, both filled to the top with red punch. I can’t help but wonder how many plastic cups must exist in this house at this very moment. Five hundred at least. Maybe more. Enough to build our very own small plastic red army. 

I take a slow swig, letting my eyes wander over him properly now. Brown fedora, leather jacket, toy whip hanging from his built. 

Indiana Jones. 

“Thanks, Indy,” I smile, against the rim of my cup. 

He grins at the nickname and straightens, closing the small distance between us in one easy movement. His hands land on my hips like they belong there. I freeze for a second, lowering my cup slowly as I realize just how close he is. His face is inches from mine, his tongue flicking over his bottom lips. His eyes are hooded, heavy with alcohol, or maybe just assumption. 

“Woah,” slips out of me, stiff and awkward. 

I try to step back, but my body doesn’t cooperate. The alcohol makes everything laggy and disconnected, like my limbs are being controlled by someone who isn’t very good at it or has a very strong grasp at simple motor functions. I trip over nothing and end up pitching forward instead, nearly falling straight into him. 

“C’mon baby,” he slurs, tightening his grip around my waist under the guise of steadying me. His fingers dig in just a little too firm. “I got you.” 

I would rather be on the sticky floor. 

“I- I have a boyfriend,” I stammer. The words tumble over each other clumsily. 

Boyfriend. 

The word feels strange in my mouth. Heavy and complicated. 

“He doesn’t have to know,” Indiana Jones murmurs, leaning in closer until his mouth brushes the shell of my ear. It makes my skin crawl. 

I press my palm flat against his chest and try to push him back, but he doesn’t budge. He planted there, solid and immoveable, even in his drunkenness. The room feels smaller. Louder and harder to breathe in. 

Miraculously, I feel his grip loosen. 

He turns his head slightly, like someone called his name from behind him. His hands slacken just enough that even on unsteady knees, I can slip free. I grab into the edge of the counter for balance. 

I follow his line of sight and I swear I feel my heart physically drop to the floor.

Steve is standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Shoulders squared, not smiling. If this was a movie, the music would cut out and time would slow down. 

The music keeps blaring. People keep laughing. The party keeps moving.

And yet, everything feels still. 

His eyes are locked on Indiana, not me. Sharp and unreadable. He steps forward, closing the gap between them until the air shifts. 

“I think she told you to back off,” he mutters.

His voice is low and controlled, the kind that is more dangerous than yelling. Indiana Jones might be tall, but Steve still has at least an inch on him. He uses it without even trying. His eyes flick downward at the guy in front of him, unimpressed and steady. Indiana’s hands lift slightly at his sides in lazy surrender, but it feels more preformative than apologetic. 

“Whatever man,” Indiana Jones grumbles, brushing past him. He makes sure to slam his shoulder into Steve’s on the way by hard enough that it would started something on any other night. 

But Steve doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch or shove back. 

I think this might have been the first time I’ve ever seen him choose restraint. 

His gaze shifts. To me. And I don’t know if it’s the alcohol in my bloodstream or something deeper, something more dangerous, but when his eyes land on me it feels like heat. Not warmth and comfort like they used to feel. 

It feels like standing too close to a flame and pretending you won’t get burned. 

My eyes lift to his before I could stop them, like magnets. Like instinct.​​​​​​​ The world narrows in a way that makes it hard to pull in a full breath. 

He’s looking at me the same way he did that night in the Byer’s kitchen. 

It’s not pure anger, there’s no explosion behind it. But it’s not soft either, not the way his gaze used to feel on me before. 

He holds my gaze for a second too long, like he’s evaluating me. Like there’s a calculation happening behind his eyes that I’m not aware of. Beneath the hard edge of his stare, there’s something quieter. His mouth presses into a thin line, jaw tightening like he’s physically holding words back. 

It makes me furious. 

Who does he think he is? Ignoring me for almost a year and then swooping in like some knight in shining armor? Acting like he gets to save me? Acting like he has the right to look at me like I’ve disappointed him? Like I hurt him.

My knuckles dig into the counter just to feel something solid beneath me.  

“Didn’t need your help,” I slur, my hair falling into my face, sticking into my lip gloss, but I don’t bother pushing it back. I barely have the strength to stand upright and somewhere between the kitchen and the living room I lost my witch hat. 

I really hope Jessica doesn’t care. 

“Didn’t look like it,” he replies. 

His voice is stiff and sharp. Not loud, at least no louder than we have to be just to hear each other over the music, but it’s edged in a way that I’ve never heard directed to me before. It makes my heart clench, making the sinking feeling in my stomach deepen. I try not to acknowledge it. 

“I can handle myself, Steve,” I snap, forcing my spine straighter. Forcing myself not to slump or sway. 

Not to look like my dad hunched over a bottle of brandy.  

“You’re trashed at a party,” he says, gaze dragging over me as I fight to steady myself. “Alone.” 

“I’m not alone,” I fire back. The way he says it makes me sound helpless. Pitiful. “I have Jessica,” I insist, scanning the crowd like I can prove myself if I just find her. 

“That Jessica,” Steve gestures toward the far corner of the kitchen. I follow his hand to see Jessica pressed against the wall near the punch bowl. The other guy, Indiana’s friend, has her pinned there, his mouth on hers, hands gripping her waist. Her legs are wrapped around him, and they both look one wrong move away from getting arrested for public indecency.

I turn back to Steve, words completely gone. My mouth opens, ready with something biting and clever, but nothing comes out. 

Curse you, Smirnoff. 

“I’ll figure out a ride,” I mutter instead, pushing myself off the counter. The second I do, the room tilts violently. The buzz that made me feel light and floaty an hour ago now feels nauseating. The music pounds too loud and the lights blur, my stomach churning so much I think I might hurl. 

Steve’s hands land on my waist to steady me. 

My entire body betrays me. Even through the fabric, even through the layers of anger and time and pride, it feels like my body remembers him. Like it sparks on contact. Heat floods through me from the exact place his hands rest. 

I have to twist out of his grip almost immediately, more for my own sanity than anything else. 

“What do you want, Steve?” I ask. It’s supposed to come out sharp. Defensive. Instead, it cracks and softens at the edges. 

What do you want from me?

“I want…” He pauses, swallowing hard enough that I can see it. “I want to get you home. Safely.” 

“No,” I force out, even though every weak, exhausted part of me wants to cave. Wants to be back in the passenger seat of his car, the familiar hum of the engine filling the silence between us. 

“C’mon Andi,” he pleads with me, his arms flopping down at his sides uselessly. 

“I’ll call Jonathan. He’ll come get me.” 

“He left with Nancy.”

Something shifts in his expression as he says her name. It’s subtle. Something flickers there, behind his eyes.

“Why didn’t you go after her?” The question slips out before I can stop it. 

Curse you, Smirnoff. 

His eyes flash again with that same unreadable look. He inhales sharply, like he’s about to say something. His mouth opens… then closes. Like he’s censoring himself because I’m something delicate that can’t handle the truth. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally. 

I nod like I understand even if I don’t. There was a time when I could read him like it was second nature. A glance, a breath, a shift in his shoulders. Now it feels like I’m staring at someone I used to know. A stranger wearing someone familiar’s face. 

“Please,” he says again, sounding stripped down. “Just get in the car.” 

I hesitate for a moment, swaying where I stand. My eyes sweep around the crowd one last time searching for a familiar face, anyone I’ve shared a class with, anyone I could cling to long enough to mooch for a ride home. An out from this terrible situation. But everyone is swallowed up in their own universe. 

With nothing left but my pride, which is already hanging by a thread, I let out an annoyed huff. 

“Fine,” I mutter, though I’m not sure if I’m saying it to him or myself. I spin around toward the front door, but the motion is too quick. The floor tilts beneath me like it’s breathing and I nearly trip over nothing. 

Before, I could completely embarrass myself, Steve wraps an arm around my shoulders. Not my waist this time. My shoulders. Like he learned from last time, like a kicked dog. 

“Lean on me,” he mutters, voice low, guiding us through the chaos and out the front door. The music still pounds from inside the house, bass vibrating through the walls. I’m surprised the cops haven’t been called yet. 

The air out here is cooler. Clearer. I don’t have to strain to hear him and I don’t have to shout to be heard.  

We walk what feels like miles, but is probably just less than half a block. The October air bites at my cheeks, sobering me just enough to feel how drunk I really am. 

The passanger seat of the Beemer feels unfamiliar. It used to be my place. A safe haven from this town. The spot where I’d rest my feet on the dashboard on a summer day as we drowned ourselves in music, pretending the world outside the windshield didn’t exist. Now, stepping toward it feels like a crossing into foreign territory. 

With his free hand, Steve opens the door for me. He keeps his other arm steady around me as I attempt to climb in. I almost miss the seat entirely, my knee knocking awkwardly against the side of the car. 

“Careful,” he says quietly. 

He shuts the door once I’m inside and circles around to the driver’s seat. The engine hums to life, low and familiar. I slump toward the open window, letting the cold air slap against my face, trying to breathe through the nausea curling at the base of my throat. 

“You okay?” Steve asks, leaning slightly toward me. 

“I’m fine,” I slur, hasher than I mean to be. 

He doesn’t argue. He just gives me a stiff nod and turns back to focus on the road. 

The streetlights blur past. I think I black out somewhere between the second stop sign and my neighborhood because the next thing I know, the engine is off and Steve’s door is opening. I blink slowly, disoriented, watching him walk over to my side. 

I try to push my door open myself, stubborn even now. It swings wide too fast, and I nearly stumble over the pavement. 

“Woah,” Steve hands fall on my shoulder, lifting me upright as we walk to my front door. “Easy.” 

A pathetic whine escapes from my lips. I’m too tired and too drunk to even argue anymore. He releases me for a second, crouching down at the front step. I watch through blurry eyes as he lifts the dead potted plant beside the door.

He remembered where my spare key was. 

My chest tightens painfully, and I have to suck in a sharp breath to stop my tears from spilling. The thought is so simple, so mundane, but it feels like someone squeezed my heart.

Alcohol makes me emotional. It’s not some secret vault combination. He used to come over so much this house practically felt like his too. 

Still, warmth spreads through my stomach at the thought. Though, that might also be vomit. 

We slip inside as quietly as possible. The house is dark and still, my brother already tucked in his bed from trick or treating. 

Steve doesn’t turn on any lights, he just guides me up the stairs like he’s done it a thousand times.

Because he has done it a thousand times. 

Outside my window, the old metal ladder still leans against the siding. I never took it down. I told myself it was laziness, but I know that’s not true. 

Without another thought, I collapse face-first onto my bed, groaning into my pillow. The mattress dips under my wait, familiar and forgiving. Somewhere behind me, I hear a low laugh slip out of Steve before he can stop it. A sound I haven't heard in a while.

I keep my eyes closed, but I can hear him moving around in my room. Drawers sliding open and the soft shuffle of fabric. 

I hear him mutter something under his breath as something lands on my legs as I weakly attempt to kick off my shoes. 

“Pajamas.” 

“Screw pajamas," I mumble, kicking the shorts and oversized shirt onto the floor without opening my eyes. I hear a tired sigh leave his mouth, one that sounds just like my mothers. I hear his footsteps circle my bed. The faint rustle as he grabs the spare blanket from the footboard. A second later, warmth settles over me as he drapes it carefully across my curled body. 

I force my eyes open just a crack. The moonlight spills through the curtains, casting Steve in faint light. It catches his hair, making it shine almost unfairly. He looks soft and out of reach. 

I think he notices me staring because his eyes drop to the floor. The alcohol hums through me again, loosening everything I’ve kept locked up for months. 

“I missed you, Steve,” I whisper, letting the words slip out before I can stop them. 

The silence after feels fragile. His eyes snap back to mine, something flickering there. Surprise, maybe. His guard drops for just a heartbeat. His expression softens despite himself, his shoulders sagging slightly. His lips part like he’s about to say something.

But he stops himself.

“You’re drunk,” he says quietly. I can see Adam's apple bob as he swallows, giving the faintest shake of his head. 

“I mean it,” I murmur, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. There’s a long pause. Long enough that, if I were sober, I might regret everything. I hear the soft thud of his shoes against the hardwood as he turns toward the door. 

“Steve,” I breathe. 

He stops. I hear him turn back now. A quiet hum of acknowledgement.  

“Stay.” 

“What?” The word cracks out of him, tangled with something I can’t quite name. 

“Stay,” I repeat, eyes drifting closed as I tuck my hands under my cheek. “Please.”

For a second the room goes still. I can feel him standing there, hesitation radiating off of him, like leaving might be easier. After a second, I hear footsteps again. 

The soft shrug of fabric as he takes off his jacket. 

The mattress dips beside me. 

A small, sleepy smile pulls at my lips as my body finally begins to give in. The warmth of the blanket settles around me. My breathing starts to slow, each inhale softer than the last, the world around me fading into something distant and hazy. 

The room feels quiet now. Peaceful in a way it hasn’t felt in a long time. 

I’m dimly aware of the soft creek of the mattress beside me, of Steve’s presence there in the dark. Close enough that I can feel the faint warmth of him through the blanket. 

For a second, I think I imagined him staying. 

I feel the mattress shift, just barely like he’s settling in. It grounds me back in reality.

My thoughts grow foggier, slipping through my fingers like water as sleep pulls me under. The last thing I manage to hold on to is the quiet sound of his breathing beside me, steady and familiar in a way that makes my chest loosen. 

Right before I feel my mind shutting off, sleep swallowing me whole, I swear I hear him mumble something into the darkness. So quiet I almost miss it.

“I missed you too."

[calellon]

unfortunately i could never be nonchalant because i am not well in the head and also my soul is on fire

[hugh-lauries-bald-spot]

i dont know who told james mcavoy and michael fassbender to make their characters fuck raw with their eyes in every x men scene but we owe them everything

[forourspidey]

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

MASTERLIST

- ,, very slow burn childhood friends to lovers, best friend!steve and henderson!fem oc.

⭑.ᐟ authors notes: hi ya'll!! I am so incredibly sorry this chapter took SO LONG to come out. but this chapter is LONG. so hopefully that makes up for it. this is also def steve ANGST. also this is going to be the finale for season one. so we can finally start on the best season, season two!!

⭑.ᐟ warnings: canon graphic violence, canon suspense and horror, talks about death,

⭑.ᐟ chapter summary: As if Andi's world couldn't get more complicated, it explodes further when she finds out the government is hunting Dustin and his friends. Choppers hover over Hawkins, a girl with strange powers on her side. Together, they scramble to piece together a plan to save Will and Barbara from this alternate dimension, and Demogorgon, as the kids call it.

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⤷ ゛ao3 link ˎˊ˗

CHAPTER SEVEN: BREAKING POINT

. . . . . ╰──╮

November 12th, 1983 Andi Henderson

Nancy spins around to face me, and I’m immediately met with far more faces than I expected. Jonathan is there, of course he is, but next to him is Joyce, her eyes wide and red rimmed. Chief Hopper beside her, looming and unreadable. The air feels tighter all of a sudden. 

“Hi?” I manage, my voice coming out unsure as I glance at Nancy for an explanation. 

“She knows about… everything,” Nancy says, turning back to the adults. 

Hopper studies me for a second too long. “You’re Claudia’s girl?” he asks. 

I nod, my throat too tight to say anything else. 

“Good.” He doesn’t elaborate further. He just pushes past us and heads for his truck. Joyce gives us a knowing look as she gestures to follow. Nancy, Jonathan, and I exchange a glance before scrambling after them. 

Moments later, the three of us are crammed into the backseat as he checks the street, eyes sharp, like he’s making sure no one is watching before slamming the doors shut. 

“Ok listen to me, Henderson,” Hopper starts as he slides into the front seat, his tone all business. 

“Andi,” I correct sharply. I hate when people call me by my last name. Reminds me too much of my father. 

“Andi,” he repeats, taking a sharp breath. “Hawkins Lab is looking for your brother. The government is looking for your brother.” 

The words hit hard, knocking the air right out of my lungs. For a second, I can’t even react. Panic floods in fast and heavy. 

“And yours too, Wheeler,” Hopper adds, glancing at Nancy who looks like she already knows what’s coming. Of course she does. Our brothers are inseparable. You never see one without the others close behind. “They’re at your house right now. Searching for Micheal.” 

Before any of us can process anything, Nancy is already reaching for the door. “I have to go home,” she breathes, panic slipping into her voice. 

“No, you can’t.” Hopper says firmly, turning in his seat and gripping the steering wheel. 

“My mom… my dad are there,” Nancy argues, gesturing helplessly toward the street like she can already see her house. 

“They’re gonna be okay,” Hopper says, sighing, but it sounds more like an order than reassurance. 

Nancy ignores him, her hand clamping around the door handle and yanking on it. “Let me out!”

“Hey- hey, hey!” Hopper snaps, hitting the lock. The door clicks shut. “Listen to me!” He turns back around, voice raised now. “The last thing we need is them knowing you’re involved in this.” 

My head spins as I try to make sense of any of this. My twelve year old brother being hunted down by the government? Confusion and fear twist together until I can barely sit still. 

“And can you tell me what this even is?” I finally cut in, leaning forward, gripping the backs of the front seats with both hands. “Because I’m seriously about to lose it.” 

“They’ve been hiding a girl.” Hopper says flatly, like that explains anything. 

“They’ve been hiding a girl?” I repeat, raising my brows. 

“Yes,” he exhales. “This girl, she escaped from Hawkins Lab. She has… abilities.” 

“Abilities?” Jonathan echoes quietly beside me. 

“Mental abilities.” Hopper clarifies. 

“Like superpowers?” I ask, half-disbelieving, half-terrified. 

“Sure, kid,” Hopper mutters. “Like superpowers,” He rubs a hand over his face. “We think it has something to do with Will,” he pauses, then takes a glance over at Nancy. “And the Holland girl.”

“That’s impossible,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. My mind flashes back to the woods. The shape of that thing burned into my memory like a scar. “We know who- what took them.” 

Joyce spins around, her eyes locking onto mine, sharp and desperate. “What?”

Jonathan fumbles immediately, hands shaking as he digs into his jacket and pulls out the folded photo from that night at Steve’s house. He presses it forward without hesitation.

Hopper takes it with a grunt. “What am I looking at?” he mutters, already squinting down at the image. 

Joyce leans over his shoulder, a gasp escaping her lips. Her entire face lights up with something that looks like horror and relief tangled together. “That’s it,” she breathes. “That’s what came out my wall that night.” 

Hopper glances at her, then back to the photo, letting out a slow, heavy sigh. “Where’d you get this?” His eyes flick to Jonathan. 

“I took it,” Jonathan says, voice steady but tight. “The night Barbara went missing.” 

“Blood draws it,” I add, softly, the memory making my stomach twist. “She had cut herself on accident.” 

Hopper goes still. For a moment, no one speaks. I can practically see the gears turning in his head. He has no reason not to believe us, not with the photo in his hands. Especially, with Joyce’s certainty and Nancy and I standing here knowing exactly what we saw. 

Joyce exhales shakily. Beside me, Jonathan chews at his fingernails, raw with nerves, while Nancy stares down at her shoes like she’s afraid to look up. 

“You said blood draws this thing?” Hopper finally asks, breaking the silence. 

“We don’t know,” I admit, quietly. 

“It’s just a theory.” Nancy adds, her voice barely just above a whisper. 

Hopper just nods, not offering a single word, and turns back around his seat. For a second, he stays like that. Still, something outside catching his attention. He leans forward, squinting up through the windshield. 

“Guess they haven’t found your brothers,” he says, pointing out the window toward the sky. “Not yet, at least.”

The three of us scramble to look, my stomach dropping as I look up. 

Three black choppers cut slow circles over the Hawkins woods, rotors spinning through the air like something predatory. They hover slow and deliberate, searching. 

“That’s… that’s for Dustin?” I blurt out, my chest tightening as panic blooms fast and sharp. The idea of the government going to these lengths for my twelve year old brother makes my head spin, and the thought of what they’ll do if they find him makes it hard to breathe. 

“Look,” Hopper says, looking at us through the rearview mirror, one arm braced against the headrest. His voice is firm but urgent now. “We have to find them before they do. Do you have any idea where they might’ve gone?” 

I shake my head, forcing myself to think, even as my thoughts scatter. They’re always at one of our houses. Either ours, the Wheeler’s, the Byers’, or the Sinclair’s, but they wouldn’t be stupid enough to go home. The arcade flashes my mind, then the school, but neither feels plausible. None of it fits. 

“No, we don’t,” Nancy snaps, her voice breaking just enough to give her away, scared, just like I am. 

“I need you to think,” Hopper says, frustration seeping into his tone, his eyes flicking back down to the windshield. 

Joyce leans forward slightly, her voice softer when she speaks, though the strain is there, tight and trembling. “Is there any place that your parents don’t know that they might go?” 

“I- I don’t know-” I stammer, the words catching uselessly in my throat. 

“I might,” 

Jonathan’s voice cuts through the air, calm but certain. I whip my head toward him, like he’s just thrown a lifeline. 

“What?” Hopper asks, sharp and immediate. 

“I- I don’t know where they are,” Jonathan says, words tumbling out. “But I think I know how to ask. They all have walkie talkies they use to talk to each other. Will has one. He kept it in his room. I think it’s still there.” 

That’s all Hopper needs. We’re moving before the sentence fully settles, the truck peeling down the road and through downtown, fishtailing into the Byers’ driveway. Gravel spits beneath the tires as we skid to a stop. The second the engine cuts, we’re out. Doors slamming and feet pounding, Joyce already fumbling with her keys. Her hands shake as she fights the lock. 

The door swings open and the state of the house hits me all at once. It’s chaos. Furniture shoved aside, drawers yanked open and left hanging. Christmas lights snake across the walls and ceilings in every room, the bulbs missing on every one. On the back wall in the living room, there’s the alphabet scrawled on the wall in messy black paint streaks. Broken things litter the floor and there’s a gaping hole in the wall covered by a tarp to stop the cold from coming in. I freeze in the doorway, as I try to take everything in through wide eyes. This house used to feel warm, lived-in in a safe way, now it feels haunted. 

“Whoa,” I whisper, barely realizing I’ve said it out loud. 

Nancy nudges me forward, snapping me out of my trance. I follow as Jonathan and Joyce lead us down the hall to Will’s room. The No Trespassing sign still hangs crooked on the door. 

Jonathan moves fast, throwing open drawers, rifling through cabinets with frantic movements. Joyce drops to her knees without hesitation, reaching her hand under the bed, through the messy floor as the rest of us look around the room for the missing walkie talkie. 

“I got it!” she calls, her voice cracking with relief as her hand emerges, gripping the walkie talkie. 

She tosses it to Nancy, who catches it carefully. Nancy extends the antenna, thumb pressing the button to speak. 

“Mike?” She says into the speaker. “Are you there? Mike? It’s Nancy.” Her voice is tight, fraying at the edges. 

I step closer, my shoes thudding softly against the wooden floor. She hands me the walkie talkie without another word. It feels heavier in my hand than it should me. 

“Dustin,” I call out into it. “It’s me. Andi. Are you there?” 

Silence is the only response. 

“Answer.” I press, grip tightening. “Please. We need you guys to answer, c'mon.” 

Nancy takes the walkie talkie back from me with a sharp huff, like she’s trying to keep herself together. We both know they’re there. We know they can hear us. 

“This is an emergency, Mike,” she says, voice rising despite herself. “Do you copy? Mike! Do you copy?” 

If the government was hunting them, of course they’d think this is a trick. They’re smart kids. A set up. A Lando Calrissian in Empire Strikes Back. A trap. 

I snatch the walkie talkie back from Nancy. “Dustin, this is not a trick.” My voice drops, steadier, despite my hands shaking. “Please, just pick up. We need to know you’re okay. We need to know you’re there.” 

The fear stacks up all at once, suffocating me. The idea of anyone else finding my brother before I do makes my chest tighten. My free hand curls into a fist at my side, nails digging into my palm until it stings, grounding me with the pain. 

Suddenly, the walkie is gone from my hands. 

Hopper yanks it from my hand with a frustrated sigh and clicks the button hard. “Listen kid,” he says, voice all authority and no patience. “This is the chief. If you’re there, pick up. 

He doesn’t stop. “We know you’re in trouble. And we know about the girl,” he adds. “We can protect you. We can help you, but you need to pick up.” 

“Are you there?” he presses. Do you copy?”

I perch on the edge of Will’s bed, holding my breath, staring at the speaker like I can will the sound out of it. Any sound. A click. A hum. Static. Anything. 

I’m met with just empty silence. 

Hopper exhales sharply and sets the walkie talkie on Will’s dresser. He turns back to face us, face unreadable. None of us meet him in the eyes. 

“Anybody got any other ideas?" he asks flatly. 

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick and stubborn as I look around the room, searching for anything. Anything that even resembles hope, but there’s nothing. Joyce’s shoulder sag. Jonathan stares at the floor. Hopper rubs a frustrated hand on his face. Nancy just shakes her head, the same hollow, defeated look mirrored on everyone’s face, bracing ourselves for the worst. 

A muffled burst of static crackles from the walkie talkie. A soft pop. A breath. 

“Yeah, we copy,” 

My heart lurches. I can’t quite tell who’s speaking through the grainy distortion, but it doesn’t matter. It’s a voice.

“It’s Mike. I’m here. We’re here.” 

Hope ignites in my chest as I sit up straighter on the bed without even realizing it, my spine snapping into place, my pulse roaring in my ears. 

Nancy lunges for the walkie talkie, like she’s afraid the moment might disappear if she hesitates. “Mike? Mike?” she blurts out. “Do you copy?” her voice is trembling as she talks. 

“Yes, yes I copy.” Mike answers again, clearer this time. The unmistakable squeaky voice cuts through the static. Nancy exhales shakily, a breath she’s clearly been holding for too long. She presses her lips together before glancing at me, reading the look on my face. 

“Is Dustin there with you?” she says carefully. 

My chest tightens. I barely breathe as I wait to hear my brother's voice on the other end. Then the panic will loosen its grip. 

There’s some fumbling, a shuffle of movements, and then I hear Dustin’s voice. Familiar and alive. 

“Yeah- yeah I’m here.” 

“Where are you guys?” Nancy asks immediately. There’s no time to waste now. We have to move, before the helicopter circling the sky finds them first. Before the people hunting them get the advantage. 

“In the old junkyard by Lake Tippecanoe,” someone replies. Lucas, I think. 

Hopper storms out of the room, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, keys clinking loudly as he digs them out. I’m up and moving before I can even think about it, right on his heels. Behind me, I hear Jonathan and Nancy scrambling after us, footsteps frantic and uneven. Nancy says something into the walkie that I don’t quite catch. I’m already out the door, cold air slamming into me as I follow the chief. 

“Hey!” I call out. “What are you doing?” Anger bleeds into my voice. 

Hopper whirls around at his car, jamming the key into the lock. “What does it look like I’m doing, kid?” he snaps. “I’m going to get your brother.”

“Exactly,” I shoot back, heat flaring in my chest. “I want to come too.” 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he grips the top of the car door. “Yeah. That’s not happening.” 

“You said it yourself,” I argue. “He's my brother.” 

“You don’t know what we’re gonna find out there,” Hopper says, already halfway into the driver’s seat. His voice drops, firm and unmoveable. “And as the adult here, it’s my responsibility to make sure you don’t get killed. Stay here. Wait for me. And don’t do anything stupid.” 

The slam of the front seat echoes in my chest as he slides the rest of the way into the front seat, leaving me standing there, stranded and small in front of the Byers’ front yard. The evening air is cold against my skin as the sun sets, biting into my arms, and I can’t stop thinking about all the what-ifs. 

One hour stretches into two. Two into three. Time drags its feet and every second feels heavier than the last. 

Darkness settles around the house, shadows swallowing the corners of the thrashed living room. Worry curls inside me, twisting tighter with every passing minute. I pace back and forth, my shoes thudding against the carpeted floors of the living room in a constant rhythm. Joyce and Nancy both find their spots perched on the edge of the couch, facing the door like sentinels, eyes sharp, body tense as they wait for anything to signal their returns. Jonathan sits nearby, leg bouncing uncontrollably, staring at the floor like wood might give him answers if he stares hard enough.  

“Will you stop pacing?” Jonathan groans, irritation threading through his voice, though I can feel his fear lurking beneath it. The click of my shoes on the floor feels louder than ever, like a warning drum in the silence. 

“It’s been way too long,” I say, spinning to face him, his hands balling at his sides. “What if the people from the lab got them already? And when Hopper went looking, they got him too?” 

Nobody answers, like speaking aloud might summon all the fears we’re already holding. I curse myself for even opening my mouth. I always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t feel good about this,” I mutter, my voice almost lost in the heavy air. 

I stop short as I hear the crunch of gravel outside shatter the silence. Headlights spill through the windows, cutting sharp lines across the floor. Joyce is the first to react, springing from the couch and rushing to the door with a speed that makes my chest lurch. I stumble after her, Nancy and Jonathan snapping out their frozen state, all of us scrambling forward in a tangle of relief and urgency. 

Out of the car, the kids spill into the driveway one by one, blinking under the porch light. Mike is first, barely even getting both feet off the ground before Nancy is off the porch and printing towards him. 

“Mike, oh my god, Mike!” she cries, throwing her hands around him and pulling him tight against her, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear again if she lets go. He freezes for a second, surprised, before melting into her embrace. 

My eyes dart past them, scanning frantically until I spot Dustin, half hidden behind Lucas. There’s a girl with them too, smaller than the boys, about their age. Her head is completely buzzed, the harsh light catching on her scalp. She looks terrified, flinching at every new sound and movement. Her eyes flick around widely at the crowd forming around them, like a trapped animal with nowhere to run. 

