𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 𝑬𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕: 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒕
part two
contains: sex scenes or sexual language, sexual references, underage drinking and/or smoking, drug use, violence, character death and character mental health issues.
word count: 8K
warnings: smut may appear in this chapter; you can skip through it if you wish
synopsis: Tash bids Hawkins farewell through tender goodbyes, passionate nights with Steve, and quiet escape with Eddie before leaving for California.
authors note: MINORS DNI. this season may contain heavier topics such as; suicidal thoughts, murder and/or degrading language and acts.
— {a few weeks later} —
The Byers house smelled like cardboard and fresh paint—boxes stacked in every corner, walls already echoing with the emptiness of a place about to be left behind. Joyce had been packing for days, her hands never still, while Hopper’s absence hung over everything like smoke that wouldn’t clear. El had taken to wearing one of his old flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up too many times, the cuffs frayed from where she kept twisting them when she got anxious. Tash had claimed his leather jacket instead—too big, too heavy, but it still smelled faintly of pine and gun oil, and she wore it like armor.
In a few days, they’d all be gone: Joyce, Will, Jonathan, El, and Tash. California. A fresh start, or at least the promise of one. The state had offered Joyce a job at a small radio station in Lenora Hills; she’d taken it without hesitation. Hopper’s death certificate had been issued two weeks ago—officially, he’d died in the “mall fire.” Tash had stared at the paper until the words blurred, then folded it into the pocket of his jacket and never looked at it again.
Tonight was the last night before the moving truck arrived. The older teens had claimed Steve’s house for a sendoff—no parents, no kids underfoot, just the five of them who’d survived the summer from hell.
Steve’s living room looked almost normal in the low lamplight: pizza boxes open on the coffee table, half-empty beer bottles sweating rings onto coasters, Robin sprawled across the couch with her legs over the armrest, strumming an out-of-tune acoustic guitar she’d found in Steve’s closet. Nancy sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through a stack of mixtapes she’d brought—“road trip music,” she’d said, though no one was sure who’d actually listen. Jonathan perched on the edge of the armchair, camera resting in his lap like a security blanket, clicking occasional candids when no one was looking.
Tash leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over Steve’s old sweatshirt (she’d claimed it permanently now), watching them all like she was memorizing the scene. Her bruises had faded to sickly yellows and greens; the gash on her scalp was a thin pink line under fresh blond growth. She still limped sometimes when she was tired, but she hid it well.
Steve came up beside her, two fresh beers in hand. He offered her one without a word. She took it, their fingers brushing for half a second longer than necessary.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged. “Ask me in a month when I’m staring at palm trees instead of pine.”
He huffed a small laugh. “California’s got better waves. You could learn to surf.”
“Me? On a board? I’d drown in five feet of water.”
“Exactly. Gives me an excuse to save you.” He said it lightly, but his eyes lingered on her face—searching, careful, the way they always did now.
She looked away first, toward the others. Robin was butchering a rendition of “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” Nancy laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Jonathan caught the moment on film, the flash briefly blinding everyone.
Tash swallowed. “I’m gonna miss this. Miss you guys.”
Steve’s shoulder bumped hers gently. “We’re not disappearing. Phones exist. Planes exist. And I’m pretty sure Robin’s already planning a cross-country road trip to crash your new place.”
“God help Joyce,” Tash muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile.
Nancy stood up, brushing crumbs off her jeans. “Okay, enough moping. We need a toast.” She raised her bottle. “To Tash and Jonathan. May California give you better hair days, fewer monsters, and at least one decent pizza place.”
Robin sat up, guitar forgotten. “To new beginnings that don’t suck.” Jonathan ducked his head, cheeks pink. “To… not having to say goodbye forever.”
Steve looked at Tash. “To keeping in touch. No matter what.”
Tash lifted her bottle last. Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “To surviving. And to the people who made it worth it.”
They clinked—glass on glass, a small, defiant sound in the quiet house.
After that, the night softened. Robin put on a real record—Springsteen, low and warm. Jonathan and Nancy ended up on the floor sorting photos from the summer, laughing over the ones where everyone looked half-dead but happy. Steve and Tash drifted to the back porch, the screen door creaking behind them.
The air was cool, late-August crisp. Crickets sang in the dark yard. Tash leaned against the railing, jacket sleeves pulled over her hands.
“I keep thinking he’s gonna walk out of the woods,” she said suddenly. “Like he did that night at the mall. Just… show up. Grumbling about paperwork or something.”
Steve stood beside her, close enough that their arms touched. “I know.”
She exhaled shakily. “And Billy… I still dream about him. Not the monster part. Just… him. Smiling. Like before everything went to hell.”
Steve didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. He just listened.
“I loved him,” she said, quieter. “Even when he was awful. Even when I knew better.”
“I know.”
She turned to him then, blue eyes searching his face in the porch light. “You never made me feel bad about it. Not once.”
He shrugged, looking out at the yard. “You loved who you loved. That’s not something I get to judge.”
A beat of silence.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For… everything. For dragging me out of that forest. For letting me crash here. For not pushing.”
