Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Vanishing of Will Byers

Steve Harrington was always a jerk.

The kind of guy who moved through the school hallways like he owned them—grinning, effortless, every door swinging open before he even had to knock.

He had friends without trying. Dates lined up like they were owed. Parents who probably handed him the keys to a new car without bothering to ask where he was going.

Everything about him screamed ease. And Jonathan hated him for it.

Jonathan had been carrying weight since he was old enough to stand—dishes, bills, Will’s hand when their mom was too tired to notice. He couldn’t remember what it felt like to be careless, to just be a kid.

Most of his childhood blurred together—except the moment Will was born. Because from then on, Jonathan, who’d never made any real friends before, finally wasn’t alone. He had a purpose.

Protect Will. Take care of him. Everything else faded away after that.

While Jonathan was piecing together dinners, keeping his mom from breaking, working long shifts at the local diner, keeping his dad away, Steve was out under the Friday night lights. Hosting parties. Holding court. Living like the world had been built for him.

Steve Harrington was walking proof of everything Jonathan never got to be.

So Jonathan told himself that was why he watched him. Why he caught the set of Steve’s jaw when something didn’t go his way, or the sharp flick of his wrist when he tossed a basketball like he knew everyone was watching.

But there was something else buried there, too — something Jonathan didn’t want to name.

He told himself it was only suspicion, irritation. But the way he caught himself noticing too much—the curve of Steve’s grin, the sharpness in his eyes when they narrowed, the way his gaze lingered too long in a crowd, as if he wasn’t as certain as he acted…

It felt different. Different from how he looked at anyone else. Something he didn’t have the language for yet — something that, without him even realizing at first, rotted into obsession.

So he watched, and hated, and maybe wanted — though he’d never let himself say that out loud. Not when it was easier to keep Steve filed under “jerk,” easier to feed the obsession with resentment than face whatever it really was.

⸻

The keys clattered, probably somewhere on the floor.

“Where the hell are they?” Joyce’s voice was already raw, frayed at the edges.

“Check under the couch!” Jonathan called from the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast clung to the air. He scraped at it half-heartedly, trying not to imagine Will’s face scrunching in disgust at the sight of blackened crusts.

Joyce groaned, then made a sound of triumph. “Oh, got them!” She rushed into the room, juggling her bag and keys.

Jonathan barely looked up.

“Alright, sweetie, I’ll see you tonight,” she said breathlessly and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Yeah, see you later,” Jonathan answered, distracted by the eggs hissing in the pan.

His mom looked around. “Where’s Will?”

“Oh, I didn’t get him up yet. He’s probably still sleeping.”

“Jonathan—” Her sigh was sharp as she walked down the hall. “You have to make sure he’s up!”

“Mom, I’m making breakfast.” His voice had that tired, defensive edge already, and the day only began.

“Will! Come on, honey. It’s time to get up.”

Silence.

She returned, her face drawn. “He came home last night, right?”

Jonathan’s spatula stilled. “He’s not in his room?”

“Did he come home or not?”

Jonathan hesitated, pulse stuttering in his throat. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Her voice cut sharp.

He swallowed. “No… I—I got home late. I was working.”

“You were working?” Arms folded, her eyes narrowed in disbelief.

“Eric asked if I could cover, so I said yeah. I figured… we could use the extra cash.”

Her eyes bore into him. “Jonathan, we’ve talked about this.”

“I know, I know.” His voice cracked, shoulders hunching as if the weight of her glare pressed him smaller.

“You can’t take shifts when I’m working!”

“Mom, it’s not a big deal.” His hands came up in a placating gesture before falling uselessly to his sides. “Look, he was at the Wheelers’ all day. I’m sure he stayed over.”

Joyce snatched up the phone, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”

Jonathan turned back to the pan—already burned. The acrid smell curled up, sour in his throat, twisting his stomach.

His gaze drifted to Will’s open bedroom door, the bed inside still unmade, sheets tangled. He forced himself to cling to an optimism he didn’t really feel.

Will was fine. He had to be.

The phone slammed into its cradle with a sharp crack, making him flinch. His mother’s voice trembled when she spoke.

“He’s not at the Wheelers’.”

⸻

That night, Jonathan couldn’t stay in the house.

The day had been swallowed whole by searching.

He and Joyce had driven across Hawkins until the gas gauge pressed toward empty. They stopped at every corner store, every street where Will liked to cut across on his bike. They checked the library steps, the field near the school, the diner where Jonathan worked — where Will sometimes lingered for milkshakes, keeping him company during shifts.

At every stop, his mom’s voice cracked a little more: “Have you seen my boy? My Will?”

By late afternoon, they were on foot, combing through the woods where he and Will had built Castle Byers, calling Will’s name into the trees until Jonathan’s throat ached. Every empty clearing felt like an accusation. Every echo of his own voice came back thinner, hollower.

When they returned home late that evening—still without Will—Joyce rifled through photo albums, her fingers frantic as she flipped pages. She clutched snapshots of Will against her chest, pressing them there like paper could anchor him home.

“It’s not your fault, Jonathan,” she whispered again and again, like a prayer, as if saying it enough might convince them both. “I can feel him. He’s close. He’s alive . I know it.”

Her insistence only made the guilt sharper. Jonathan could still see Will’s unmade bed, still hear Joyce’s earlier words echoing — You don’t know?

Jonathan couldn’t take it anymore. The walls felt too small, the air too thin. So he left. He had to fix this.

He had to find Will.

Camera, flashlight, jacket. The woods swallowed him whole. The air was damp, heavy, a silence so deep it buzzed in his ears.

He wandered past the rusted fences and bare trees of their neighborhood, following paths that felt instinctive — the places Will might’ve gone, the shortcuts they used to take together.

Every empty clearing mocked him. Every gust of wind sounded like his brother’s voice for half a second, until it didn’t.

He crossed the tree line, where Hawkins’ poor edges blurred into the wealthier side. The houses grew bigger, brighter, unbothered.

That was when he heard it: music, laughter.

Jonathan crept closer, boots crunching in the leaves.

Through the hedges, the Harringtons’ pool glowed blue against the dark. Beer bottles clinked. Tommy was in the water with Carol, their laughter rising above the music. Barb dangled her legs off the edge, saying something to Nancy Jonathan couldn’t catch.

And then there was Steve.

Steve Harrington, golden in the harsh porch light, his hair haloed with perfect carelessness. He tipped a beer to his lips, water shining on his skin, his arm draped across Nancy like he owned the night.

Jonathan’s chest twisted at the sight.

His brother was missing. His mother was unraveling. And here Steve Harrington was — laughing.

His camera rose before he even thought about it.

Click. Nancy smiling, her face soft and bright.

Click. Steve kissing her cheek, grinning against her skin.

Click. Steve on his own, caught mid-laugh, teeth flashing like he’d never once had to worry about anyone but himself.

Jonathan hated himself as the shutter snapped again and again. He told himself it was instinct, that photography was muscle memory.

But the lens kept sliding back to Harrington, framing him, trapping him on film.

Then—something else. A rustle deeper in the woods, heavier than an animal. Jonathan froze, flashlight trembling in his hand. The laughter from the pool dulled for a moment, the night stretching taut.

But he didn’t move toward it. Didn’t look closer. He turned back to the house, snapping one more photo of Harrington silhouetted against the glow.

He told himself he’d imagined it.

⸻

By the time he got home, his stomach was a knot of bile and shame. He shut his bedroom door, collapsing onto the bed with the camera heavy in his lap. The roll of film inside seemed to hum with accusation.

He opened the back latch, ready to tear the strip out with his bare hands. Destroy the evidence. Destroy whatever the hell it was he’d been doing out there.

But his fingers stopped short. He couldn’t do it.

With a choked breath, Jonathan shoved the camera into his bag and snapped it shut.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he’d only look for Will. No wasting time.

But when he closed his eyes, it wasn’t Will’s face he saw.

It was Steve Harrington’s laugh, frozen in the flash of his camera.

⸻

The hallways of Hawkins High buzzed with the same dull rhythm as always — lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, laughter echoing down corridors that had never known silence.

But for Jonathan Byers, everything had shifted.

Will was still missing. His posters were everywhere now — taped to lampposts, stapled to telephone poles, tacked onto bulletin boards across town. Jonathan had stood at the photocopier in the library until his eyes blurred, feeding sheet after sheet through, trying not to notice the pitying looks from teachers. He carried a stack in his bag now, crisp and terrible, each one a reminder of the little brother he’d failed to protect.

He smoothed one onto the wall outside the cafeteria, the tape squeaking as it pressed flat. His throat tightened at the word: MISSING

Behind him, voices carried.

“Oh god, that’s depressing,” Steve Harrington said.

Jonathan’s hand froze against the paper.

“Should we say something?” Nancy’s voice — soft, uncertain.

“I don’t think he speaks,” Carol snickered.

“How much you wanna bet he killed him?” Tommy Hagan jeered.

Jonathan’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Steve shoved Tommy’s shoulder lightly. “Shut up.” The way he said it was almost lazy, like swatting away a fly.

Then, as if that was enough, he let the conversation drift back to parties or basketball or whatever else mattered more than a missing kid from the wrong side of town.

That was when Nancy appeared at Jonathan’s side, her voice cutting softer than the noise around them.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” she said, and Jonathan knew she meant it—her expression carried none of the smirking detachment of the rest of them.