Without another thought, I rush forward and pull Dustin into my chest, my arms wrapping around him so tightly it almost hurts. My breath shudders as I press my chin to the top of his head, grounding myself in the fact that he’s here. 

“Don’t ever scare me like that again, you little shit.” I mutter, my voice cracking despite myself. I shake my head, trying to steady the mess of fear and relief tangling up inside me. 

He doesn’t respond. He just nods and hugs me back harder, like he understands everything I can’t put into words.

After a long second, we pull apart. I inhale a sharp breath of cold air and turn just in time to see Nancy studying the new girl, her eyes raking over her from head to toe. Her head tilts slightly, eyebrows knitting together. 

“Is that my dress?” she asks, her voice sharp with recognition. 

The small girl doesn’t answer. Instead, her eyes flick to Dustin and Mike, quick and uncertain. My chest tightens at the sight. The buzzed hair, the way she barely makes a sound, the look on her face that hovers between fear and curiosity, like the world is something that she’s still learning how to survive.

One by one, we all head back toward the house, deciding it’s too cold to be having conversations outside. The porch light casts long shadows across the driveway, as we reach for the door. Before we can join the rest inside I grab Dustin by the shoulder and tug him back from the group. He yelps, stumbling back before catching himself.

“Andi!” he groans, straightening his jacket as he regains his balance. 

“So,” I say quietly, lowering my face as my eyes dart towards the girl. “What’s up with her?” 

“That’s Eleven,” Dustin says, beaming.  

“Eleven?” I repeat. “Like the number?” 

The words leave a sour taste in my mouth. Goes to show how she was treated in that lab. Not a name, not a person, a number to the people who had her. 

“Yeah,” he nods. “We just call her El though. She’s awesome. She can move things with her mind, and flipped a whole van over our heads. Oh- and she broke Troy’s arm.” 

My eyes widen, my brain snagging on two things at once. The fact that this tiny, terrified girl can break bones and the fact that Dustin had a van flipped over his head. I push the panic down and glance back at her. 

“Is she okay?” I ask, watching how she sticks close behind Mike and Lucas, like they’re human shields. “She hasn’t said a word.” 

“She doesn’t talk much,” Dustin explains. “She doesn’t really know how.” 

“She doesn’t know how?” I echo. 

Dustin shakes his head. “They’re looking for her… the bad men.” 

“So I’ve heard,” I mutter. 

The bad men. I guess that’s what they call the agents from Hawkins Lab. 

Before he can say anything else, Jonathan’s voice cuts through the house from the living room. “Andi!” 

“Coming!” I call back, giving Dustin a gentle shove toward the door and following him inside. I take a spot next to Nancy on the far end of the couch, while Dustin drops down on the floor with the rest of his friends, sitting crossed-legged in front of us like they’re about to confess something. 

Hopper drops down onto the loveseat beside the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands clamped tightly together like that’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

“Sit,” he says, firmly. “Start at the beginning.” 

“Will’s alive.” Mike says, his eyes locking onto Hopper’s like he’s daring him not to believe. Joyce perks up instantly, scooting to the very edge of the couch. 

A shaky breath slips out of me. I’d felt it, somewhere deep down, but hearing it out loud, hearing it stated so plainly by a twelve year old, makes something in my chest loosen. 

And if Will’s alive…that means Barb has to be too. 

“We heard him,” Mike continues, shrugging his backpack off his shoulder and dropping it into his lap. He digs around before pulling out his walkie talkie, a copy of the one we used to find them. He practically slams it down on the coffee table. 

“Everyone said he was dead…” his voice wavers, just barely, like the memory still cuts too deep to touch. 

“Eleven found him with my walkie,” he says, swallowing hard. “I heard his breathing. I know it’s him.” 

He pauses, just for a second. Long enough for the room to go quiet. 

“He sounded scared.”  

“Wh- Where is he?” Joyce asks, her voice trembling, cracking at the edges. “Do you know?” 

“He’s not here,” Lucas speaks up, sitting stiffly between Mike and Dustin. “Not in Hawkins at least. He’s somewhere… else.” 

Nancy slowly lowers her arms into her lap, “Somewhere else… where?”

“It’s another place,” Dustin jumps in. “Like a copy of Hawkins, but different. It’s where we think the Demogorgon lives.” 

“Demogorgon?” I echo, the word sounding foreign on my tongue. 

“Demogorgon.” Dustin repeats, rolling his eyes like my confusion is personally offensive. “Interdemensional monster? The thing that took Will?” 

I ignore his tone as my thoughts immediately jump to what Nancy described, the hollow in the tree, the space that shouldn’t have existed. I glance at her, and the look on her face tells me she’s thinking exactly the same thing. 

“Okay,” Hopper says slowly, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Let me get this straight. There’s another… dimension.” He says the word like it’s never left his mouth before. “One that looks like Hawkins?” He trails off, still sounding unconvinced. 

None of the boys answer. Instead, they trade looks before Mike reaches back into his backpack. He pulls out a piece of paper and a pen and starts scribbling on it. From where I’m sitting it looks like he drew a line straight across and a messy stick figure. 

“Now is not the time for arts and crafts, kid.” Hopper groans, irritation creeping into his voice. 

“Just… give me a second.” Mike mutters, before finishing his drawing before holding it up for all of us to see. 

A straight line cuts across the paper. A stick figure stands atop of it, beneath it a small circle with jagged lines sticking out. A bug I think?

“So imagine an acrobat walking along a tightrope,” Mike says, tapping to the stick figure above the line with his pen. “And a flea walking underneath the rope.” 

“Okay,” he continues, dragging the pen downward. “We’re the acrobat. This world. Hawkins.” 

Then he points to the little creature beneath the line. “Will and Barbara, the monster, they’re this flea.” We all lean forward, hanging on every word as Mike’s pen traces past the flea. 

“This is the Upside Down. That’s where Will is hiding.” He finishes quietly, setting the paper back on the coffee table. “Mr. Clarke said the only way to get there is through a rip in time and space.” 

“A gate.” Dustin adds. 

“That we tracked to Hawkins Lab,” Lucas finishes for him. 

“With our compasses.” 

The rest of us exchange looks, all equally lost. Gates, compasses, other dimensions. Dustin can tell we’re struggling to keep up because he lets out a loud, frustrated sigh. 

“Okay, so the gate has a really strong electromagnetic field,” Dustin explains. “That can change the direction of a compass needle.” 

His eyes light up as he talks, the same way they always do when he talks about his science stuff, like when we’re at the dinner table and he keeps bombarding us with all the facts he learned in Mr. Clarke's class or the latest dinosaur book he’s read. I realize I haven’t heard him ramble like that in a while. 

“Is this gate underground?” Hopper cuts in, his tone sharp like he’s piecing something together 

“Yes,” Eleven says softly. Her voice is breathy and unsure, like she’s not used to being heard. 

“Near a large water tank?” he presses.  

She nods, “Yes.” 

“H- How do you know all that?” Dustin stutters, turning to Hopper. 

“He’s seen it,” Mike answers for him, eyes still fixed on the table. 

“Is there any way you could… Joyce starts, turning to Eleven, her voice already splintering apart. “That you could reach Will? Talk to him… in this…” 

“The Upside Down,” Eleven supplies softly, finally lifting her eyes from Hopper. 

“Yeah,” Joyce whispers. Eleven nods once. 

I gently nudge Nancy with my shoulder. 

“And my friend Barbara?” Nancy asks, picking up what I’m signaling. “Can you find her too?” 

Eleven nods again, then rises from the floor and reaches for Mike’s walkie talkie on the coffee table. Mike immediately understands what she’s doing and scrambles, like an unspoken agreement. He guides her toward the dining room table and the rest of us follow without a word, crowding around the table. 

She sits at the head of the table as Mike fumbles with the channels until he finds one filled with nothing but steady static. 

Nobody moves and I swear I couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. Eleven shuts her eyes gently, her eyes shifting. The room is unnaturally still, as the lamp above us flickers. Once, then twice, then again. The static begins to thin out, stretching into quiet, then fading back in loudly. 

Eleven’s eyes snap open. Her breathing turning shaky. 

“I am sorry,” she whispers.

Joyce jolts forward. “What’s wrong?” she stutters. “What happened?” 

“I can’t find them.” Eleven’s voice cracks, thin and small. 

I step closer without thinking, placing a gentle hand against her back. Her body turns rigid at my touch, flinching slightly. Our eyes meet, hers wide and glossy with tears. My expression softens, trying to give her something steady to hold on to. After a beat, she relaxes just slightly beneath my hand. 

Across the table, Joyce looks shattered. Her hand trembles as it covers her mouth. She turns away, Jonathan turning with her, like he can’t bear to watch her break. 

Looking back at Eleven, I notice the tears that slip down her face now, her breathing uneven and jagged. So much for someone so small to carry. 

“Hey,” I say, gently, crouching a little closer to her level. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom, splash some water on your face?” I offer a small, unsure smile. “It always helps me.” 

I never know what to do with emotions. I always feel like I’m standing wrong or saying the wrong thing, but it’s all I’ve got right now. 

She nods shakily and pushes her chair back. I guide her toward the hallway, remembering the layout of the house well enough to know there’s a bathroom just past the dining room. She steps inside and turns to close the door, hesitating before she shuts it. 

For a brief moment, our eyes meet again. There’s something pleading and fragile there.  

“I’ll be right here.” I promise softly, forcing the warmest, most reassuring smile I can manage in these circumstances. 

With a nod, she pulls the door shut. Not all the way. It stays cracked open just a little, like she needs proof she’s not alone. I don’t question it. I just stay there, planted beside the door, arms loosely crossed, almost like I’m a bouncer. 

“Whenever she uses her powers,” Mike’s voice drifts down the hallway from the dining room, his tone serious in a way twelve years olds shouldn’t have to be, “she gets weak.” 

“The more energy she uses, the more tired she gets.” Dustin adds. There’s a matter-of-fact edge in the way only Dustin ever is. 

“She flipped a van earlier,” Lucas throws in. 

“It was awesome,” Dustin says, and I can practically hear the gummy grin stretching across his face. 

“But she's drained,” Mike cuts in quickly. “Like a bad battery.” 

“Well…” Joyce’s voice trembles. “How do we make her better?”

“We don’t,” Mike responds. His words heavy and final. “We just have to wait and try again.” 

Wait. 

We don’t have time to wait. The Demogorgon is still out there. Every second we stand around talking is another second Will and Barb don’t have, hiding somewhere cold and dark. This is time we cannot afford. 

“Well, how long?” Nancy asks, her voice tight. 

“I don’t know.” 

The door creaks open behind me. I spin around as Eleven steps out slowly, something different in her eyes. She walks past me without a word, small shoulders squared, heading straight back to the dining room table. I hesitate for half a second, thrown off by the shift in her. 

“The bath,” she says simply as she reaches the table, everyone turning toward us. 

“What?” Joyce asks, hope snapping back in her eyes. It’s fragile, like if anyone breathes too hard it might shatter. 

“I can find them,” Eleven says, a sharp breath leaving her lungs. “In the bath.” 

Silence settles over the room. We all just stare at her, nobody moving. I glance around the room, searching for any semblance of understanding. My eyes land on Dustin. I narrow mine at him, studying him for answers. I can practically see the wheels spinning in his head, and I think I spot the exact moment the ideas click into place.

“A sensory deprivation tank,” he says, lighting up like he’s just solved a murder that’s gone unsolved for 30 years. He looks around, expectant, like he thought we would burst out into a sea of applause. 

Instead, every confused stare in the room shifts directly onto him. 

“What?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. 

“A sensory deprivation tank,” he repeats, slower this time. “Mr. Clarke talked about it in class. It’s like a tub of water… with a bunch of salt.” 

“And that’s supposed to help us, how?” I ask, not even trying to hide the skepticism in my voice. 

“It removes all external distractions,” Jonathan cuts in, stepping closer to the table. His voice is steadier now, focused. “All light, sound, the feeling of gravity.” 

I nod slowly, my thoughts lining up. “So she can focus. Pull energy into finding Will and Barbara.” 

Jonathan nods along with Dustin whose nods are much more energetic. Joyce looks between us like we’re speaking another language but I don’t think she cares as long as it leads her to her son. 

“Well,” Hopper says, leaning forward with both hands braced against the dining table. “How do we make one of these sensory deprivation things?” 

“Tanks,” Dustin corrects automatically, and despite everything, a small smile tugs on my lips. 

“I don’t exactly know how,” he admits, adjusting the cap on his head. “But Mr. Clarke should.” 

“Scott Clarke?” Hopper exhales, already sounding exhausted as he pinches the bridge of his nose and turns toward the sink like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led him here. 

“Can I use your phone Mrs. Byers?” Dustin asks sweetly, like he wasn’t already planning to anyway.  

Joyce nods with a shrug, gesturing toward the phone on the wall which looks brand new compared to the rest of the house. Dustin lunges for the yellow landline, hanging on the kitchen wall and punches in Mr. Clarke's number from memory. 

The rest of us hover near the table, eyes locked on him like he’s about to perform some kind of miracle. The only sound is the faint ringing through the receiver and the soft hum of the refrigerator in the background. The waiting feels heavier than anything else. 

“Mr. Clarke? It’s me Dustin.” 

I can’t hear the other end of the conversation, but I can see the way Dustin’s posture straightens and the way his free hand starts gesturing widely as he talks. He says something about a “curiosity door”, his voice rising in urgency, and I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. 

Dustin turns back to us with a sharp nod and two thumbs up, the phone clamped between his shoulder and his cheek. With his hands he makes a vague scribbling motion and Joyce scrambles immediately, grabbing a yellow note pad and dull #2 pencil from the counter from the counter. 

Dustin stretches the phone cord to its absolute limit and shuffles back to the table, bending over the paper as he scribbles furiously. He nods and hums every few seconds, repeating pieces of information back into the receiver. Finally, he says his goodbyes and tells Mr. Clarke he’ll see him on Monday, with that he hangs up. 

His head snaps up towards Joyce, pencil pointed at her like he’s conducting an orchestra. 

“Do you still have that kiddie pool we bobbed for apples in?” 

“I think so, yeah,” she says, shrugging, glancing at Jonathan for confirmation.

Jonathan nods once, “It’s in the shed.” 

“Good,” Dustin says, grinning. “Then we just need salt. Lot’s of it.” 

“How much is lots?” Hopper asks from the sinks, not turning around. 

“1500 pounds,” Dustin answers with an almost apologetic smile. 

My eyes nearly pop out of my head, “Where are we going to get that much salt?” 

Hopper's gaze lifts off the sink,  “The school.” 

“The school?” Nancy parrots beside me. 

“Hawkins Middle,” Hopper clarifies. “They have road salt for winter.” 

Dustin spins in his chair to face him fully, “That could work.” 

Hopper pulls his keys from his pocket as he strides toward the door, a sudden shift passing through the room. “Into the car, c’mon.” 

The house erupts into motion following after him. Outside, the cold night air bites at my cheeks as Hopper unlocks his trucks, the kids quickly scrambling into the backseat and Joyce in the front. Behind me, Jonathan hauls the faded blue kiddie pool into the back of Joyce’s car. 

I slide into the backseat on one side, from the other side the kiddie pool presses into me. Jonathan and Nancy take the front, their doors slamming shut almost in unison. 

The ride to the school is short, mostly because Hopper drives like he’s trying to outrun the devil himself and Jonathan stays hot on his tail. The engine growls, the streetlights flashing past in streaks of yellow. 

The tires of our car screech as we pull into the front of the school, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot. The building looms in front of us, dark and still. I haven’t stepped foot in this school in years.

It hits me harder than I expect.

The blue doors. The brick walls. The faint smell of asphalt and old paper that still lingers in the air. 

Memories rush at me all at once. Lockers slamming, cheap perfume, notes folded into tiny squares. Most of the memories are of Steve. Everything felt so much simpler back then.

We pile out of the car before I can with it for too long, Hopper yanking open the heavy blue doors. They groan in protest, the creaking bouncing down the empty hallway. 

“Both Hendersons and Lucas, take the pool and put it up in the gym,” Hopper orders, moving with purpose. I nod automatically, scooting closer to both boys. “Jonathan and I will haul the salt in from storage. Mike and Nancy, grab the hoses from the shed outside. We’ll need them to fill the pool.”  

“I’ll stay with Eleven,” Joyce says softly, her hand resting on her shoulder. “She’ll need a blindfold, doesn’t she?”

Nobody argues and we just split into our groups. Dustin and I begin to drag the rolled up plastic between us, Lucas trailing behind us grab the other end when it snags on the doorway.

“This damn thing is heavy,” Dustin grunts, stopping to straighten his back and shake out his arms and legs, leaving me to haul it by myself. For something made out of plastic and rubber, it is ridiculously heavy. 

“Shut up and keep rolling,” I snap, breath coming out sharp.

We finally reach the center of the half-lit, empty gym. The polished floor reflects the dim emergency lights along the roof. It feels so wrong here to be at night. 

Lucas moves ahead to help us unroll the pool. The plastic slaps loudly against the floor as we spread it out.

“Come on,” I mutter, trying to flip the whole thing. “It’s upside down.” 

Both of them grab it, but instead of helping, they just twist the material into something even more useless. 

“Guys!” I groan, my patience thinning. 

We wrestle with it, using our legs to brace one side while we try to prop up the other into place. Slowly, and painfully, it starts to resemble something close to a pool. The side however refuse to cooperate, flopping over like they’re mocking us. 

“How does this even work?” I mutter, lifting one edge just for the other side to fall. 

“Try that side,” Lucas says, struggling to hold his end upright. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dustin yells as he finally gets his section standing, only for the entire opposite half to cave in dramatically. 

“Pull it back,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to understand why three fully capable humans cannot manage a kiddie pool. 

“I am!” Dustin shoots back. 

I take a breath as I try to think. “Maybe if we all lift it at the same time.” I suggest. “On three.” They both nod. 

“One, two, three!” We lift and the entire pool folds in on itself like it’s given up on life. 

“Shit!” Lucas sighs, throwing his hands into the air. 

We keep at it anyway. Tugging and flipping. Cursing under our breath. My hands are slick against the plastic, my arms burning from holding it up. I swear if I see another kiddie pool again after this it’ll be too soon. 

But finally, finally, it holds. The sides stand upright and the bottom flattens out, just like it’s supposed to look. For a second, all three of us just stare at it and then explode into relieved laughter, nearly knocking it over again as we jump around, high-fiving like we just won a championship game instead of just successfully assembling a child’s toy. It’s stupid and small, but it feels like a win. 

Right as we’re catching our breath from defeating the world’s most stubborn kiddie pool, the double doors of the gym slam open. Mike and Nancy rush in, a wagon full of hose reels, the green tubing dragging loudly on the polished floor. 

“We got them!” Mike calls out, slightly out of breath. 

Lucas and I grab the metal hose stands and set them down near the pool while Nancy and Mike disappear into the connecting locker room, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the tile. A second later we hear the squeal of old faucets turning. The hoses twitch in our hands as water begins rushing through them. They jerk slightly, then settle as the stream pours into the pool. Slowly, surely, the thin layer of water at the bottom begins to rise. 

Once the pool starts to fill, Lucas crouches down and pulls a thermometer we grabbed from the Byers’ living room out of his pocket. He dips it into the water carefully, squinting at the numbers. 

“Ninety-five degrees,” Dustin reminds him from the bleachers like he’s a scientist overseeing an experiment. 

Lucas calls toward the locker room, “Hotter!” There’s a clank of pipes and the thermometer begs to rise.

“Colder!” 

“Right there!” Lucas shouts when the mercury settles where it needs to be.

The gym doors creak open again as Hopper and Jonathan return, lugging in carts what looks like half the town’s winter supply, eight thick bags of de-icing salt. They drop them beside the pool with heavy thuds. Hopper flips open a pocket knife and slices through the first bag. The sound of salt hitting the water is heavier than I expected, a steady pouring rush as they dump it in. The clear water clouds faintly. 

Dustin disappears for a moment, sprinting off toward the cafeteria kitchens. He comes back clutching a small carton of eggs.

“To test buoyancy,” he explains, already kneeling at the edge of the pool. Dustin gently lowers an egg onto the surface of the water. We all lean in, watching. The egg sinks immediately, straight down. The white shell disappears into the cloudy bottom of the pool. Dustin throws his hands up in frustration, the rest of the boys groan. 

“Keep pouring,” he urges Hopper and Jonathan. 

There’s more slicing and pouring, the final bags empty, the woven sacks flopping uselessly onto the gym floor besides them. Dustin carefully retrieves another egg from the carton. He lowers another egg into the water again and we all hold our breath. Carefully, he releases it. The egg dips just slightly, then stays, floating perfectly on the surface. Smiles spread across our faces. 

Like fate, the gym doors open again. Joyce walks in with Eleven at her side. In Joyce’s hand are a pair of safety googles, thickly duct-tape all over to block out every trace of light. Eleven doesn’t look scared, focus etches on her face. 

She slips off her shoes and socks without hesitation. She reaches for her wrist, unclipping a watch from it. Mike’s, I’m guessing. She passes it to him and he slides it back on his own wrist. Joyce hands her the goggles and Eleven pulls them over her eyes, adjusting the strap behind her head until they sit snug. 

The gym feels too big and quiet as she steps into the pool, the only sound is the small sound of water sloshing. When the warm salt water reaches her knees, then her waist I realize I’ve stopped breathing. She lowers herself slowly, lying back until the water takes her weight. The salt holds her effortlessly, lifting her to the surface. 

She floats and we all kneel around the pool, forming a silent circle. I glance down and notice my fists are clenched tight in my lap, knuckles pale. I force myself to inhale slowly, to loosen my fingers one by one, though it doesn’t calm the nausea that creeps into my stomach. 

Above us, the emergency lights that stay on when the school isn’t in use begin to flicker. They begin to hum, a faint buzz crawling through the air. The electricity surges, the lights flash once then twice. Some of the few lights that were on, shut off, enveloping us in darkness. 

The only sound left is the hiss of the walkie’s static and the shallow rhythm of Eleven’s breathing as she floats in the pool. Minutes pass. Slow, endless, torturous minutes.

Nobody dares to move. 

“Barbara,” Eleven whispers. It’s barely audible and fragile, almost lost beneath the static. 

Nancy and I hear it, both jolting forward at the same time. Hope hits me so fast it hurts. It floods my chest before I can stop it. The thought that maybe I’m not the monster I’ve convinced myself I am fills me. Maybe she’s alive. Maybe I didn’t ruin everything and everything can just go back to normal. 

“What’s going on?” Nancy asks, her voice small as her eyes scan the ceiling above us for light.  

“I don’t know,” Mike admits, and for the first time tonight, I hear fear creep up in his voice. 

“Is Barbara okay?” I choke out. The words barely make it past the tightness in my throat. 

“Is she okay?” Nancy repeats, but hers comes out desperate and breaking. 

“Gone.” The words fall from Eleven’s lips like it weighs a thousand pounds. 

Gone. 

She says it like it physically hurts to. I inhale sharply, but breathing feels wrong. My chest is tight, my heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs. My stomach twists, cold and violent, the truth settling. 

She’s gone.

She’s gone and it’s my fault. If I had just gotten up… If I had just peeled myself off the Harrington’s couch… If I hadn’t been so wasted. So wrapped up in my own stupid feelings and self-absorption. She would be here. 

Tears burn at the corners of my eyes before I can stop them. They spill over anyway, sliding hot down my cheeks. I wipe them away roughly with my jacket sleeve, turning my head so Nancy won’t see me. She already has enough, her head sobbing into her hands. 

She just lost her best friend and it’s my fault. 

It’s all my fault.

It repeats. Over and over. Louder than the static. 

“Gone,” Eleven says again. And again. Her body begins to shake in the water, the surface ripples violently around her. 

“It’s okay,” Joyce rushes forward instantly. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

“Gone. Gone!”

The words turn into a chant. A sick reminder. 

Joyce plunges her hand into the water, gripping Eleven’s arm. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.” 

Eleven’s breathing turns into sharp gasps, like she’s fighting for oxygen that wasn’t there. 

“We’re right here,” Joyce says, her voice breaking but steady. Warm in the way only a mother can be. “We’re right here, honey.” 

“I got you,” she continues, pulling Eleven closer. “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here with you. You’re safe. You’re okay, honey.”

Slowly, Eleven’s breath steadies and her body stills. A breath I didn’t know I was holding escapes me. 

“Castle Byers,” Eleven whispers after a long beat.

Joyce’s head snaps toward Jonathan. His face mirrors her, terrified and hopeful all at once.

After Barbara, I silently beg for one thing.

Let Will be okay. 

“Will?” Eleven says, softly. Almost unsure. Joyce gasps. Her grip tightening instinctively on Eleven’s arm. 

“You tell him…” Joyce stammers,her voice unraveling. “Tell him I’m coming. Mom is coming.” 

The walkie crackles and there's a sharp burst of static. 

“Hurry.” A small, shaky voice comes through the speaker. It’s not Eleven. My breath leaves in a stunned exhale. 

It’s Will. 

He sounds far away, but alive.  

“Okay, listen, you tell him to…” Joyce stumbles over her words. “To stay where he is. We’re coming.”

“We’re coming, okay?” she repeats, desperately. “We’re coming, honey.” 

The radio erupts in panicked whimpering. My head snaps toward the metal cart. Before any of us can react, Eleven bolts upright from the water with a violent gasp, choking for air. Salt water spills over the sides of the pool onto the gym floor. Joyce catches her immediately, wrapping her arms around the trembling girl. 

“I’ve got you,” she whispers into Eleven’s damp hair. “I got you, honey. You did so good.” 

Eleven clings to her, fingers twisting tight in Joyce’s like if she lets go, she’ll slip back under. And in the middle of that dark, echoey gym, with the lights dead above us and the water in the pool still trembling, we have proof. 

Will is alive. 

The thought moves through me slowly and disbelievingly. It doesn’t erase anything. Not the guilt from Barbara sitting heavy in my chest in my lungs, but it’s something. 

I push up from my knees, my legs stiff and aching, and grab a striped towel from the metal cart. Eleven rises on shaky knees out of the water, her shoulders trembling. Joyce and I stand on either side of her without saying anything, steadying her as she carefully steps out of the pool. Water streams down from her, puddling at our feet. I drape the towel around her shoulders, tucking it close like that might hold her together. 

“Are you okay?” I whisper as I guide her toward the wooden bleachers. 

She looks up at me like she didn’t expect me to ask, like the question itself surprises her. For a second, her eyes are wide and searching, then she nods. Just once. The boys rush around her immediately, crowding around the bleachers, talking all at once in soft, urgent voices. They all look at her like she just walked out of a burning building holding something sacred, and in a way she did.  

I leave them there, in their small circle of awe, and turn back to their others. “So this Castle Byers, where is it?” Hopper asks, facing Joyce and Jonathan. His voice already moving, already planning. 

“Uh, it’s in the woods behind our house,” Joyce says quickly, words tumbling over themselves. 

“Yeah,” Jonathan adds. “He used to go there to hide.” 

Hopper doesn’t hesitate. He shrugs his brown jacket back on, jaw set, and pushes past them toward the exit. Joyce and Jonathan scramble after him, calling his name. I follow just far enough to see Hopper shove open the front door of the school, cold air rushing in. They both trail right behind him before the doors swing shut again with a heavy thud. 

The sound echoes down the hall and when I walk back through the hallways, they feel bigger somehow. Emptier. 

On the way back to the gym, I spot Nancy. She’s sitting against the floor, her back against the massive mural of a tiger, the school mascot, painted in bright, chipped orange and black. An American flag stretches behind it. She looks small beneath it, folded in on herself. 

I hesitate. Maybe, probably, I’m the last person she wants to see right now. Still, I cross the floor and lower myself beside her, sliding down until my shoulder brushes hers. 

“I am so sorry,” I start, the words scraping on the way out. 

“Don’t,” she cuts in.

She doesn’t sound angry. It makes it so much worse. I expected anger. I expected her to look at me like I’m the reason her best friend is dead.

I wish she was angry. I wish she would yell at me and tell me she never wants to see me again. Instead, she sounds hollow. Like if she lets herself fully feel everything, she’ll shatter. 

“We have to go back to the station,” she says quietly, barely above a whisper. 

The weapons in Jonathan’s car that the police confiscated. The trap. The plan we never finished.

She wants to kill it, the Demogorgon, the thing that took Barbara and Will. 

“What?” I ask, my voice shaking despite myself. I keep my eyes on the white-painted brick wall across from us. Nancy does the same, we don’t dare to look at each other.

The doors slam somewhere down the hall and both of us flinch, our heads snapping towards the sound. Jonathan walks in a moment later, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up, face pale and tight. 

“Did your mom go with him?” I ask, noticing the empty space next to him where Joyce was. 

He nods, swallowing hard. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. “They didn’t let me come.” 

“Your mom and Hopper are just walking in there like bait,” Nancy says, her gaze drifting back to that fixed point on the wall. “That thing is still in there… and we can’t just sit here and let it get them, too.”

I inhale slowly, the air burning on the way down. I can’t let this monster win. I can’t let Barb’s death be for nothing. If there’s even a sliver of a chance to make this right, even if it costs my life. I have to take it. 

“You still wanna try it out?” Jonathan asks, even though we already know the answer. We can see it in Nancy’s face. She’s not just grieving. She’s furious. 

“I wanna finish what we started,” she says, finally tearing her eyes away from the wall. They’re red and swollen, but steady. “I want to kill it.” For a second, the hallway is silent despite the distant hum of something electrical trying to come back to life. 