Steve finally met her eyes. “You’d do the same for me.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I would.”
They stood there a long time, the music filtering through the screen door, the night wrapping around them like a promise.
Inside, Robin’s laugh rang out again—bright, unstoppable.
Tash leaned her head on Steve’s shoulder. Just for a moment.
Tomorrow she’d leave Hawkins.
But tonight, she was still here.
With them.
—
The night stretched thin, the kind of late where time feels syrupy and regrets feel distant. The pizza boxes had long since been shoved aside, replaced by a battered deck of cards and bottles that emptied faster than anyone planned. Robin dealt sloppy hands of bullshit poker, cackling every time someone called her bluff (which was often). Nancy kept score on a napkin, Jonathan lost track after the third beer, and Tash—quiet at first—started matching them drink for drink, the alcohol loosening the knot in her chest just enough to let her laugh again.
By two a.m., the energy fractured. Robin yawned so wide her jaw cracked, muttered something about “needing horizontal,” and stumbled upstairs to crash in the guest room. Nancy followed a few minutes later, kissing Jonathan’s temple before dragging him with her. “Come on, Byers. You’ve got a plane to catch in forty-eight hours.” He went without protest, the camera still slung around his neck.
That left Tash and Steve.
They sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, feet tangled under the coffee table, the deck abandoned between them. The record player had clicked to silence sometime after Springsteen; now the only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the house settling. Empty bottles glinted in the lamplight. Tash’s cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy but sharp. Steve looked wrecked in the best way—hair mussed, shirt untucked, that half-smile he only wore when he was too tired to hide how much he felt.
Neither moved to leave.
“You should sleep,” Steve said finally, voice rough from laughing and drinking and everything else.
“So should you.”
He shrugged. “Not tired.”
“Liar.”
A beat. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to close my eyes and wake up to you gone.”
Tash’s breath caught. She looked at him—really looked—and saw the fear mirrored back at her. The same fear that had kept her awake every night since the mall: that this was the last time. That California would swallow her whole and Hawkins would forget her name.
She shifted closer. Just an inch. Then another. Until their knees touched.
Steve’s hand found hers on the cushion between them—slow, tentative, like he was waiting for her to pull away. She didn’t. Her fingers laced through his, thumb brushing the scraped knuckles he’d earned carrying her out of those woods.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too.”
He leaned in first. Not sudden. Not desperate. Just inevitable. His forehead rested against hers for a long second, breath mingling, then he tilted his head and kissed her.
Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid she’d vanish if he pressed too hard.
Tash froze for half a heartbeat—surprised, grieving, wanting all at once—then she kissed him back.
It started gentle, exploratory: lips brushing, tasting beer and salt and the faint sweetness of whatever cola Robin had been drinking earlier. But the dam broke fast. She slid her hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her mouth, and suddenly it wasn’t careful anymore.
Steve’s hands found her waist, thumbs slipping under the hem of his own sweatshirt she wore, skimming hot skin over the fading bruises. She arched into the touch, a small, needy sound escaping when his fingers traced the edge of a rib that still ached. He pulled back just enough to check her eyes—asking, always asking—and she answered by climbing into his lap, straddling him, knees bracketing his hips.
The kiss turned hungry. Teeth and tongue, wet and messy and perfect. She rocked against him once, twice; he bucked up instinctively, hard and straining beneath her. A choked curse left him. “Tash—”
“Upstairs,” she breathed against his mouth. “Now.”
He stood without breaking the kiss, hands under her thighs, lifting her like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and they stumbled through the dark house—bumping walls, knocking a picture frame crooked, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths.
They made it to his room. Door kicked shut. Clothes came off in a frantic rush: sweatshirt yanked over her head, his shirt tugged free, jeans shoved down, underwear following. Skin met skin—hot, feverish, alive.
He backed her toward the bed until her knees hit the mattress. She pulled him down with her, rolling so she was on top, hair falling around them like a curtain. Steve’s hands roamed—cupping her breasts, thumbs circling nipples until they peaked, then sliding down to grip her hips, guiding her as she ground against him. She was already slick, aching; he could feel it when she rocked forward, coating him.
“Condom?” she gasped.
“Nightstand.”
She leaned over, fumbling the drawer open, ripping the packet with her teeth. He watched her—eyes dark, chest heaving—as she rolled it on with steady hands, then sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate slide.
They both groaned. Loud. Unrestrained.
She stilled for a second, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness, then started moving—slow rolls at first, then faster, harder. Steve thrust up to meet her, hands bruising her hips, mouth on her throat, sucking marks she’d have to hide tomorrow. She rode him like she was chasing something she couldn’t name—grief, love, goodbye, all of it tangled together.
He flipped them without warning, pinning her beneath him, one of her legs hooked over his shoulder. The angle was deeper, brutal in the best way. She clawed at his back, nails leaving red trails; he hissed, fucked into her harder, chasing the sounds she made—high, broken whimpers that turned into his name over and over.