Jonathan swallowed. “Thanks.”

She gave him a small, sad smile. “If you need anything, I’m here for you.”

For a moment, Jonathan couldn’t speak. He’d known Nancy for years—Mike’s older sister, steady and kind in ways most people never bothered to be with him. Her hand brushed his arm in a reassuring squeeze before she slipped back into the crowd.

The warmth of her gesture lasted only a second. He didn’t notice the flicker of nerves in her eyes, the way she lingered before slipping outside—didn’t know she was worried too, over her best friend not showing up to school.

Instead, his gaze found Steve. He didn’t speak, but his glare was sharp enough to cut.

The memory hit him before he could stop it.

Middle school, locker slamming into his shoulder.

Tommy’s sneer in his face.

The laughter ringing in his ears as he stumbled.

And there he was—Steve Harrington himself, hands in his pockets, watching like it was background noise.

He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t stopped it either. He hadn’t cared.

The years hadn’t changed a thing. Tommy was still at Steve’s side, Carol clinging close, the world orbiting around Harrington’s smirk.

And now Nancy was part of it. Great.

Jonathan’s stare lingered longer than it should have.

And Harrington noticed.

For a moment, Steve tilted his head, curious. Then his mouth curled into that easy, cocky half-smile. “What’s his problem?” he muttered to Tommy and Carol.

“Maybe he thinks you killed his freak brother,” Tommy said with a shrug.

Jonathan’s fists clenched at his sides.

Carol laughed softly. “Please. You see the way he’s staring? It’s so obvious. He’s jealous because of Nancy.”

Steve smirked, leaning into the tease. “Right,” he drawled, but his eyes flicked back toward Jonathan, sharp for just a beat longer than before.

Jonathan held his gaze, his stomach twisting. He told himself it was hatred. Nothing else. Hatred for Steve’s perfect hair, his careless grin, his untouched world. Hatred for the way he got to stand there while Will was—

But when Steve actually looked back at him, when their eyes locked, it wasn’t just hate that burned through Jonathan. Something else flickered, hot and shameful, lodged deep where he couldn’t name it.

He tore his gaze away, jaw tight. He hated himself.

Further down the hall, Jonathan caught sight of Nancy and Mike walking together—Mike clutching his books too tightly, pale, while Nancy hovered close, worry etched across her face.

Jonathan’s chest caved.

That was what mattered. Will. His brother.

Not Harrington. Not his smirk. Not the way his laugh looked when caught on film.

Jonathan shoved past a cluster of students, anger and shame gnawing at him all the way out of the building.

⸻

The darkroom was the only place Jonathan could breathe.

Red light washed over the room, drowning it in hush and shadow. Trays of chemicals lined the counter, their sharp tang catching in his throat. One by one, his images bloomed into being.

Nancy, smiling at Barb across the glow of the pool.

Tommy’s hand lifted mid-gesture, frozen mid-laugh.

And Steve.

Laughing, head thrown back, easy and golden.

That picture was carved now into Jonathan’s mind for a traitorous reason.

There were others of course.

Steve leaning against the siding, one hand tucked into his pocket like he owned the whole night.

Steve looking toward Nancy, grin softening into something almost tender.

Jonathan’s stomach knotted. He stared too long, until the edges of the photo blurred. His pulse climbed with each frame he pinned to the line.

He told himself it wasn’t about Harrington. It was about the party. It was about documenting the night after Will vanished, about gathering scraps of context, about something useful. But the lies rang hollow under the dim red glow.

Unfortunately, he didn’t hear the door open.

“Well, well.”

Jonathan spun, heart seizing.

Carol Perkins leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes glinting mean in the faint light. She looked like she’d been there long enough.

His throat went dry.

Carol pushed off the door, slow, deliberate. “Didn’t know you were Hawkins’ resident creep. But I probably should’ve guessed.”

She brushed past him, fingertips trailing along the drying line. One by one, she flipped through his photos, her smirk sharpening with each print. Jonathan could only stand there, frozen, helpless.

“Girls at the pool,” she drawled. “Not bad, Byers. A little stalkerish, sure, but hey—at least you’ve got a hobby.”

Jonathan jolted out of his shock, lurching forward with a hand half-raised to snatch them back. “Don’t—”

And then she found it. Steve, lit by the porch’s golden glow, his grin blazing through the night’s haze.

Her laugh rang out, sharp and echoing through the empty dark, as she held it aloft between two fingers—triumphant. Jonathan forgot how to breathe.

“Well, well, this is interesting.” She tilted the photo just so, eyes flicking between it and Jonathan. “Guess we know who you’re really stalking.”

“That’s not—” His voice cracked, too thin.

Carol’s grin widened, venom dripping sweet. “Relax, Byers. I’ll make sure Harrington knows his number one fan club is you.”

He lunged, trying to snatch the photo, but she slipped it out of reach with cruel ease. Her laughter echoed against the tile, filling every corner of the room.

Jonathan’s breath came sharp, useless. His body wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to.

He felt nailed in place, exposed, humiliated.

Carol threw him one last smirk before shoving the door open, the cursed photo clenched in her hand. “See you around, freak.”

The room seemed to shrink the moment she left. Jonathan stared at the space where the photo had been, bile rising in his throat.

His hands trembled as he swept the prints into a heap, shoving them into his bag like he could bury the truth along with them.

The world was now tilted, heavy with Carol’s voice replaying over and over.

Guess we know who you’re really stalking.

Jonathan wasn’t just a freak anymore. Not just the quiet kid from the wrong side of town.

Now he was the freak who wasted film on Steve Harrington—while his brother was missing. And soon, everyone would know it.

⸻

Jonathan knew before he saw them.

The weight in his stomach gave it away — that prickling heat at the back of his neck. His bag dragged heavy on his shoulder as he stepped out of Hawkins High, eyes fixed on the pavement.

He’d almost made it to the parking lot when he spotted them.

Steve Harrington, leaning against his car like it was a throne. Tommy Hagan sprawled close by, smirk plastered wide. Carol perched on the hood beside Steve, razor-sharp grin already aimed his way.

He didn’t need proof. He knew right then and there.

Carol had told.

His chest went tight but he just ducked his head, lengthening his stride. If he just kept moving—

“Hey, Stevie,” Carol stage-whispered, her voice pitched to carry. “Your boyfriend’s here.”

Tommy burst into laughter. “Byers!” he crowed. “You want a picture of me too? Or just Harrington?”

The students lingering by the steps turned, giggling, whispering. The sound rippled like static through the air.

Jonathan’s jaw locked, shoulders stiff, but he didn’t slow. If anything, his pace quickened, as though he could outrun it all.

“Hey!” A familiar voice cut through the noise.

He froze.

Steve had stepped forward, the cocky swagger stretched taut over something rawer, angrier. His eyes locked onto Jonathan’s like blades.

“What the hell is your problem, Byers?” His voice rang across the lot. “You following me now?”

Jonathan stared back, mute, fury burning in his throat but never making it out.

Steve’s jaw flexed. He took Jonathan’s silence as confirmation.

And then Carol twisted the knife. She slipped something from her bag. Jonathan’s stomach plummeted.

The photo.

Steve caught mid-laugh, golden and unguarded.

She held it high for everyone to see.

“See? ” she sing-songed. “He can’t take his eyes off you.”

Laughter cracked through the crowd. Sharp, ugly.

Steve went red. He snatched the photo from Carol, crushing it in his fist. “Shut up,” he muttered — but his eyes never left Jonathan, burning hotter with each second.

Jonathan’s lungs squeezed tight.

The lot felt too bright, every eye on him.

Nowhere to go.

And then Steve surged forward. His hand ripped Jonathan’s bag off his shoulder, dragging him forward with it. Jonathan staggered, too stunned to resist.

Steve tore it open, yanked the camera free. For a moment he just stood there, gripping it, chest heaving, his heated glare boring into Jonathan like the weight of the whole school rested on this moment.

And then he hurled it down.

The crack of shattering glass echoed across the lot like gunfire.

Gasps rose around them. Jonathan’s chest caved inward.

Steve’s voice came low, venomous. “Freak.”

Jonathan dropped to his knees, gathering the broken pieces with shaking hands. His reflection splintered in the shards of glass, warped and jagged. Heat rushed to his face — rage, humiliation, grief all tangled until he couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t fight. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

He clutched the ruined camera like a corpse, shoved the remains back into his bag, and forced himself upright. His legs trembled as he pushed through the crowd. Whisper and laughter chased him all the way across the lot.

Head down. Eyes on the ground. Don’t look back.

And still, on the walk home, the words burrowed in, sharp as glass. Followed him like a curse.

Jonathan gripped the broken camera in his open bag tighter, knuckles white. The shards dug into his palm, but he didn’t let go.

He welcomed the sting. At least this pain was his alone.

⸻

Jonathan pushed through the front door. The house was dark except for the flicker of lamps — too many lamps, plugged into every socket. Extension cords trailed across the floor like veins, their bulbs glowing, blinking, buzzing faintly.

“Mom?” His voice cracked.

Joyce was in the middle of the living room, hair wild, hands trembling as she twisted another string of Christmas lights into place. Her eyes were wide, fever-bright, scanning the walls as if she could see through them.