“Okay,” I say blankly, pushing myself up onto shaky knees, then to my feet. My legs are like jelly, like they don’t belong to me. “Let’s kill this thing.” 

Jonathan nods shakily, like the movement alone is taking effort, and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulls out the keys to Joyce’s car, the metal clinking softly in his hands, and shrugs on his jacket. We don’t waste a second, running on pure adrenaline. 

I swing open the green door to the backseat, pausing, my hand tightening around the handle. 

“Wait,” I say quickly. “What about the kids?” 

I glance back toward the school. The building stands dark and silent in front of us. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Eleven are still inside the gym, alone. 

What if the men from the lab come back? What if they start snooping again? What if the Demogorgon senses them here?

Jonathan rests his hands on the roof of the car, meeting my eyes. “This is the safest place they can be right now.” 

He’s probably right. They are probably safer with a girl who can flip vans with her mind in an empty school than with us chasing a monster, but lately “safe” feels like a lie. Still, I force myself in the backseat. The door slams shut, sealing us in and my hands immediately start picking at each other in my lap. My nails dig into my skin as the car pulls away from the parking spot. 

The police station is vacant when we arrive. Every light is off. The parking lot is empty except for one empty, lonely cruiser. It looks abandoned. Jonathan pushes the front door open with one try. It swings open without resistance. The people in this town really need to start locking up. They’re lucky it us breaking in and not actual criminals. It’s not exactly reassuring for the literal police, but this is Hawkins.

Nothing bad ever happens in Hawkins. 

Nancy and Jonathan make a beeline for the weapons we left earlier. The boxes are still sitting exactly where the police had left them, the shopping bags and the gas canister conveniently sitting beside them like they’ve been waiting for us. For a second, it feels surreal, like we’re just picking up groceries. 

Keeping quiet, we haul everything back to the car. The trunk yawns open and we stuff it full, slamming it shut before climbing back inside, tires screeching as we pull away. 

The Byers’ house looms ahead in the dark, like it’s holding its breath. We decided it would be best to lead the Demogorgon here. Tactical advantage, Jonathan had said. The woods are its home turf, but the walls and tight corners of the Byers’ house. That’s ours. The trunk slams shut again as Jonathan kicks the door open again with his leg and drops a heavy box at his feet. For a beat, the three of us just stand in the living room, staring at the wall in front of us.

We’re actually doing this. 

None of us have the slightest clue where to start. I’m not exactly an expert on killing monsters from alternate dimensions.

I glance around the house, scanning for anything useful. I notice the Christmas lights still strung along the walls. Every bulb has been removed. They hang there useless and hollow. It’s weird but I don’t have time to question it. An idea sparks in my head. 

“The lights,” I say, turning quickly to Nancy and Jonathan. “It’ll tell us when it’s coming, like an alarm. We’ll be ready.” 

They exchange a look, one of those silent, wordless agreements, and we immediately start moving. Bulbs scatter everywhere in small piles. There has to be at least a hundred. Maybe more and if we want to kill this thing tonight, we have to be fast. 

We split up without discussing it. Each of us grab a handful of colorful glass and start screwing them in one by one. My fingers fumble at first, shaking too much, but I force them steady. Twist and click. 

After all the bulbs we can find are screwed in, Jonathan finds the perfect spot for the bear trap. The Demogorgon will come through the living room. We’ll lead it down the narrow hallway, tight and confined, nowhere to dodge. At the end is Will’s room, where the trap is placed in front of. When we run, we’ll know when to jump. 

I can hear the slams from Jonathan hammering the trap into the carpeted wooden floor, securing it with chains. He yanks on it hard, testing it, nodding when it doesn’t budge. Next to me, Nancy reloads the revolver we got from Lonnie, sliding fresh bullets into the chamber with steady hands from the little mustard yellow boxes. With the hammer I got from the hunting store, I make a make-shift spiked mace from nails and Nancy’s baseball bat. 

I can smell when Jonathan starts pouring gasoline and lighter fluid, soaking the carpet and drenching the trap. The sharp, suffocating smell fills the house, crawling up my nose and settling heavy in my head. It makes me lightheaded. I get snapped back to reality by Nancy and Jonathan push down the bear trap, the metallic snap echoing from the hallway, louder since my hammering stopped. 

Besides the lights, Jonathan rigs up an alarm using a bright yellow smiley face yo-yo, stringing it up to sense movement in the hallways, telling us when we need to light it up. It’s almost laughable, a toy guarding us from a nightmare. 

The only thing left is blood. 

We gather in the living room again, the air thick and tense. In Jonathan’s hand are three kitchen knives. He passes one to Nancy, then one to me. My hands are shaking so badly, I’m surprised I don’t drop it. 

It’s now or never. 

I’m terrified to maybe meet death tonight. The thought of it sits cold and dark in my chest. But in some strange, morbid way, I think I’m ready. I don’t want to die. I don’t.

I think about my mom. Dustin. I imagine my mom having to rewear the outfit she wore at Will’s funeral, her face hollow and wrecked. I hope Steve takes care of them if it comes to the worse tonight. I know he will. 

The image makes my throat tighten. 

“Remember…” Jonathan starts, his voice low and serious. 

“Straight into Will’s room,” Nancy says firmly, repeating the plan like she’s carving it into our minds. This isn’t the time for mistakes. 

“Don’t step on the trap,” I add, shaking my head slightly. “And wait for the yo-yo to move.” 

“Then..” Jonathan pulls a lighter from his jacket pocket and flicks it on. A small flame dances above his thumb. He gestures with it toward the gasoline soaked hallway. 

“Careful with that,” I snap. His grip on it looks too loose. One small slip and we’ll go up in flames like roast turkey legs at the county fair. Jonathan lets out a huff and clicks it off. 

“All right,” he says, sticking his hand out between the three of us. Nancy and I follow suit, forming a small, desperate circle in the middle of the living room. Gasoline in the air, knives in hand, and that Demogorgon somewhere in the dark. 

“You ready?” 

“As ready as I can be,” I whisper. 

“Ready,” Nancy says, her voice steadier than mine. “On three…”

“One,” Jonthan starts. 

We each lift our knives, pressing the cool metal against our palms. The blade feels wrong there, too sharp and real. 

“Two.”

I hesitate. 

It’s instinct. Every nerve in my body screams not to do it. Not to drag steel across skin. Not to hurt myself on purpose. My hand trembles, the tip of the knife barely indenting my palm.

“You guys don’t have to do this-” Jonathan says suddenly, his voice cutting through the thick fear hanging in the air. 

“Jonathan, stop talking,” Nancy breathes. Her blade is already pressed so tight against her skin it’s almost breaking it. 

“I’m just saying, you don’t have-” 

Barbara’s scream echoes through my mind. It’s not real. It’s a memory. A very loud memory.

A very sharp memory. 

It pushes me. 

“Three.” I say, cutting him off as I drag the knife across my palm. 

The pain is immediate and confusing. It’s sharp and stinging, but also dull and heavy at the same time. I suck in a breath through my teeth as I watch the pale skin split open, red and welling up almost instantly. 

Nancy and Jonathan follow through and for a second all I can hear is our breathing. We let our blood drip onto the grayish carpet. It stains fast, spreading in dark blooms. The smell of iron mixes with the gasoline, turning the air metallic and slightly sweet. My vision tilts a little as I stare at it too long. My legs feel weak, like they just might give out. 

Nancy moves first, grabbing some gauze she left on the coffee table earlier, wrapping her palm tightly with practiced urgency. She hands it to me without a word and I wrap the white cloth around my hand, wincing as it prices against the cut. I tie it off as tight as I can, trying my best to ignore the cut under the fabric as I toss the roll of gauze to Jonathan with my free hand. 

He fumbles with it, fingers clumsy and shaking as the cloth slides around, refusing to stay in place. Nancy steps in without hesitation, guiding him back to the couch. Her hands are gentle as she takes over, wrapping the gauze around his palm securely. 

Minutes pass and nothing happens. The house settles into a suffocating silence. No flickering lights. No movement. Just the hum of the heater and faint drip of something in the kitchen. I sink down to the floor, next to the couch where Nancy and Jonathan are perched on. The bat rests beside me, my heart beating so hard I’m convinced it’s echoing off the walls. 

A faint creak sounds through the house, so soft I think I imagined it. We all straighten at once. 

“Did you hear that?” Nancy whispers, freezing mid-breath as her eyes scan the room, searching every shadow. 

We wait for a beat. 

Nothing. 

“It’s just the wind,” Jonathan says. 

Nancy doesn’t look convinced. Her eyebrows are drawn tight together, her mouth set in a hard line. I scan the walls, my eyes dragging over every single lightbulb we screwed in. Jonathan said Joyce told him the lights speak when it comes. I search for a flicker, even a faint blink, but I’m met with nothing as the lights stay steady. 

For a moment everything goes quiet again. A thick, waiting silence. The kind that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to happen. 

Slicing through the quiet, a deafening bang slams against the front door, the sound exploding through the house. I gasp, nearly jumping out of my skin. My heart rockets into my throat as I whip my head towards the door. 

Another sharp knock splits through the room, louder this time. More urgent. 

“Jonathan?” a voice calls out from the other side. 

A voice I could recognize anywhere. 

Steve. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I sigh, throwing my head back for a second like the ceiling mights give me strength. 

What could Steve possibly be doing knocking at Jonathan’s door at almost eleven at night? 

Is he here for round two? Even after what happened with Tommy at the gas station… even after our talk in the car? 

“I’ll handle him,” I say quickly, pushing my legs up and forcing myself off the ground. 

My palm throbs under the gauze. I slide my wrapped hand behind my back, trying to make it disappear. It probably looks suspicious, but I don’t have time to answer questions. It also doesn’t help that I can barely lie to to him on a normal day

“Are you there, man?” Steve calls again, his tone surprisingly eager. Not angry or mocking like he usually is talking to Jonathan. “It’s… it’s Steve! Listen, I just want to talk!” 

Of course he does. Could he not have picked a better time to return to his consciousness?

He keeps knocking, more insistent now. I crack the door open just wide enough for my head and half my body to peak through. The porch light spills across his face as his eyes widen when he sees me instead of Jonathan. 

“Steve, listen to me,” I start immediately. I don’t have time to ease into this right now. The Demogorgon could be here any second and I don’t want him anywhere near this when it happens. “You need to leave.” 

“Andi…?” he mutters, and I swear his expression changes as he looks at me. Softer, more open. His face looks better than it did earlier, cleaned up at least. The dried blood is gone, but I know it still hurts. And I hate that I wasn’t there to help him. 

“What?” his eyebrows pull together, confused. “What are you doing here?” 

“No, Steve you’re not listening,” I insist, lowering and tightening my voice. “You need to go.” 

“Is Nancy there?” his eyes flick past me, trying to catch a glimpse inside. I don’t even have the energy to be hurt by that. Not right now. There’s a monster possibly on its way to hunt us down. 

“Steve!” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him. 

“I’m not trying to start anything, okay?” he says quickly. His voice softens as he looks down at the porch, leaning forward against the door like he’s exhausted. “I’m not.” 

“I don’t care about that,” I push. “You need to leave.” 

“No, no, no,” he stammers, lifting his hand to the door. “Listen, I know I messed up.” 

I swallow, hard. 

“I messed…” His voice cracks slightly, “I messed up.” 

He looks down at me, and then there they are, the stupid, unfair puppy eyes. The ones that probably could convince me to jump from a plane without a parachute. 

“Really,” he says, quieter now. “Please. I just want to make things right. Okay? Please.”

It cracks something in me. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Steve realizing he screwed up. Steve showing up and trying. 

And I’m turning him away. 

Even if it’s to protect him, even if it’s the only smart thing to do, it feels wrong. My fingers twitch against the door like I might swing it open and let him in and forget about everything for a minute. I inhale sharply and force my face to harden. I shake my head. 

“Please…” he repeats, softer this time. 

His eyes drift over me, taking in my disheveled appearance. I suddenly become hyper aware of how I look. My jacket is somewhere on the Byers’ floor. My sleeves are rolled up. My hair is probably a mess around my face. I haven’t looked in the mirror in hours. 

His gaze drops to my hand. I realize too late that I haven’t kept it behind my back. It’s hanging at my side, the gauze wrapped clumsily around it. A small, dark stain bleeding through the white. 

His expression shifts. 

“Hey,” he says, softer, stumbling over his words. “What happened to your hand?” 

His eyes snap up to mine, worry hazing them. I immediately shove my hand behind me again, stupidly. He already saw it. 

“Nothing,” I blurt out, way too fast. 

“What’s going on?” His eyes scan my face, searching. I can practically see the gears turning as he pieces together my appearance. There’s tension and the wafting of gasoline drifting past me from inside the house. 

“Nothing!” I repeat, sharper this time. Defensive. 

“Andi,” he says quietly. My name feels heavier in his mouth than it should. He holds my gaze, eyes burning into mine like he’s trying to read every lie written there. And he probably can. 

“Let me in,” 

“No!” I say immediately.  

But he pushes past the door with a sudden burst of force. I stumble backward, giving him just enough room to force his way inside, the door swinging wider. 

“Steve-” I start, but it’s too late. He stops short in the living room, eyes moving fast. The bat on the floor next to the couch. The revolver on the coffee table. The gasoline trail leading down the hallway. 

Nancy and Jonathan look up at him, then at me. Anger flashes across their faces.

I throw my hands up in defense. 

“What is…” Steve mutters, his voice hollow with disbelief. His eyes dart around the room again, trying to make sense of everything. “What the…”  

“You need to get out of here,” Jonathan says suddenly, darting forward from the couch. He plants his forearm against Steve’s chest, trying to block him from stepping farther into the living room, herding him back toward the door like this can still be undone. 

“Woah,” Steve stumbles half a step, more confused than angry. “What is all-” 

“Listen to me,” Jonathan cuts him off, his voice low in a way I’ve never heard before. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Get out of here.” His hands fist into the front of Steve’s dark green sweater, gripping tight as he tries to shove him back toward the door. 

Steve doesn’t budge. He plants his feet like a tree, stubborn and solid. 

“What’s that smell?” Steve says over him, his nose scrunching as the gasoline thickens in the air. “Is that gasoline?” 

Nancy and I lock eyes at the same time, then at the coffee table. Without a word, we move. I lunge for the bat, fingers wrapping around the wood just as Nancy grabs the revolver. The metallic click of it being cocked deafening the room. 

“Steve!” I shout, my voice sharper than it should be. 

“Get out!” Nancy yells, lifting the gun and pointing it directly between his eyes. 

For a split second, everything freezes.

I know we’re not actually going to hurt him. 

I know that, and I think he does too. But it’s enough to scare him. And if scaring him means he’ll leave, if it means that he’s not here when that thing comes crashing through here, I’ll take it. I’d rather have him hate me forever then watch him die in front of me. 

Even Jonathan steps back, eyes wide, leaving Steve standing alone in the middle of the room. 

“Wait-” Steve stammers, hands flying out in surrender. “What? What is going on?” His voice cracks as it climbs, panic bleeding into every word. His eyes dart between us, the bat, the gun. 

“You have five seconds to get out of here!” Nancy shouts, her hand shaking but steady enough to keep the revolver trained on him. 

“Okay, is this a joke?” Steve says, waving his hands in front of him like he can push the situation away. 

“We’re doing this for you,” I breathe out, tightening my grip on the bat and lifting it higher, forcing myself to look like I might actually swing. 

Behind us, a faint tinkle. Soft at first. The Christmas lights flicker. Once. Then twice. My stomach drops. 

Fuck. 

“Nancy,” I warn, my knuckles turning white around the bat’s handle. 

“Four,” she starts counting, her focus still locked on Steve, completely oblivious. I glance at Jonathan and his eyes aren’t on Steve anymore. He’s staring at the wall behind us. The lights flicker violently, red, green, yellow, flashing in uneven bursts. 

“Andi,” Steve pleads, desperation cutting through his voice as he looks at me. “What is this?” 

“Three,” Nancy continues, her voice wobbling. “Two-”

“Nancy,” Jonathan says, not taking his eyes off his light. The lights flare brighter. Faster. 

“No, no, no, no!” Steve shouts, backing up further, hands still raised between us like he can shield himself from everything happening at once. The lights begin flickering widely now, buzzing and snapping, casting frantic shadows across the walls. 

I freeze, just like in the woods. The same paralyzing fear runs up my spine and locks my muscles in place. 

“Nancy!” I shout again, louder this time, my voice cracking as I finally tear my eyes away from the lights to look at her. “The lights!”

She finally comes to, spinning around with wide eyes as the lights flick on and off faster than I’ve ever seen them move, like the house is glitching. Nancy’s mouth falls open, all the color draining from my face, and her hand drops slack at her side with the gun hanging uselessly from her fingers. 

My chest heaves up and down as I turn with her, the bat still raised over my shoulder. It feels heavy now. Useless. I don’t feel ready to actually hit anything. I just feel small. 

“It’s here,” I swallow harshly, the word here scraping up my throat. I step in front of Steve anyway, planting myself between him and whatever's coming, lifting the bat like I know what I’m doing. 

“Wait- what's here?” Steve panics, his voice pitching higher as his eyes widen at the lights flashing on and off around us all by themselves. 

Next to me, Jonathan grabs Nancy by her arm, pulling her back closer to us. Dragging her away from the flickering lights like it might swallow her whole. 

“Where is it?” Nancy mutters, her voice thin and shaking, eyes darting wildly across the room. 

My chest rises and falls so fast it almost hurts. I let the bat dip toward my side for half a second as I spin around, searching behind us, into the dining room, into every dark corner for any sign of the monster. Any ripple in the walls. Any tear in the air. 

“Where is what?” Steve’s gaze drops to my bat as I jerk it back up into position. “Woah! Easy with that!” he yells, throwing an arm out defensively. 

I ignore him. I can’t afford to hear him. I just keep turning in slow, frantic circles, scanning the walls for anything bulging or stretching like Joyce said. Anything pushing through the other side. 

“Where is it?” I call out again, louder this time, my voice cracking as it echoes Nancy’s words. 

“I don’t know!” Jonathan snaps back. He and Nancy stand back to back now, rotating slowly, eyes sweeping around the room. “I don’t see it.” 

“Where is what?” Steve repeats, enunciating every word like maybe we’ll finally answer him. His eyes are wide, terrified. “Hello?” he shouts into the room. “Will anyone explain to me what the hell is going on?-”  

“Steve!” I bark, whipping my head toward him so fast it almost makes me dizzy. He shuts up instantly. I can barely think of him talking, let alone breathe. My head is already too loud. 

A crash explodes through the room. Steve ducks instinctively. I snap my head back toward Nancy and Jonathan, bat raised, heart in my throat. 

The white ceiling above us begins to crack in the corner. Hairline fractures spider out, drywall splintering and collapsing in dusty chunks. Pieces rain down onto the carpet. Behind the wall, the same membrane-like vines Nancy crawled through in the woods. Slick and veiny. 

The gate Mike was talking about.

My mouth falls open as I tighten my grip around the bat so hard my knuckles ache. I plant my feet, forcing myself to stay upright, to stay ready, even though every part of me wants to run. 

A wet, clicking snarl echoes from behind the vines. The sound is so close it vibrates in my bones. I stumble back a step without meaning to. Nancy wastes no time. She squeezes her eyes shut and fires into the corner. The revolver cracks through the room, deafening. 

My vision sharpens as half of the monster’s body forces its way through the ceiling. Its skin is a pale gray, stretched tight and slick with some slime that shines against the light. It roars as the bullets strike its back, its long arms bracing against the broken ceiling as it tries to push itself free. 

“No!” Jonathan howls, grabbing Nancy’s arm and yanking her back before she can fire again. 

The Demogorgon tears itself fully from the ceiling and drops to the carpet with a heavy thud that shakes the floorboards, letting out a screech that feels like it splits the air in two. A hand suddenly wraps around my waist and yanks me backwards. My bat dips uselessly toward the floor, but my eyes stay locked on the monster. 

I glance back just enough to catch a glimpse of Steve’s battered face, his jaw clenched tight. Even now, even staring death straight in its faceless mouth, there are stupid, traitorous butterflies in my stomach. Steve and I aren’t strangers to touch, but this feels different. 

Desperate, like he’s afraid to lose me.

Probably just fear. 

“Go, run!” he shouts, shoving me forward. 

I don’t argue. My legs finally listen to my brain and I bolt into the hallway, following Nancy and Jonathan. The Demogorgon roars behind us, the sound chasing down the corridor, pushing me faster. 

“Jump!” I shout back to Steve as I leap over the bear trap we set earlier. My shoes barely clear the metal teeth. 

“Oh my god!” Steve yells behind me, panic spilling out from him as he jumps over it too. His shoes slam hard against the floor. “Oh my god! Oh my god!”

We crash into Will’s room, Steve slamming the door behind him the second he’s inside. The metal No Trespassing sign rattles violently and clatters to the floor from the impact. I bend forward, dragging in shaky breaths that scrape my lungs raw, and let the bat fall from my hand with a metallic clang from the nails on the floor. 

“Jesus, Jesus!” Steve shouts out, eyes blown wide. “What the hell was that?” 

“Shut up,” the three of us snap at the same time. 

The Demogorgon screeches from the other side of the door, close enough to make the wood of the walls tremble. I snatch the bat back off the floor and raise it again, but my arms don’t feel steady. After the living room, after seeing it fully, my confidence is gone. 

Jonathan flicks his lighters on, the small frame trembling in front of him. Nancy raises the gun toward the door, fingers glued tight with the trigger. Panting fills the room. Four sets of lungs, too loud. We stare at the door, waiting for the sound of the tripwire snapping. Waiting for impact. 

“What’s it doing?” Nancy whispers, barely moving her lips. From the other side, I hear wet clicking noises. Guttural and animalistic. They crawl under my skin and make it hard to breathe. 

“I don’t know,” I breathe out, shifting the weight between my feet, trying not to shake. The lamps in the room flicker on and off again, throwing us into bursts of harsh and sudden light. 

“Do you hear anything?” Nancy mutters, noticing the absence of noise. 

I shake my head slowly, lowering the bat again. Jonathan flicks his lighter off, plunging us into stillness. 

“Give me that,” he says quietly, nodding toward the bat in my hand. 

I toss it to him by the handle. He catches it easily and raises it near his face, swallowing hard. He takes a few careful steps toward the door before slowly turning the knob and creaking it open. He peeks his head out into the dark hallway, all of us holding our breath.

After a long beat, he steps fully outside. The rest of us follow, one by one, staring down the empty hallway. Nothing moves. 

It’s gone. 

Just like that, it disappeared. One second it was clawing its way into the living room and the next we were being swallowed by silence. Which means it's still out there. Still breathing and hunting. It could be looking for Will right now. Or Joyce. Or Hopper. The thought settles heavy in my chest, thick and suffocating. 

We stand in the hallway frozen, hands limp at our sides, staring at the empty space like it might ripple again and spit the thing back out at us. The quiet feels wrong. 

We exchange glances, quick and uncertain, searching each other’s faces for answers. Jonathan keeps the bat raised in front of him, shoulders tense, eyes scanning every shadow. Just in case. We move slowly down the hallway, each step cautious. When we reach the living room, I stop short. 

The roof is intact. No cracks and no holes. No membranes or vines. It looks completely normal. Like a literal monster didn’t just rip through it minutes ago. 

“This is crazy,” Steve stammers to himself behind me, his voice shaking. “This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy!” 

His hands wave wildly in the air, smacking against his legs, dragging through his hair, which somehow still falls perfectly, like he just styled it, even after all that chaos. I resent him for it. 

He practically slams against the wall where the phone hangs, yanking it down with trembling fingers, fumbling as he tries to dial. Without a second thought, I dart over and rip the phone from his hands, smashing it against the ground from behind me. The plastic cracks loudly against the floor. The police can’t get involved. They won’t understand. They’ll call us hysterical. Or worse, they’ll call the lab. 

We have to handle this ourselves. 

“What are you do-," he chokes, throwing his hands up in frustration. “What are you doing?” His voice cracks, fear splitting right through it. “Are you insane?” 

“It’s going to come back!” I shout, my own voice raw and fraying at the edges. “So you need to leave!” 

I shove my hands into his chest, feeling how hard his heart is pounding under my palms. “Get out of here, Steve!”

“Now!”

For a second, he hesitates. Just stands there, staring at me like he’s trying to decide whether to argue or bolt. I push him again toward the door. Harder this time.

His eyes search mine. I narrow them, refusing to soften. He glances over my shoulder at Nancy, something unreadable flickering across his face. He finally turns and scrambles out the front door. The cold air rushes in for a second before the door swings shut behind him. I turn back behind him. I turn back to Nancy and Jonathan with a heavy sigh I didn’t realize I’ve been holding. 

“You did the right thing,” Jonathan mutters quietly, the bat hanging at his side now. I don’t answer. I just stand there, straining to listen. A car door clicks open outside. Only then does a small breath of relief escape me. 

The feeling doesn’t last very long. The lights above us begin to flicker again. Slow at first. A single blink. Then another. Then faster. The electricity in the room starts to pulse, a low hum vibrating through the walls. 

My stomach drops. My breathing grows heavy and uneven. I reach for the hammer I used earlier to pound the nails into the bat, wrapping my fingers tightly around the handle. The metal feels cold and grounding in my palm. I step closer to Nancy and Jonathan, without saying anything. We shift into position, backs pressed to each other, facing outward. A ready circle. 

“Fuck,” I breathe out, barely louder than the hum of the house. This is it. 

“Come on,” Jonathan urges into the room, his voice is sharp and shaking all at once. “Come on, you son of a bitch.” Like it can hear him and understand. 

“You see it?” I call out, my voice echoing thinly as my eyes drag across the ceiling again, searching for another tear, another gate waiting to open. 

“No,” Nancy breathes, shaking her head. Her breaths are loud and uneven, almost as loud as mine.  

“Come on,” Jonathan presses, turning slowly, bat raised. “Where are you? C’mon.” 

There’s a quiet click. Every light around us snaps off at once. Darkness swallows us whole. My chest heaves as panic claws up my throat. If it comes at us now, we won’t see it. We won’t see the claws. Won’t see the mouth open. It’ll just be over.

Certain death in the dark. 

A low grumble rumbles somewhere too close. It vibrates through the floorboards beneath the carpet, through my ribs. I tighten my grip on the hammer until my knuckles burn white. 

“Andi!” Nancy screams. I spin around, arms ready to swing and it’s there. Just a foot away from my face. The Demogorgon looms over me, its skin pale and slick. Its body towering over mine in the dark. Before I can even lift my arm fully, it slams a massive hand into my chest and throws me to the ground. 

The air leaves my lungs in a broken grasp. Its claws press through my sweater, sharp enough that I feel them bite into my skin. My hammer tumbles from my hand, clattering uselessly beside me. 

This is it.

This is where I die. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain. For the ripping and the tearing. The end. And in that split second, my mind betrays me. Memories flash in film strips behind my eyelids. Running around the house with Dustin when we were kids, wooden sticks in hands pretending we were Jedi. The sound of my mom’s laugh at the movies when she’d steal popcorn off my lap. The first time Steve and I met. Sunsets on my rooftop. Sitting side by side on tree branches, feet dangling, talking about nothing and everything. 

A small broken whimper escapes my lips as hot drool drips onto my cheek. 

“Andi!” A voice cuts through everything. There’s a heavy thud above me, a crack of metal and wood against flesh. The pressure on my chest suddenly vanishes. 

Air rushes into my lungs so fast it hurts. I sputter, wiping my face with the back of my hand as I scramble backward on the floor, heart slamming violently in my ribs. 

My vision sharpens enough to see Steve, bat raised, face twisted with fury and fear as he swings it hard into the monster's side. The thud echoes through the room. 

“Steve!” I shout, scrambling to my hands and knees. He grunts as he brings the bat down again, slamming it into the Demogorgon’s neck. The creature roars, a sound so loud it feels like it tears through my skull. 

It claws towards him and I think I stop breathing. 

Steve ducks just in time, stumbling back, bat held out in front of him like a shield. He grits his teeth, spins the bat once in his hands to steady himself, and then drives it forward again. Hard, into the monster’s stomach. The impact sends it reeling backward in the hallway. Right into the bear trap. The metal teeth snap shut around its foot with a sickening crunch. The sound is wet and sharp all at once. 

“He’s in the trap!” Jonathan shouts, disbelief and adrenaline tangling in his voice. The Demogorgon thrashes violently, trying to yank its foot free, but the chain holds firm, nailed down deep in the floorboards. 

“Jonathan!” Nancy yells. “Now!”

Jonathan rounds the corner, already pulling the lighter out of his pocket. His fingers shake so badly I’m scared he’ll drop it. He flicks it on and the tiny flame glows in the dark. 

He throws it, the hallway erupting into fire. Flames race up the gasoline soaked floor, swallowing the Demogorgon in bright, roaring, orange. It screeches, a high, horrific, sound, as its slick skin makes contact with the fire. I stumble back, throwing my arm up over my face as a wave of scorching air slams into us. The heat is suffocating, blinding. 

It writhes in the flames, thrashing and burning. And somewhere deep in my chest, underneath the horror and the smoke and the fear, there’s a sick, ugly, flicker of satisfaction. 

“Get back!” Jonathan yells, grabbing us and shoving us away from the growing fire. He lunges for the fire extinguisher near the couch, yanking it free and pressing down on the lever. White powder explodes from the nozzle, coating the hallway in thick clouds. The flames sputter and die quickly, leaving behind smoke, ash, and the sharp sting of chemicals in the air. 