“Steve—fuck—don’t stop—”
He didn’t. He reached between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and rough the way he’d somehow always known she liked. She shattered first—back arching, mouth open in a silent scream, pulsing around him so tight he nearly followed. He held on, drawing it out, thrusting through her aftershocks until she was trembling, oversensitive, begging.
Then he let go.
He came with a low, guttural sound, burying his face in her neck, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. They clung to each other through it, shaking, sweat-slick and breathless.
After, they didn’t move right away. He stayed inside her, softening slowly, forehead pressed to hers. She traced lazy patterns on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.
“I don’t want you to go,” he whispered into her hair.
“I know.”
A long silence.
“I’ll call,” she said finally. “Every day if I have to.”
He huffed a small laugh. “You better.”
She kissed him again—slow this time, tender. No rush. No desperation. Just them, tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and summer’s end.
They fell asleep like that—limbs entwined, hearts hammering in tandem—knowing morning would come too soon, knowing planes and distance waited.
But for these last hours, the world outside could burn.
They had this.
—
They didn’t sleep.
Not really.
The hours blurred into a slow, feverish haze—bodies moving together, then apart, then together again like they were trying to memorize every inch before dawn stole it away. The first time had been desperate, frantic, all teeth and nails and whispered curses. The second slower, deeper, her on her back with his weight pinning her to the mattress, eyes locked until she came apart trembling beneath him. The third found them on their sides, facing each other, legs tangled, his hand cupping her breast while she rocked back against him in lazy, rolling circles.
Now it was sometime after four. The room smelled of sex and sweat and the faint citrus of his shampoo. Moonlight sliced through the half-open blinds in pale silver bars across the bed. Steve was behind her, chest pressed to her back, one arm banded around her waist, the other hooked under her knee, holding her open. He moved inside her with long, deliberate strokes—slow enough that every slide felt deliberate, every withdrawal a quiet ache.
Tash’s face was buried in the crook of his neck. She breathed him in—salt, skin, the lingering trace of beer and smoke from the night—and let the rhythm of his hips rock her gently forward. Her fingers curled into his hair at the nape, holding him close; her other hand rested over his where it splayed low on her stomach, just above where they joined.
He wasn’t chasing anything now. No urgency. Just the quiet, intimate drag of him filling her, retreating, filling her again. Each thrust pulled a soft, broken sound from her throat—half sigh, half whimper—muffled against his pulse. She could feel his heartbeat there, steady and too fast, matching the way hers stuttered every time he bottomed out.
“Steve…” His name slipped out like a prayer, barely audible.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured into her hair, lips brushing her temple. His voice was wrecked—low, gravelly from hours of this. He shifted his hips just enough to change the angle, nudging deeper, and she gasped, thighs trembling around the arm that held her leg up. “Right here.”
She turned her face more fully into his neck, lips grazing the skin there—open-mouthed kisses, small bites that made him groan and press harder. Her free hand slid down between her legs, fingers circling her clit in slow, slick strokes that matched his rhythm. The pleasure built low and liquid, spreading through her limbs like warm honey. She wasn’t racing toward it; she was letting it happen, letting him carry her there while she clung to the solid heat of his body.
He felt her tighten around him—slow, fluttering pulses—and his breath hitched. “Fuck, Tash… you feel—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Instead he kissed her shoulder, her neck, the shell of her ear, whispering nonsense—*so good, so perfect, don’t stop*—as if she had any intention of stopping.
She came quietly this time. No scream, no arching back—just a long, shuddering exhale against his throat, inner walls clenching rhythmically around him, drawing him deeper. Tears slipped from the corners of her closed eyes—not grief, not exactly, but something close to it: the unbearable sweetness of being held, being wanted, being *here* while everything else waited to pull them apart.
Steve followed a few thrusts later. He buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest as he spilled inside her. His arm tightened around her waist like he could keep her there forever if he just held on hard enough. They stayed locked together, breathing hard, hearts slamming against each other’s ribs.
He didn’t pull out right away. Instead he eased her leg down, rolled them so she was half-draped across his chest, his softening length still inside her. One hand stroked lazy circles on her back; the other threaded through her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder.
The room was quiet except for their breathing, the occasional creak of the bedframe, the distant chirp of crickets outside.
Tash pressed a soft, open kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I don’t want morning to come.”
Steve’s fingers tightened in her hair. “Me neither.”
They lay like that—tangled, sweat cooling on their skin, bodies still joined—as the sky outside slowly lightened from black to deep indigo.
Neither of them closed their eyes.
They just held on.
Waiting for the light to force them apart.
—
The sky outside had turned the soft gray of pre-dawn, the kind of light that makes everything feel fragile and temporary. Steve’s room was still dark enough that shadows clung to the corners, but he could see her clearly now—every detail he’d been memorizing for hours.
Tash had finally gone still.
Her breathing had slowed, deepened, the frantic little hitches smoothing out into something even and quiet. Her face was tucked against his chest, one arm draped loosely over his waist, fingers curled loosely against his ribs. Blond hair spilled across his shoulder like spilled sunlight, strands sticking to the damp skin of his neck. She looked smaller like this—exhausted, vulnerable, the hard edges of the last few months softened in sleep.