“Jonathan—” she said too quickly, too loudly. “He’s here. Will’s here. The lights, they—he talks to me through them.”

Jonathan froze.

She gestured wildly at the wall, where strands blinked in uneven patterns. “Do you see? Do you see? He’s alive, I can feel it. He’s trying to tell us where he is.”

“Mom…” Jonathan’s throat tightened.

She looked—terrified, desperate, unhinged.

The mother who used to balance two jobs and still make grilled cheese for them after school was unraveling right in front of his eyes.

“I’m not crazy,” Joyce insisted, as if she could read Jonathan’s thoughts, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare think I’m crazy. This is real. He’s alive.” Her hands shook as she plugged in another strand, the lights bursting into color. “He’s trying to reach me.”

Jonathan stepped forward, helpless. He didn’t see Will in the lights. He didn’t see any messages. All he saw was his mom falling apart, and no one left but him to hold them both together.

His fingers brushed the ruined strap of his camera inside his bag. Broken. Useless. Just like him.

He should’ve stayed home that night, watching Will. He should’ve been strong enough to calm his mom down, to know what to do. He should’ve been anything other than this — a failure, a freak son who couldn’t keep his family from crumbling into ash.

“Mom…” His voice was small, cracked.

Joyce didn’t answer. She was already stringing another row of lights, muttering to herself, waiting for them to speak.

Jonathan sank onto the couch, head in his hands, watching her spiral in the glow. The house pulsed with blinking bulbs, but it didn’t feel alive.

It felt like everything was already gone.

It was in the middle of the night when his mother screamed about a faceless monster coming through the wall.

Jonathan really didn’t know what to do.

⸻

The next day, he didn’t go to school. His mom barely noticed, caught up on the phone with Hopper, insisting over and over that Will hadn’t gone to his dad—that he was here, in the house, terrified, trapped in the walls, trying to speak through the Christmas lights.

By noon, Jonathan was hunched over the kitchen table, the gutted remains of his camera scattered in front of him. The body was cracked, the lens beyond saving. Still, his fingers moved automatically, trying to piece back something that was already ruined.

The fight replayed in his head on a loop. Carol’s cruel laugh. The photo flashing in her hand. Steve’s eyes on him, narrowed, then furious.

The sound of glass shattering against the pavement.

Jonathan squeezed the screwdriver tighter, jaw locked. Humiliation gnawed at him, but beneath it ran something heavier, sharper.

Mom’s falling apart. Will’s gone. And still—even now — he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting back to Harrington.

It made him feel sick.

The house was too loud, too bright. Joyce had strung more lights across the walls, muttering as she tested each socket. Her voice carried from room to room, raw with desperation. “He’s here, Jonathan. He’s here, I can feel him—”

Jonathan pressed harder on the tiny screw in his hand, jaw tight. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t stand the way her eyes darted to the lights as if salvation was hidden in the flicker.

He should’ve been stronger. Should’ve found Will already. Instead, he was wasting time—again. He had nothing left but broken glass and shame.

A knock rattled the front door.

Jonathan startled, shoving the camera pieces into a pile like they were contraband. Joyce didn’t stir — she was pacing in the living room, whispering Will’s name to the lights.

Jonathan opened the door a crack. “Nancy?”

She stood on the porch, hair mussed, eyes wide and tired.

For a moment, he just stared. He expected pity in her eyes, or worse — judgment, the kind that came with whispers of freak. Instead, she looked… shaken.

“I’m sorry for just showing up,” she blurted, voice low and urgent. “But I had to talk to you, and I figured you’d be here.”

Jonathan shifted back, uncertain, and she slipped past him into the living room.

“I know what people are saying,” Nancy said, eyes moving over the Christmas lights like they were some puzzle she wanted to solve at a later time.

“About the photos. About you. About Steve.” Her words faltered; anger crossed her face in a quick, sharp flicker. “I don’t care. I… I ended things with him because of it.”

Jonathan blinked, the words landing heavier than he expected. She kept going before he could answer.

“I skipped today to look for Barb,” Nancy said, her voice tight with urgency. “She’s been missing since yesterday and… and while I was at Steve’s, I saw something. In the backyard. It wasn’t human.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. “What do you mean?” The words scraped out of him, dredging up a memory from that night — a rustle in the woods.

Heavy. Wrong.

He’d forced himself to believe it was nothing. Just nerves. Just the dark. He’d turned back toward the house, camera snapping, pretending he hadn’t heard it at all.

But Nancy’s voice cracked through him now, stripping away the denial he’d wrapped himself in. He hadn’t imagined it. He had heard it.

“It was pale. Tall. Its face—” She faltered, swallowing hard. “It didn’t have one. And it moved like…” She shivered. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Jonathan stared at her. He wanted to tell her that fear could twist shadows into monsters, that maybe they were both just seeing what they needed to see.

But then Joyce’s voice drifted from the other room: He’s here. The lights talk to me.

Nancy’s eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to him. Jonathan felt the same familiar ache pressing in on his ribs—the part of him that wanted to shield his mom, to apologize, to pretend this was normal.

“Your mom said the same thing, didn’t she? That she saw something?”

He hated that Nancy was right. Hated that his mother’s unraveling lined up with Nancy Wheeler’s terror. He nodded, head bowed down.

“I thought I was going crazy,” Nancy whispered. “But Barb’s missing, and no one cares. Steve doesn’t. Tommy, Carol. And then I thought of you. You’re the only one who cares about Will the way I care about Barb. So maybe…” She drew a shaky breath. “Maybe you’d listen.”

Jonathan exhaled slowly, the breath snagging on something jagged in his chest. Every rib felt tight, as if his body itself resisted letting Nancy’s words take root.

He didn’t want to believe her. Didn’t want to believe his mom. Because if they were right, then the thing hovering at the edges of his life wasn’t madness, or grief, or some cruel trick of his imagination — it was an actual monster.

One that had stolen both Will and Barb in the middle of the night, within a day of each other. One that could strike again.

Jonathan’s fear pressed down, suffocating. He was fucking terrified. He felt like he couldn’t do this.

But then his eyes met Nancy’s. She was just as terrified as him—of the monster, and of what he might say. He was her last hope.

He thought of Will. Scared. Alone. A monster on his trail.

For the first time, someone outside his family wasn’t dismissing their concerns. And for the first time, Jonathan realized the only one refusing to see the truth… was him.

“Okay,” Jonathan said finally. His voice came out rough, but steady. “We’ll figure it out.”

Nancy nodded, relief easing the tight set of her mouth. Jonathan’s hand hovered at her back as he quickly ushered her toward the door, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. He kept his voice low, afraid his mom might overhear and catch wind of their conversation.

They sat down at the porch’s steps. As they sketched out a plan — flashlights, places to search, things to consider — Jonathan caught himself studying her.

Not the way Steve did, not the way people expected. He admired her resolve, her refusal to flinch, the way she faced fear without looking away. He wished he were more like that.

“At least someone believes my mom,” Jonathan thought out loud, the words heavy but steady.

She just smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her worried eyes.

When they stood, clutching their flashlights, Jonathan’s chest ached with a thought he couldn’t shake:

If I couldn’t protect Will, maybe I can at least help her. Maybe it will help him. Maybe that will mean something.

And then, quieter, cutting deeper:

I just wish it wasn’t Steve Harrington’s girl.

⸻

The woods swallowed their footsteps, the flashlight beams jittering across bark and undergrowth.

Jonathan adjusted the strap of his patched-up camera, the lens cracked but workable. The gun in Nancy’s hands looked too heavy for her, though her grip was steady. He wished he could take it from her, but she looked like she’d bite him if he tried.

“You really think we’ll find something?” Nancy asked, her voice low, tight with nerves.

Jonathan swallowed. “We have to.” He didn’t say because it’s the only thing keeping me upright . He didn’t say because if I stop moving, the guilt will eat me alive.

Instead, he muttered, “For Will. For Barb.”

Nancy’s jaw tightened. “No one else even says her name anymore.”

Jonathan glanced at her sidelong. “I know the feeling.”

For a moment, their flashlights cut through the same patch of dark. Two different griefs, braided together.

Signs appeared slowly.

Slime smeared across tree bark, glistening under the light. Long claw marks raked through trunks. A half-eaten carcass of something small lay twisted in the underbrush.

Jonathan raised his camera, hands trembling as he snapped photos. Each flash made him flinch.

“Jesus,” Nancy whispered.

Jonathan’s eyes darted to her every few seconds, torn between wanting to shield her and knowing he couldn’t. He hated that helplessness — hated how much it reminded him of Will, of failure.

Then Nancy froze.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered.

Jonathan turned, beam skimming over branches. “Nancy—”

But she was already moving, drawn toward a hollow tree.

“Wait,” Jonathan hissed. “Don’t—”

Her flashlight tilted, catching on something wrong: the wood bending inward, a slick surface shimmering like oil. The air seemed to hum around it.

Nancy’s breath hitched.

“Nancy,” Jonathan said sharply. “Don’t go near it.”

But before he could stop her, she stepped closer — and vanished through the tree.

Panic ripped through him.

“Nancy!” Jonathan lunged forward, slamming his hands against the bark. His flashlight beam caught only twisted roots and blackness. His voice tore into the night. “Nancy! Nancy, come back!”

His calls echoed strangely, like the trees were carrying them somewhere else.