We cough violently, covering our mouths, eyes watering as smoke engulfs the room. My vision blurs, everything turning gray and hazy. The screeching and thrashing stops and all that’s left is the sound of us trying to breathe. 

My legs finally give out and I collapse against the wall, my whole body shaking. 

I’m alive. I’m still alive. 

Slowly, we take a few careful steps forward. The smoke still hangs thick in the air, curling around us, stinging my eyes and throat. My ears are ringing from the screeching, from the bat cracking against bone, from my own heartbeat pounding too loud in my head. 

I step over the chain of the bear trap and look down, bracing myself. I expect to see a body. Molted skin. A carcass twisted and burned into the carpet. Something solid and final. 

Instead, there’s nothing. Just charred carpet. Blackened and smoking at the edges. Empty. 

“Where’d it go?” Nancy mutters, her voice barely steady enough to carry. 

“No,” Jonathan breathes, shaking his head slowly. His voice cracks down the middle. “It has to be dead.”

A choked breath slips out of me before I can stop it. My head falls forward, chin nearly to my chest. Please don’t tell me we did all that for nothing. Please don’t tell me that thing is still out there, hunting.

“It has to be,” I pant, like if I say it enough it’ll turn true. 

On the metal teeth of the bear trap, there’s boiling reddish goo clinging to the steel. It bubbles faintly, thick and wrong, dipping onto the ruined carpet below. The smell hits me a second later, burning, rotting flesh. Sour and heavy. It feels like a reminder of failure. 

Behind me, the lights surge again with a low electrical hum. My heart launches back into my throat, spinning round instantly with shaking hands. 

“Wait,” Jonathan murmurs from behind me, his voice strangely calm. 

“What?” I snap, but the lights don’t flicker widely like before. They don’t pulse or flash or explode in chaos. Instead, they turn on one by one in a straight line above us. Steady and intentional. Jonathan steps in front of me, following them slowly. 

“Are you insane?” I stare at him. 

“Mom,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the word. “Is that you?” 

Nancy frowns, confusion slicing through the adrenaline. He doesn’t answer her. He just keeps walking, following the line out of the front door and onto the porch. Nancy and I trail after him, Steve on our trail. 

Outside, the streetlamp at the corner of the house flickers softly, bathing in the streets in warm yellow light. Moths circle lazily around it, their wings glowing gold every time they pass through the beam. 

“Where’s it going?” Nancy asks quietly, her eyes lifting to Jonathan’s face. 

“I don’t think that’s the monster,” he says, not looking away from the streetlight. His eyes are glossy now, tears pooling at the edges. “It’s my mom and Hopper.” The words settle between us. 

“That’s how Will was talking to your mom,” I mutter, the realization clicking into place. 

After what feels like a good minute, we turn and head back inside. None of us saying a word. The silence is thick, but it’s needed. After the fire and the screaming and almost dying. I peel off toward the kitchen without thinking. My hands are still shaking and my chest is still tight. I need water to splash me back from reality. 

I grip the edge of the sink and splash icy water onto my face, gasping at the shock of it as it runs down my cheeks and neck, soaking the color of my sweater. I close my eyes for a second, letting myself breath. 

Footsteps enter the kitchen behind me. Footsteps I recognize. 

“Are you okay?” I hear Steve ask softly from behind me. I spin around and nod automatically. I don’t actually know if I’m okay. I don’t even know what okay means anymore. But physically? Nothing feels broken or bruised and nothing's bleeding. At least I don’t think so.

“Are you?” I ask, my eyes scanning him carefully. His face, neck, and slope of his shoulders, for any fresh blood or bruises that weren't there this afternoon. 

“I’m okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. And then we’re back there again. Back in that silence from this afternoon. The one that stretches too long. The one that feels like it’s swallowing everything we don’t say. I hate it. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he finally asks. He steps closer. I instinctively take a step back until my lower back presses against the edge of the sink. The porcelain digs into me, grounding me. 

“I didn’t want you following me into battle,” I answer, staring somewhere over his shoulder instead of at him. I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll break. 

He shakes his head slowly, like he can’t believe what he just heard. 

“You’re my best friend, Andi,” he says, exhaling hard as he drags a hand down his face. His voice cracks around the edges. 

“That’s exactly why,” I whisper back, my voice trembling despite how hard I try to steady it.  “Today is exactly why.” 

I pause, swallowing against the lump forming in my throat. "What if it killed you?"

The image replays instantly. Steve swinging the bat into the Demogorgon’s side, ducking its claws by inches. One wrong move. One second too slow. It could’ve sliced right through him. I don’t think I could live with myself if anything happened to him because he was saving me. 

“It didn’t” he says firmly, taking another step closer. 

“Yeah, well what if it did?” I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyes now. Just imagining it feels like someone is squeezing my lungs.

“It could have killed you,” he shoots back, his voice rising, frustration bleeding, into it. His eyes harden, but they’re glossy too. I freeze, the words landing heavier than I expect. I swallow hard, throat tight. 

“This afternoon,” he continues, his voice shaking now but not backing down. “In the car…you didn’t say goodbye because you thought you’d see me tomorrow.” My breath catches. 

“You were saying it because you thought you might not come back.” 

The truth of it punches the air out of me. My eyes sting, tears finally spilling over despite how hard I try to blink them back. 

“You’re not being fair,” I murmur weakly, shaking my head. 

“No,” he snaps, anger flashing across his face. “You’re not being fair,” 

 He runs his hand through his hair again, pacing a step away. “You were ready to leave me.”

“Steve,” I whisper, sounding more like a plea than his name. 

“You were ready to leave me and not even tell me why,” he says again, each word heavier than the last. It feels like something solid slamming into my chest. 

His breathing is uneven, rising and falling beneath his sweater. I finally force myself to look up at him. Really look at him. My bottom lip trembles, tears tracking freely down my cheeks now. I can’t think of anything to say to him. To make this better. 

Something in his expression shifts. Like it breaks whatever he was holding on to. He snaps his head away, jaw tightening. He turns and bolts for the door, slamming shut behind him. I don’t go after him. I just stand there in the kitchen, hands gripping the edge of the sink, salty tears streaming down my face. The sound of the door slamming echoes in my head, louder than any Demogorgon ever did.

It feels like an eternity before I can even move. I stare at nothing, listening to the quiet hum of the house. Eventually, I force myself to splash another handful of cold water onto my face, the chill biting at my skin, hoping it’ll erase the redness in my eyes and wash away the evidence of everything I’m feeling. 

It doesn’t, but it’s enough. 

With a sharp inhale that stings my lungs, I push myself away from the counter and walk back into the living room, schooling my features into something neutral and steady. Nancy and Jonathan both look up as I enter. 

“Where’d Steve go?” Nancy asks immediately, her eyes darting to my face like she’s searching for something.  

“He had to go,” I say smoothly, the lie sliding off my tongue easier than it should. I’ve gotten disturbingly good at it lately. “Got freaked out, I guess.” The excuse tastes bitter in my mouth. 

Jonathan studies me for a second too long, his expression unreadable, like he knows there’s more there but won’t push it.

I’m grateful for it. 

“Dustin walkie talkied,” he says instead. 

My posture straightens instantly, like someone just snapped a tight wire inside me. “What’d he say? Is everything okay?” The worry rushes in fast and ugly, spreading through my chest like weeds choking out everything else. 

“Yeah,” Nancy answers quickly, her voice softening. “They’re fine. The police are there with them.”

The breath that leaves me feels like I’ve been holding it for hours. My shoulders drop slightly, tension easing just enough to function. 

“Okay,” I whisper, more to myself. I nod once, firming my voice. “We should go.” 

Silent and exhausted nods are exchanged between us and just like that we’re piling back into the Byers’ car. No one says much as Jonathan pulls out of the driveway, the tires crunching back on the gravel. 

We pull into the school parking lot, flashing red and blue lights wash over the windshield. Ambulances and police cruisers crowd around the lot. Sirens hum low in the background and paramedics weave through clusters of officers. My heart starts pounding all over again. I scan the crowd frantically, searching for a familiar mop of curls. 

I spot Dustin standing near the Sinclairs, Lucas close by. They both look smaller now, swallowed by the flashing lights and all the adults towering over them. 

For a second, I wonder if they called our mom too. They probably did, but knowing her she's wine-drunk and passed out on the La-Z-Boy, Mews curled up and purring on her lap. 

“Dustin!” I shout, already moving before my brain can catch up. I sprint across the pavement and crash into him, wrapping my arms around so tight it’s like I haven’t seen him in years instead of hours. After everything, I need this. I need him breathing in my arms. 

He hugs me back just as tightly, his face pressing into my stomach, arms locking around my waist. We stand there just like that for a second. 

“She’s gone,” he chokes out, his voice muffled against me. 

“What?” I pull him back gently, my hands gripping his shoulder so I can see his face. His cheeks are red and blotchy, eyes swollen and glassy from crying. 

“Eleven. She’s gone.” 

My stomach drops straight through me. I pull him back into me, hugging him tighter than before, like if I don’t hold onto him hard enough he might disappear too. 

A hand grips my shoulder gently, pulling me tightly. I release Dustin slowly, turning around. Jonathan stands there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like he’s trying to process it himself. 

“They found Will,” he says quietly, almost like he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. My breath catches and next to me I hear Dustin inhale sharply, lighting up instantly. The words feel fragile. 

Next thing I know, we’re piling back into Joyce’s car. I’m in the back seat, squeezed next to Dustin, Lucas and Mike, their shoulders pressed tightly against mine. 

The car takes off fast. Jonathan doesn’t slow down for turns and I have to grip onto the passenger handle with one hand to keep from slamming into the door as we whip around a corner. The streetlights blur past the windows in streaks of gold. My heart is still racing, but now it’s different. 

The hospital waiting room is stark and painfully white, the kind of white that makes everything feel colder than it actually is. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing everyone in a pale, sickly glow. The air smells like antiseptic with something metallic underneath it. 

I spot Joyce immediately. She’s pacing back and forth in front of the row of the plastic chairs, her hands shaking at her sides, her face drained of color. The fluorescent lightning makes her look almost translucent. Hopper sits a few chairs away, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together tightly in his lap. 

“Mom!” Jonathan calls, already moving. He rushes to her and wraps his arms around her. She clings to him like she might collapse if she lets go. The boys swarm her instantly, questions overlapping, voices rising desperate for answers. Nancy and I trail behind more slowly, hovering on the edge of it all. 

A nurse in a bright white uniform steps through the double doors leading to the main part of the hospital. She has a clipboard tucked to her chest and that calm, practiced look on her face. 

“He’s waking up,” she says, directing it mostly to Joyce. Her eyes flick around the room, taking in the crowd that’s grown from two adults to six kids. “Immediate family only,” she enunciates, clearly. 

Joyce and Jonathan exchange a look, something silent and understanding, and then they follow the nurse through the doors without another word. The doors swing behind them with a soft thud.

I exhale slowly and sink into one of the stiff plastic chairs. The relief of finally being off my feet almost makes me dizzy. My legs feel like they’ve been carrying the weight of the entire day. 

The waiting room goes quiet again. I hate being alone with my thoughts. I hate when it’s quiet enough to be able to hear them so clearly ringing around in my head. But here we are. The only sound is the faint hum of the lights above and the distant beeping of hospital machines somewhere down the hall. 

Barbara is the first thought that creeps in. Her name feels heavier now than it did earlier. The guilt I shoved aside, buried under survival and adrenaline, comes roaring back like an eighteen-wheeler. I think about her parents. About how they still don’t know how she didn’t make it out. It makes my chest tighten. 

I think about Will too. He’s alive and here and waking up. The thought steadies me enough to breathe. It makes everything feel like it had a purpose, it feels worth it. 

I try not to think about Steve. The way he looked at me in the kitchen, like I’d hurt him worse than any Demogorgon ever could. He stormed out and didn’t even look back. Right now, in this cold, buzzing waiting room. I miss him more than anything. I wish he was sitting beside me so I could lean my head against his shoulder. So we could split a bag of Skittles from the vending machine and forget about everything for a while, pretend this was just another late night in his living room. 

I fold my arms together in my lap and glance over at Dustin. He’s completely asleep, his mouth slightly agape, his head resting heavily on Lucas’ shoulder. Lucas is out too, snoring softly, his head tipped back against the wall. A small, tired smile tugs on my lips. Mike is the only one awake. He’s fiddling with the watch on his wrist, twisting it back and forth. His eyes dart to the hospital doors every few seconds like he’s willing them to open. 

Time drags, half an hour passes. Maybe more. It’s hard to tell at this point. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jonathan’s silhouette behind the frosted glass. Mike sees it too, his head snapping up immediately. Jonathan steps through the doors with a single nod, gesturing with his head back inside. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. 

“Guys,” Mike whispers, urgently, reaching over and shaking Dustin and Lucas awake with both hands. “Guy’s he up! Will is up.” 

Dustin and Lucas both groan, Mike’s voice cutting their nap short. Lucas throws his hands up almost dramatically as he jolts awake, blinking against the fluorescent lights. Dustin shoots upright almost instantly, fumbling to fix the cap on his head. He swipes at the corner of his mouth, wiping away a line of drool. Mike doesn’t wait for either of them. He’s already sprinting towards the doors. Nancy and I hurry after them, Jonathan lingering behind us, calling out directions down the hallway. 

Mike burst into the room without knocking. Little Will Byers, who's propped up in a hospital bed that looks too big for him, looks back at him through his wide, tired brown eyes. They light up as soon as he sees him. 

“Byers!” Mike shouts, launching himself forward and practically collapsing on top of him, wrapping his arms around Will’s frame. Dustin laughs from behind him, the sound bright and shaky. Joyce jumps back instinctively, startled by the sudden explosion of noise and limbs in the room. 

“Be careful,” she scolds, though there’s no real bite in it. Her voice wobbles. “Be careful with him!”

Lucas dives in next, half falling on the bed beside Mike. Dustin grabs both of their shoulders, trying to shove them over. 

“Move, idiots,” he grunts, before throwing himself toward too, careful but desperate all at the same time. 

“Guys,” I say softly from the doorway, leaning against the frame beside Nancy. I don’t move any closer. I just watch. “Easy on him.” 

“You won’t believe what happened when you were gone, man,” Lucas says, grinning so wide it looks like his face might explode. 

“It was mental,” Dustin adds loudly, hands flying everywhere as he gestures, nearly smacking Mike in the head. 

“You had a funeral,” Lucas blurts out. 

“Jennifer Heyes was crying,” Dustin adds, leaning in conspiratorially. A small, breathy laugh slips out of me at that. Their priorities are unbelievable. 

“And Troy peed himself,” Lucas continues proudly. “In front of the whole school!” 

Will lets out a laugh, real and warm, and for a second everything feels like it used to be before. Like they’re just a bunch of kids crowded around someone’s bed after a sleepover. His laugh stutters, turning into a cough. The room stills instantly. The boys freeze like someone pressed pause. 

“You okay?” Mike asks quietly, nudging Will’s shoulder, all that chaos melting into something careful. 

Will nods weakly, catching his breath. His voice is small when he speaks, “It got me. The Demogorgon.” 

“We know,” Mike says, softer than I’ve ever heard him. Not loud and bossy like he usually is. is. Just steady. “It’s okay. It’s dead.”

“We made a new friend,” he continues, and I see the shift in his face, the sadness creeping in around the edges. “She stopped it. She saved us. But she’s gone now.” 

“Her name’s Eleven,” Dustin adds, looking down at his hands as he fidgets with his thumbs. 

“Like the number?” Will asks, voice hoarse but curious.

“Well, we call her El for short,” Lucas shrugs. 

“She’s basically a wizard!” Dustin beams, trying to bring excitement back into it, though his eyes tell a different story. 

“Like you,” Mike says, gripping on Will’s shoulder gently. 

“She has superpowers,” Lucas whispers dramatically. 

“She flipped a van with her mind,” Dustin continues, words tumbling over each other. “And these agents were trying to shoot us!”

“Yeah, it flipped over us,” Mike talks over him, while Lucas cuts in again.

 “She squeezed their brains out!” 

They’re all talking at once now, overlapping, tripping over each other in their rush to tell him everything. I don’t think Will can truly follow the chaos of it. I’m not sure anyone could, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He just watches them with bright, shining eyes and a smile that stretches across his pale face. 

Their voices start to blur together after a while. It should feel warm. It should feel like a victory. 

But it doesn’t. 

The smile on my face slowly fades. Barbara creeps back in, quiet and unavoidable. 

She’ll never get this. 

Nancy will never get this. That feeling of your best friend coming home. That relief. That second chance. 

I glance over at her. She’s standing a little apart from everyone else, arms crossed tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together. Her eyes are fixed on the floor, not on Will, not on her brother. Just down. Like if she’s not present, it won’t hurt as much. 

A deep, heavy sadness settles into my chest, thick and unmoving. It presses against my ribs until it’s hard to breathe. 

And, God, I miss Steve. 

He always made everything feel lighter. Even when things were bad, really bad, he had this way of making things survivable. I could really use that right now. I could really use him. 

The air in Will’s room feels too crowded now all of a sudden. Too loud and full of relief that doesn’t belong to everyone. Through shaky breaths, I slip out without saying anything. No one notices, too wrapped up in each other. 

The hallway feels colder and quieter. When I get back to the waiting room, it’s almost empty now. Just Hopper, sitting there under the harsh fluorescent lights, hat tipped low over his eyes, hands folded lightly on his lap. 

I don’t say anything. I just walk over and sink into the chair across from him. My body feels heavier than it should, like I’m carrying something I can’t put down. 

“It’s not your fault, kid,” he mutters, voice rough and low from beneath the brim of his hat. 

“What?” I choke out, startled. I quickly wipe at my eyes, embarrassed that he noticed.  

“Holland,” he clarifies, finally lifting his head enough to look at me. His eyes are tired, but steady. “Don’t torture yourself. Trust me.” 

I stare at him, my chest rising and falling unevenly. I don’t know how he knows. I don’t know how it’s written all over my face. 

“I could’ve done something,” I whisper, swallowing hard. The words feel like broken glass in my throat. 

“Don’t” he says, flatly. Not unkind, just firm. “Don’t do that.” 

The way he says it, so certain, cuts straight to me. His sympathy stings worse than blame would have. I’m not sure I deserve it. Not when Barbara doesn’t get to sit in a hospital bed surrounded by Nancy and her family.

I nod. Small and weak. My eyes burn as I look at him, wide and glassy. 

He studies me for a second longer, then pushes himself up from his seat with a quiet grunt. He adjusts the hat on his head, digging into his jacket pocket until he finds a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He taps one loose from the smashed cardboard box and places it between his lips. He passes me and gives my shoulder a rough squeeze. 

The side exit door swings open, letting in a slice of a cold night air before it shuts behind him.

Just like that, I’m again.

________________________________________________________

December 24th, 1983 Andi Henderson

I slide into the driver’s seat of my mom’s Beetle, the vinyl cold against the back of my legs through my jeans. The door shuts with that familiar hollow thud, and for a second I just sit there. 

I buckle my seatbelt and turn my keys in the ignition. The engine sputters before catching, the whole car giving a small shudder. My foot presses down on the gas, pulling away from the curb, heading towards the Wheeler’s house. The streets are quiet, wrapped in a certain, soft, Christmas Eve stillness. 

The route feels heavier than it should. I’ve walked these roads before when everything was unravelling. I can see it layered over the present. The houses blurs past, familiar but different somehow, like they remember too. 

Dustin had insisted on going over for a last-minute DnD campaign tonight. Christmas Eve, of all nights. Normally, my mom would’ve shut that down immediately. But ever, since the whole Will incident, she’s been different. Softer and looser. Letting Dustin get away with things he never would’ve before. Of course, she lets him go. And now I’m the one sent to pick him up for Christmas dinner. 

Snow starts falling heavier as I turn onto the Wheeler's street, the flakes sticking to the windshield before the wipers brush them away in slow, rhythmic sweeps. The world looks softer like this. Almost peaceful. 

I pull into the driveway and my stomach drops. Parked right there, like it belongs, a burgundy Beemer. 

Steve’s car. 

We haven’t spoken since the fight in the Byers’ kitchen. Haven’t really looked at each other either. Every time I replay it in my head, I feel that same dull ache in my chest. The look on his face feels like a pang to my gut. 

I see him at school sometimes. Across the hallway, by the lockers, in the parking lot, and every single time, we both look anywhere but each other. We avoid each other like the plague. Not because I want to, because God, I miss him. So much it feels embarrassing sometimes. It feels pathetic. 

But every time I go to pick up the phone, I remember his eyes that night. The way they shut down. The way he walked out without looking back. 

He doesn’t want to hear from me. 

That’s what I tell myself. 

My breathing turns uneven as I step out of the car, the cold air biting at my cheeks. Snow crunches softly beneath my boots as I walk up the driveway. I lift my hand to knock on the Wheeler’s door, my knuckles hovering just inches over the wood. 

Before I can, I hear snow crunching behind me. Headlights sweep across the snow as Jonathan’s car pulls up beside mine, engine rattling slightly as it comes to a stop. I let out a small breath. I guess I’m not the only one stuck picking up my little brother on Christmas. 

“Hey,” Jonathan mutters, shoulders hunched as he digs his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, breath fogging in the cold. “Picking up Dustin?”

I let out a slow sigh that turns into a small cloud in the air, “Yup.”

He nods once and steps ahead of me, lifting his hand to knock on the wooden door before I can even think about it. 

Thank God. 

I don’t think I would’ve had it in me, knowing what’s waiting on the other side. Or who.

The door swings open and Mrs. Wheeler stands there in a bright apron dusted with flour, her smile warm and effortless. 

“Andi! Jonathan!” she beams, clapping her hands together to shake off what looks like powdered sugar. “They’re in the basement, like always.” She shakes her head in mock disapproval, like she truly cannot understand why a group of boys would choose a dark basement over literally anything else. 

Jonathan and I force polite smiles, even manage a small laugh. The second I step inside, warmth wraps around me. The house smells like cinnamon and sugar and something savory baking in the oven. My stomach growls quietly. Or maybe it’s just the nerves twisting inside me because I know he is somewhere in the house. 

If I just go straight to the basement, don’t stop, grab Dustin, and leave, maybe I won’t have to see him. I can avoid it entirely just like I have for the past month. I make a beeline for the basement door like it’s a mission. 

“Jeez,” Jonathan mutters as we head down the stairs, scrunching his nose dramatically. “What’s that smell? Have you guys been playing games all day or just farting?” 

It actually pulls a real laugh from me.

From the table, Lucas grins, “Oh, that’s just Dustin. He farted.” 

Dustin’s gummy smile drops, kicking Lucas under the table. 

“Dustin farted,” Lucas sings obnoxiously, blowing raspberries. “Dustin farted!”

“Okay,” Dustin says, rolling his eyes so hard it's impressive. “Very mature.” 

Lucas keeps blowing raspberries until all of us break into laughter, the kind that feels easy and uncomplicated. 

“C’mon, Sir Gas-elot” I joke, gesturing towards the stairs. “Mom wants us home.”

“Shut up,” Dustin mutters, nudging Lucas in the shoulder as he stands up. He and Will exchange high-fives with the boys, grinning at each other stupidly. Dustin and Lucas even start punching each other's arms, laughing, until I give them a look. They separate and we head upstairs. 

My hand rests briefly on Dustin’s back as we pass through the kitchen. Mrs. Wheeler is carefully decorating what looks like a fruitcake, arranging bright candies over thick white glaze. A glass of white wine sits in her other hand. No wonder she and my mom get along so well. 

“Wish your moms a Merry Christmas for me,” she says warmly. 

“Yeah, of course,” I reply, with a small smile.  “Thank you. Merry Christmas,” 

“Merry Christmas.” Jonathan parrots from beside me. 

“You win?” I ask Dustin quietly as we head toward the front door. 

“Yeah,” he says proudly, slipping ahead of me.  

“Jonathan,” a voice calls out from behind us.  

Nancy’s voice. I know I shouldn’t turn around, but my body betrays me. Nancy steps out from the living room, her hair falling over one shoulder. Behind her, sitting on the couch is Steve. His eyes already on me. Our gazes lock for the first time in over a month. The world slows and the air feels thinner. His face is healed, the bruises gone and cuts faded. He looks like himself again. The version of him I have memorized and somehow that hurts more. 

It feels like the cracks in my heart open all over again. I swallow hard, fighting the lump in my throat, forcing myself not to cry right here in the Wheelers’ entryway. I tear my eyes away first, for my own sake. 

“Hi, Nance,” I say, managing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Merry Christmas.” 

Just before I turn back around, I let myself look at him one more time, but now he’s looking down at his lap. 

On the drive home, I shove it all down. Every thought of Barbara. Every image of Steve. The way he looked when his eyes met mine. I can’t afford to fall apart right now. If I let myself feel it all at once, I don’t think I could recover. 

I glance over at Dustin, who’s fiddling with the radio, static crackling between stations as he searches for something decent. His face lights up in that simple way, reminding me he’s still just a kid and I smile. 

For him, at least, I could hold it together. 

[forourspidey]

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

MASTERLIST

very slow burn childhood friends to lovers, best friend!steve and henderson!fem oc.

⭑.ᐟ authors notes: guys i know i'm one writing this but i lowk just need them to kiss already. i will stay strong. alrighty everyone! prepare for angst:) (also props to yall who catch the gravity falls reference). i also just love this chapter. maybe my favorite one ive written maybe bc it has the most steve so far. we're also almost done with season one omg!!! i have so many ideas already for season 2 so stay tuned ;))))

⭑.ᐟ warnings: canon slut shaming, canon homophobia, fighting, descriptions of violence, talks about death. (lowk suicide if you SQUINT), steve being a little shit.

⭑.ᐟ summary: Andi Henderson and Steve Harrington had been inseparable since they were six. Even when Steve became the golden boy, he never stopped looking for her in a crowded room. Somewhere along the way, Andi started seeing him differently, not the version everyone adored, but the boy who only ever dropped his guard around her. Then he fell for Nancy Wheeler. Or thought he did.

⭑.ᐟ chapter summary: Andi joins Jonathan in Nancy's bedroom as they try to piece together the inner workings of this thing they're hunting. Plans and theories are made, the tension is thick with fear, urgency, and something charged between Nancy and Jonathan. That day, Steve and his friends do something unimaginable. Rivalries and resentments explode into a fight, forcing Andi to face her own emotions.

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⤷ ゛ao3 link ˎˊ˗

CHAPTER SIX: FIRST LIGHT

. . . . . ╰──╮

November 12th, 1983

Andi Henderson

My phone blares through my room, the sound sharp and sudden, cutting straight through the quiet like a siren. My heart lurches as I groan softly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes while I lean over in bed and fumble for the phone on the light stand. My fingers close around the cold plastic.

I squint over at my alarm clock through blurry vision, forcing my eyes to focus.

7:34 am.

I bring the phone up to my ear, my voice rough and half-asleep. “Hello?”

“How fast can you come over?” Nancy’s voice comes through on the other line, tight but urgent, like she’s already ahead of me.

Any lingering grogginess drains out of me instantly, like someone flipped a switch. My stomach tightens as I push myself upright in bed, suddenly very awake. I shake my head a little and pinch the bridge of my nose, already mentally running through how long it’ll take me to get dressed, wake up enough to function, and get to her house.

“An hour, maybe,” I mumble.

“Perfect,” Nancy says, determination in her voice. It’s a complete 180 from how she sounded last night, all quiet and shaken. As relieved I am as I am she's back to herself again, that knot of worry in my chest doesn’t go away. If anything it tightens. Nancy Wheeler doesn’t snap back like this without reason.

Before I can question anything, the line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a second, the silence settling in around me, then let out a slow breath. No time to overthink it. I swing my legs over my bed and waste no time, heading straight to the bathroom. Cold water, quick movements, muscle memory taking over. I pull on clean clothes without much thought. My usual get up, jeans, a long sleeve, and my jacket. It seems safest.

Familiar.

The walk to the Wheeler’s house is short. My thoughts run faster than my feet.

When I reach the front door again, déjà vu hits me hard. I’ve never been here over here this much in my life. Not even as kids.

I lift my hand to knock.

Not even being able to get two knocks in before the door swings open and Nancy grabs my arm, yanking me inside.

“Jesus-” I yelp, stumbling forward as I try to keep my balance and shove the door shut behind me. When I look up, both Nancy and Jonathan are standing there, arms crossed, watching me like I’m late for something important.

“Good, you’re here.” Nancy glances over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the house quickly, making sure nobody was up yet. It’s just as empty as it was last night, the quiet pressing in from every direction. Satisfied, she turns and leads us upstairs without a word.

We head back to her room. Books are spread across her bed, spines cracked open, pages bent and marked. A notepad sits in the middle of it all, filled with frantic scribbles and underlines.

Jonathan lingers by the door, arms still crossed, like he’s guarding it.

“What’s all this?” I question. I catch myself staring at the mess on the bed, trying to piece together what I’m looking at.

Nancy notices.

She turns to me, her expression sharp and focused.

“Wherever, I was last night… that place,” Nancy begins. Her voice strains, catching in her throat. She swallows hard, blinking like she’s fighting the images clawing their way back. Something I’m all too familiar with. “I think it lives there.”

I take in a sharp inhale as I sit on the corner of the bed. My mind drifts back to the tree, to the way she disappeared into it like it was nothing more than an open gate. It still doesn’t feel right, the idea that there was something behind that gap in the bark.

But then again, we are hunting literal monsters in the woods. Reality stopped playing by the rules a while ago.

“It was feeding there,” she continues, her fingers worrying a pencil back and forth like it might ground her. “Feeding on that deer.”