Steve hadn’t closed his eyes once.
He stayed perfectly still, afraid even the smallest movement might wake her. His hand rested on her back, thumb tracing idle, feather-light circles over the ridge of her spine. Every few minutes he checked her breathing again, counted the rises and falls of her chest against his, like proof she was still here.
She’d fallen asleep mid-kiss, lips still brushing his collarbone, a soft sigh escaping as her body finally surrendered. He’d felt the exact moment it happened—the way her muscles went lax, the way her grip on him loosened just enough to feel like goodbye.
He thought she was out.
He hoped she was out.
Because the words had been building all night, pressing against the back of his teeth, and if she heard them he wasn’t sure he could survive the look on her face when she left tomorrow.
He swallowed once, throat dry.
“I’m in love with you,” he whispered into the dark.
The words felt too big for the quiet room. Too raw. He waited, half-expecting her to stir, to tense, to pull away. She didn’t.
He kept going anyway, voice barely louder than breath.
“I’ve been in love with you since… God, I don’t even know. Maybe the first time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes instead of rolling your eyes. Or when you showed up freshman year in that awful bright pink dress and no one said anything because you completely owned it. You look at me like I am real. Like I’m not just the guy who used to be King Steve. And I’ve been trying not to fuck it up ever since.”
His thumb kept moving, slow arcs on her skin.
“I watched you love him. Billy. And it killed me every time, but I never said anything because you deserved to feel that big, that much, even if it was with someone who didn’t know how to hold it right. I told myself friendship was enough. I told myself I could watch you break your heart over and over and still be the guy who showed up with bandaids and bad movies. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never been enough.”
He pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing her in—sweat, sex, the faint trace of his own shampoo in her hair.
“I don’t want you to go to California and forget how to call me when you’re scared. Or when you’re happy. Or when you just… need someone to listen. I don’t want you to meet some surfer asshole who doesn’t know what you’ve been through, who doesn’t know how strong you are, who doesn’t know that when you say you’re fine you’re usually bleeding inside. I want to be the one who knows. I want to be the one who stays.”
A tear slipped free, hot against his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
“I’m not asking you to stay. I know you have to go. El needs you. Joyce needs you. You need to get out of this fucking town before it eats what’s left of you. But I need you to know—before you leave—that I love you. Not the idea of you. Not the version who needs saving. All of you. The angry parts, the broken parts, the parts that still love him even though he’s gone. The parts that scare the shit out of me because they make me want things I’ve never wanted before. A future. A real one.”
He closed his eyes, finally, forehead resting against her hair.
“I’ll wait,” he whispered. “However long it takes. Phone calls, letters, shitty cross-country drives—I’ll take whatever you can give me. Just… don’t disappear on me, okay? Don’t let California make you think you have to start over alone.”
Silence stretched. Her breathing stayed slow, even. Peaceful.
Steve let out a shaky breath, pressed one last kiss to her temple.
“I love you, Tash,” he said again, softer this time. Like a promise instead of a confession.
He didn’t expect an answer.
But in the quiet, in the gray light creeping under the blinds, her fingers flexed once against his side—small, almost unconscious—and curled tighter into his skin.
He froze.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t open her eyes.
But she held on.
And for the first time all night, Steve let himself believe she might have heard every word.
He closed his eyes then, finally.
Just for a minute.
Just long enough to pretend the sun wasn’t coming up.
—
The first real light of morning slipped through the blinds in thin, pale gold stripes, painting slow lines across the rumpled sheets and Steve’s bare back. Tash hadn’t slept—not truly. She’d drifted in that hazy half-place between exhaustion and grief, body limp against his, but her mind had stayed wide awake, turning over every word he’d whispered into the dark like stones in her palm.
She knew he’d thought she was asleep when he poured his heart out. She hadn’t been. Every quiet confession had landed like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.
Now Steve was the one finally gone under.
His breathing had evened out sometime after five, deep and slow, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his arm stayed draped heavy across her waist. His face was turned toward her on the pillow—swollen eye still shadowed purple, lip crusted with a thin line of dried blood, hair a chaotic mess she wanted to smooth back forever. He looked younger like this. Peaceful. Like the boy who used to chase popularity and ice cream scoops instead of monsters and heartbreak.
Tash lay on her side, propped on one elbow, watching him sleep. The room smelled like them—sweat, sex, the faint metallic edge of blood that never quite washed out. She traced the curve of his jaw with her eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes fanned dark against his cheeks.
She didn’t cry. Not this time. The tears had burned out somewhere between the forest and his bed.
Instead she spoke—soft, barely louder than breath, the words meant for the quiet between them.
“You have to let me go, Steve.”
Her voice cracked on his name. She swallowed, kept going.
“You’re too good for this. For me. I’m… I’m shattered glass, okay? Every time someone gets close I cut them. Billy. Hopper. Now you. I loved them both so hard it broke me, and I’m still picking pieces out of my skin. You deserve someone whole. Someone who doesn’t wake up screaming. Someone who can look at the future without seeing graves.”
She reached out—slow, careful—and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. His skin was warm. Alive. Hers felt cold in comparison.