⸻

Inside, Nancy stumbled through suffocating darkness.

The air was thick and damp — like breathing inside a lung. Every step dragged as if the ground itself wanted to swallow her. The silence was broken only by the wet sound of her shoes pulling free from the muck and the frantic pounding of her heart.

Shadows twitched at the edge of her vision, shifting into grotesque forms when she dared to glance sideways.

Long-limbed. Faceless.

Her breath hitched as the gloom pressed closer, as though it knew she didn’t belong.

And then she heard it. Faint at first, muffled like it was coming through water.

Jonathan’s voice. Calling her.

Ragged. Desperate. Repeated again and again until it carved through the dark like a lifeline.

She clung to it. Forced her trembling legs to move, her hands scraping along the slick, fibrous walls for balance. But the form moved behind her — fast. Hungry.

She turned just in time to see it. The monster broke from the shadows with impossible speed, pale and slick-skinned, its head splitting open into rows of teeth.

It lunged.

Nancy stumbled backward, a scream tearing from her throat. She slipped, her palms skidding on wet ground as the thing’s claws raked where her chest had been a second earlier. She felt the rush of air, smelled the rot on its breath.

Her flashlight — she’d dropped it. Its weak beam spun in the muck, catching the thing’s faceless head for one sickening instant before it swiveled back to her. She could see her death in that eyeless gape, closing in—

But then Jonathan’s voice broke through again, closer now. “Nancy!”

She seized onto the sound like a rope thrown across a chasm. Her body lurched forward, scrambling on hands and knees. The creature shrieked, its claws tearing into the ground inches behind her heels.

Nancy’s lungs burned, her pulse a wild drum in her ears. She forced herself up, staggered toward that impossible voice, toward the faintest crack of light.

Her fingers clawed against something fleshy, slick — the membrane of the tree. She shoved, the monster’s roar echoing right behind her.

One last desperate push, and she slipped through, dragging herself toward Jonathan’s voice, toward the world that still had air and light.

⸻

Nancy tumbled out into Jonathan’s arms. Dirt and slime streaked her clothes, her hair plastered to her forehead.

His heart hammered against his ribs.

Don’t ever do that again, he whispered hoarsely.

Nancy sagged into him, her whole body trembling as if she’d only just remembered how to breathe. Jonathan’s arms tightened instinctively, steadying her, letting her sink against him.

The woods around them had gone utterly still. No wind. No rustle. Only their breathing — harsh, ragged at first, then slowing until it almost matched.

For the first time since Barb vanished, Nancy let someone else shoulder the weight, and he felt it settle into him like a burden and a gift all at once.

Slowly, her eyes lifted. They found his, searching, soft with gratitude, with admiration, and something warm that reached toward him in ways she didn’t speak aloud.

Jonathan felt it — the quiet pull of what she wanted him to be, the way her warmth leaned into him, the way her trust reached out like an open hand.

But all it touched was the hollow silence inside, and he hated himself for it.

She was everything—brave, unflinching, more present for him than anyone had ever been. And still the ache hollowed him out.

No warmth rose to meet hers, no spark to return her gaze—only a raw, unyielding emptiness where something should have been.

He was broken. A freak.

And he would never be anything else.

He held her tighter anyway, because she deserved that much—even if he couldn’t give her the rest.

⸻

Jonathan drove Nancy home in silence, his hands locked on the wheel. Every few seconds he glanced at her — pale in the glow of passing streetlights, still trembling.

He’d pulled her out of that… place. But he could still feel her slipping through his fingers.

When they reached her house, Nancy looked at him with frightened eyes. “Come inside,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

Jonathan didn’t argue.

He didn’t want to be alone either.

⸻

Back in her room, the lamp glowed faintly, throwing soft light across the walls.

Nancy sat curled at the edge of her bed, staring at the floor. Jonathan hovered awkwardly near the desk chair, hands twitching uselessly.

“When I thought I’d never get out…” Nancy’s voice faltered. She swallowed hard, eyes unfocused. “I heard it growling. Right behind me. And before—” She shook her head, breath catching. “Before I went through the tree, I saw it.” Her voice broke.

Jonathan didn’t speak. His jaw clenched, his mind spiraling.

His mom losing herself in the lights, Will maybe gone forever, and now this — proof that his mom was right all along about the monster.

A flicker of relief pierced the panic, sharp and fleeting—at least the monster hadn’t taken her. Or Nancy.

But the comfort crumbled as fast as it came, swallowed by overflowing guilt. Will’s face kept rising in his mind, unrelenting, each image heavier than the last.

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “If Will’s… if he’s out there, in that place too—” He bit down hard, breath catching. “I didn’t protect him. I wasn’t there.”

Nancy looked up quickly, her face softening. “Jonathan… that’s not your fault.”

He shook his head, eyes burning.

He didn’t believe her.

When the silence had stretched too far, Nancy finally whispered, “Stay.”

Jonathan hesitated only a beat before nodding. It was safer this way—for both of them.

They didn’t know if the monster could reach across, if it could come for them here. But at least they were together. At least he wouldn’t be facing it alone.

He curled awkwardly at the edge of her bed, still in his clothes, stiff on the blanket.

They both lay staring at the ceiling, listening to each other breathe.

At some point, Nancy edged closer, her shoulder brushing his—seeking comfort, safety.

He understood. He felt the same.

He let her settle against him, slipping an arm around her with tentative care. His hands betrayed him, trembling despite his effort, and he forced them still, as if sheer steadiness might be enough to hold them both together.

For her, it was trust—the fragile kind that dared to lean. For him, it was survival, a frightened, guilty boy clinging to the only person who understood.

Neither of them noticed the window creak.

⸻

Steve Harrington climbed carefully over the ledge, his sneakers silent against the floor. He’d rehearsed what he might say on the walk over — some half-formed promise to apologize to Jonathan, to make things right, to convince Nancy to come back.

He couldn’t stop replaying their fight in his mind. Nancy had stood there with her arms folded tight across her chest, eyes flashing.

Breaking his camera? Humiliating him in front of the whole school while his brother was missing? How could you be so cruel?

Steve hadn’t had an answer then. Not one that mattered. All he’d done was stammer, defensiveness curdling into shame and overflowing guilt.

He couldn’t shake the image of her face hardening—like she’d already seen straight through him, and decided she had no desire to look any further. He knew he was an asshole—had worn it like a badge for years—but seeing it mirrored in Nancy’s eyes hit differently, a jolt of recognition he couldn’t shake.

For the first time, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be that guy anymore. Maybe he could change—if only for her. The thought barely settled before his gaze snagged on the window, and everything else fell away.

Nancy and Jonathan were lying on her bed together.

Nancy was pressed close to him, her head leaning toward his. Jonathan’s arm was wrapped around her shoulders—safe, steady.

The two of them were folded into a quiet moment that didn’t belong to anyone else. Steve felt like he had barged into something private, something he had no right to see.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

It was Nancy—he was angry at her. He’d walked away from girls before, spent nights with others, but with her it had been different. They’d had a connection. And now she was moving on so easily, settling into someone else’s arms like it was nothing.

That had to be it.

He’d cared for her—more than the rest. That explained it.

Didn’t it?

But the longer he stood there, the less it felt like betrayal and the more it felt like a challenge. Jonathan’s arm around her shoulders, steady and intimate like he’d earned the right—like he belonged there. That was what made Steve’s pulse thunder, what turned his breath sharp and shallow.

It wasn’t just losing Nancy.

It was losing her to Jonathan.

And that burned hotter than anything else.

Steve slipped back into the night without a sound, anger gnawing sharper than he could name.

⸻

The next day, Jonathan and Nancy walked side by side, arms weighed down by shopping bags filled with gas cans, bear traps, rope. The kind of arsenal that looked insane in daylight but felt like survival. They had decided that morning: they were going to kill the monster tonight, together, no matter what.

Nancy, sharp as ever, had a theory: it was drawn to blood. She remembered Barb cutting her finger, and the small corpse she’d seen clutched in the monster’s grip inside the tree.

So now, they stocked the trunk of the Wheelers’ family car with gas cans, bear traps, and rope, their makeshift arsenal piling up in the backseat. It should’ve looked absurd in the daylight, but under Nancy’s steady logic, it felt like the only rational thing in the world.

“Come on. I’m hungry,” she said with a small smile. “We need sustenance.”

Jonathan huffed something like a laugh and nodded, shifting his shoulders as they started down the street toward the diner.

People stared as they passed. Jonathan could feel it.

The whispers, the looks—sharp against his skin. He kept his gaze fixed on the pavement, jaw tight, but the prickle was impossible to shake.

Then he froze.

Spray-painted across the side of the downtown movie theater, in jagged red letters:

BYERS THE FREAK

Freak. Of course.

The same word Steve had spit at him in the parking lot, the one that had shattered his camera on the asphalt. He’d almost managed to forget it for a stupid moment, too focused on Will, on getting him home, keeping him safe.

But here it was again, ten feet tall in jagged red paint, impossible to ignore.

Nancy’s face went pale beside him. “Jonathan…”

His fists clenched. From around the corner came laughter, the rattle of spray cans. Fire surged through his chest—not humiliation, not shame—just fury, sharp and consuming.

He found them in the alley.

Steve Harrington, Tommy Hagan, and Carol Perkins. Red paint still wet on Steve’s hands.