Jonathan leans against her dresser near the doorway, arms crossed, face tight but unsurprised. Like he’s already heard every word of this.

I almost forgot he spent the night.

“That means that if…” I inhale a sharp breath, my gaze snapping up to Nancy’s, dread setting heavy in my chest.

I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to make it real.

“If Will and Barbara…” Nancy trails off, her voice dissolving into silence. Her eyes drift downward, locking into an invisible point on the wall like she can’t bear to look at either of us.

“Hey,” Jonathan cuts in gently. He steps closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. Quiet and intimate, like he forgets for a moment I was there.

I notice.

“My mom said she talked to Will,” Jonathan adds suddenly.

My eyebrows knit together as my eyes flick to him. He drops the information like it’s nothing.

“She spoke to Will?” I ask, arms crossed tightly in front of me.

Jonathan hesitates for a beat, like he’s weighing whether to say it aloud or not.

“Through the lights,” he finally says, his voice low. Careful. “I know it sounds…crazy. But she said the lights were flickering. He was answering her.”

I blink, processing.

It’s not even the strangest thing I’ve heard, or seen, these past few days. At this point, logic itself feels flimsy anyway.

“If he’s alive,” Jonathan says softly, his hand drifting to settle on her back. “Theres a chance Barabra is too.”

I notice.

“That means that she’s trapped…” Nancy whispers, shuddering as realization comes crashing over her. “In that place.” Her eyes widen, like thought physically chills her. She shakes herself slightly, trying to rid the feeling.

“When you say that place?” I ask carefully, arms wrapping around myself, fingers digging into my elbow.

“It looks just like here,” Nancy says, finally turning to me. “Like Hawkins but dark… decaying.”

My brows draw together.

Parallel dimensions.

Great.

“You wanna go back out there?” I ask quietly, looking between both of them.

“Maybe we don’t have to,” Nancy says, shaking her head as she moves closer to the bed.

“When I saw it,” she paces slightly, her energy returning to her body. “It was feeding on that deer. Meaning it’s… it’s a predator right?”

“Well I didn’t really expect it to be a herbivore,” I mutter. The shadowy figure flashes in my mind. The shape, the way it moved, the way my body knew to be afraid before my brain caught up.

“And it seems to hunt at night,” Nancy continues, shooting me a look.

“Like a lion, or a coyote?” I offer.

She nods, reaching behind me on the bed and pulling out a book. She flips it open to a page with an illustration of a lion as she scans through the dense text quickly.

“But it doesn’t hunt in packs like them,” she corrects, her hands hovering over the page. Jonathan leans over her shoulder, eyes scanning along with her.

“It’s always alone,” I saw, slowly. “Like a bear.”

Middle school field trips to the woods flash through my head. Learning about different wildlife native to Indiana. They would warn us about bears. Telling us to stay calm and make yourself look bigger, what not. Not that I could ever pay attention, Tommy and Steve were always messing around too loud next to me.

Suddenly, it clicks.

Bears. They can smell blood from miles away and if these things are like bears…

My heart jumps as I spring up from the bed, standing in front of them both. “Remember at Steves, when Barbara cut herself?” I ask Nancy, trying to pull the memory forward. As if she could ever forget that night.

She nods, eyes sharp and locked onto mine.

“And then last night,” I continue. “The deer.”

“It was bleeding too,” she says, realization hitting her at the same time. Her eyes widen.

“One sec,” she mutters, turning back to the bed and digging through the piles of books until she finds one already marked.

“Sharks can detect blood in one part per million,” she reads out loud, her fingers tracing the words on the page as Jonathan leans in.

“That’s one drop of blood in a million,” she explains, looking up, “and they can smell it from a quarter mile away.”

“So, you’re saying it can detect blood?” Jonathan asks. Nancy and I nod.

“It's just a theory,” I say quietly with a small shrug, trying to sound unsure even though my gut is screaming at me. Every instinct I have is buzzing and the look on Nancy’s face tells me she feels it too.

“We could test it,” Jonathan says after a moment. “But if it works…” he trails off, shaking his head, like he doesn’t want to finish the thought out loud.

“At least we’ll know it’s coming.” I say, exhaling slowly and swallowing the lump in my throat. The words feel heavy as they leave my mouth.

Before anything else could be said, a loud rattle cuts through the room.

We all jump. A sharp gasp slips from Nancy as she grabs Jonathan’s hand, her fingers locking around his like it’s pure instinct. Something she doesn’t even think about.

I notice.

“Honey, are you up?” I hear Mrs. Wheeler call from the other side of the door.

Nancy lets out a breath she’s clearly been holding.

“Yeah,” Nancy answers, her voice wavering. “I’m… I’m getting dressed.”

“I made blueberry pancakes,” Mrs. Wheeler says brightly, the words practically smiling through the door.

Nancy rolls her eyes, shoulders slumping in defeat at her mom’s offer. I can’t help the small giggle that slips out of me.

“Blueberry pancakes,” I whisper, echoing with a teasing smile.

Nancy shoots me a look through narrowed eyes, completely unimpressed.

“I’ll be down in a second,” she finally says, sighing.

The three of us exchange a look, bursting out into muffled laughter. Quiet, breathless giggles over absolutely nothing at all. The kind that sneaks up on you when the tension finally loosens its grip. It doesn’t make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

It’s human.

Its nice. Especially, when everything feels so alien at the moment.

“You guys should sneak out my window,” Nancy says, gesturing towards it. “I’ll meet you guys at the hunting and camping store downtown.”

The plan settles into place, like we're already moving forward whether we’re ready or not.

After a silent nod from us both, we carefully creak open Nancy’s window and ease ourselves out into the cool morning air. I let Jonathan go first. He swings one leg over the sill, then the other, steadying himself for a second before stepping onto the slanted side roof. Without much hesitation, he slides the rest of the way down, landing on the ground below him with a dull thud.

I’m a lot more careful than he is. I take my time, testing my footing, making sure I won’t slip. I’m no use in the hospital with a concussion. When I finally hop down, the impact rattles straight through my body, knocking the breath out of me for a second as I scramble to steady myself.

“How does Steve do that so easily?” I mutter to myself as I catch up with Jonathan on the sidewalk.

“So,” I say after a moment, once we started our walk downtown. The quiet just feels like it’s begging to be filled. “How was spending the night?” I ask, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.

“Don’t,” He immediately, shaking his head. “Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Right,” I reply easily, nodding along. And honestly, I believe him. To an extent. At least physically, Jonathan is too much of a good guy to cross that line and I know Nancy isn’t the kind of person to cheat. But emotionally, something shifted.

Something subtle.

The air this morning felt different.

“Steve took you home last night,” Jonathan says after a beat, his voice neutral but laced with teasing implications.

“Well,” I shrug. “I had to blow him off because of this whole monster hunting thing.” The words taste a little sour as they leave my mouth. Not because Will is missing. Or Barbara. None of that is an inconvenience. It's just everything is tangled and impossible.

There’s no clean way out of it.

We reach the town square, Jonathan glancing at the watch on his wrist, realizing we still have time to kill before Nancy gets here. Jonathan tells me he’s going to grab his car from his house. His house being significantly closer to town than Nancy’s and mine, tucked away in the suburbs. So, I watch him head off, hands in his pockets.

I decided to kill time by looking around town, letting my feet take me wherever they want. Strolling around like everything’s normal, like there isn’t a monster terrorizing the woods outside of Hawkins. It feels a little surreal.

I don't know why. I mean, of course the world keeps spinning anyways. People are still going to buy groceries. Still laugh. Still hold hands.

For a while, I just roam. People watching becomes a distraction, something to anchor myself. I spot my middle school math teacher sitting in a booth, laughing over breakfast with a girl who’s definitely not his wife. I spot a girl from my second period standing outside of a bookstore, reading a book she probably just bought inside. I even spot Joyce Byers riding in the passenger seat of Chief Hopper’s cop car, her hair wild, her posture tense even from a distance.

Weird.

I shake it off before my thoughts can spiral too far and keep walking until I reach the diner.

The bell above the door rings as I step inside, the sound bright and familiar. Warmth wraps around me immediately, chasing the cold from my bones. The diner smells like grease and sugar and something comforting I can’t name as the buzzing sound of chatter surrounds me.

“Henderson!”

I look up and see Susan behind the counter. She’s a friend of my mom’s from the salon she works at. A regular in our lives. Most people call her Lazy Susan because of her right eye, but I’ve always hated that.

Her greying hair is perfectly teased like it always is, her makeup done with care. There’s something about her that seems unshakeable.

I think I want to be like her when I’m seventy, sharp-tongued and still standing.

“Hi, Susan.” I say, smiling as I slide into a stool on the counter. “Just a coffee, please.”

They only ever serve one kind here. Black and piping hot. Even in the middle of June.

She nods and turns away, pouring the dark, steaming liquid into a paper cup. Before I can say anything, she grabs a slice of cherry pie from the display and sets it down in front of me like it’s already decided.

“Oh, just the coffee.”

“Just take it.” She waves me off with a playful roll of her eyes. “You look like you need it.”

I sigh, staring down at the pie. She’s not wrong. I haven’t been myself this past week. But then again, who would be?

People are missing.

Nothing makes sense.

Sleep seems optional.

“What? Have a fight with loverboy?”

My eyes snap up from the counter, “What?”

“That boy you’re always with,” she says, casually. “Harrington, I think.”

My stomach drops. Does she think me and Steve are… together? Like together, together?

“Listen,” she continues, already deep into it, shaking her head as she wipes the counter. “I’ll tell you something, those Harringtons are real snobs. Keep their noses real high, but they are still stuck in this town just like the rest of us. You know what Nicole Henderson said to me one day-”

Her voice fades into background noise as my mind latches onto what she just said.

Loverboy.

Harrington.

Together.

“No, Susan,” I interrupt, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Steve and I aren’t... We’re friends.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes again. This time without humor. “I’ve seen you two in here a thousand times. You can kid the rest of these clowns, but one thing I’m not is stupid.”

I freeze, fork hovering mid air with a bite of pie skewered on the end.

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” she adds, tossing the towel over her shoulder. “That boy looks at you with stars in his eyes.”

“Alright, alright,” I murmur, shaking my head slightly. “I get it.”

I don’t.

Not really.

A dull ache settles in my chest, sharp enough to sting. I want to believe her.

I want to believe that it’s that simple. That clear.

That Steve could look at me like that and mean it.

But I know Steve.

I know Steve.

I finish my pie quietly while Susan moves on to chatting with a trucker beside me. A regular passerby, someone I swear I’ve seen my entire life. I leave a five dollar bill on the counter, murmur a thank you, and step back outside in the cold.

The heat seeps through my cardboard cup, warming my hands as the bill rings behind me.

The walk to the hunting shop is short, the air still crisp as we move through the quiet streets. Outside, I spot Nancy and Jonathan leaning against the building, straightening up as they see me.

“Took you long enough,” Jonathan mutters, spinning around to pull the glass door of the store open. I finish the last sip of my coffee, letting the warmth slide down my throat before tossing the empty cup into the trash by the door.

“Shut up, Byers” I groan, slipping past him as he holds the door open.

Inside, the smell of metal and oil hit me, mixed with that faint smell of sawdust and leather that seems to linger. We all grab a basket and split up, each disappearing into a different corner of the store.

I drift down an isle lined with hammers on one side and coolers on the other. My fingers trail along the cold steel as I pick up a sledgehammer, feeling the weight and balance of it in my hands, imagining the force it could deliver.

Something in my peripheral vision catches my eyes. The shiny, cold metal of a few bear traps resting on the shelves ahead. I set my hammer in my basket and walk towards them, my steps slow, almost hesitant.

I sense Nancy behind me. I cross my arms and tilt my head slightly as my eyes stay on the bear traps in front of me, mentally gauging Nancy’s thoughts. I glance over my shoulder, and she meets my gaze with a small shrug and a knowing nod, already on the same page.

After a while, we all regroup at the register, unloading our baskets in front of the cashier. He’s a middle-aged man with a red trucker hat perched just so. Nancy sets down her gas canister and bottle of lighter fluid, while Jonathan plops down the heavy bear traps and a pile of metal pegs. I drop the hammer I’ve been holding, along with a couple of new flashlights.

“And I’ll have four boxes of the .38,” Jonathan says, leaning casually on the counter. The man behind the counter just stares at us, expression flat, unreadable. My stomach tightens. Please, don’t start asking too many questions.

Please, don’t call the cops.

With a slow shrug, he spins around behind the counter to retrieve the boxes of ammo.

Relief washes over me, warm and sudden.

“What you kids doin’ with all this?” he asks, pencil behind his ear, the radio humming low in the background.

“Uh-” I start, but no believable excuse crosses my mind.

I glance over at Nancy, eyes wide.

“Monster hunting,” she blurts out with a casual shrug. I have to bite back the laugh that threatens to escape.

“Huh,” the man scoffs, as the cash register dings, ringing us up. We all dig into our pockets, pulling out crumpled bills. Most of mine come from babysitting Dustin.

The man packs the item neatly, some in a cardboard box and the rest into two bags. The gas canister being too big to fit into either. Nancy and I each grab a bag, leaving the heavier box to Jonathan as he lifts it with ease.

“Monster hunting?” I tease as the door behind us swings shut, the bell chiming softly. A small smile plays on my lips as I cross the short distance to Jonathan’s car and pop open the trunk, the metal creaking slightly.

Nancy steps closer, carefully setting her bag next down to the box inside. “You know,” she says lightly, almost in disbelief, “last week I was shopping for a top Steve might like.”

The name hits me like it always does. The familiar sting I don’t think I’ll ever shake.

“It took me and Barb all weekend,” Nancy continues, lifting the gas canister with her other hand and swinging it into the trunk. “It felt like life or death, you know? Like it really mattered. And now…”

“You’re shopping for bear traps with Jonathan Byers and Andi Henderson,” Jonathan finishes for her, shutting the trunk with a solid thud.

“Yeah,” Nancy laughs, a giggle escaping her lips like she couldn’t quite believe herself.

“What’s the weirdest part?” I ask, leaning back against the car and glancing over at her. “Us or the bear traps?”

“You guys,” she says, immediately, furrowing her eyebrows in exaggerated seriousness, though the smile on her face gives her away. “Definitely you guys.”

A small laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. Jonathan chuckles too, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking down at the pavement. I notice the faint pink creeping into his cheeks, subtle but unmistakable.

Something in my chest loosens.

I realize how much I’m starting to get attached to these two. I mean I’ve always liked them, but this feels different. Real, even though we were just thrown together by circumstance. Besides Steve, I haven’t had friends like this in a long time.

Carol, Tommy, and the rest of those people that hang around “our” circle. They’re not really my friends. With them, I’ve always felt like I was on the outside somehow, like I never quite fit. Like I was floating above it all, watching from a distance instead of being pulled in.

But standing here with Nancy and Jonathan, laughing over something as absurd as bear traps and monsters, it's different.

Behind us, a loud car horn blares, sharp and jarring. I glance over Nancy’s shoulder just in time to see Reed and his friends crammed into his car, laughing to themselves. My stomach twists.

I’ve had the absolute displeasure of being stuck with him at one of Steve’s parties. The memory crawls up my spine. His wandering hands, the way he never seemed to understand no, how I ended up hiding in Steve’s bedroom because Reed wouldn’t stop breathing down my neck.

“Hey, Nance! Can’t wait to see your movie,” he calls off, winking exaggeratedly.

The car peels off, his friends cackling as they disappear down the street, their laughter lingering far longer than it should have.

A cold, dreadful feeling settles deep in my chest. I don’t want to think it, but I can’t stop myself.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, brows knitting together as my eyes follow the car until it’s gone.

“I- I don’t know,” Nancy says shakily, stepping toward the side of the car. Her eyes stay fixed on the road like she’s waiting for something else to appear.

She spins around suddenly and starts walking away.

No, running.

“What?” I glance at Jonathan, but he looks just as lost as I feel, his confusion matching mine.

“Hey! Where are you going?” he calls after her, already moving. I scramble to follow a second later.

Nancy’s pace quickens, almost frantic now. Her eyes dart around as she pushes past people on the sidewalk, like she’s chasing a thought she can’t outrun. I have to practically sprint to keep her in sight.

“Nancy, wait!” Jonathan pants ahead of me.

We reach the movie theatre outside of Royal Furniture Co., coming to an abrupt stop right in the middle of the intersection. My lungs burn. I bend forward, hands on my knees, trying to suck in air.

I hear Nancy let out a sound so broken it makes my heart seize.

I finally lift my head, and my stomach drops straight through the pavement.

Written across the marquee is All The Right Moves. And right besides it, sprayed in harsh red spray painted, are the words:

Starring Nancy “The Slut” Wheeler

I want, need, to give him the benefit of the doubt. But deep down, I already know. This was Steve. I can feel it in my bones.

My best friend is slipping through my fingers and I don’t know how to stop it.

“Jesus,” Jonathan breathes beside me.

People stare. They whisper. I can feel their eyes crawling all over us, judging, consuming. I rush to Nancy’s side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Nancy…” I whisper, my voice cracking despite my best efforts.

Like some sick cosmic joke, I hear it. The sharp hiss of a spray can, followed by a laugh I know all too well.

Tommy Hagan.

I don’t even think. My body moves before my brain catches up. My feet hit the pavement hard as I take off, fury flooding my veins. I can hear Jonathan and Nancy right behind me, fast in my trail.

“Wait!” Jonathan calls out, ever the pacifist.

I round the corner into an alleyway. The moment I see them, my worst fears are confirmed.

Steve, Tommy, Carol, and Nicole are clustered together, laughing and giggling to themselves as Tommy sprays something else on the wall that I can’t quite make out. Their laughs are mean-spirited and carefree, it makes my skin crawl.

“Tommy, you write like a three year old,” I hear Steve laugh, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his voice casual.

“Shut up!” Tommy shoves Steve playfully, no real heat behind it and turns back to continue spray painting the brick wall in bright red.

“I didn’t know you could spell.” Nicole drawls.

They haven’t even noticed me standing there. Watching, my chest tight. I can feel my heartbeat hammering in my ears, a mix of rage and disbelief.

Just then I feel Nancy catch up beside me. She’s practically trembling, her fists tight at her sides. I let her storm ahead. I don’t think I could face him right now.

“Aw, hey there, princess,” Carol sneers, voice grating. I scoff.

“Uh-oh, she looks upset.” Tommy adds, finally turning his gaze to us, his smirk smug.

“Can it, Hagan.” I quip, swallowing hard to keep my voice steady. He laughs, loud, and cruel, and I feel a spark of rage flare hot in my chest.

Steve’s face is unreadable. Something that used to be so effortless to me.

To understand him is now foreign.

It twists something ugly inside me, a bitter pang of betrayal and confusion.

Before I can snap back to reality, I hear the sharp crack of Nancy’s palm connecting with Steve’s cheek. My hand flies to my mouth in shock. Steve’s expression staying blank.

The group around me reacts with loud, exaggerated “Ohs!” and murmurs. I can feel their amusement pressing in, but I refuse to let it matter.

“What is wrong with you?” Nancy spits, her voice trembling with fury.

“What’s wrong with me?” Steve responds, stepping closer to her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was worried about you,” he admits, sighing. “I can’t believe I was actually worried about you.”

He scoffs and I recognize the disbelief.

Of course, he didn’t believe the story I sold him last night. Steve has always known when I was lying. Why did I think he would suddenly believe me now?

His eyes flick to me briefly. I can feel it.

Hurt.

And for a split second, I almost ache with empathy.

My glare sharpens, still filled with anger.

“What are you talking about?” Nancy throws her hands up, exasperation mixing with frustration, her eyes blazing.

“I wouldn’t lie if I were you,” Carol cuts in from beside Tommy, her voice dripping with a false sweetness, mocking as always. “You don’t want to be known as the lying slut now, do you?”

I hear Jonathan round the corner behind me, tense, ready to intervene. I grab his arm, a firm grip, stopping him. This will only spiral if he jumps in and we need to stay focused on what's important.

“Speak of the devil,” Tommy smirks, pushing off the wall and hopping down from the ledge. All eyes shift toward us like we’re part of the show now.

“You came by last night,” Nancy shakes her head, her voice almost breaking.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” Carol mocks. Tommy slings an arm around her, stealing the cigarette from her lips and slides it in between his own. “Does she get a prize?”

“Look, I don’t know what you think you saw,” Nancy says, stepping closer, trying to hold her ground. “But it wasn’t like that.”

“Oh yeah, Andi told me all about it. He’s the only one who knows what you’re going through, right?” Steve snaps, glancing over at me again.

“I don’t know who you’re fooling with that story.”

His voice is different. Harsher, angrier, than I’ve ever heard him before.

“We were just..” Nancy starts, but Steve cuts her off.

“You were just what?” Steve presses, sharp and demanding. “Finish that sentence.”

And I know she can’t. Not without tearing everything open.

Nor without spilling everything about the woods, the tree, Barbara, Will… every terrifying truth we’ve been carrying like glass in our hands.

“Finish the sentence,” Steve repeats, his voice thicker now.

Nancy breathes hard, each breath puffing white into the cold air. I watch her throat work as she swallows, like she’s forcing the words back down.

“Go to hell, Nancy.”

A breathy scoff leaves my lips before I can stop it.

I can’t recognize him anymore.

“C’mon Nancy, let's just go,” I say quietly, reaching for her arm and tugging gently. They’re not worth it.

Everything else is already hanging by a thread.

“You know,” Steve says suddenly, cutting through me, “out of all the people in this world that would’ve lied to me, I didn’t expect it from you Andi.” He steps closer, invading the space between us.

“Steve, don’t,” I shake my head, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. I can see it in his eyes. The hurt, raw and unguarded. It makes my chest ache in a way that betrays myself.

“And you Byers,” he continued, ignoring me completely. “I’m actually impressed.” He scoffs.

“I always took you for a queer, but I guess you’re just a screw-up like your father.”

Steve shoves his hands into Jonathan’s back, sending him stumbling forward.

Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around.

I mentally beg him.

Ignore him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

They can’t fight. Not now.

We are so close, so close, to finding Barbara and Will.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,” Steve keeps going. “That house is full of screw ups.” He shoves Jonathan again, harder this time. Hard enough to make him stop short, his body going rigid.

“You know,” Steve adds, almost casually. “I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised. A bunch of screws up in your family.”

“Jonathan, leave it.” Nancy spins around, pleading, panic slipping into her voice.

“I mean, your mom-,” Steve continues, relentless now. “I’m not even surprised what happened to your brother.”

I turn around. Not even angry anymore. Just hurt.

Deeply and unbearably hurt.

Steve's eyes meet mine for a split second, just long enough for him to see it. Before he looks away again, choosing cruelty.

“Leave it!” Nancy cries behind me.

“Steve, shut up!” I snap, my voice cutting through the chaos.

“I’m sorry to have to be one to tell you” Steve sneers, “but the Byers, their family is an entire disgrace-”

His words are cut off mid-sentence as Jonathan’s fist connects with his face, followed by Steve’s grunt as he stumbles back.

I step back instinctively, my hands flying to my mouth in horror.

Jonathan’s heavy breathing fills the space, harsh and uneven. Steve grunts and lunges at him, slamming him down to the ground with a solid thud that rattles straight through my bones.

“Ooh!” I hear Tommy shout out behind me, sounding way too impressed.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

I’m frozen again, rooted in place just like how I was in the woods with Nancy. My body locks up while everything around me is blurry and muffled, almost in slow motion.

I’m snapped out of it as I feel Nancy’s hands on my shoulders as she pushes me out of their way as they roll and writhe on the pavement, fists flying, bodies colliding in a messy blur of anger.

“Steve!” I cry out, hoping that if he’ll listen to anyone it’s me.

“Jonathan! Knock it off!” Nancy shouts beside me, just as desperate and powerless.

“Kick his ass, man!” Tommy whoops, pumping his fist as he flicks his cigarette to the ground beside them.

“Get off, stop!” Even Carol tries to intervene now, because we know more than anyone how this ends. These fights might be small and fast in the grand scheme of things, but the cops show up. Every time.

And every time, everybody gets hauled in.

If they find those bear traps and lighter fluid in Jonathan’s trunk, we’re done.

Completely done.

Steve and Jonathan keep grunting and struggling on the ground until Steve manages a sharp kick to Jonathan’s groin. Jonathan recoils with a gasp, just long enough for Steve to scramble back to his feet.

Jonathan recovers fast and swings, his fist connecting with Steve’s face. Again.

I lunge forward without thinking, reaching for Steve on instinct alone. I barely register the sudden impact as his elbow strikes my face, knocking me back. I clutch my cheek, stumbling, stars bursting behind my eyes.

Steve freezes as he notices me. Just for a second.

His face flickers with something I just can’t quite place. Tears sting my eyes, partly from the pain, but mostly from everything just coming crashing down.

“Get in there, he’s gonna hurt himself!” Carol urges, shoving Tommy toward them. He wedges himself between the two, arms out.

“Easy, easy!” he shouts, trying to hold Jonathan back.

“Hey!” Steve snaps, shoving Tommy away. “Hey- get out of here. Get out of here!” His fists come back up, ready again.

His pride is going to get him killed.

Jonathan swings again. Steve ducks.

The fires back, landing a punch square on Jonathan’s cheek. I stay where I am, clutching my face and helpless.

“Steve, enough!” I plead, trying again.

Their grunts still echo as Jonathan lands another hit.

“Jonathan, stop!” Nancy cries, edging closer.

Another punch sends Steve to the ground.

“You’re gonna hurt him!” I blurt out, the words betraying me before I can stop them.

Jonathan straddles him, pinning Steve down with one arm as his other fist comes down again. Then again.

Sirens.

Loud and unmistakable, slicing through the air.

“Cops!” Tommy shouts. “Cops, come on,” He taps my arm lightly, gesturing to me to start moving.

“He’s had enough man!” Tommy tries again, hauling at Jonathan’s shoulder. “I said he’s had enough!”

Jonathan stays planted.

Another punch lands.

“Kids!” One of the cops shouts as he jumps out of the car. I recognize him instantly as one of the ones who questioned me at school when Barbara went missing. “All right!”

Everything turns into a blur. Shouting, scrambling, bodies pulling apart. Both cops finally wrench Jonathan off Steve, accidentally getting hit in the face in the process. Only then do I realize how tightly I’d be holding my breath. As Jonathan gets pressed against the hood of the police car, relief floods over me that the fighting was over.

Tommy grabs Steve by the arm. I grab the other and we haul him away from the scene.

“I’ll meet you guys later,” I say to Nancy, my voice frantic and breathless. “Promise.”

“Go, go, go, go, go,” Tommy urges, practically dragging us down the street.

Behind us the mustached cop takes us after us while one stays back pinning Jonathan down, handcuffing his wrists together.

“Get back here, you little punks!” I hear him shout as we run.

We run, lungs burning, shoes slapping against the pavement. I don’t look back until we finally reach Steve’s car. He’s already digging frantically through the pockets of his Levi’s, fingers shaking as he’s fumbling for his keys. He staggers toward the driver’s seat, single-minded and stubborn, before I grab the back of his jacket and yank him away.

“Hey- no.” I say sharply, shaking my head. “You are clearly in no condition to drive right now.” I hold out my hand, firm, leaving no room for argument.

He grumbles something, angry and slurred, probably an insult, but after a second he drops the keys into my palm. I don’t hesitate before tossing them to Tommy, who looks far too pleased to get the keys to the Beemer, even if it’s at the cost of his friend getting beaten half to death.

For a second, I really look at Steve.

His face is swollen, one eye already purpling as half, his cheek is split and shining with dry blood. A shaky sigh escapes my lips. I hate seeing him like this.

I can’t pretend he didn’t deserve it though. What he did, or stood by and laughed through. It was cruel. So far from the person I became friends with in the first grade.

We climb into the backseat, Carol sliding into the front beside Tommy. I press myself against the door on the opposite side, turning my face away from Steve. I don’t trust myself to look at him right now without breaking.

Tommy drives to a gas station a little ways out of town, piling out as we pull into the small parking lot in front of the building. Tommy and Carol head inside, Carol always glued to his side.

Steve’s walk is uneven as he makes his way to his trunk and plops on top of it. I lean on the other side, metal cold against my back. The space between us is heavy and silent.

Neither of us says a word.

We’re both too angry to talk. This tension, this sharp, awful distance, is new. I hate every second of it.

Steve and I have fought before. Small, petty stuff. Nothing that ever felt like this.

The little bell on the door rings as Tommy and Carol come back out.

“You owe me a dollar fifty,” Tommy smirks, tossing Steve a bottle of aspirin and a cold Coke. Steve cracks the bottle open and dry swallows a couple pills, pressing the icy can to his face with a groan.

Tommy tosses me a Coke too, gesturing vaguely at my cheek where Steve’s elbow had gotten me earlier. I wince as I hold it there, the cold biting against the swelling.

“Don’t worry,” Tommy says, smug as ever. “When we’re done with him, he’s gonna need a lot more than aspirin.”

“Yeah,” Carol scoffs. “If the creep every gets out.”

“You’re not gonna do shit, Tommy,” I dead pan, staring off into a spot on the pavement.

Tommy laughs. Carol right along with him. “What, you got a thing for Byers too?”

Steve just groans from next to me.

“Oh my god,” Carol continues relentlessly. “Did you see the look on his face?” She mimics Jonthathan’s pained expression with exaggerated grunts, punching at Tommy’s chest.

Tommy laughs harder, “Probably had the same look when killed his brother, right?” He taps Steve’s shoulder like it was all one big joke.

Something ugly twists inside me.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Hagan?” I snap.