“I heard you last night. Every word. And God, Steve… I want to be the girl who says it back. Who stays. Who builds something real with you. But I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. California isn’t a fresh start—it’s just running. And I’m taking El with me because she needs me to be strong, but I’m barely holding myself together. You shouldn’t have to wait for the version of me that might never show up.”
Her thumb traced the shell of his ear, memorizing the shape.
“You’re going to meet someone. Someone bright and easy and unbroken. She’ll laugh at your dumb jokes without the shadow behind her eyes. She’ll let you hold her without flinching. She’ll make you breakfast on Sunday mornings and not disappear into the woods when it hurts too much. And when that happens… you have to let yourself have it. You have to move on. Promise me you will.”
A small, broken laugh escaped her.
“I’m selfish enough to want you to wait forever. But I love you too much to let you.”
She leaned in, pressed the softest kiss to the corner of his mouth—right where the split was healing. He didn’t stir. Just sighed in his sleep, arm tightening reflexively around her waist like even unconscious he was afraid she’d slip away.
Tash closed her eyes for a second, let the warmth of him seep into her bones one last time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his skin. “For not being the girl you deserve. For making you love someone who’s already half gone.”
She stayed like that until the gold light turned brighter, until the house started to wake—distant sounds of birds, the faint creak of floorboards downstairs where someone (probably Robin) was already rummaging for coffee.
Then she eased out of his hold, slow and careful, so he wouldn’t wake yet.
She dressed in silence: his sweatshirt again, because it still smelled like him; his gym shorts; Hopper’s leather jacket over the top like a shield. She stood at the foot of the bed for a long minute, watching Steve sleep—peaceful, beautiful, hers for one more stolen hour.
She didn’t say goodbye out loud.
She just turned, slipped out the door, and closed it softly behind her.
Downstairs, the others were stirring. Boxes waited in the Byers’ driveway. A plane ticket burned a hole in her pocket.
And Steve—Steve would wake up alone, the sheets still warm where she’d been, her scent still on his skin, and the echo of words she’d never let him hear while he was awake.
She hoped he’d hate her for it.
She hoped he’d move on.
She hoped he’d be happy.
Because she wasn’t sure she ever would be again.
—
The sun was barely cresting the treeline when Tash slipped out the front door of Steve’s house, the screen door closing with a soft, final click behind her. She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. If she saw Robin sprawled on the guest bed, snoring with one arm flung over her eyes, or Nancy curled up on the couch with Jonathan’s hoodie as a pillow, she might shatter completely. She couldn’t handle another goodbye—not the kind that felt like goodbye forever.
She knew she’d see Jonathan later, at the airport. He’d be the one loading the last suitcase into the trunk of Joyce’s car, camera around his neck, giving her that quiet, understanding look that said he knew exactly how much this hurt. But Robin and Nancy… they deserved better than a whispered apology in the dark. Better than her running again.
Her hands shook as she turned the key in the ignition of the old pickup Hopper had left behind—the one that still smelled faintly of his cigarettes and pine air freshener. The engine coughed to life, loud in the pre-dawn quiet of Maple Street. She drove without thinking, windows down, cold air whipping through her hair, trying to drown out the echo of Steve’s sleeping face and the words he’d whispered into the dark.
She didn’t go to the Byers’. Didn’t go to the Wheeler house. Didn’t even drive past the mall ruins.
She drove straight to Forest Hills Trailer Park.
The gravel crunched under the tires as she pulled up outside Eddie’s trailer. The place looked the same as always: rusted bike chained to the porch, Metallica sticker peeling off the screen door, faint light flickering behind the thin curtains. She killed the engine and sat there for a long minute, hands gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles went white. The sky was turning pink at the edges now, the kind of sunrise that should have felt hopeful but only made her chest ache.
She needed escape. Needed something loud and chaotic and alive to drown out the screaming in her head. Needed someone who wouldn’t ask questions, who wouldn’t look at her like she was about to break.
She needed Eddie.
The trailer door creaked open before she even knocked—Eddie must have heard the truck. He stepped out onto the porch in nothing but plaid pajama pants and a faded Corroded Coffin tee, hair wild and sleep-mussed, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips. He froze when he saw her.
“Tash?”
She didn’t answer. Just climbed the steps, dropped her keys on the rickety table outside, and walked straight into him. Her arms wrapped around his waist, face burying into his chest. He smelled like weed and laundry detergent and something faintly metallic—probably from the guitar strings he’d been changing last night. He didn’t hesitate; his arms came around her immediately, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep. “Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”
She didn’t speak at first. Just held on tighter, letting the solid warmth of him anchor her. The leather jacket—Hopper’s jacket—slid off one shoulder, but she didn’t fix it. Eddie’s hand found the exposed skin and rubbed gently, like he could chase away whatever chill had settled in her bones.
“You’re shaking,” he said softly. No judgment. Just fact.
“I’m leaving,” she whispered into his shirt. “Tomorrow. California. With El and Joyce and Jonathan.”