Jonathan’s blood roared in his ears as he marched over.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Steve turned, smirking like he’d been waiting for this. He stepped forward, Tommy and Carol drifting in behind him like shadows.

“My problem? You’ve been following me around, taking pictures. Staring at me in the halls.” His grin curled vicious. “Carol says you’ve got a crush, Byers.”

“Steve! Stop it!” Nancy’s voice cut through, sharp and trembling.

Steve’s eyes snapped to her, narrowing. “And you. What—couldn’t even wait a week before trading down?”

Jonathan’s jaw locked. Beside him, Nancy’s expression wasn’t much brighter. “You came over last night,” she said, voice cutting.

“Ding ding ding.” Carol’s laugh was sharp, ugly. “Does she get a prize?”

Laughter rippled through the group, ugly and venomous.

Steve stepped closer to Nancy, jaw tight, a bitter smile twisting his mouth. “So, what? I’m not good enough for you? You’d rather be with some freak who’ll never even touch you?”

The slap landed hard, cracking through the alley louder than any laugh. Nancy’s hand trembled as she lowered it, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts.

Tommy barked a laugh, delighted. Carol caught Jonathan’s attention, voice dripping poison. “Careful, Byers. Don’t hit him now too — you’ll ruin your chances.”

Jonathan’s breath came ragged, his vision blurring. Nancy took his hand and they both turned to walk away—

But Steve’s voice followed like a knife.

“Guess freak runs in the family. Your mom’s crazy, your brother’s dead, and you? You’re going to be a deadbeat screwup just like your dad.”

Jonathan spun back, shaking. “Don’t talk about my family.”

Steve’s grin twisted into something meaner, uglier. “Face it, Byers. Will probably ran just to get away from his freak brother.”

Red washed over Jonathan’s vision. In a matter of seconds, his fist cracked Steve’s jaw, the sound snapping through the alley.

Steve reeled, then tried to swing back, but Jonathan barely felt it—rage drove him past pain. Years of humiliation, grief, and guilt erupted all at once, each blow landing like a release valve snapping open. He hit again and again until the world was nothing but the crunch of bone, the taste of iron, and the blind need to destroy.

Tommy shouted, trying to pull him off. Carol screamed.

But Jonathan barely heard them. He had Steve on the ground, pinned, his fist drawn back again—

“Jonathan!” Nancy’s voice cut through, desperate. She was there, grabbing his arm, yanking him back. “Stop! Please!”

Jonathan froze, chest heaving, knuckles raw and bloody. He saw Steve’s face beneath him — swollen, blood trickling from his mouth, eyes blazing with rage and something else, something shaken.

Jonathan staggered back, horror flooding him. The wail of sirens rose in the distance. Someone must’ve called.

His hands trembled as the cops closed in.

Nancy tried to speak, tried to explain, but it didn’t matter. They shoved Jonathan toward the squad car, his wrists pulled behind his back.

He sat in the back seat, panting, the taste of copper thick in the air.

His reflection in the glass looked feral, unrecognizable. He wondered if this was the moment his life had finally gone off the rails for good.

The worst part was, he wasn’t even sure who he hated more anymore. Steve, or himself.

⸻

“Chief? We’ve got Jonathan Byers here. Brought him in after a fight with Harrington. Can you tell Joyce? She’s not answering. He had Nancy Wheeler hold some… equipment in her car.”

Jonathan sat in the hard plastic chair at Hawkins PD, his knuckles raw, his shirt stiff with blood.

The cops hadn’t asked much after hauling him in. A few muttered questions, some halfhearted paperwork. Mostly just glares.

He didn’t argue. He had nothing left in him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stopped shaking.

The door slammed open.

“Jonathan!”

Nancy Wheeler swept past the desk sergeant, hair pulled back in its neat ponytail, her voice edged sharp as glass. “You can’t keep him here — Steve started it, he provoked everything!”

The cop rolled his eyes. “Miss Wheeler—”

“No, listen to me!” Nancy’s voice shouted. “He was defending himself!”

Jonathan flinched at her words, shame curdling in his gut. That wasn’t defense. That was me losing control.

But the real shame kicked in when his mom arrived. She stormed in, eyes blazing. “Where is he?”

Jonathan stiffened as she spotted him, cuffs tight around his wrists.

Joyce spun on the nearest officer, her voice sharp enough to rattle the walls. “Take those off my son. Right now.”

“Ma’am—”

“Now!”

The officer hesitated, but Hopper pushed in behind her, his jaw set. “Do it,” he barked.

The cuffs clicked loose a second later, metal falling away from Jonathan’s raw wrists.

Joyce’s hands fluttered toward him, shaking, before balling into fists. She turned on Hopper, her voice ragged. “Why was he even cuffed in the first place?”

The officer cleared his throat. “They were carrying traps. Gasoline. Couple other things.”

The words hit the room like a hammer.

Jonathan kept his gaze fixed on the floor, heat burning his face. He could feel his mother’s stare, sharp and heavy, but he didn’t dare look up.

All he wanted in that moment was to vanish into the linoleum, to sink through the cracks and be gone.

Hopper’s head snapped to Jonathan, his voice booming. “Byers. Wheeler. In my office. Now.”

⸻

“What the hell were you two doing downtown with bear traps and gasoline?”

The words cracked through the cramped office like a whip. Hopper loomed behind his desk, arms folded, jaw set.

Jonathan’s gaze dropped to the scuffed floorboards. His throat had sealed shut; nothing would come out.

Beside him, Nancy’s cheeks burned crimson. She leaned forward in the hard wooden chair, voice trembling but clear. “We were looking for it. The thing that took Barb. The thing that took Will.”

Joyce stiffened in her seat, her face draining of color. She looked from Nancy to Jonathan, horror and fury flooding all at once.

“You went after it?” she hissed.

“Mom—” Jonathan rasped, but his voice was hoarse, useless.

“You got yourself arrested while your brother is still missing,” Joyce snapped, her voice breaking as her eyes filled with tears. “You wanted to go after it? Do you even know what that means? You could’ve been killed Jonathan, you too, Nancy! And then what? Is that better? Losing the two of you as well?”

The words hit harder than any taunt Steve had landed. Jonathan bowed his head, every syllable sinking like lead.

I let Will down. I let Mom down. I can’t even keep myself under control.

The room felt too small, air too thin, grief and anger pressing in on all sides. Nancy shifted beside him, as if searching for words, but none came. The only sound was his mom’s uneven breathing—ragged, desperate—as she pressed the heels of her hands to her temples, like sheer willpower might be enough to hold her together.

“Then help me,” she whispered finally. “I don’t want to bury any one of you kids.”

No one had an answer.

⸻

The office seemed to shrink once Joyce asked Nancy and Hopper to give them a moment. Nancy lingered for a beat, her eyes flicking toward Jonathan, before slipping out. The latch clicked shut, and silence pressed in.

Jonathan sat rigid in the wooden chair, staring at the floorboards until they blurred. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He curled them into fists, then loosened them again, but nothing settled.

Across from him, Joyce took a long breath, but it caught in her chest, uneven. For a moment, Jonathan thought she’d start yelling again. Instead, her voice came quieter than he expected, frayed at the edges.

“I should’ve been asking how you’re holding up.” Her throat worked around the words. “You’ve been carrying this as well, with me, and I didn’t even see it.”

Jonathan’s head jerked up, startled. Joyce leaned forward, her hand warm on his arm, then cupped his cheek like she had when he was little, coaxing his eyes to meet hers.

That was all it took.

“I didn’t believe you,” he blurted. His voice cracked under the weight of it. “I thought you were… losing it. I made you feel alone. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.” His breath hitched, words tumbling out faster. “I’m supposed to protect Will, protect you, and I’ve failed both of you. I—” His throat closed before he could finish, tears spilling quietly.

Joyce’s arms wrapped around him, fierce and trembling. She pulled him in against her shoulder, her eyes sure as she looked him over. “You didn’t fail me. You didn’t fail him.” Her voice broke, but she pressed the words into his hair like a promise. “We’re still fighting. That’s what matters. I need you, Jonathan. I need both my boys.”

The loud sob tore out of him before he could stop it. He clung to her like he was twelve again, messy and raw, his tears soaking into her shirt. For once, she cried too, her grip unyielding, holding him together by sheer force.

It was the first time they’d been honest with each other since Will vanished, and it broke something open in both of them.

At last, Joyce pulled back, swiping her face with the heel of her hand. Her eyes were swollen, but steady now. “We’ll bring him home. I promise.”

Jonathan nodded, unsteady but grounded in her certainty.

The door creaked open, Hopper’s voice low. “It’s time.”

They gathered themselves, blotting their eyes, straightening their shoulders. The grief didn’t vanish, but something else settled beside it—resolve.

⸻

Back at the Byers house, Joyce and Hopper laid out the plan. They needed the kids — Mike, Lucas, Dustin, and Eleven — and weren’t sure how to reach them.

Jonathan remembered Will’s walkie talkie was still in his room. He rose up quickly, figuring out what they needed to do. His chest tightened as he held it.

“Mike? It’s… Jonathan. I need to know where you are.”

It worked. Static broke into voices, the kids answering, hesitant but ready.