Carol cackles. “Wow. You really do have a thing for Byers. First Nancy, and now Andi. Poor Stevie can’t catch a break!”

“Carol,” Steve finally snaps, sharp and loud, “for once in your life, shut your damn mouth.”

I freeze.

Shock ripples through me as I stare at him, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. I cross my arms and drop my eyes back to the pavement, trying, and failing, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at my lips.

“What?” Carol asks, stunned.

“Hey, what’s your problem man?” Tommy demands, stepping up as if he has to defend her honor.

Steve lowers the can from his cheek and turns to face them, “You’re both assholes! That’s my problem.”

I bite my lip hard enough I think I might bleed, trying to stifle the laugh that threatens to slip as breathy scoff escapes anyway. My eyes flick between Steve and Tommy.

I knew he was still in there.

He just needed a little sense knocked into him. I’m still angry, but it helps.

“Are you serious right now?” Tommy snaps.

“Yeah,” Steve says, pushing past him toward the driver’s door. “I am. You shouldn’t have done that.

“Done what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, you mean calling her out for what she really is?” Tommy shoots back. “That’s funny, ‘cause I don’t remember you telling me to stop.”

Of course the idea was Tommy’s. It had his scent all over it.

Still, Steve stood by and laughed. Enjoyed it even. At least now he’s owning it. That’s something.

“I should’ve shoved that spray paint right down your throat.”

I nearly choke on my own breath. I’ve never seen Steve this angry, not even with his dad and I’ve seen them go at it more times than I can count. A product of the amount of time I’ve spent at his house.

“What the hell, Steve?” Carol spits, throwing her hands up like she’s the one being wronged here.

“Hey!” Tommy barks, shoving Steve back into his car, metal rattling under the force. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, man.”

“Get out of my face,” Steve snaps, pushing Tommy away by the chest, jaw clenched tight like he’s barely holding himself together.

“Jesus, not again,” I groan, stepping between them before it can spiral any further. My patience is thin, stretched past its breaking point.

“Or what?” Tommy sneers, shoving past me and grabbing Steve by the collar, slamming him back against the car door. “You gonna fight me now too?”

“Tommy!” I yell, shoving at his arm, panic flaring hot in my chest.

He barely acknowledges me, shrugging me off like I’m nothing.

“You couldn’t even take Jonathan Byers,” he adds cruelly, lips curling. “So I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Tommy!” I shout again, louder this time, voice sharp enough to cut. “Back off.”

He gives Steve one last shove into the car before finally releasing him, grabbing Carol by the shoulders and muttering under his breath as he stalks off.

I exhale hard, tension draining from my body in a shaky rush. “You’re on a roll today, Harrington,” I sigh, tossing him his keys. Thankfully I got them from Tommy before the shit hit the fan.

Steve just rolls his eyes, ducking into the driver’s seat like he’s exhausted by the world. He turns the key, the engine sputtering to life, then pauses.

“Hey,” he says quietly, his foot resting on the acceleration but not daring to press. He turns to me. “I’m sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. His eyes flick to the bruise blooming on my cheek.

Right.

I lift my fingers, brushing gently over the tender skin. “Wasn’t your fault,” I shrug. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Plus,” I add after a beat, “it’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

He nods, swallowing whatever he was about to say, and that unfamiliar, heavy silence settles between us again.

As we pull back onto the road, I break it.

“Hey… what you did back there? That was actually really cool.”

He glances over, confused. “What?”

“Telling off Tommy and Carol,” I clarify. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

He laughs, an actual laugh this time, warm and familiar. “What?”

“Yeah,” I grin, shaking my head. “They’re unbearable. I don’t know how you didn’t see it sooner.”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Seemed easier. Thought that’s what I was supposed to do.”

I look at him through knitted brows. “Wow. Didn’t think you’d ever admit that.”

“Well,” I smile softly, “I think you’re way cooler now.”

He smiles with a small groan, stretching his bruised face too much. “Well, if Andi Henderson thinks I’m cool…”

I laugh, real and unguarded.

For a moment, things almost feel normal again.

On the horizon I see the beige building of the police station.

I remember I promised I’d meet Jonathan and Nancy there after I got everything sorted with Steve. This temporary feeling of normalcy slips away as everything I got to escape from for just a moment comes rushing back, my stomach twisting in a way that was making me nauseous.

“Hey,” I start, my words are hesitant. “I’ll just get off here.” I gesture out the window to the building lined with police cars outside. “I just… I promised Nancy I’d meet her after.”

His face falls just a little. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks,” I say, noticing the shift immediately.

“Andi,” he says, turning toward me, his eyes glancing off the road to look at me. Eyes boring into me in a way that makes me feel naked. “Can you please tell me what’s really going on with you?”

It doesn’t help with the nausea bubbling in my gut.

Does he mean him?

Or the fact that I’m running full force into my own death sentence? The lies and late nights have piled up faster than I can keep up with or keep track of.

Either way, I’m screwed.

“What?” I mutter, eyes widening.

“This thing,” he gestures vaguely. "You suddenly being best pals with Nancy and Byers. Sneaking around. Asking me to come get you at Wheeler’s house at midnight.”

“You used to tell me everything,” he says quietly. Defeated.

It cracks something open in me. I want to tell him. I want him to pull over so I can spill everything. Will, Barb, the woods, everything that terrifies me. But I know Steve.

I know he’d try to fix it. Protect me. Save me.

And I don’t need saving.

I don’t need him to ever put himself in harm’s way for me.

“Steve, it’s nothing,” I lie. “Things have just been weird lately”

A bad lie. A stupid one. He knows it, but he nods anyway.

We pull into a parking spot between two off duty cruisers, gravel crunching under the tires.

“Just…” he starts, brows pinched. “Call me if you need anything.”

I hesitate, hand hovering over the door handle. I hate leaving him like this.

“Go back to the theater,” I say softly. “Help clean the paint. Then apologize.”

He nods. “Thanks.”

His lips curve into something that’s almost like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes like it always does when he’s laughing with me. It fades too fast.

“Love you, Stevie.” I smile back anyway, even though my chest tightens as I say it. This could be the last time I ever see him if things go wrong when we go looking for this thing. The thought sits heavy and ugly.

I hope he takes care of Dustin for me.

Mom, too.

He doesn’t say it back like he always does. He just rests his head against his hand, elbow propped on the door, eyes drifting out the window like there’s something out there, like there's something in here he can’t face. The silence between us stretches.

It’s funny. We’ve always had this plan. We’d move out to Chicago or Boston, New York, anywhere that wasn’t Hawkins. Somewhere big and loud. We’d be roommates and go to college together. I’d write, he’d play basketball. We talked about it like it was already decided.

Everything would be perfect. And ours.

I step out of the car, the door shutting with a thud that feels too final. I look back one more time as he pulls away, disappearing down the road. Probably back to an empty house. I remember so vividly the echoes as we laughed through the hallways.

Inside the station, the air feels stale and fluorescent. I spot the two officers who arrested Jonathan sitting with a kid looking about Dustin’s age and his mom. She’s holding his shoulder like he might slip away if she lets go.

There' s no sign of Jonathan. No Nancy.

I pass the receptionist, who’s completely absorbed in a novel. The kind that has the shirtless, glazed men on the covers, clutching on to a woman donning something I would barely call a dress. Ridiculous, if you ask me. The cover is creased, well-loved, like she’s read it a dozen times already.

“Miss!” she calls out when she notices me pushing past the batwing doors, but it’s half hearted. She doesn’t really mean it. She goes back to her book almost immediately

I walk down the corridor, shoes echoing softly against the tiled floor. I stop short as I spot the blur of a brown pony tail.

Nancy.

[byerstapes]

[ineedagun2001]

end of january affirmations

im not doing anything wrong and no one is mad at me

there must be a place for me in this world because here i am

my art doesnt suck

instagram is nothing to me

[dolliscent333]

he’s so bf coded. i NEED to bite him

© ‧₊˚ DOLLISCENT333

[forourspidey]

rip max mayfield you would've loved fiona apple

[cherryst4rg1rl]

Oh to be a girl in the 80s waiting for her boyfriend to climb through her window is my dream

[forourspidey]

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite. ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

MASTERLIST

⭑.ᐟ authors notes: very slow burn childhood friends to lovers, best friend!steve and henderson!fem oc.

this chapter is a bit of a shorter one. a little bit of filler that is needed to progress the plot. steve crumbs at the end and sprinkled throughout. a lot of just setting up the jancy plot. NEXT CHAPTER THO.... oh it's gonna EAT!! steve and jonathan fight scene.... just saying ;)

⭑.ᐟ summary: Andi Henderson and Steve Harrington had been inseparable since they were six. Even when Steve became the golden boy, he never stopped looking for her in a crowded room. Somewhere along the way, Andi started seeing him differently, not the version everyone adored, but the boy who only ever dropped his guard around her. Then he fell for Nancy Wheeler. Or thought he did. Andi learned how to smile through it, to ignore the quiet crack in her chest every time he looked at someone else the way she wished he’d look at her. That night, the party, the drinking, the scream, left something broken behind. Ever since, guilt has followed her, along with the feeling that Steve sees more than he lets on.

⭑.ᐟ chapter summary: Will Byers' funeral is quiet and heavy. Andi is weighed down by guilt, grief, and a fragile hope that Will... and Barbara might be alive. After the service, she joins Nancy and Jonathan as they secretly connect the disappearance for something in the woods. What begins as searching, turns to survival when they encounter proof of the monsters' presence. Forcing them to face fear, death, and each other. By the end of the night, Andi is exhausted and emotionally torn. Caught between what she knows, what she can say, and the quiet pain of loving people she can't reach.

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⤷ ゛ao3 link ˎˊ˗

CHAPTER FIVE: HOPE, EVEN HERE

. . . . . ╰──╮

November 11th, 1983

Andi Henderson

I stare down at my reflection longer than I mean to. It feels like the girl looking back at me doesn't quite belong today. I tug my black long sleeve lower over my skirt, smoothing the fabric that refuses to sit right.

Nothing feels right. 

Behind me, I hear my mom’s soft footsteps. She stops close enough that I can feel her warmth as she gently pulls my hair back over my shoulders. Careful and reverent, like I’m something fragile.

I’m so tired of being fragile.

“You look beautiful,” she says quietly. 

There’s something underneath her words. A sadness that dulls her usual bubbly personality. I nod because if I open my mouth, I don’t trust what might come out. 

Will Byers’ funeral is not something I ever imagined myself getting dressed for. 

And still… hope lingers.

Stubborn and painful. 

Hope that Mrs. Byers is right. That Will isn’t really gone. That he’s alive and breathing... scared but breathing.

That Barbara could be alive too. 

My mom clasps a thin gold chain around my neck. The small letter A settles against my collarbone, cool and familiar. Steve gave it to me one Christmas, grinning like a little kid. I treasure it. It even has its own little pale blue box on my dresser. I try to only wear it on special occasions. 

This feels like one. 

Mom squeezes my shoulder once before leaving the room, telling me she’ll meet me downstairs. The door clicks shut behind her. 

I sit at the edge of my bed, tugging my tights into place. I hate how nylon feels. Tight and itchy, like it’s trying to crawl under my skin. I slip on my black baby heels, the only pair I own. Carol practically forced me to buy them at the mall, something about looking more sophisticated and mature. I’d never thought they’d be worn for something like this. 

I take a deep breath, the air filling my lungs yet I still feel out of breath, as I head downstairs to meet with my mom and Dustin. 

The funeral is small. 

Quiet. 

Yet, somehow crowded with faces I don’t know personally, but recognize. 

Everyone knows everyone, even when they don’t. 

It makes everything feel fake. Like grief on display. It makes anger prickle at my skin. 

The priest’s voice fades into background noise as my eyes stay fixed on the six-foot hole in front of me, the coffin hovering inside of it. My chest tightens, my breathing shallow and sharp. 

I glance left. Nancy looks just as hollow, her face pale and drawn. Behind her, Mrs. Wheeler dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief, tears seeping through anyway. Mr. Wheeler stands stiff and distant, like he has somewhere better to be. 

In front of me is Jonathan Byers, sitting beside his mother in a suit and tie that looks borrowed and uncomfortable. Mrs. Byers just stares at a patch of grass in front of her like it might explain something if she looks long enough. I almost didn’t notice Lonnie Byers beside Jonathan.

All I see when I look at him is the reflection of my own father.

When I think too much about it I can’t breathe. 

My eyes flick away, back to the coffin. 

It’s awful that I’d rather stare at the grave of a little boy than think about my dad. 

For the first time in a long time I pray. Not out loud, not formally. Just quietly, desperately. 

I pray that Will’s alive.

That he's hiding. 

That he’s breathing. 

That Barbara is with him. 

That we will find them. 

That everything will return to normal. 

I break out of my trance, hearing Dustin mutter something to Lucas and Mike in front of me. I nudge him sharply, shushing him. 

After the priests finish with a final prayer, the funeral party gathered around the grave slowly begins to break apart. People drift away in pairs and clusters, heads bowed and voices low, like the dead could hear them whisper and disturb something fragile. 

All of them leave except for Joyce Byers. 

She stays where she is. Stuck. Rooted to the spot as if moving would make it real. She stands there staring into the open grave, her grief heavy and exposed. Haunting in a way that makes my chest ache just by looking at her. Like if she keeps watching long enough, something might change. Like Will might come home. 

It’s far too quiet for an early morning in Hawkins. Usually, you could hear the robins singing, fluttering in between branches, filling the air with noise before the day really starts. Today, there’s nothing. No birds. No wind. Nature itself feels hushed, disturbed. Like it was holding it’s breath from fear. Like it was mourning Will Byers along with the rest of the town. 

My eyes flicker forward, desperate for something else to focus on. 

I spot Nancy across the cemetery.

She’s standing off to the side, away from where everyone else was walking, in the opposite direction actually. My eyebrows knit together in confusion. She looks tense.

Nancy catches my eye, lifting her hand up, subtly motioning at me to come over. 

Standing beside her is Jonathan. His hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, his gaze fixed on the ground beneath his feet. The ground was brown and dead and had seen better days.

Ironic.

Everything feels dead around here. 

I glance back at Dustin and my mom. Neither of them are paying much attention to me. My mom is trapped in an endless loop of quiet condolences and polite nods, saying the same empty phrases over and over again. Dustin is already gone, swallowed up somewhere with Mike and Lucas. 

So, I spin around and hurry towards Nancy and Jonathan, my steps quick and unsure. As soon as I reach them, Nancy’s hand was gripping my shoulder and yanking me downwards without a warning. A small gasp escapes my lips as I stumble to the ground with her. Jonathan follows immediately, lowering himself beside us.

We all sit behind a tombstone, hidden from view, cold stone pressing up against my back. 

Jonathan plops a map down in between the three of us, the thin paper crinkling softly as it hits the ground. Somewhere in the distance, the church bells toll, slow and hollow. The sound carries through the air like a warning. 

The map is of Hawkins. Familiar street names and blocks.

Scrawled across it are three small red crosses, clustered together, forming a tight uneasy triangle. 

“This is where we for sure know it’s been.” Jonathan says quietly. I swallow harshly, immediately knowing what it is. His finger tracing over the red markings he made on the map. 

“So thats…” I murmur, leaning closer, my finger hovering before settling on one of the crosses. 

“Steve’s house.” Jonathan replies with a short nod.  “And that’s the woods where they found Will’s bike, and…” His finger shifts to the last mark. He hesitates for half a second before finishing, “...that’s my house.” 

His fingers bounce from cross to cross, pointing them out. As if repetition might make more sense.

“It’s all so close” I mutter. My eyes stay glued to the map, the realization sinking into my chest. 

“Yeah, exactly.” Jonathan nods, sharper this time. “I mean, it's all within a mile or something.” 

He lifts his gaze from the paper, jaw tightening. “Whatever this thing is, it’s… not traveling far.”

Both Nancy and I look up, already knowing what he’s thinking. What he’s about to say. The idea sits between us, heavy and unspoken. 

“You want to go out there,” I say. My voice comes out shaky despite my effort to steady it. The thought of having to face that thing again sends a cold rush through my veins. I can’t picture myself fighting it. I’m a lot of things, but a fighter isn’t one of them. Not against something nearly eight feet tall, with claws big enough to crush my head. 

“We might not find anything,” Jonathan says, like he’s trying to soften the edges of the fear. Like he can talk it into being less terrifying. 

“We found something,” Nancy cuts in, sharply. Her eyes drop back to the map.  “And if we do see it…” Her voice trails off, the sentence hanging unfinished in the air. 

“Then what?” I ask. 

Jonathan exhales deeply, pulling his gaze away from both of us. He stares out into the distance somewhere far past the cemetery, like he’s weighing something impossible. Like he already knows what must be done. 

“We kill it.” 

With a determined look carved into his face, Jonathan pushes himself up from the dry dirt, dust clinging to his palms as he stands. He doesn’t hesitate. He just starts walking. Nancy and I exchange a quick glance, something unspoken passing between us, before we scramble to our feet and hurry after him. 

He leads us deeper into the cemetery, weaving between headstones towards the far end where the cars are parked. All the way in the back, right where the land blurs into trees, sits a black sleek car. Tucked away and hidden. 

Nancy and I hover by the hood, arms crossed tight against our chest as Jonathan slips around to the passenger side. The door swings open with a quiet click. 

“It’s my dad’s car,” Jonathan says quickly, like he can hear the doubt already forming that he’s just breaking into some stranger’s vehicle. 

I peer through the windshield just in time to see him pull out a pocketknife from his jacket. My eyes widen, despite myself.

Jonathan Byers did not strike me as kind of boy who carried a knife around like that. 

And then my mind flashes, uninvited, to Steve, Tommy, and Carol. To the shattered glass of his camera and the sneering that went on for too long. Suddenly, it makes sense. Not that Steve would ever hurt him. Hurt anyone. I know Steve well enough that I know that, even with his temporary phase of a superiority complex he’s stuck in.

But the rest of Hawkins? I don’t trust them at all. The thought tightens something painful in my chest. 

I rise to my tippy toes, craning forward to see what Jonathan is doing. He’s jamming the knife into the glove compartment lock, jaw clenched in concentration. 

“What are you doing?” I mutter, leaning over the car for a better look. 

“Just give me a second,” he grunts, twisting the blade. 

We look incredibly suspicious. Three teenagers hunched around a car at the edge of a cemetery. My head snaps up, paranoia prickling under my skin as I glance over my shoulder. Relief slips out of me in a quiet breath when I see everyone still moving the other way, backs turned as they drift toward the reception. 

When I turn back, my face falls.

Jonathan is holding a gun. 

Black and shiny in his hands as he tries, a little too frantically, to shove it into his jacket pocket. My mouth falls open and my eyes narrow before I could stop myself.

“Are you serious?” Nancy hisses, her eyes blown wide. 

“What?” Jonathan says, already digging back into the glove compartment. He pulls out small mustard-yellow boxes that are unmistakably ammo. “You want to find this thing and take another photo? Yell at it?” 

My heart starts pounding as the reality of what we're doing settles in. I keep glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting someone to turn around and catch us standing here with Mr. Byers’ gun.

This is insane. Completely insane. Stupid even. 

We should not be doing this. 

“This is a terrible idea,” I tighten my arms crossed in front of me. 

“Yeah, well it’s the best we got,” Jonathan grumbles, stuffing the ammo into his jacket alongside the gun. 

I scoff and look over my shoulder again, the motion almost involuntary now. 

“What?” He continues, shaking his head. “You can tell someone but they’re not gonna believe you. You know that.”

“Your mom would,” Nancy shoots back, her nose pink from the cold. 

“She’s been through enough,” Jonathan says back almost immediately. 

He’s not wrong. Not really. But if an entire town was calling me crazy and three teenagers had proof I wasn’t? If there was a chance Will could be alive? I’d want to know. 

“She deserves to know,” I add quietly, my voice softer than Nancy’s. Less sharp. I’m not trying to pick sides. But I can tell right from wrong. 

“Yeah,” Jonathan says after a beat. “...and I’ll tell her.” 

 “When this thing is dead.” 

I let out a long sigh, turning away from both of them and back towards the crowd of people already too far away for me to turn back and forget all about this mess. 

________________________________

We all decide to meet back at the Byers’ house at 5:00. No long discussion, no one really questioning it out loud. It just settles between us like an unspoken contract. 

Whatever this thing is, it seems to only come out at night. 

Nocturnal. 

Stalking the dark, taking people when the world is quiet and nobody is watching. 

So if we are going to find it…. If we’re going to stop it. It has to be in the pitch black of the woods of Hawkins forest.

And sooner than I’m ready for it, the sun starts to sink. Slipping down from the sky, dragging the light with it as it heads west. I pause at the edge of my front yard and glance back at my house one last time. A sharp gust of wind rushes past me, cold and sudden, raising goosebumps along my skin despite the three layers I’ve piled on. An undershirt. A snug jumper. And my corduroy jacket pulled tight. 

It feels like a warning. 

The walk to the Byers’ house is usually 15 minutes. Today, it feels longer. Every step heavier than the last, like my own mind is dragging its feet, trying to pull me back. Telling me to turn around.

I ignore its pleas and keep going.

The house looks empty when I get there. Dark and quiet. At least from what I can tell. I swallow hard as I step onto the front porch, the wood creaking underneath my sneakers as I raise my hand to knock.

I don’t even get the chance before a sharp crack splits the air, followed by the metallic clatter of something falling over echoing from the woods behind the house. I freeze.

Slowly, carefully, I come around the house. Leaves crunch underneath my feet, the sound far too loud in the stillness. The cold bites at my lungs, my breath fogging as it leaves my mouth in short bursts. 

Relief spills out of me in a shaky breath. 

I spot Jonathan and Nancy standing in a small clearing behind the house. Three cans on tree stumps sit in front of them. Two still upright. The third lies toppled near my feet, a clean bullet hole punched straight through it. 

My eyes lift and to my surprise it's Nancy holding the gun, arms steady as she lowers it from the cans. 

“Nice shot,” I say with a soft laugh, a smile tugging at my lips before I can stop it.  

For a moment, we all look at each other. 

For a moment, the tension cracks. 

It breaks into quiet, disbelieving laughter. A little hysterical. Like none of us can believe what we’re actually standing here. Doing this. Together. 

And on top of it all, Nancy Wheeler is a fucking sharpshoot.  

After our temporary moment of laughter, we decide it’s better to move while there's still a semblance of light and we head into the woods together. 

Jonathan and I agree without much debate that Nancy should carry the handgun

I grip a baseball bat in my hands. It doesn’t make me feel much better. Not really. But it’s better than nothing. 

Jonathan has a hatchet slung over his shoulder, something he grabbed from his family’s shed. 

The weight of what we’re about to do settles in as the trees close in around us, the last of the daylight turning in. 

The woods are dry and cold, and I hate every second of it. I hate the way the brittle branches snag at my jacket and scratch my face like they’re trying to pull me back. I hate how the forest seems to stretch on in every direction, trees packed together so it feels like there's no clear path. And most of all, I hate the heavy, crawling feeling in my gut that tells me something is waiting for us out there. 

Watching and patient. 

I trail a few steps behind Nancy and Jonathan. It helps, not being alone, but there’s still a difference I cannot cross. They carry something in between them, a kind of quiet electricity that hums in the air that I don't exactly fit into.  

I have to remind myself that Nancy is with Steve. 

That whatever this is in front of me, it doesn’t mean what my heart stupidly wants it to mean. 

Still, I can’t help the selfish spark of hope that flares away. Small and dangerous.

In front of me, Nancy stops short. 

“That is such bullshit!” She snaps, halting so suddenly Jonathan nearly walks straight into her. I stop just behind them. The tension snaps backward like a sudden brake check. “I am not trying to be someone else!”

“Just because I’m dating Steve and you don’t like him…”

The name hits me hard, like a sharp knock in the ribs. 

Before she can finish, Jonathan pushes past her, jaw set. 

“You know what? Forget it. I just thought it was a good picture.”

“He’s actually a good guy,” Nancy fires back, quick and defensive, like she’s had this argument a thousand times and still hasn’t won it. Not even with herself.

“Okay.” Jonathan replies, blankly. 

“The other day, with the camera… he’s not like that at all.” She insists. “He was just being protective.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan mutters, not bothering to turn around. “That’s one word for it.”

“Oh, and I guess what you did was okay?”

“No, I- I never said that.”

“He had every right to be pissed.”

“Okay, all right!” Jonathan finally spins around, frustration breaking through. “Does that mean I have to like him?”

“No.”

“Listen, don’t take it personally, okay?” His voice drops, quieter, but no less sharp. “I don’t like most people. He’s in the vast majority.” 

There’s a pause. The woods seem to lean in closer, like the trees were trying to eavesdrop. The air between them was taut and fragile, like it might snap if either of them breathes wrong. Even if I breathe wrong. I slow without realizing, giving them much needed space. This feels private and alive. Like something I shouldn’t touch.

“You know,” Nancy says after a beat, softer but more cutting. “I was actually starting to think you were okay.”

“Yeah?” Jonathan asks, a slight crack in his voice. 

“Yeah. I was thinking, Jonathan Byers… maybe he’s not the pretentious creep everyone says he is.”

Jonathan lets out a snort, humorless laugh. “Well, I was just starting to think you were okay.”

Nancy scoffs, hurt flashing her face even as she holds her ground. 

“Oh, I was thinking, Nancy Wheeler, she’s not just another suburban girl who thinks she’s rebelling by doing exactly what every other suburban girl does until that phase passes and she marries some boring one-time jock who now works sales, and they live out a perfectly boring little life at the end of a cul-de-sac. Exactly like their parents. Who they thought were so depressing. But now, hey, they get it.” 

“Could we schedule this for a later time?” I cut in, trying to ease the tension. I use the baseball bat in my hands as a walking stick, already moving past them and not waiting for an answer. “We're running out of daylight.” 

We continue to walk. 

We walk in a silence that feels worse than before. Heavier somehow. I’d almost convinced myself we were past this sort of tension. Clearly not. If anything, it’s sharper now, more brittle. The kind that snaps if you breathe wrong. 

The sun finishes its slow ease down the horizon and suddenly the woods are no longer dim, but dark. Truly, dark. Moonlight filters faintly through trees, silver and thin, barely enough to see what we’re stepping. I decide now is a good time to bring out my flashlight. 

The quiet is unsettling. Every sound feels too loud. Crickets chirping, leaves crunching beneath our shoes. The distant creak of branches overhead. It’s like the forest is aware of us, listening just as closely as us. 

That’s when I hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong in the usual pattern.

Soft, broken. Almost a whimper. 

I stop, cold.

Nancy and Jonathan take a few steps before realizing I’m no longer behind them. They both turn, faces tight with confusion. 

I don’t move. I wait, heart thudding, for the sound to come again. When it does, it sends a chill down my spine. It’s not human. Not quite. 

Something animal.

Fear rushes up, hot and familiar. I force it down, swallow it hard.

Be brave. 

Don’t freeze again. 

“What, are you tired?” Jonathan mutters, irritation still clinging to him as he slides the hatchet off his shoulder, letting it hang loose at his sides. 

“Shut up,” I snap back at him, sharp and automatic. The same tone I use on my little brother when he bothers me a little too much. 

Jonathan looks to Nancy, clearly confused, but Nancy isn’t looking at him. Her eyes are watching me. Her face mirrors my exact emotions. The same tight anticipation. The same unease. 

“I heard something,” I whisper, eyes scanning the dark tree line, trying to pinpoint where the sound came from. 

There it is again. 

A whimper. Weak and strained. 

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Whatever this is, it doesn’t sound like a monster. Monsters don’t sound like that. They don’t sound helpless. 

Jonathan and Nancy hear it too this time. I can tell by the way their shoulders stiffen, by the way their eyes sharpen in the dark. Concern settles over all three of us like shared weight. 

I move first. My flashlight flicking in between the trees in jittery sweeps, searching for any sign of what that sound could be coming from. The beam cuts through the shadows and catches on branches, on bark, on nothing useful at all. 

The whimpering continues. Growing louder as I move. More strained, more desperate. 

We’re going in the right direction. 

My pace quickens, before I fully realize it has. My feet move faster over roots and dry leaves, my heart thudding in my ears. I flash my light between two skinny trees that open into a small clearing. The beam of my flashlight lands on something collapsed on the ground. 

My eyes squint as I try to make sense of it, my brain lagging behind what I’m seeing. 

The pained noises were definitely coming from it. 

As I sprint closer, the shape focuses, resolves. My stomach twisting at the sight. 

It’s a deer. 

Poor thing, couldn’t even stand. Blood mats its fur and stains the ground beneath it, dark and slick. Every small movement of its body pulls another whimper from its throat, thin and broken.  My chest tightens, painfully. 

Swallowing the lump rising in my throat, I kneel down next to it. I extend my hand, tentative, brushing the air just above its fur. My fingers barely hovering above it before it lets out a sharp whine. I flinch back, instinctively, my breath hitching.  

I hear Jonathan sigh from somewhere behind me as Nancy drops down to the ground at my side. 

“It’s been hit by a car,” she mumbles, her voice low and heavy. 

“We can’t just leave it…” I choke, the words just catching on the way out. 

I glance over at Nancy, my face twisted with helpless sadness. At the same time both of our eyes fall to the handgun gripped in her palm. The sight of it makes my heart seize. A choked exhale leaves my lips as I quickly avert my eyes, like looking at it too long will make it all too real. 

The deer writhes its head weakly against the ground, pain in every movement.

I push myself up off my knees and stand behind Nancy, but I still can’t close my eyes. 

I can’t look away. 