Eddie’s arms tightened for a second—almost imperceptibly—then relaxed again. “Yeah. I heard.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him. His brown eyes were soft, worried, but he didn’t look surprised. “I couldn’t stay at Steve’s. Couldn’t say goodbye to the others. I just… I needed to get away. From everything. From Hawkins. From myself.”
Eddie studied her face—the dark circles under her eyes, the way her lip trembled even though she was trying to hold it together. He reached up and brushed a strand of blond hair off her forehead.
“Come inside,” he said simply. “You don’t have to explain.”
He led her in, kicking the door shut behind them. The trailer was dim, lit only by a single lamp and the faint glow from the TV he’d left on mute. The couch was piled with blankets and a half-finished D&D campaign notebook. He guided her to sit, then disappeared into the tiny kitchen and came back with two mugs of instant coffee—black for her, cream and sugar for him.
She took the mug but didn’t drink. Just held it, letting the warmth seep into her palms.
Eddie sat beside her—close, thigh pressed to hers—and draped a blanket over both their laps. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask why she’d come here instead of anywhere else. Just waited.
After a long silence, she finally spoke.
“I slept with Steve last night.”
Eddie’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “Yeah?”
She nodded, staring into the coffee like it held answers. “It was… goodbye, I think. Or maybe hello to something I can’t have. I don’t know. I just know I can’t stay. And I can’t take him with me. He deserves better than my mess.”
Eddie reached over, covered her hand with his. His rings were cold against her skin.
“You’re not a mess, Tash. You’re surviving.”
She laughed—small, bitter. “Feels like the same thing.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re allowed to run. You’re allowed to need space. You’re allowed to come here at five in the morning because everything hurts too much to be alone.”
Tears welled up then, hot and sudden. She blinked them back, but one escaped anyway, rolling down her cheek.
Eddie wiped it away with his thumb.
“Stay,” he said quietly. “Just for today. No goodbyes. No plans. Just… be here. With me. We can play music too loud. Eat shitty cereal. Pretend the world isn’t ending tomorrow.”
She looked at him—really looked. At the messy curls, the soft brown eyes, the way he never once made her feel like she had to be strong.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He smiled—small, real—and pulled her into his side. She curled against him, head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
Outside, the sun rose fully over Forest Hills Trailer Park.
Inside, for a few stolen hours, reality could wait.
—
Eddie flicked on the string lights strung across the trailer’s low ceiling—cheap Christmas ones he’d never taken down—and the room turned warm, hazy gold. He rummaged through a dented metal lunchbox under the couch, pulled out a small baggie of bright green bud that smelled like pine and gasoline even before he cracked it open.
“Special occasion stash,” he said, holding it up like evidence. “Top-shelf. Grew it myself in the shed last summer. You in?”
Tash nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. I need to not feel anything for a while.”
He grinned—soft, knowing—and started rolling. His fingers moved quick and practiced, tongue darting out to seal the paper. She watched the motion, the way his rings caught the light, and felt something loosen in her chest. No questions. No pity. Just this.
They ended up cross-legged on the floor between the couch and the coffee table because the couch felt too formal, too upright for what they were doing. Eddie lit the joint with a battered Zippo, took the first hit, held it, then passed it over. Tash inhaled deep—deeper than she usually did—held it until her lungs burned, then exhaled slow. The smoke curled lazy between them like a secret.
First hit: nothing special.
Second hit: warmth blooming behind her eyes.
Third hit: the room started to giggle.
Not literally. But everything did. The way the lamp shade tilted slightly off-center. The Metallica poster curling at one corner like it was trying to escape. Eddie’s mismatched socks—one black, one with tiny skulls. She looked at them and snorted.
Eddie caught it. “What?”
“Your socks are fighting.”
He looked down, wiggled his toes. “They’re having a turf war. Black sock thinks it’s superior. Skull sock knows it’s cooler.”
Tash burst out laughing—real, helpless giggles that made her ribs ache in a good way for once. She clapped a hand over her mouth but the sound kept leaking out. Eddie started laughing too, that low, rolling laugh that always sounded like he was in on some cosmic joke the rest of the world missed.
They passed the joint back and forth until it was a tiny roach. Eddie stubbed it out, then leaned back on his elbows, staring at the ceiling.
They both dissolved again. Giggles bubbling up uncontrollably, the kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Nothing was actually funny. The ceiling was just ceiling. The socks were just socks. But the weed had turned the volume up on absurdity, made every small thing hilarious and profound at the same time.
She flopped backward onto the carpet, arms spread wide. “I’m melting into the floor. This is fine. This is good. The floor loves me.”
Eddie flopped down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “Floor’s got excellent taste.”
More giggles. They rolled onto their sides facing each other, knees touching, faces inches apart. Her blond hair fanned out like a halo on the ugly brown shag. His curls spilled everywhere.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said suddenly, the words floating out soft, not accusatory.
The giggles stuttered. Not gone—just quieter.
“Yeah.”
He reached out, tucked a strand behind her ear. His fingers lingered. “Gonna miss your face around here.”
“I’ll miss yours too.” Her voice cracked a little, but the high softened it, made it feel less like tearing open a wound and more like letting it breathe. “You’re… you’re easy to be around, Eddie. No expectations. No fixing.”