By nightfall, they were all crowded into the Byers’ living room, sketches and supplies spread across the floor. A plan that sounded insane in daylight but felt like salvation in the dark.

⸻

The gym reeked of chlorine. The kiddie pool looked ridiculous in the middle of the floor, half-deflated and shimmering under fluorescent lights. But no one laughed when El stepped inside, pale and trembling, wires trailing from her head like fragile roots.

They all stood still, waiting. Holding their breath. The water lapped quietly until El’s voice cracked the silence—thin, otherworldly.

“Gone.”

Jonathan startled, heart lurching at the sound. Nancy flinched beside him, eyes wide.

But Joyce—Joyce surged forward, voice breaking. “What? El, what do you mean—what’s gone?”

El’s body stiffened in the pool, small fists clenching under the surface. “Barb. Gone.”

Nancy’s face blanched, devastation rippling through her, but she pressed her lips together, fighting to stay quiet. Jonathan wanted to reach for her, but he froze, helpless, until El’s next words shattered him completely.

“Will… Alive.”

Jonathan’s knees nearly buckled. For one aching second, he thought he’d misheard.

But Joyce gasped like she’d been given back air. “Alive?”

El nodded faintly. “He’s alive. But… he’s hurting. He’s… trapped.”

Joyce’s hand covered her mouth. A sound escaped her—half sob, half laugh. Relief slammed into Jonathan, sharp and blinding, stealing his breath for a moment.

Will was alive.

The thought lit through him like fire—only to sour almost instantly, twisting into guilt, into dread. Because if Will was still out there, it meant he was still trapped. Still suffering.

And time was running out.

Nancy’s hand brushed his arm—steadying, grounding—but Jonathan couldn’t meet her eyes. His chest felt hollow.

“I’m coming for him,” Joyce said suddenly, voice fierce through her tears. She turned to Hopper, who was already nodding grimly.

“You’re not going in alone,” Hopper said.

Jonathan stepped forward instantly. “Then I’ll—”

“No.” Joyce spun on him, desperate and unyielding. “No. You stay here. Stay with the kids.”

“Mom—”

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, steadying him with a grip like iron. Her eyes locked on his, fierce and unyielding. “I’ll bring him home, Jonathan. That’s my job.”

Jonathan swallowed hard, shame burning through him. He wanted to fight her, scream that he couldn’t just stand by again, not again—but her eyes were wild with determination.

She would walk through fire for Will—that much was clear. He wasn’t sure he could do the same, no matter what everyone else believed. So he nodded, jaw tight, and it felt like another failure. Powerless. Useless.

When Joyce and Hopper left, Nancy finally turned to him. Her voice was quiet, certain.

“Then we kill it.”

Jonathan blinked at her. “What?”

“The monster.” Her eyes shone with something fiercer than fear. “We kill it.”

He shook his head. “Nancy, no—you’ve already—”

“I’m not sitting around while it’s still out there. While Will’s still in danger.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t back down. “It took Barb… It doesn’t have to happen to Will. We can stop it.”

Jonathan’s throat closed. The thought of her walking back into danger, for him no less, made him feel sick. He wanted to drag her away, lock every door in Hawkins if it meant keeping her safe. But her stare didn’t waver.

For a long moment, they just stood there—her daring him to tell her no, him fighting the urge to break. Finally, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. And he nodded.

Nancy’s shoulders eased, not in relief, but in grim resolve.

⸻

Steve Harrington sat in his room with the lights off. His knuckles were swollen, his lip split, the metallic tang of blood still on his tongue.

Tommy and Carol lounged on the bed like it was a stage. They reenacted Jonathan’s fury in cruel pantomime—hands flailing, voice pitched high, the word freak tossed around like confetti. Then they turned on Steve, laughing harder.

“Christ, Harrington, you didn’t even win,” Tommy jeered.

“Some king of Hawkins High,” Carol added, smirking.

Steve didn’t laugh.

The words he’d hurled at Jonathan Byers kept replaying in his mind, sharp and unrelenting.

You’re going to be a deadbeat screwup just like your dad. Will probably ran just to get away from his freak brother.

They curdled in his gut like poison. He had wanted to hurt him, to push him away, to prove something — he wasn’t even sure what.

But dragging his missing brother into it? His family?

The photo Jonathan had taken—Steve caught laughing, unguarded, almost free—remained crumpled in his pocket. He didn’t take it out, not with Tommy and Carol around, but his hand strayed to it anyway, fingertips grazing the worn paper.

And when he thought of Jonathan’s face, the fury in his eyes, Steve’s stomach twisted.

He couldn’t even be angry about Jonathan almost killing him—if the roles were reversed, he would have done the same.

“Steve?” Carol’s voice cut in, syrupy, expectant.

“Yeah,” he muttered. But he was already standing, grabbing his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Tommy scoffed.

“Out.”

The car engine hummed beneath him as he drove aimlessly through Hawkins’ empty streets. He told himself he was blowing off steam. He told himself he wasn’t thinking about Jonathan Byers.

But when he finally slowed, he found himself parked outside the Byers house, headlights dim, the car idling in the dark. He sat there, hands tight on the wheel, staring at the flicker of Christmas lights in the window.

He didn’t know if he should knock. He didn’t even know why he was there.

All he knew was that he couldn’t make himself drive away.

⸻

The Byers’ living room smelled faintly of dust and gun oil. The coffee table was cluttered with bullets, rope, and the kitchen knives Nancy had insisted on sharpening herself.

Jonathan sat hunched forward, the hunting knife in his hand, its blade catching the lamplight. His pulse thudded in his throat.

He’d agreed to Nancy’s blood pact mostly to keep her calm, to keep her close, but now, with her across from him, her eyes steady and soft in the glow, he couldn’t breathe.

For a split second, as she leaned toward him, Jonathan thought she was going to kiss him.

His stomach twisted.

Nancy Wheeler was perfect—brave, kind, stubborn. She was everything he was supposed to want. And he did like her, liked her more than he could admit.

But not like that. Not the way she seemed to look at him now.

Self-loathing clawed at his chest. His father’s voice rang in his skull—sharp, cruel, merciless. He was used to that by now, could handle it. But hearing Steve spit the same words cut deeper, in a way he hadn’t expected. Steve’s words overpowered Lonnie’s. Somehow, they hurt more. Wasn’t that almost funny?

He hated himself for not wanting Nancy, for being wrong in the exact way everyone had always said he was. She leaned close, and Jonathan’s hand trembled. He didn’t know how to stop her without breaking her heart, without exposing himself.

A sudden pounding on the door broke the moment. Jonathan and Nancy broke apart, knives clattering against the table.

“Jonathan!” a familiar voice shouted, frantic. “Are you there, man? It’s… It’s Steve! Listen, I just want to talk!”

Jonathan’s gut lurched. He pushed himself up, stiff and deliberate, carrying the bat with him—just in case. Nancy tensed on the couch, one hand already on her pistol.

He opened the door.

Steve Harrington stood there, bruised lip split open, eyes wild with nerves. He was breathless as if he’d run here, but his car was in the driveway.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, his voice rough, each word scraped from somewhere deep—sincere in a way Jonathan had never heard from him before. Jonathan just stood there, bat still in hand, staring. “For the camera. For the graffiti. For what I said about Will. About you. I—I was an idiot, all right? I was jealous. When I saw you in Nancy’s room—”

Jonathan’s chest cinched tight, heat flaring where it had no business being. For one impossible second, it sounded like Steve was seeing him in a way Jonathan had never let himself believe.

But then the rest landed—heavy, merciless. Of course it was because of Nancy. Steve Harrington had never cared about him. If apologizing to Jonathan Byers was the price of winning Nancy back, then sure—he’d pay it.

Behind Jonathan, Nancy’s jaw locked. Her grip on the gun didn’t waver. “Get out.”

Steve’s eyes flicked to her, then to Jonathan—and then to the flickering lights strung across the walls, the nails hammered into bats, the open box of ammo. His expression shifted from defiance to confusion. “What the hell is this?”

“You don’t want to know,” Nancy snapped, gun steady.

Steve held his ground, hand raised in mock surrender, as if he was humoring them. “Try me. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve both lost it.”

Jonathan swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the bat. “There’s… something out there. It took Will and Barb.”

Steve let out a short, incredulous laugh. “What? Like a monster?”

Neither of them moved. Nancy’s knuckles whitened around the gun. Jonathan didn’t blink.

Steve’s smile faltered. “That’s not funny.”

Nancy’s voice was low, deadly serious. “We’re not joking.”

The silence stretched after her words, heavy and unflinching. His eyes darted between them, searching for the smirk, the punchline, any sign that this was a messed-up joke. But all he found was Nancy’s steady aim and Jonathan’s rigid posture.

“You’ve actually lost it.”

“Just leave!” Jonathan barked.

Steve’s gaze cut to Nancy, but still he didn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t even believe us,” Nancy snapped.

Steve’s hands spread, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then let me see for myself.”

It was clear he wasn’t planning to leave, even at gunpoint. The room hung heavy with tension, until Nancy finally lowered the gun. Jonathan’s hand still shook as he set the bat back on the table. He felt raw, hollow, but Nancy’s voice steadied, pulling them back to the what was most important—the blood pact.

“Then it’s the three of us.”

She pressed the blade to her palm, slicing quick and shallow. A bead of blood welled. Jonathan followed, the sting sharp but grounding.