My gaze stays glued to the scene, like my own personal torture I don’t know how to stop. 

Nancy’s hand tightens around the pistol, her knuckles whitening, though she can’t lift her hand. It’s like something invisible was holding her arm down. Her own mind, probably. 

I know that feeling.

“I’ll do it.” Jonathan’s voice cuts in, steady but strained. His hand extends out to Nancy. 

“I thought you said-” Nancy starts.

“I’m not nine anymore.” 

Something I can’t quite understand, and it doesn’t feel important enough to question. Nancy hands him the gun to Jonathan with a sharp inhale as she pushes off her knees. Jonathan sighs as he clicks the safety off, lifting the gun and aiming to the deer’s head. Nancy stays close to him. I linger just behind them, my knuckle pressed against my mouth, bracing myself for the sound I know is coming. 

Jonthan’s hand shakes as he cocks the gun with his thumb. His breathing is heavy and shaky, uneven. Nancy turns her face away, her expression twisting into something that mirrors my own. Shaky hands meet my eyes as I let out a sharp exhale, but I can still hear the small, broken whimpers of the deer as it waits for the end.

I let myself peek through my fingers. 

I don’t want to watch. I really don’t. 

But it feels like I have to. Like it owe it that much. 

I deserve to feel just a fraction of the pain it’s in. 

Jonathan turns his head away, his finger resting gently on the trigger, ready to put it out of it’s misery.

I bury my face fully in my palm, bracing myself. 

The world goes quiet for a beat, my breathing is the only thing I could hear. 

A loud screech tears through the air. 

I jump back with a gasp, my legs nearly giving out as I grab onto the nearest tree for support. My eyes snap up just in time to see the deer being dragged violently into the trees, disappearing into the darkness with a speed that no normal predator could support. 

At least not one that would be in the Hawkins woods.

“What was that?” I breathe out, my palms pressing hard into the rough bark, holding myself upright as fear floods through my body. 

Neither of them answer. They just move forward, slow and deliberate, silencing their footsteps as best they can. Their flashlights sweep low, following the dark, sticky trail of blood smeared across the forest floor. I trail behind them, gripping my bat with both hands, holding it out in front of me like muscle memory alone might save me if something lunges. 

A low coo vibrates behind me. 

I spin around instantly, heart slamming into my ribs, bat raised and ready to swing before my brain catches up. My light snaps upward, cutting through the dark.

Two glowing yellow eyes stare back at me from the bare branches. 

An owl. 

I let out a shaky breath. 

Jesus, I’m losing my mind. 

My shoulders sag with relief as I force myself to turn back around and hurry after Jonathan and Nancy, my pulse still racing. 

They’re standing in the center of another clearing now, their flashlights scanning the ground in slow, searching arcs. Jonathan still has the gun raised loosely in his hand, alert. The sight of it steadies me a little. Still, part of me wishes it was Nancy holding it. 

“The trail…” Nancy mutters, crouching slightly as she searches the dirt. “It runs cold.” 

We instinctively turn outward, backs to each other, forming a loose circle. No one’s left exposed. Our lights comb the ground beneath us, over leaves and roots, looking for any sign of where the deer was dragged. 

I spot Nancy stop. 

She freezes by a tree, leaning down, her eyebrows knitting together. 

“What is it?” I stammer, trying and failing to keep fear out of my voice. 

I force myself to move, dredging up whatever scraps of bravery I have left and step toward her with my flashlight raised. A stifled breath slips through my lips as my beam lands on the trunk. 

There’s a hole in it. A massive, gaping hole carved straight into the tree, wide enough to crawl into. The edges of the opening are slick with a strange shiny substance, the ground beneath it smeared with the same substance. It glistens wetly in the light. The smell hits, thick and rotten, making my stomach churn.

My eyes squint as I notice the blood. 

Fresh, red, and unmistakable. It streaks straight into the hole. 

Nancy crouches lower, angling her flashlight into the dark hollow, peering inside with a focus that makes my skin prickle. 

She doesn’t stop. 

She leans closer. 

And closer. 

“Nancy…” I warn, my voice tight as I struggle to keep my light steady on the opening. 

She doesn’t even look at me. Instead, she glances behind us, then to the sides. 

“Jonathan!” she calls out.

No response. 

I hate that we split up.

My nerves fray as I watch her, every instinct screaming at me. There’s something in her expression, something resolved and dangerous, like she’s already made up her mind.

Whatever she’s thinking. It can’t be good. 

Or safe.

Or smart. 

“Nancy…?” I try again, my voice less a warning than a plea. She just shrugs off her backpack and lets it drop at my feet.

Before I could stop her, she lowers herself onto her hands and knees and starts crawling toward the opening. I lunge forward, grabbing her shoulders, my eyes wide. 

“Are you crazy?” 

“It’s okay,” she says, softly. Trying to reassure me as she does the exact opposite. “If I need help, I’ll call out for you.”

I hesitate, dread curling in my chest. This feels wrong. This feels how bad things start. I already let Barbara disappear. The guilt still lives in my bones. Do I really want to stand here and let Nancy crawl into what could be her own death? 

“Let me come with you.” I say, sucking in a sharp breath as I start to drop my bag beside hers. 

“No.” She stops me immediately. “I need both you and Jonathan here to help me if things go south.”

I bite down on my bottom lip, anxiety buzzing under my skin. 

“You say the word,” I tell her, my voice shaking. “And we’ll pull you out.”

We don’t even know what’s down there. It could be nothing. It could be everything we’re afraid of. I don’t know. And I hate that the only way to find out is to let her go. 

Nancy follows the trail of blood on all fours, crawling deeper into the tree. Inch by inch, she disappears into the darkness to where I can’t see her, stringy vines covering my view of what's inside. I’m left staring into the tree, my fingers tapping restlessly against my thighs as my mind spirals through every terrible possibility. 

“Where’s Nancy?” I hear Jonathan say behind me, cutting through the quiet so suddenly that I nearly jump out of my skin. 

I suck in a breath and spin on my heels to face him. I don’t answer. I just lift my flashlight and point it toward the dark crevice in the tree. 

His eyebrows shoot up instantly, worry flashing across his face. “You let her go down there by herself?” 

His voice is sharp, pitched with panic and anger. Like he’s barely keeping it together. 

“I tried to stop her,” I say quickly, my eyes snapping back to the opening. I’m desperate for even the smallest sign of movement.  “She wouldn’t let me come with her.” 

I swallow. “She said she’ll call for us if anything happens.” I don’t know who I’m trying to convince more, him or myself. 

We stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, staring into the slick, gooey darkness of the tree. Like it might give us something. Anything. 

Ten minutes pass and we hear nothing, see nothing.

We keep taking turns saying we’re going to go down and get her, and then immediately talking each other out of it. Back and forth. Over and over. My nerves feel stretched thin, pulled tight like a wire about to snap. I’ve chewed my bottom lip raw, and I’m pretty sure if I keep going, it’s going to start bleeding. 

Jonathan’s worse.

He’s pale now, almost sickly, pacing the same patch of ground again and again. Like he’s trapped in a loop. His hands have pushed his hair back in a nervous tic at least 20 times in the past ten minutes and then dropping back at his side, fists clenched so tight his knuckles look white. 

The silence has become unbearable. 

“You like her.” I say, suddenly. 

The words fall out of my mouth, unfiltered and blunt. Slicing right through the tension. 

“What?” Jonathan freezes mid-step and turns to face me. “No.” 

“C’mon, Byers,” I groan, throwing my head back. “I have two eyes, you know.” It’s obvious. Painfully obvious. It’s been obvious since the moment he turned as red as a tomato when Steve pulled out those photos from his backpack. 

Jonathan just stands there, stunned, embarrassment crawling up his face. He even looks a little irritated, like I just exposed his safely guarded secret. It's what finally makes me laugh. A quiet, breathy sound I can’t stop. Even with our friend down somewhere in a nightmare tree. 

“Well,” Jonathan says, squinting at me. “You like Steve.”

My laughter dies instantly. 

My eyes go wide, and heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. 

How would he even know that?

I go to extreme lengths to make sure no one ever suspects anything. Not a tone shift. Nothing. Rumors spread fast in this town. And if Steve ever found out, it would ruin everything. Our friendship. Our easy, perfect, safe friendship. I don’t think I could survive losing that. 

“Of course, I like Steve.” I say quickly, forcing a shrug. “He’s my best friend.” My voice wobbles just slightly. I cross my fingers hoping Jonathan won’t notice. 

“Oh, don’t act dumb.” Jonathan rolls his eyes, throwing his arms out in exasperation. 

We stand in silence after that, the weight of mutual understanding settling in between us. Either both masterminds for seeing what everyone else misses, or we’re the most oblivious people ever to walk the planet. 

“We’re both hopeless,” I mutter, finally. 

Jonathan snorts, then smiles. A real one. Soft and familiar. One that I have not seen in a long time. Not since we were kids, crowded together in the Wheeler’s basement, playing with our little brothers. 

“Jonathan!”

Jonathan and I snap our heads towards the sound at the exact time, locking eyes for half a second before both of us are already moving. Our shoes crunching over leaves as we rush to the foot of the tree. 

Nancy. 

“Andi!” Her voice comes again, thin and trembling. She sounds scared. 

Really fucking scared. 

“Nancy!” We shout back in unison, sweeping our flashlights into the opening desperate to catch even a glimpse of her.

There’s nothing. Just slick, glistening membrane and tangled vines swallowing the light.

“Where are you?” Jonathan calls, his voice echoing into the hollow. 

“Jonathan!” Nancy cries back. “Jonathan, I’m right here!” Her voice cracks this time, panic bleeding through every word. 

“Nancy, follow our voice!” I yell, stepping closer and tugging at the slimy membrane, trying to peel it back enough to see something. 

For a beat, we hear nothing. My chest rising and falling from panic. 

Suddenly, a hand shoots out of the opening, fast and coated in slime. 

Both us stumble back instinctively, hearts slamming. 

“Nancy,” Jonathan breathes. We both start moving at once. 

We grab her arm, our hands slipping against the mucus covering her skin. I tighten my grip, panic fueling my strength, and we pull. It feels like something is fighting us on the other end, like the tree itself doesn’t want to let her go. My arms burn, my teeth grit, and then with one final, desperate yank, she’s free. 

Nancy lets out a sharp yelp as she tumbles forward, collapsing onto Jonathan’s chest. A broken, shaking sob tears out of her as she buries her head into his neck. Her whole body is trembling like she’s barely holding herself together. 

Jonathan sits up quickly, wrapping an arm around her without even thinking. “I got you,” he pants, breathless frantic, pressing his cheek against her slime-covered hair. 

A relieved breath escapes me. It comes out shaky, and uneven. 

She’s back. 

And okay. 

My arms wrap around myself as we stand there in a second of charged silence, the woods holding its breath with us. My head is spinning with questions.

What did you see? 

What was down there?

But I swallow every single one. Whatever Nancy saw down there, it had already carved herself deep inside of her. I don’t wanna dig it up so soon. 

For a second, I glance back at the tree. 

My breath catches painfully in my throat. 

The opening, the jagged, wet crevice that swallowed Nancy whole… is closing. Slowly.

On its own. 

The slick membrane pulls inward, bark knitting itself back together like a wound sealing shut. Within seconds, the tree looks whole again. Normal. Like it never opened at all. 

“We have to go,” I mutter, my voice barely steady as dread creeps under my skin. 

Neither of them moves.

Nancy is still clutching Jonathan, her sobs muffled against him. Jonathan is frozen, staring at the tree like he doesn’t trust it not to open again. 

“Guys!” I say again, sharper this time. 

That finally snaps them out of it. Jonathan gently pulls away, steadying Nancy as she wipes at her face with shaky hands. I grab my bag and Nancy’s without thinking, slinging them over my shoulder. Guilt twists in my chest.

I hate that she went in there alone. 

It doesn’t take long for us to reach the road again. The woods seem to spit us up like they’re done with us. We end up near Dearborn. Nancy’s house is closest, so we head there without much discussion. 

The moment we step inside, the heat hits me like a blessing. Warm air wraps around my frozen skin, filtering into my clothes, places I didn’t even realize were numb until now. The cold seems to have a way to seep in under your clothes, freezing your bones.

The Wheeler’s house is surprisingly vacant. Dark, empty, and too quiet.

It’s late, sure, but it still feels wrong. This house is always full of noise, of voices… movement. 

Life. 

Standing there in silence makes my skin prickle. 

After everything we just saw, the quiet feels anything but safe. 

We waste no time heading upstairs to Nancy’s room, the door shutting softly behind us. I grab a blanket draped over the banister on the stairs and toss it toward Jonathan. He catches it easily, immediately wrapping it around Nancy’s shoulders and pulling her close. 

Just like that, I feel it. 

The sharp, quiet realization that I don’t belong here. 

Nancy and Jonathan sit together on her bed, close in a way that feels instinctive. Jonathan’s hand moves in slow, steady circles on Nancy’s back. Grounding her, anchoring her. 

Jealousy pangs at my chest.  

Not that I want to be in Nancy’s shoes, but, God, when is it my turn to be loved? 

The way Jonathan is holding her, it’s gentle. Familiar. The kind of comfort you don’t have to ask for.

I hover near the doorway, suddenly too aware of my own presence. Like I’ve stepped into something private and sacred without meaning to. 

“I… I’m uh-” My voice catches in my throat, useless for a second. I clear my throat. “I’m gonna use your phone. See if I can get a ride from anyone.”

The words sound flimsy the moment they leave my mouth, offering a small, awkward wave and pressing my lips together in a wonky smile. I turn and practically bolt down the stairs, still trying to muffle my footsteps from being too loud as I head for the kitchen.

The Wheeler’s landline hangs on the wall, exactly where it always is. I stare at it for a moment, my hand hovering before I pick it up. 

I can’t call my mom. 

It’s past midnight, and the thought of waking her, of explaining even a fraction of tonight, makes my stomach twist. 

I run through my options and land exactly where I didn’t want to. 

Steve. 

I chew on my lip as I dial in his number, every ring stretching longer than the last. When he answers, his voice is warm, easy, like he was just laughing seconds ago. 

“Hello?”

“Steve, it’s me.” I whisper, instinctively lowering my voice. I don’t want to wake anyone up.  

“Andi?” His tone shifts instantly, all the laughter gone. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah…” I lie, swallowing hard. “Do you think you can come get me?” 

There’s no hesitation, not even a pause. 

“Yeah” he says, softly. “Yeah. Where are you?” 

“The Wheeler’s house.” 

I stare at the wall as I say it, wishing I could see his face. I can picture it too clearly anyway, eyebrows drawn together, mouth slightly agape, confusion written all over him. I have no idea what excuse I’m going to give for why his best friend needs to be picked up from his girlfriend’s house at midnight, but that feels like a problem for later. 

I hang up and head upstairs, deciding to wait there. I push Nancy’s door open and quietly slip inside. 

Jonathan is on the floor now, laying out a blanket, smoothing it with his hands. 

“You’re spending the night?” I ask, quietly.

He just shrugs.

Normally, I would tease him. A wink. A thumbs up. Something light to cut the tension. But nothing feels right, right now. Everything feels fragile, like one wrong word could shatter it. And if there’s anyone I trust to stay with Nancy tonight, it’s Jonathan Byers. 

I let my eyes wander around the room, really looking for the first time. A Tom Cruise poster hangs on the wall. Ballerina things everywhere. Shoes, ribbons, and framed photos. The walls are striped pink and white, soft and neat and undeniably her. 

It’s nothing like me. 

A dull sting settles in my chest before I can stop it. 

Before I can sink any deeper into that thought, the sound of tires crunching over gravel filters in through the open windows. 

“That’s me.” I mutter, peeking through the blind just long enough to catch the familiar shape of Steve’s car. “Call me if anything... and make sure she’s okay for me.” I add quietly, my voice dropping.  

Jonathan nods, and I squeeze his shoulder once as a thank-you, before grabbing my bag and slipping out the front door. 

The headlights of Steve’s burgundy Beamer hits me full on as I step outside, momentarily blinding me as I slip out the front door. 

A sigh escaped my lips as I notice Steve slide out the driver's seat, hovering with the hands over the roof of his car.

I can feel his eyes on me before he says anything, taking me in piece by piece. My hair is a wreck, my ponytail is wild with my baby hairs framing my face that were once tied up. There’s dirt smeared across my jeans from kneeling on the forest floor. My nose feels raw and red from being in the cold for too long. I pray he doesn’t look too closely. Steve notices things. He always has. 

“Wait,” he says, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he starts toward the front door. “I wanna say hi to Nance.” 

My heart slams into my ribs. 

If he sees Jonathan upstairs, this is going to explode. There’s another guy in his girlfriend's bedroom, who was already caught sneaking photos of her undressing. No matter how innocent this truly is, no matter how justified, Steve won’t see it that way. 

I can’t even explain it. Not really. Not without giving away too much. 

I step in front of the door, blocking it with my body. 

“She’s upstairs.” I say quickly, not technically a lie. “And if her parents see you here right now…” I trail off, because I don’t need to finish it. He already knows they’d lose their minds. 

“That’s fine,” he says, easily, already moving past me. He turns toward the side of the house, eyes locking onto Nancy’s window. “I’ll just go through here.” 

Before I could stop him, he’s hauling himself up on the garage’s roof. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

I press a palm to my face, mortified, staring at the ground like it might swallow me whole. I know Steve cares about her. His past few flings have barely lasted a week, I know because I was the one hearing about them. They were all heat and nothing else. But, Nancy’s different. He’s been seeing her for almost a  month now. That means something to him. 

He likes her. 

And this, whatever this looks like, is going to hurt him. 

As much as it twists something ugly in my chest to see them together, I still want him to be happy. I always have. 

I can’t even look as he peers into the window. 

“Steve…” I mutter, barely audible. 

When he climbs back down, the smirk on his face is gone. He lands hard on the ground, dust puffing up around his shoes. His face is tight and closed off. 

“What is Byers doing here?” he asks. 

My stomach drops straight to the floor. 

“He…” I start, then stop myself, shaking my head. “Steve, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Make this into something it’s not,” I say fast, words rushing out before I could overthink them. “Nancy called me. She was freaking out about Barbara.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “So?”

“So I came over,” I continue, words tumbling. “I called him. He’s the only one who knows what she’s going through.”

“At midnight,” Steve repeats flatly, accusatoryly. 

“I don’t know when,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. 

Steve looks past me again, eyes flicking up toward her window, like he’s trying to see through my lies. 

“He’s leaving soon.” I add quickly. “He just wanted to make sure she’s okay. He knows what it’s like.” I soften my tone, trying to smooth the edges. “That’s all.” 

There’s a long pause. 

“Get in,” Steve finally says, exhaling like he’s too tired to fight right now. 

He tosses his keys into his other hand and slides into the driver seat. I hurry around to the passenger side and climb in, the cold leather biting through my jeans. 

The door shuts and I feel two more presences in the back seat. I turn my head slowly, my lips pursed.

Tommy and Carol. 

I spin around with a big fake smile plastered on my face, one that stretches too wide but doesn’t quite reach my eyes.  

“Guys,” I beam. Fantastic. The absolute last people I wanted to deal with right now. 

“Why the long face, Stevie?” Tommy teases, leaning forward, the stupid grin sitting comfortably on his face like he’s been waiting for this moment. 

“Aw, he couldn’t see his girlfriend,” Carol adds on, sing-song and cruel, instantly falling into step beside him. 

Steve doesn’t even look back. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, jaw clenched, hand tightening around the steering wheel until his knuckles start to pale. 

“Poor Stevie has a heart!” Tommy laughs with Carol, throwing his head back before jabbing a knuckle into Steve’s chest. 

“Would you just…” Steve snaps, shoving Tommy’s hand away. “Stop.” 

“Stevie’s in loooove…” Tommy drawls, dragging it out with a smug little ooh. 

My chest tightens at the thought. The air feels heavier. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat burning as I accidentally catch Steve’s eyes in the mirror. Just for a second. 

Just a glimpse. 

I look away immediately, ducking my face toward the window. I can’t give anything away. I won’t. Steve can read me like an open book, and I can’t afford for him to turn the page right now.  

“Would you shut up?” Steve mutters, voice low and strained, still staring straight ahead. Tommy and Carol just keep laughing, feeding off each other. 

“Shut up!” Steve suddenly shouts, sharp and loud to cut through them both. 

“Jeez!” Tommy scoffs, rolling his eyes. Carol huffs beside him, offended like he’s the problem.

The car slows, and I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’ve been holding when I see my house come into view. Relief floods me so fast it almost hurts. 

Steve pulls into the driveway, lips pressed together like he’s chewing on something unsaid. 

“Hey,” he starts, turning his body towards mine. “Tommy and Carol are spending the night.” 

I inhale sharply. My body aches in that deep, exhausted way that comes from being on edges all day. He has no idea I’d been tramping through the forest for hours, fear still clinging to me. I feel awful. Blowing him off almost every day lately. He doesn’t know how important this is. How necessary. It hurts more than I can admit that I can’t tell him why. 

“We’re gonna drive around for a little too,” he adds, eyebrows lifting slightly, hopeful. Convincing. He’s always been good at that, knowing how much I love driving around aimlessly, windows down and nowhere to be. 

“I- I can’t” I say, the lie slipping out too easily. “I don’t wanna leave Dustin alone at night.” My lips press together, like that might keep the guilt from spilling out. 

“Okay,” he whispers after a moment, nodding once. 

I feel like a monster. 

“I’ll see you later” I say, forcing a small smile that barely holds together, grabbing my bag and slipping out of the passenger seat before I could second guess myself. 

“Whats up with her?” I hear Tommy mutter from the back as he climbs over into the passenger seat I just vacated. 

I don’t look back. 

I walk up to my front door, slip my spare key into the lock, and ease it open as quietly as I can. I creep up the stairs, careful with every step, and shut myself into the bathroom. 

After a long, hot shower I finally crawl into bed. The same nightmare comes back, loops again, but this time I’m ready for it. 

I don’t wake up screaming. I don’t clutch my sheets in panic. I just lie there, staring into the dark, breathing it through it and letting it pass. 

[smlltwngrrrl]

s2 is the boyfriendest he's ever looked, and i'll stand by my truth

[forourspidey]

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

MASTERLIST

⭑.ᐟ authors notes: very slow burn childhood friends to lovers, best friend!steve and henderson sister!fem oc. oblivious ahh steve, even worse oblivious ahh andi. girl, that boy cares about you so much!!! honestly, nancy, jonathan, and andi should just be a throuple.

⭑.ᐟ summary: Andi Henderson and Steve Harrington had been inseparable since they were six. Even when Steve turned into the school’s golden boy, he never quite stopped looking for Andi in a crowded room. But somewhere between the late-night drives and shared jokes, Andi started seeing Steve differently. Not the one everyone worshiped, but the boy who only ever let his guard down around her. And then he fell for Nancy Wheeler. Or at least, he thought he did. Andi tried to smile through it, tried to pretend her heart didn’t crack every time he looked at Nancy the way she wished he’d look at her. One night, at a party Steve threw while his parents were gone, she drank too much trying to forget. Laughter blurred into silence, and a scream tore through the night. Andi ran outside nothing. Just cold air and the echo of something wrong. The next morning Barbara Holland was missing and Andi couldn't shake the guilt or the way Steve eyes seemed to linger on her when she wasn't looking.

⭑.ᐟ chapter summary: Andi has been lying to the people she cares about most (her family and Steve Harrington) to protect the secret she's been carrying since the night she heard Barbara Holland scream. Even when he climbs through her window to apologize for the way he's been acting lately, briefly restoring normalcy to her life, she cannot bring herself to tell him the truth. All comfort shatters when Andi discovers a strange blur in one of Jonathan Byers' photos, something that she recognized when she went looking for Barbara in the woods. Determined to find answers, she teams up with Nancy and Jonathan until the photo reveals the truth. The monster is real and both Will and Barbara might be alive.

HAPPENING ALL ALONG - a steve harrington x fem!oc stranger things rewrite ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

⤷ ゛ao3 link ˎˊ˗

CHAPTER FOUR: SMALL VICTORIES

. . . . . ╰──╮

November 9th, 1983.

Andi Henderson

The double doors of the cafeteria swing shut behind me with a hollow thud, my mom following close on my heels. The noises echo too loudly in my head. I scan the parking lot until I spot her old Volkswagen Beetle, the faded red paint catching in the late afternoon light. I climb into the front seat without a word. As soon as that door shuts, I cross my arms across my chest and turn towards the passenger seat window. I keep my eyes fixed on the glass like it might keep everything from spilling out. 

“Andi.” My mom cuts gently through the quiet as I hear her key turn in the ignition, the engine coughing to life. “Why didn’t you tell me your classmate was missing?” 

“I didn’t know she was gone until yesterday” I grumble. The lie slipping out smoother than it should. 

Because I did know. Not in a way I could explain, not with facts or proof. But I felt it. I’d felt it since the night I heard the scream from Steve’s backyard. A deep gnawing numbness that settled in my chest and refused to leave. 

My mom glances over at me, eyes searching my face. I don’t turn to face her. I can’t. If I turn forward, if I see that look. The concerned, soft one. I know I’ll crack. I’ll start crying and I don’t think I’d be able to stop. The lump in my throat swells, thick and painful, and my lip trembles before I could stop it. I suck in a sharp, shaky breath, forcing the tears back down. Forcing myself to stay quiet. 

“Andi…” My mom sighs, warm, patient, reaching for me even though I won’t reach back. It doesn’t help with the tears that are threatening to spill. “You can always talk to me, you know that right?” 

“There's nothing to talk about” I reply, my voice betraying me as it wavers despite my effort in keeping it steady. I can’t bring my mom into this. If she knows even half of what’s been happening, it’ll be a one-way ticket to house arrest. Forever. I can’t afford that. Not when Barbara is still out there. Not when I need to do something. So I lie. I stay strong. 

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” she says calmly, her tone gentle as she probes me for answers. “Quieter than usual.” She hesitates for a moment before asking, “Is this about Steve?” 

I whip around to face her, my brows knitting together in confusion. “What?” The word comes out sharper than I intend, edged with defense. “God, Mom, no.” 

“You think you may hide everything,” a knowing hint of smugness in her calm voice, “but I’m not blind. Or stupid.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” I press. 

Silence answers me. Her eyes stay fixed on the road, hands tight on the steering wheel. 

“Mom!” 

Nothing, except a slight smirk. 

With a frustrated huff, I turn back to face toward the window. The familiar streets blur past as we drive. Past the woods. Past Steve’s house. I swallow hard as I try not to linger on him too long. Not to think about him too much. I’ll lose whatever fragile control I have left. 

The Beetle pulls into the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Dustin’s bike was already gone, no surprise there. He’s probably at the Wheelers where he’s spending nearly all his time lately. I step out of the car and head straight inside, climbing the stairs and retreating to my room. It’s the only place I can exist without falling apart. 

I drop my bag on my window ledge with a tired exhale. Every day feels harder than the last, like I’m constantly moving, constantly reacting, never stopping long enough to catch my breath. 

I plop onto my bed, letting my limbs splay across the mattress. For the first time in a while, I let myself feel how exhausted I am. 

Three taps sound from my window. 

Sharp and familiar. Impossible to mistake. My chest tightens before my brain even catches up, muscle memory kicking in like I reflex I never unlearned. I turn my head on my bed, already knowing exactly who I’m going to see. 

Steve Harrington stands outside my window, one hand still lifted from the glass with his shoulders slightly hunched like he’s bracing for impact. Rejection, maybe. His expression is somewhere in between guilt and hope, eyes soft in a way that makes my stomach twist painfully. His eyes flick over me, the second the find my face like they were checking if I was okay before anything else. 

Of, fucking, course. It's him.

Steve has been climbing through my window since we were 8 years old, back when we were smaller and reckless in a way only kids can be. Little 8 year old me, with messy curls and hands sticky from popsicles, dragged my dad’s old wooden stairs out from our shed one summer afternoon so Steve could sneak in without breaking his neck. The stairs have stayed leaning against the wall outside my house ever since. They weathered through rain, snow, and the slow stretch of time but it soon became tradition to simply disregard the front door. 

Three taps became our language. Our signal. It trained me, Pavlovian in the most embarrassing way. My heart learned them before my head did. 

I sigh, forcing myself to hop off my bed. Every step toward the window is heavier than it should be. I slide it open, the cool air of the evening spilling in between us. 

“I don’t even need those stairs anymore.” Steve says with a crooked, awkward laugh. He gestures vaguely downwards.  “I’ve gotten enough practice from the Wheeler’s house”

I roll my eyes immediately, sharp and deliberate. Part of it because I’m still angry from this morning, but the other part stings deeper and quieter. The idea of Steve slipping through Nancy Wheeler’s window digs under my skin. It sits wrong in my stomach, heavy and sour. Naive of me to think I was the only girl that he’s treated like this. Like something worth sneaking for. 

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. 

He stumbles through my window, awkward as ever, nearly tripping on the window seat like he hasn’t done this a thousand times before. Like he hasn’t memorized this room. Like he doesn’t belong here. 

I almost laugh. It presses against my ribs, deliberate to escape, but I swallow it down. I won’t give him that, not after this morning.

I sit back down on my bed, arms folding in front of me. His knee bumps the window seat and he stumbles slightly, catching himself on the edge of my desk. His hand brushes my sweater for just a half second as he steadies. He freezes. I nudge backwards, suddenly realizing how close he was. 

“Sorry,” I murmur, like we’ve never been close before. For God’s sake, we’ve slept in the same bed. 