He smiled—crooked, sweet. “I’m high as fuck right now and even I know that’s a compliment.”
She laughed again, softer this time. Reached out and booped his nose with her finger. “Boop.”
He crossed his eyes trying to look at it. “I’ve been booped. My life is complete.”
They dissolved once more—giggling like idiots at nothing, at everything, at the sheer ridiculousness of being alive and young and broken in a trailer in Hawkins, Indiana, while the rest of the world spun on without them.
Eventually the laughter tapered into comfortable silence. Just breathing. Just being.
Eddie rolled onto his back again, pulled her with him so her head rested on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat—steady, a little fast from the weed—and the faint thump-thump felt like the only real thing left.
“Stay high with me till you have to go,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on her arm. “No clocks. No goodbyes. Just this.”
Tash closed her eyes. The giggles were gone now, replaced by a warm, floaty calm that made the ache in her chest feel far away.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Outside, the sun climbed higher.
Inside, time stopped mattering.
They stayed like that—tangled in blankets and smoke and each other—giggling at nothing, holding onto something, until the world outside demanded she leave again.
But for now, they were unexplainably, stupilly, perfectly high.
And nothing else existed.
—
A few hours later, the high had mellowed into that soft, fuzzy comedown where everything felt wrapped in cotton—still warm, still distant, but the giggles had faded to quiet smiles and long, comfortable silences. The trailer smelled like stale smoke and the burnt-sugar sweetness of the cereal they’d eaten straight from the box. Sunlight now slanted hard through the thin curtains, turning the room gold and dusty, reminding them both that time hadn’t actually stopped.
Tash sat up slowly from where she’d been lying with her head in Eddie’s lap, his fingers still idly twisting strands of her blond hair. She rubbed her eyes, the reality of the day creeping back in like cold air under a door.
“I have to go,” she said quietly. The words tasted wrong, heavy.
Eddie didn’t argue. He just nodded, sitting up with her, knees bumping. “Yeah. I know.”
They stayed like that for another minute—shoulders touching, neither moving to break the contact. Then Eddie stood, stretching until his spine popped, and padded over to the cluttered dresser in the corner. He rummaged through the top drawer, pushing aside guitar picks, crumpled receipts, a stray D20, until he pulled out a folded black T-shirt.
He shook it out once. The Hellfire Club logo stared back—demonic hand, dripping font, the whole dramatic flair Eddie had designed himself years ago. It was soft from too many washes, faded in places, but still unmistakably his.
He held it out to her.
“Take it,” he said. “For safekeeping. California’s probably got zero decent metal shirts. And… I don’t know. Maybe when you’re out there and everything feels too quiet, you can put it on and remember there’s still a freak in Hawkins who’s got your back.”
Tash took it slowly, fingers curling into the worn cotton. She pressed it to her face for a second—inhaling the faint scent of Eddie’s laundry soap and faint weed smoke—and felt her throat tighten.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but not quite spilling over.
“Thank you,” she whispered. Simple. Sincere. The words carried everything she couldn’t say: for the hours of escape, for the laughter when she thought she’d forgotten how, for not making her explain why she needed to disappear into a cloud of smoke instead of facing the goodbye she owed everyone else.
Eddie shrugged, trying for casual, but his smile wobbled at the edges. “Anytime, Hopper. Or… Tash. Whatever you’re going by these days.”
She huffed a small laugh—the last real one of the morning—and pulled the Hellfire shirt over her head, right on top of Steve’s sweatshirt and Hopper’s jacket. The layers felt ridiculous, like armor made of everyone she was leaving behind, but it also felt right. Safe.
She stepped forward and hugged him—hard, sudden, arms locked around his waist, face pressed to his chest again. Eddie hugged her back just as tight, chin resting on the top of her head, one hand splayed protectively between her shoulder blades.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he murmured into her hair. “Call. Write. Send me a postcard of some surfer dude so I can judge him properly.”
“I will,” she promised against his shirt. “I swear.”
They held on a little longer than necessary—until the hug started to feel like stalling—then pulled apart. Eddie walked her to the door, held the screen open while she stepped out onto the porch.
The pickup waited, engine still warm from the drive over. The trailer park was waking up now: distant kids shouting, a dog barking somewhere down the row, the smell of someone’s breakfast drifting on the breeze.
Tash paused at the top step, turned back.
“Eddie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t… don’t forget me, okay? When I’m gone.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that crooked smile back in place.
“Impossible,” he said softly. “You’re wearing my shirt. That’s basically a blood oath in the Hellfire code.”
She smiled—small, real—and gave him a little salute with two fingers.
Then she walked to the truck, climbed in, and started the engine.
Eddie stayed on the porch until she pulled out of the gravel lot, until the taillights disappeared around the bend.
He didn’t wave. Didn’t need to.
She knew he was there.
And somewhere in California, in a new room that wouldn’t smell like pine or cigarettes or home, she’d pull on that Hellfire shirt on the nights when the quiet got too loud.
And she’d remember.
Thank you, Eddie.