When Steve hesitated, Nancy shoved the knife at him. “Your turn.”

He grimaced, muttering something half-joking—“this is insane, you know that?”—but he pressed the blade anyway. Blood rose, red against his skin.

They joined hands over the table.

Jonathan flinched when Steve’s grip tightened around his own. Steve’s palm was warm, calloused, trembling slightly. Steve tried to smirk it off, but as they took their hands away, his smile faltered.

For a heartbeat, the three of them sat bound by blood and silence.

Nancy shifted first, her voice low, uneasy. “Did you hear that?”

Jonathan stilled, every nerve taut. The wind rattled the shutters, pulling at the eaves like fingers.

“It’s just the wind,” he said finally, though the words felt thin even to him. He glanced at her, forcing a steadiness into his tone. “Don’t worry. My mom—she said the lights speak when it comes.”

“Speak?” Steve cut in, brow furrowed.

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. He tried—really tried—not to look at Steve, not to feel the sting of everything still hanging between them.

Steve had apologized, and part of him wanted to return the gesture for nearly killing him in that alley. But how could he, when Steve had insulted his family and the apology reeked of a ploy to win Nancy back? Which was why he snapped, “Flicker.”

Steve flinched but didn’t look away.

Jonathan turned back to Nancy, softer now. “Think of them as alarms. They’ll blink when it’s near.”

The three of them listened to the silence, waiting. The house smelled of gasoline and sweat. Traps were scattered across the living room—bear traps, buckets of lighter fluid, the crude weapons of kids who had run out of time. The lights Joyce had strung up still clung to the walls, their bulbs casting a sickly glow over everything.

Jonathan checked the rifle again, even though he’d already checked it three times. Steve swung the nailed bat in a nervous arc, trying too hard to act like it was second nature.

“So this is it, huh?” Steve said, his voice cracked with humor he didn’t seem to feel. “Your grand plan. Gasoline, nails, and a bear trap for the big scary monster.”

Jonathan didn’t answer. The word freak still rang in his ears, louder than Steve’s bloodied lip or nervous jokes.

Nancy moved briskly, making sure the traps are set, but Jonathan saw the way her eyes kept flicking between him and Steve, her grip on the pistol bone-white.

Then the lights flickered.

Jonathan’s head snapped up. Every bulb buzzed, dimmed, then blazed bright again. The wallpaper rippled, as if the wall itself had drawn breath.

“It’s here,” Jonathan muttered. His hands tightened on the rifle. Nancy gripped her pistol. Steve raised the bat, his eyes wide.

The wall tore open.

The Demogorgon exploded into the room with a scream that rattled the windows, its limbs stretching, maw unfurling like a nightmare blooming.

Jonathan froze. For a single, damning second, all he could see was Will—alone, terrified, swallowed by that thing. His hands trembled, his chest clamped tight, breath caught like it might never come.

And then the monster lunged—straight at him.

Steve moved before he could.

He slammed the bat into the creature’s side with a raw, terrified yell. Nails sank into its flesh; it screeched, staggering back. Steve swung again, desperation in every arc of his arms. Jonathan gasped, stumbling backward, bile burning in his throat.

He hated it—hated that Steve Harrington had been the one to save him.

The fight blurred into noise—claws, fire, gunshots. The monster slammed Nancy against the wall, Jonathan fired, the recoil tearing through his shoulder. Steve kept swinging, his arms trembling with exhaustion but refusing to stop.

Then Steve stumbled. The Demogorgon’s jaws gaped wide, shrieking, inches from his face.

“Steve!” Jonathan roared.

He didn’t think—just moved. He grabbed Steve by the jacket, yanking him down and back, dragging him away from the creature’s maw. They collided, shoulders slamming together, both of them gasping for air. For one fractured second, Jonathan felt Steve’s weight pressed against him, the heat of his breath, their eyes wide with the same terror.

Then Nancy fired.

The bullet caught the creature in the shoulder, driving it back. Jonathan and Steve staggered to their feet, Steve’s bat raised again. Nancy reloaded, hands shaking but steady.

Together, they moved as one. Jonathan shouting, Nancy firing, Steve swinging—the three of them circling the monster, driving it toward the center of the room where gasoline pooled.

“Now!” Nancy shouted.

Steve swung with everything he had, the bat cracking against the Demogorgon’s chest as he drove it back into the trap.

Jonathan flicked the lighter—click, spark, flame—and hurled it forward.

The blaze caught instantly, flames racing across the soaked floorboards and climbing the creature’s limbs. It shrieked, an unearthly sound that rattled the walls. For a heartbeat, it felt like the house itself was trembling, every nail and beam groaning under the force of its fury.

And then—silence.

Smoke curled in the air, acrid and thick. The three of them stood coughing, weapons still raised.

Steve was first to lower the bat, slow and heavy. Nancy groaned softly, letting her pistol dip too.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan caught Steve looking—not at Nancy, not at the fire, but at him. The stare was raw, cracked open with something vulnerable.

Jonathan’s stomach tightened. He couldn’t meet it. His gaze dropped to the floor, jaw clenched, breath forced steady. 

Don’t read into it, he told himself. It doesn’t mean anything.

Still, something in his chest knotted—a heat he didn’t want to name crawling up his neck. He moved quickly to Nancy’s side, checking her arms, her ribs, her bloodied lip. Anything to keep his hands busy, anything to keep from glancing back.

The sting deep in his gut was from adrenaline, he told himself. Not the heavy pull of Harrington’s stare.

Steve lingered behind him anyway, bat hanging loosely at his side. His gaze pressed for a long moment on the back of Jonathan’s neck. Too long. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I’ll… give you two some space.” His voice was low, uneven. He set the bat down against the wall and walked toward the other room, footsteps fading until only the crackle of dying flames remained.

Nancy watched him go, then turned back to Jonathan. Her eyes softened, some new understanding settling in. Her grip on the pistol loosened as her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Jonathan… I don’t think I’d have made it without you.”

She leaned closer, tentative, searching his face for something unspoken.

Jonathan froze. His heart lurched painfully, aching with something he wished he could feel. He wanted to want her. God, everything would fall into place if he did. But the hollow ache inside stayed, stubborn and sharp.

He caught her hand, squeezing gently. “Nancy… I care about you. More than you know. But I’m—” He broke off, throat working. The words he couldn’t say sat heavy: I’m broken. I’m the same freak everyone calls me.

Nancy blinked, her breath catching. For a moment, she just stared at him, eyes wide, as if she’d been struck silent. Then something softened in her expression—something like understanding, or maybe recognition. She let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, more a breath that carried too much with it.

“I get it,” she whispered finally, her voice low and careful, like she was afraid the wrong word might shatter him. Her gaze didn’t leave his, steady but gentle. “I know what it’s like, keeping pieces of yourself locked up so tight you start to think maybe no one will ever see them. But… I do see you, Jonathan. You’re brave. More than you think.”

Her lips curved into a sad, knowing smile. “And whoever you let in—whoever you choose—they’ll be lucky. Really lucky. Because you don’t give yourself away easily. When you do, you’ll mean it.” She then added, softer still, “That’s rare. Don’t forget that.”

Relief crashed through Jonathan’s chest. She didn’t hate him for it. She saw him—bruised, broken, all of it—and hadn’t turned away. Her words lingered like both weight and balm, the terrifying possibility that someone as amazing as Nancy might actually see him for who he was and still stay.

He swallowed, his throat tight. “You don’t know how much that means to me,” he murmured, voice unsteady. “I’ve… never been good at letting people in.” His gaze dropped to his hands, knuckles scuffed, nails bitten raw. “Feels safer not to. Easier.”

But easier didn’t always mean better. Jonathan couldn’t shake the image from his head: Harrington, wild-eyed and terrified, hurling himself at the monster with nothing but a bat. The sound of the nails sinking in, the raw yell tearing out of his throat—it stuck, heavy as a bruise. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but some small part of him was rattled, and strangely touched, that Steve Harrington, of all people, had saved his life without a second thought.

Jonathan looked back up at Nancy, a flicker of gratitude breaking through the fear. “I just… hope you’re right.”

⸻

The hospital smelled like bleach and something too clean to feel real. Jonathan sat slumped in the hard plastic chair beside Will’s bed, his fingers curled tight around his little brother’s hand. He hadn’t let go all night, not even now, when the clock crawled toward midnight and Will’s breathing rasped soft and steady.

Will was pale, but alive. That was all that mattered. Relief settled over Jonathan like a weighted blanket—warm, but so heavy it almost ached.

The door clicked open.

Jonathan didn’t look up at first—expecting a nurse, maybe his mom—but the silence that followed made him turn.

Steve.

He lingered in the doorway like he wasn’t sure he should come in. His lip was still split, a fading bruise shadowing his jaw, but his eyes stayed steady, locked on Jonathan.

Jonathan dropped his gaze quickly, brushing his thumb over Will’s knuckles, pretending Steve wasn’t there.

The silence stretched.

Why was he still here?

Once she’d hugged Will and seen he was safe, Nancy had dragged herself home hours ago—exhausted, drained, managing to pry Mike away only with the promise he’d see Will tomorrow.

Joyce was still with the doctors, carrying questions Jonathan couldn’t bear to think about, let alone ask.

But Steve… Steve was still here. Jonathan had hoped he’d be gone by now.