He looks around my room like he always does, eyes flicking to the posters on my wall, the mess on my desk, the clothes spilling out of my dresser. Like he’s checking to make sure everything is still here. Like I’m still here. 

“Listen,” he says, quieter now. “I’m really sorry for how I acted today.” 

His lips press together into that familiar, crooked apology. The one that’s always undone me. I hate how easily my anger melts away and gaze softens against my will. His hands shove in his pockets. He doesn’t look at me right away. When he does, his eyes change. Like I’m something fragile that he’s afraid of mishandling me. 

It makes my blood boil. 

“I panicked and... I mean, was a total dick to you and Nance.”

“Yeah,” I say, finally letting my gaze meet his. “You were.” 

And just like that, my resolve crumbles. His face does something to me I don’t have a defense for.

God, I really need to stand up.  

Steve shifts his weight, lingering there for a moment. Like he’s unsure of where to put himself. The silence stretches, unfamiliar.

Steve and I don’t do awkward. We never have. We fill space naturally, effortlessly. Like gravity. 

I clear my throat. “Did you get in trouble with your parents?” 

“Totally, but…” he says, then shrugs, dissmisive. “You know, who cares? Screw them.” 

I let out a small laugh before I can stop it. When I look back, Steve is grinning from ear to ear, like when he wins prizes in the summer county fair. Like my laugh mattered more than he expected it to. 

I glance away, just for a second, and when I look back it was like all the tension and silence in the room seemed to slip away. Melted. Like it was never there at all. 

Steve feels it too. 

He moved without thinking to his usual spot on the window seat, flopping down like he’s always done, legs kicking up like this is where he’s meant to be. He doesn’t ask. Never does. He doesn’t need to. This is practically his second room. This room has always made space for him. 

For a brief fragile moment, everything feels okay again.

For a moment, everything feels dangerously normal. 

“Missed this” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. A smile plastered on my face, stubborn and unshakeable. 

Steve grins back at me, easy and familiar, as if he hasn’t been on thin ice for the past couple of days. He leans back against my dresser, nudging my bag aside with his foot. It slips off the edge and hits the floor with a dull thud, spilling everything on the floor. 

My binder, folders, loose pencils that I can’t be bothered to return to their pouch. 

Glossy paper and torn edges catch my eye and breath. 

The photos. 

“Hey listen,” Steve says, already crouching down to help. “We should have one of our sleepovers tonight, like when we were kids. Just kinda pretend everything is normal for a while. It’s Friday...and it’s been a while.” 

I can barely hear him, my eyes stay locked to the shredded pieces of photos scattered across the floor. 

“We can go to Melvald’s,” Steve goes on, oblivious. “I’ll pay for snacks. Make it a whole thing.” 

“I-” My voice stammers. “I just remembered I have this huge project for history” I lie, the words catching. "So..."

"I should go" Steve sighs. It pains me to nod.

The lie tastes bitter. 

He pauses, glancing up at me. Really looking. 

“But, next weekend,” I rush on guilt clawing at my throat. “We’ll rent American Graffiti ...or Alien.”

His expression flickers, disappointment he masks too late. Still, he nods, pretending. It breaks my heart lying to him like this.

I’m reassuring him, but it feels like I’m trying to convince myself. I can’t tell him the truth. He’ll try to talk me out of it, try to stop me. Or worse, he’d follow. I don’t think I could survive if something ever happened to him because of me. I already carry too much guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, softly. "I'll call you later."

Steve straightens, studying my face like I’m a puzzle. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but something stops him. 

He knows. He always knows when I’m hiding something. I force my expression to stay steady, even as my chest aches. 

“You’re a terrible friend,” he says finally, obligingly and with a scoff. 

“I will make it up to you, asshole,” I roll my eyes and snort at his melodrama.

“Fine,” he sighs. Extra loud and exaggerated, though there's affection threaded through it. Enough to make me smile. 

He spins around back towards the window, but not before his hand brushes my arm. A form of goodbye. He hesitates before climbing all the way out. His hands linger on the frame before he descends. He looks at me one last time, eyes searching and worried.

“Lock your windows,” he says, automatically. 

“You know, I always do.” 

“Still,” he insists. Then he’s gone. 

The room feels emptier, colder. 

I scramble for my bag, dumping everything back out on my bead in a clumsy heap. Papers slide and folders bend under my shaking hands. I yank open the drawer of my desk and grab my roll of tape. My fingers are already moving faster before my brain can fully catch up.

The ripped up pieces are scattered everywhere, jagged edges, glossy scraps, blurred backgrounds. My hands skim over them as I stop on a scrap. 

Barbara. Dipping her feet in the pool, alone. 

It’s clear. I hold it up, the guilt rushing back, heavy and suffocating, pressing against my ribs. I tape the photo back together to the best of my ability, smoothing the seams carefully.  

Once it’s whole again, I study it. At first, there's nothing. Just Barbara after she cut her hand, waiting for Nancy to be done. 

To be done with Steve. 

My chest tightens with frustration, I was hoping. No, expecting. Something obvious. A sign, a warning. 

I’m just about to give up when I see it. 

A small blur in the top right corner, small and faint like it was trying not to be noticed. I bring the photo closer to my face, my pulse beginning to pound in my ears. It’s hard to make out, distorted and unnatural, but my stomach twists instantly.

It’s all too familiar. 

My fingers trace the shape of the blur, slow and careful. It’s wrong in the same way the thing in the woods was. The shame shape. The same impossible presence. 

I push off the bed to start pacing, the room suddenly feeling too small to hold everything spiraling in my head. It was too tall to be a man. There's no face, nothing human where it should be. It walked like a human. It had arms and legs like a human. A posture that mimics us enough to be horrifying. 

My breathing picks up, shallow and uneven. I can feel my heart slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. 

I drop back on my bed with a shaky exhale, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. I can’t do this alone. I needed a second brain. Another set of eyes. 

The only person who was there with me in the woods was Nancy Wheeler. 

The thought settles in my chest like a weight. The idea of spending more time with Steve’s girlfriend makes my stomach twist, dread curling low and slow. It’s almost laughable. 

A literal monster might be stalking the woods of Hawkins, and this is what almost makes me quit. 

I swallow hard, folding the photo carefully and tucking it into my backpocket. I shove my selfish thoughts down where they belong and sling my bag over my shoulder. 

I take the stairs two at a time, nearly skidding past the kitchen. My mom is there, leaning against the counter, cooing at the cat. A half-drunken bottle of wine sits beside her, forgotten for now. 

“I’m going to study at the Wheelers’!” I call out, halfway out the door. 

She looks up, confused. I barely go to the Wheeler’s anymore. I think the last time I was there was for Easter brunch in April. Mrs. Wheeler had invited our family from the sheer amount of time Dustin spent cooped up in their basement. 

“Check on your brother for me,” my mom calls after me. 

I hum in agreement as I slam the door behind me shut, the sound of it echoing more than I meant it to. The walk to the Wheelers is a few minutes long, but it’s more than enough time for me to be alone with my thoughts.  

Dangerous, I know. 

The streets are quiet and the air is cold around me, even colder than usual from the lack of sun. I fold my arms tight around myself, shoulders hunching as I curse under my breath for forgetting my jacket draped over my desk chair. Goosebumps prickle along my skin, though I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or something else entirely. 

My mind drifts back to the photo. To the blur. To the thing just lurking behind Barbara, caught mid movement like it knew it was being watched.

Fear coils tight in my chest. Whatever that thing is, it’s out there. Somewhere in Hawkins. Walking free.  

There’s no way it’s a coincidence. Jonathan Byers snaps a picture of something that looks almost identical to what Nancy and I saw in the woods. My pulse thrums loud in my ears as I finally reach the Wheelers’ porch, walking up and ringing their doorbell.

The door swings open almost immediately, revealing Mrs. Wheeler in a floral apron and the smell of dinner lingering behind her. It smells amazing. She smiles when she sees me, though confusion flickers across her face before she could hide it. 

 “Hi, Andi!” she beams. “Dustin isn’t here right now. Mike said they were over at your house.” Her eyebrows pinch together slightly, like the math isn’t adding up. 

My stomach twists. 

I’m going to kill Dustin. 

Where the hell is he?

He’s not home and apparently neither are the rest of his friends. A fresh wave of worry washes over, sharp and immediate, and piling on top of everything else. Will, Barbara, and now this. My hands curl into themselves at my sides. 

“Oh- yeah, they’re home.” I lie through my teeth, forcing the words past my lips. I don’t wanna dump more worry onto Mrs Wheeler. Not when the entire town feels like they’re holding their breath. I don't need to freak out a mom whose son’s best friend just went missing. It still doesn’t suppress the anxiety coursing through me.

“I'm actually here for Nancy. We have this big project due for History.” 

“Well, come right in,” Mrs. Wheeler smiles, stepping aside. 

“Thank you,” I reply, smiling back practically sprinting up the stairs. 

My memory jogs as I head down the hall. I haven’t been in Nancy’s room in years, not since we were kids, but my feet remember. 

I burst through her doors, being immediately transported into a world of pink and frills. Everything neatly arranged in shelves. It’s all so unmistakably Nancy Wheeler, it almost knock the wind out of my lungs. It’s more grown up than I remember. More her. 

“Where the fuck is Mike?” I blurt as I shut the door behind me. 

A wide eyed Nancy stares back at me, textbook open in her lap. Mr. Kaminski’s class, if I had to guess. She scrambles to her feet. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” She questions, eyes flicking over to me. 

“Your brother told your mom that he was at my house with Dustin and Lucas.” I say, words tumbling out. “I just came from my house. None of them are there.”

Nancy’s face falls. 

“What?” she whispers.

Fuck, right, the photo. 

“That’s not even why I’m here,” I say quickly, shaking my head as I dig through my back pocket. My fingers find the folded paper, creased and taped together. “Look.”

Nancy unfolds it carefully, her eyes scanning the image. Barb sits in the center, her pants legs rolled, feet dangling in the pool. For a split second, it all looks normal. Nancy’s gaze shifts and I see it hit her. 

The figure in the back. Looming, watching. 

“What is that?” she asks, voice cracking. 

I shake my head. I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.  

“I don’t know,” I finally say. “But I’m betting that's what we saw in the woods yesterday.” 

I step closer, peering over her shoulder at the image. Up close you can see the way it seems frozen mid step. The way it looks like it’s stalking her. 

“Where’d you get this?” Nancy asks. 

“Jonathan,” I reply. “I managed to scoop up what I could after Steve and his assholes ripped up his photos” 

Nancy looks at me then, surprised. I guess she thought I was good ol’ pals with Tommy and Carol. I don’t blame her though. Constantly having them around doesn’t help my case. 

“You’re a genius,” she mutters. 

A small, reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “All I did was tape a photo together.” 

Still, her words settle in my head. 

“We should talk to Byers tomorrow, though.” I add, quietly. “If he was there that night, maybe he saw something, or heard something.” 

She nods, thoughtful. Her eyes still linger on the photo like she’s afraid to look away for too long. 

The air thickens again, settling into the same uncomfortable silence we carried with each other on the walk home. It isn’t hostile, just heavy. 

I clear my throat. “Well, I probably should get going now. Try to find my brother and all that” 

“Let me know if Mike is with him.” she says, nodding. Her lips pull tight into a uncertain smile, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Yeah,” I reply softly. “I will.” 

The worry comes rushing back as I step outside. The brief relief, the photo, the plan, it all fades fast leaving me with the familiar feeling of a knot twisting in my stomach. I still don’t know where my brother is. Kids don't lie where they are unless they’re somewhere they know they’re not supposed to be. 

That’s the part that scares me. 

By the time I finally reach my front porch, my chest feels tight. 

Then I see it, Dustin's bike sprawled carelessly across the driveway, abandoned like he couldn’t wait to get inside. 

A breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped me. Small victories. 

I step into our house, greeted by darkness. Every light is off except for the faint glow of the upstairs hallway, spilling down from the staircase casting long shadows across the living room. Outside, yellow streetlights filter through the blinds, striping the walls in dull bands of light.  

“Dustin?” I call out, my voice echoing softly as my eyes adjust to the darkness. 

A quiet sound answers me. 

Sniffling. 

My heart sinks. 

There curled on the couch is the silhouette of my eleven-year old brother, shoulders shaking, head buried in his hands. 

I drop my bag where I stand and rush over, sitting beside him. My arm slips around his shoulders, instinctively familiar as I rub slow circles on his back. 

“Dustin?” I repeat, my voice much softer this time. 

I murmur. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?” 

I already know it. I just don’t want to. 

Will Byers flashes through my mind, followed immediately by the worst possibilities. Ones I try to shut down as hard as I can. 

“They… they found his body. ” 

The words hit like a punch to my chest. A broken, guttural exhale tears out of me. I stop the tears that threaten to spill. I have to stay strong. For my brother. 

Will was just a kid. Barely twelve. 

My hand trembles as it moves up and down Dustin’s spine, pulling him closer until he’s pressed against me, his sobs soaking my shirt. We stay like that for a while. Long enough for his cries to quiet. Long enough for his breathing to even out. 

Eventually, he falls asleep in my arms. 

I gently slip the trucker hat off of his head, the fabric worn thin with age. A stinging reminder of our father, of things I don’t let myself think about. Dustin doesn’t need to know what that hat did to our mom. To me. He doesn’t ever need to know. He never will. 

Our Dad might be a piece of shit, but he’s a good enough father. When he actually does decide to show up and only to the child he actually wanted. 

A son. 

I’m glad Dustin got that version of him. The one that I always wanted. The one that played with me when I came home from school, instead of just telling me to go to the Harrington’s. 

It’s clear that Walter Henderson was always capable of change, but I just wasn’t worth changing for. 

My mom had that version of him, before it all fell apart. Before he fell apart. 

I would never take that from Dustin. He doesn’t deserve that. 

I grab one of our old blankets from the closet by the T.V, the kind we used to fight for before bed time, and drape it over him carefully. Dustin curls in on himself, his head tucked against one of Mom’s throw pillows. The ones she keeps ordering from Avon whenever they stop at our door. 

I tuck a loose curl behind his ear before straightening myself out, my chest aching in a dull quiet way. 

My thoughts wander to Jonathan as I kick off my shoes to change into my pajamas. God, I can’t imagine what he’s going through. The idea of losing Dustin is enough to make me breakdown, but Will… with Will it’s different. Everybody in this town knows how much of a deadbeat Lonnie Byers is. Hell, he used to run around with my own dad. 

Jonathan Byers practically raised that boy on his own. 

The realization stings more than it needs to. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, hot and sudden. I swipe them away quickly with the back of my sleeve, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness of my chest. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. I need to stay strong, especially now.  

_______________________________

I’m up early again. The same nightmare clawed its way back for round two, leaving me tangled in sheets gasping for air like I’ve been underwater for too long. 

Downstairs, the house is already quiet. 

Dustin’s gone. 

A yellowed post-it note sits crookedly on the counter, the words scrawled in messy handwriting. 

GONE TO MIKE’S. 

Relief washes over me, dull but welcome. At least he isn’t alone. Well truly, as long as I’m breathing he will never be alone. I’ll always be here for him. But at least he has people to lean on, people who understand this in a way I never truly will. I’ll never understand him fully, not like how those boys do.

Last night, they all went through something unimaginable together. I can stand beside them, protect them, but I can’t step into that space with them. And that has to be okay. 

It didn't take long before I’m standing on the Wheeler’s front porch again, the same place I was less than twelve hours ago. Apprehension settles in as the thought of seeing Jonathan takes hold.

He just lost his brother. 

But I need answers.

If Will is gone, Barbara might be next. It's too close to be a coincidence. Too cruel. And I know Jonathan, I know he would want to help, even now. Especially now. 

Nancy must be thinking the same thing. Before I can even lift my hand to knock, the door swings open. 

I jump back instinctively. “Jesus,” I gasp, clutching my chest. 

“Sorry,” she says quickly, scrunching her face in apology. 

I take a second to steady my breathing. “Did you hear the news?” My voice comes out low and heavy. 

She nods slowly, eyes clouding over. “Do you still want to talk to him?” 

I nod without hesitation. Whatever fear or doubt, it doesn’t matter anymore. 

“Okay,” she replies, swallowing hard. 

We decide to head to his house first. The Byers live out close to where the huge national laboratory for the Department of Energy is, far enough from town that the walk feels longer than it already is. Neither of us has a license, and the silence stretches between us with every step. 

We finally reach the house and it feels vacant, empty. Like the life has been sucked right out of it. A gust of wind rattles the porch, scattering dry leaves across the ground. 

Nancy and I exchange a glance. Shared concern. 

I take a step closer to the front door, knocking on the old wood. 

It creaks open slowly, revealing a worn-down Mrs. Byers. Her face looks older somehow, drawn tight with grief. 

“Hi” I say, my voice barely there. 

“Hey,” she replies, her voice was hoarse and scraped raw like she’s been screaming or crying for hours. My chest cracks open at the sound. 

Instant regret washes over me. 

This is a mistake. They’re in mourning. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t need to drag them back into this. Into Barbara. Into everything else awful. I can figure it out on my own. 

I want to say something. Anything. 

Sorry for your loss.

Thank you for your time.

We’ll leave. 

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. 

I feel Nancy step up behind me, the porch wood creaking under the new weight. She places a hand on my shoulder, gentle and grounding. It steadies me. 

“Mrs. Byers,” Nancy says, softly. “We are so sorry for your loss. We can’t imagine how you feel” 

I let out a slow breath, grateful she found the words I couldn’t. Mrs. Byers nods, eyes distant. 

I don't expect anything from her. I don’t even know how she’s standing here. I wouldn’t be. 

I clear my throat, finally finding my voice, “Do you… Do you know where Jonathan is?” 

“Uh- yeah,” she says, fumbling slightly, her hands shaking as she lifts a lit cigarette to her lips. “I think he’s in town.”

“Thank you,” I manage, forcing a smile that seems wrong. 

The door closes gently in front of her. 

As Nancy and I turn to leave, a harsh voice carries faintly behind the door. It’s hushed and all too familiar.

A voice I remember from the nights I spent wide awake, listening to my dad get drunk with his friends. The laughter. The clashes. The way I’d show up to school with dark circles around my eyes that no second grader should have from the lack of sleep. 

I realized Nancy was walking a few steps in front of me, already drifting forward while I’ve lagged behind. Lost somewhere in my own head. It’s a bad habit, letting my thoughts pull me under without warning. I force myself to shake it off and hurry to catch up to her. 

We walk in silence. Not the kind we shared after the woods, or the quiet that filled her bedroom last night. That silence had been thick with unspoken fear and something fragile beneath it. This one feels heavier. Weighed down by the news that’s settled over Hawkins. 

Downtown Hawkins is crowded when we arrive, more alive than usual due to it being Saturday morning. Elderly couples shuffle along sidewalks, paper coffee cups in hand. People run errands, exchange pleasantries, laugh too loudly, as if normalcy will protect them from what’s happened. I scan every face and storefront for Jonathan. 

The town feels wrong today. Heavy. Like tragedy has sunk into the pavement and everyone's walking through it whether they know it or not. My eyes move from shop to shop, my chest tightening with every second that passes without seeing him. 

Nancy’s gaze suddenly locks onto something ahead of us. 

“There?” she asks quietly, her eyebrows knitting together as she nods at the funeral home. 

 My stomach drops. The idea of finding Jonathan Byers there feels grim, but then again, so does everything about Hawkins right now. Bleak feels like the only word that fits. 

And there he is. 

Jonathan Byers stands inside, his eyes swollen and red, his shoulder slumped like the weight of the world had settled into his bones. He’s speaking to a heavier set man with a patchy, greying beard, gesturing vaguely towards the coffins arranged around him. They’re lined up perfectly and neatly, polished wood and satin interiors. Death surrounds him from every angle. 

It takes a moment before he notices us standing frozen in the doorway. 

When he does, he stiffens. His eyes widen just slightly before settling on Nancy’s face. He turns to the man quickly, stammering over his words, “Can you give us a moment?” 

The man nods respectfully as he disappears to what I’m guessing is a backroom, leaving Jonathan alone with us. He shoves his hands deep into his jean’s pockets as he starts making his way towards us. 

I can’t even bring myself to look at him. My eyes stayed fixed on the carpeted floor beneath my feet as my grip tightens around the strap of my bag. I hate funeral homes. The smell, the quiet, the way they make loss seem final. Thinking that makes me feel selfish right now, but the thought settles heavy in my chest. 

I freeze again, just like I did earlier with Joyce Byers.

Jonathan stops in front of us. 

“Hey,” he says softly. Quietly. 

“Hey,” Nancy replies, matching his tone. She looks up at him, her blue eyes wide as she pulls in a sharp breath like she's bracing herself. 

“Your mom… um” I finally manage, lifting my gaze to his face. The sight of him cracks something in me. “She’d said you’d be here” 

“We just…” I pause, drawing in a deep breath and steading myself. “Can we talk for a sec?” 

I gesture toward the narrow hallway beside us. It’s mostly empty, just carpeted floor, muted walls, and a small wooden bench pressed outside the doorway. It’s all so bare and stripped. Appropriate for a funeral home in the most unsettling way. 

Jonathan gives a sharp nod.

Nancy sits first. I move to the opposite wall, leaning back against it. Letting the cold wall’s solidity ground me. Jonathan takes the spot next to her, careful and deliberate. Curling inward to make sure to not let their knees touch, even though there's barely any space. 

“That night,” I start, slowly. “When you were at Steve’s…” I notice his body tense. “Did you see anything? Anybody else out there?” 

“N-no” 

I don’t press further. Instead, I shove my hand into my backpocket to pull out the photo, unfolding it carefully. I hand it over to Jonathan, swallowing the lump knotted in my throat. 

I watch his face closely as his eyes scan the image. I’m looking for anything. A flicker of recognition, confusion, realization. Something. He doesn’t ask how I got the photo. I know I hadn’t exactly asked before stuffing the scraps in my bag 

“That thing in the corner…” Nancy says quietly, leaning in and tracing the blur with her finger. 

Jonathan's cheeks flush red immediately. Nancy notices and pulls back just as fast, retreating to her side of the bench.   

“It looks like it could be some kind of perspective distortion,” Jonathan says, his eyes narrowing as he studies the page. 

Disappointment crashes into me. 

“But,” he adds after a moment. “I wasn’t using the wide angle.” 

Hope sparks, small and fragile.  

“I- I don’t know” Jonathan finally says, handing the photo back to me with a shake of his head. “It’s weird.” 

The hope dies as quickly as it returns. 

I stare down at my scuffed Converse as a sigh slips out of me, shoulders sagging. Mostly, I feel awful. I dragged him out here today, of all days, for nothing. 

“And you're sure,” I press, hating myself for it. “You didn't see anyone else out there?” I’m grasping at scraps now, anything might lead us closer to finding Barbara. Anything that justifies dragging him into this when he’s already drowning. 

Jonathan swallows, his throat bobbing. He shakes his head, barely at all. “No. She was there one second and then, um… gone. I figured she bolted.” 

“The cops think she ran away,” Nancy adds quietly, her voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it.  “But they don’t know, Barb.” She shakes her head slowly, her eyes fixed on an invisible spot in the wall. Jonathan watches her closely, like he’s afraid she might disappear too. 

“We went back to Steve’s,” I say, pushing myself off the wall, folding my arms tightly across my chest. “And we thought we… saw something. Some weird man, or…” 

“I don’t know what it was.” Frustration spilling out in a tired sigh. 

Jonathan doesn’t respond. 

He just sits there, face unreadable and eyes distant. The guilt comes crashing back, sudden and overwhelming. Even louder than before. His brother is gone. And here I am dumping fragments of half-believed nightmares at his feet. 

“I’m sorry” I say quickly, shaking my head as I shove the photo back into my pocket, not bothering to keep it together. “We- we shouldn’t have come here today.” 

Nancy seems to agree. She reaches for her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry,” she mutters as we turn to leave.

We’re halfway down the hallway when Jonathan’s voice stops us cold. 

“What did he look like?” 

Nancy and I both spin around to face him at the same time. 

“What?” My brows knit in confusion. 

“This man you saw in the woods,” Jonathan repeats. “What’d he look like?”

“I- I don’t know” Nancy stammers. “It was almost like… he didn’t have…” 

“Didn’t have a face?” Jonathan cuts in. 

My stomach drops. 

“How did you know that?” I question, my voice sharp and desperate. More than I mean it to be. 

We waste no time piling into Jonathan’s car. He mutters something about being able to enlarge the blur in a darkroom, his words rushed and uneven, like his thoughts are tripping on one another. The only darkroom he knows of is at Hawkins High, unfortunately. 

“My mom…” Jonathan says, as he jams the keys into the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath us. I slide into the back seat, leaving him and Nancy in the front. “She was saying a man with no face was coming out of our walls” 

The words settle heavy in the car. 

“I didn’t believe her at first…” he continues, gripping the steering wheel tight. “But now…” his voice trails off, unfinished. 

The rest of the ride is eerily quiet. No radio. No small talk. Just the sound of tires against pavement and our thoughts rattling around in our head. I haven’t really spoken to either of them since we were kids, and now here we are older and chasing down something we don’t truly understand. A monster. 

“So…how are we going to get in?” Nancy asks once we park, shutting the car down behind her. 

“The door?” I respond, a little too quickly, like the answer should be obvious. I forget not everyone grew up sneaking into Hawkins High for fun. Back in middle school, Steve used to beg to break in so he could use the basketball court. I never liked basketball much, but I’d still go along and stand off to the side. Pretended I cared just to keep him company. 

We walk up to the front entrance, the building looming and silent. In reality, it should be locked. 

I reach for the handle, curling my fingers around it and give it a single push. 

A smirk tugs on my lips as I step aside, letting Jonathan and Nancy pass me. 

Jonathan leads us down familiar hallways and into the darkroom, which is exactly what it sounds like. Tight, windowless, and washed in a dim red lighting. Jonathan doesn’t hesitate, heading straight for the large machines lining the walls. He flicks a switch, the low hum filling the room as he feeds the photo in place. 

“And you’re…?” I ask, watching him work..

“Brightening,” he replies. “Enlarging.” 

I hum in response, not fully understanding but trusting him anyway. 

Nancy watches him closely, her attention fixed as he reaches to turn a knob over his head while peering down into a pane of glass above the image. She leans against the desk beside him, her hand cradling her head. I hang back, leaning against another desk with my arms crossed as I wait. 

Jonathan bends lower, peering into what seems like a microscope and still adjusting the knob with careful precision. Every so often he lets out a grunt or hum, completely absorbed.

“Did your mom say anything else?” Nancy murmurs softly from beside him. “Like, um, where it might have gone to, or…” 

“Nope.” Jonathan shakes his head slightly, still hunched over the machine. “Just that it came out of the wall.” 

The machine dings. 

Jonathan straightens out and moves over to the desk behind me. I scramble out of the way, standing close behind him as he grabs a tray filled with developer from the desk. I peer over his shoulder as he lowers the undeveloped image into the liquid and gently rocks the tray back and forth. 

All three of us stare as slowly the picture begins to surface, the image swimming into focus. 

“How long does this take?” I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away. . 

“Not long,” he replies quietly. .

“Have you been… doing this a while?” Nancy asks, trying to fill the silence. Her voice comes out softer, more personal.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m intruding on something intimate. 

Jonathan glances back at her, “What?” 

“Photography,” she clarifies with a small nod. 

I decide now would be best to slip out of the room.

I inch towards the door, careful and quiet, cracking it just enough to squeeze through. Small enough that no light spills in. Big enough that I could disappear without being noticed. The door clicks softly behind me, and suddenly I’m alone. 

My feet move faster than my thoughts as I wander the empty school. It’s unsettling, seeing the halls like this. Silent, stripped of the noise and chaos they’re always filled with. No lockers slamming. No laughter echoing. Just long stretches of tile. 

I spot my locker. The dent near the handle from when Steve slammed it shut too hard one morning. Then the spot where we meet Tommy and Carol every day, like it’s some unspoken ritual we’ve never bothered to question. I drift past the cafeteria and lean toward the small window in the door, peering inside. 

The table where we’ve sat everyday for what’s going to be 3 years.

My chest tightens. I hate that everything is changing. Nothing feels solid anymore. 

“Andi!”

The voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp and urgent. 

I spin around to see Nancy and Jonathan at the far end of the hallway, eyes wide and brows drawn tight like they just saw something they can’t explain. I pick up my pace, meeting them halfway. 

Nancy doesn't say a word. She just hands me the photo. 

It’s newly processed, faintly damp. Jonathan had enlarged the corner, zoomed in until it fills the entire page. 

There it is.

Clear as day. 

The thing from the woods. 

“That's it,” I say, my voice coming out quieter than I expected as my eyes flick from the photos to their faces. “That’s what we saw in the woods.”

“My mom…” Jonathan stars, his voice unsteady. “I thought she was crazy, ‘cause she said that’s not Will’s body. That he’s alive.” 

I freeze. 

The words take a second to sink in, like my brain needs time to catch up. 

“And if he’s alive…” I murmur, barely finishing the thought.

“Then Barb…” Nancy says, her voice trembling as she looks at me with hope flashing in her blue eyes. 

The picture feels heavy in my hands. Dark. Like it’s pulling something out of me by just holding it. That thing, whatever it is, buzzes through my head like T.V static that never truly fades. The thought of it out there, stalking its next victim. Waiting to strike. 

Realization sets in. Slowly. Dread curling tight in my stomach. That I might have to get close to this thing again. That I might have to fight it. Maybe even kill it. 

Or die trying. 

My grip tightens on the photo, the edges curling in. I have to try. 

At the very least, I have to try.

[chiconduty]

it’s a need