For the shirt.
For the high.
For letting her escape—just for a little while—before she had to face the leaving.
—
Tash pulled the pickup into the Byers’ driveway just past noon, gravel crunching under the tires. The moving truck was already there, doors rolled up, ramp down. Boxes lined the porch like soldiers waiting for orders. Joyce was directing the movers with that frantic, determined energy she got when she was trying not to cry. Will and Jonathan were carrying the last of the smaller stuff to the car—a beat-up station wagon stuffed to the roof with suitcases, lamps, and El’s carefully folded stack of Eggos on the dashboard like a talisman.
Everyone was there.
Nancy stood by the hood, arms crossed, talking quietly with Dustin, who kept adjusting the straps of his backpack like he couldn’t decide whether to hug someone or run. Robin leaned against the porch railing, sunglasses hiding her eyes, but her mouth was set in that knowing half-smirk. Max hovered near the steps, hands shoved deep in her pockets, looking small despite the tough set of her shoulders.
But no Steve.
The absence hit Tash like a punch to the sternum—sharp guilt, sharper sadness. She’d left him sleeping, warm and tangled in sheets that still smelled like them, without even a note. She’d run again. And now he wasn’t here to see her off, and that felt like proof she’d broken something irreparable.
She killed the engine and climbed out slowly, Eddie’s Hellfire shirt peeking out from under Hopper’s jacket. Everyone turned. Joyce’s face softened instantly; she crossed the yard and pulled Tash into a fierce hug without a word. El was right behind her—quiet, solemn—wrapping thin arms around Tash’s waist like she was afraid to let go.
Jonathan gave her a small, sad smile from the driver’s side. “Thought you got lost.”
“Something like that,” Tash murmured.
Robin pushed off the railing and caught her eye. She tilted her head toward the side of the house—*come here*. Tash followed, heart thudding.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Robin lowered her sunglasses.
“Okay, spill. What the hell happened last night?”
Tash flushed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I… uh…”
Robin raised an eyebrow. “Because Steve showed up at my place this morning looking like he’d been hit by a truck—in the best way. Angry as hell that you ghosted without saying goodbye, yeah. Kept muttering about how you ‘just left.’ But he also couldn’t stop smiling. Like, full-on dopey grin. And—” she dropped her voice, smirking—“he was limping. Favoring his left side. Five times, huh?”
Tash’s face went scarlet. “Robin—”
“I’m not judging! I’m impressed. But seriously—what happened?”
Tash exhaled, glancing toward the car where El was watching them with quiet curiosity. “We… said goodbye. The long way. And then I panicked and ran. I couldn’t face him waking up alone, but I did it anyway.”
Robin’s smirk faded into something softer. “He gets it, you know. He’s hurt, but he gets it. He just… loves you. A lot.”
“I know,” Tash whispered. The guilt twisted harder. “Tell him I’m sorry. That I—”
“I’ll tell him,” Robin promised. She pulled Tash into a quick, fierce hug. “Call me when you land, okay? I need someone to complain about Hawkins to who actually understands.”
Tash nodded against her shoulder. “I will.”
They walked back together. Nancy was waiting—arms open, eyes already red-rimmed. They hugged tight, no words needed. Nancy just held on a second longer than usual, then pressed a folded mixtape into Tash’s hand. “For the drive. And after.”
Dustin barreled in next, nearly knocking her over. “You better write, or I’ll hunt you down in California with my Cerebro,” he threatened, voice thick. She ruffled his hair like she always did, even though he pretended to hate it.
Then Max.
Max hung back until the others drifted toward the car. She stepped forward slowly, hands still in her pockets, looking at the ground.
“I, uh… I’m glad you’re going with El,” Max said quietly. “She needs you. And… I’m sorry. About Billy. About everything.”
Tash’s throat closed. She crouched down to Max’s level, pulled her into a hug Max didn’t fight. “None of it was your fault. And he—he chose to be good in the end. Because of you. Remember that.”
Max nodded against her shoulder, a small, shaky breath escaping. When they pulled apart, Max’s eyes were wet, but she managed a tiny smile. “Don’t forget to kick ass out there.”
“Always,” Tash promised.
Joyce clapped her hands once—gentle but firm. “Okay, everybody. Time to go.”
They piled into the station wagon and Hopper’s truck: Tash and Jonathan driving, El joining Tash in Hoppers' truck and the Byers in their car.
As Jonathan and Tash backed out of the driveway, everyone stood on the lawn waving—Nancy’s hand raised high, Dustin jumping to be seen, Mike just watching, Robin with both arms in the air, Max giving a small, solemn salute.
Tash watched them shrink in the rearview mirror, the Byers house growing smaller behind them.
Steve wasn’t there.
But she could still feel him—on her skin, in the ache between her thighs, in the quiet confession he’d whispered thinking she was asleep.
She pressed her free hand to the stolen shirt under Hopper’s jacket, closed her eyes for a second, and let the car carry her west.
Away from Hawkins.
Away from everything she’d broken.
Toward whatever came next...
episode eight part one: link
episode one season 4: link
masterlist: link