The moment Steve moved, Jonathan’s shoulders stiffened. He watched him cross the room and stop just short of the bed, hovering like he might turn and bolt any second.

Jonathan’s fingers twitched against his knees—restless, itching—but he forced them flat, forced himself to stay still. Steve shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, shoulders drawn tight. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, uneven, like the words cost him.

“Look, I… I was an asshole. With the fight. With the camera. With… everything I said about you. About your family.” He rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “I don’t— I’m not good at this crap, but… I’m sorry. For real.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. For a second, he almost looked up. Almost.

Steve let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking to Will. “You really care about him. Your brother. I didn’t get it before, but… I see it now.” He swallowed hard. “And… thanks. For pulling me out. You didn’t have to.”

Jonathan shook his head, forcing his voice flat. “Forget it.”

Steve lingered, like there was more he wanted to say, but the door opened again. Joyce slipped back in, a paper cup of coffee trembling in her hand. She froze at the sight of them, then crossed quickly to Will’s side.

Jonathan watched the shift, Steve’s expression closing off, unreadable now, whatever he’d meant to say buried too deep to surface. Steve stepped back into the corner, shoulders tense, gaze flicking once more to Jonathan before he looked away.

Jonathan smoothed his palm over Will’s hair, using the motion to steady his breath. He told himself the knot in his chest was only exhaustion. Nothing more.

But the weight of Steve’s unfinished words hung in the room, sharp as glass, impossible to ignore.

And if some small part of him felt steadier knowing Steve had said it here, in the quiet, when no one else could hear—well. He wasn’t going to think about that. Not tonight.

Chapter Text

The Uninvited Christmas Gift

Steve Harrington should’ve been wrecked.

That’s what he kept telling himself as he lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling where the shadows stretched longer with each passing hour.

He should’ve been gutted over Nancy. She was everything he was supposed to want—pretty, smart, kind. He cared about her. He liked being with her. He even admired her.

And yet—nothing. No sharp ache of loss, no hole in his chest. Just a wrong, heavy kind of quiet.

It disturbed him.

Nancy Wheeler had walked out of his life, and instead of heartbreak, all he felt was off-balance. Haunted—but not by her.

What lingered was Jonathan Byers.

Over the long holiday break, he barely left his room.

He couldn’t bring himself to meet up with Tommy or Carol or anyone. Couldn’t stomach the thought of laughing at parties and pretending everything was normal. His parents didn’t even notice when he skipped the Harringtons’ annual New Year’s trip. The house felt cavernous, silent, as he sat for hours replaying the fight in his head.

Jonathan yanking him out from under the monster’s teeth. Jonathan’s shoulder colliding with his. Jonathan’s steady hands gripping the rifle while Steve swung that stupid bat like his life depended on it.

Each time, his stomach twisted tighter.

Because Steve had always told himself he hated the guy—quiet freak, camera creep, easy target. But when it counted, Byers had saved him anyway. And that memory wouldn’t let go.

And then there was the photo.

Jonathan had taken it without him knowing—Steve mid-laugh, unguarded, light catching at the edge of his grin. Steve had pocketed it, never meaning to keep it. But now it was pinned to his desk, carefully flattened, corners smoothed until they sat neat.

Looking at it always brought him back to the parking lot.

The crowd pressing in. Whispers sparking like static. Carol’s voice cutting sharp: Your boyfriend’s here, and the photo flashing like a trophy—like being caught that way was something filthy. Heat crawling up his neck, every eye waiting to see what he’d do.

And Jonathan. Just standing there—silent, glaring—as if he didn’t need to defend himself.

That only made Steve angrier. Like Carol wasn’t just humiliating Byers, but dragging something out of Steve too—something he couldn’t name, and sure as hell didn’t want anyone else to see.

So he’d snapped. Ripped Jonathan’s bag away, torn out the camera, hurled it down. The glass shattering like gunfire. Freak, spit out like venom before he even knew it.

The regret was always there. But the crowd had been laughing, feeding on it, and Steve had felt cornered inside the role they expected him to play.

Jonathan’s face haunted him the most. Blotched, jaw tight, but unflinching. His eyes—dark, steady—locked on Steve’s in quiet fury. His fingers brushed his jeans, grounding himself. Refusing to break.

And then Jonathan had crouched. Carefully, deliberately, gathering the shards of the camera. Not looking at Carol. Or Tommy. Or even Steve. Just the broken pieces in his hands, like that was all that mattered.

Steve knew Jonathan had no reason to save him later. But he had anyway.

That was the part Steve couldn’t shake.

Because humiliating Byers once hadn’t been enough. He’d kept going—twisting jealousy over Nancy, the confusion gnawing at him, into cruelty.

Nancy and Jonathan folded together on her bed, Jonathan’s arm slung around her shoulders like it belonged there. Steve told himself it was Nancy that hurt. But the ache was in Jonathan’s steadiness, in the way she leaned into him like he was safe.

That was what burned.

And it hadn’t gone away. Not when he slipped back into the night. Not when Tommy shoved the spray can into his hand the next day. So Steve painted over the ache, turned it into something cruel and easy. Because that was simpler than admitting what he’d really felt.

When Jonathan stormed into the alley, Steve’s stomach dropped—but his Harrington grin was already in place, sharp and vicious, the only mask he knew how to wear.

My problem? You’ve been following me. Taking pictures. Watching me in the halls.

The words landed sharp, meant to cut—but Steve heard the uneven edge in his own voice. Because it was true. He’d felt those eyes on him. And the worst part was how much he hadn’t minded.

When Nancy defended Jonathan, something cracked open. Ugly, hot. He lashed out at her too, because if she believed Jonathan over him—if she chose him—what did that say about them? About their bond?

The slap cleared the haze for a second. Nancy’s hand lowered, trembling. Tommy laughing. Carol’s poison.

And then Steve heard himself sneer the lowest thing he could think of. He knew the rumors everyone in Hawkins whispered—the poor Byers family with the drunk dad who never stuck around.

He spat it like venom, because Jonathan was still steady. Still unbroken. And Steve needed to break him. Needed to prove something, even if he didn’t know what.

The heated look in Jonathan’s eyes was the only warning before his fist cracked Steve’s jaw. Pain exploded, the world spinning red. He swung back, but Jonathan’s rage was a flood, each hit harder than the last.

Steve hit the ground, blood hot in his mouth, vision swimming. Some part of him wanted to fight, the vengeful part. But another—the part he refused to name—almost welcomed it. Each blow felt like penance.

When Nancy’s voice finally cut through, Steve blinked up through blood and blur, chest heaving. Jonathan’s terror when the sirens wailed closer was worse than the fists.

Now all he had left was the photo.

God, the photo. It should’ve been damning. Embarrassing. But when he looked at it now, the shame didn’t sit right. He didn’t feel exposed. What he felt was unsettled. Wrong-footed. Like Carol had held up a mirror he wasn’t ready to see. Like maybe the problem wasn’t Jonathan Byers at all.

The Sears portraits with his family had always been stiff suits and plastic smiles—everyone holding their breath until the shutter clicked. No one had ever caught him like this before, unguarded, alive, caught mid-moment instead of posed.

And knowing Jonathan Byers had—it unsettled him more than he could explain.

He told himself it was creepy. Weird. That he should burn the thing and be done with it.

But still, when the house grew too quiet, he found himself staring. At the proof someone had watched close enough to catch him in an honest moment.

In the hospital, the guilt only sharpened.

Jonathan had been slumped in that plastic chair for hours, eyes sunken but steady, holding his brother’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Steve had lingered in the doorway, trying to muster words that mattered. Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m glad he’s okay.

He’d tried. The words came clumsy, half-formed—because what could he possibly say that mattered? Jonathan’s cool, unreadable stare brushed him off like static.

Steve had humiliated him twice—once in the parking lot, once in that alley. Jonathan didn’t owe him anything.

Still, it stuck. Like glass in his chest. By day five, Steve was restless enough to act.

He found himself in Sears, staring at cameras he had no business buying. He picked one up, felt its weight, imagined Jonathan’s fingers adjusting the lens, his face tightening in focus.

The thought made him feel sick.

What was he supposed to do—walk up to Jonathan Byers after everything, hand him a box with a bow, and pretend it meant something? Jonathan would probably spit in his face. Smash it against the wall, just to watch it break the way Steve had broken the old one.

And yet Steve bought it anyway. Card trembling in his hand, heart hammering like he’d done something unforgivable all over again. He walked out with the box under his arm, no plan, no script. Just this stupid, useless hope that maybe—someday—he’d find a way to put it in Jonathan’s hands without ruining it too.

He kept the box hidden in his closet for days.

Every time Steve thought about giving it to him, he pictured Jonathan’s expression in the parking lot: steady, defiant, unflinching. The memory twisted something low in his stomach.

In the end, Steve couldn’t do it himself.

Back at school after break, he finally worked up the nerve. He found Nancy at her locker, the clang of metal echoing as she shut the door. She glanced up, wary—like she wasn’t sure if this was about to be another awkward run-in.

“Uh—hey.” Steve shifted, shoving his hands in his pockets. “We haven’t really…talked. But I was wondering if you could, uh, do me a favor.”

Nancy closed her locker, hugging her books to her chest. “What kind of favor?”

He exhaled hard, eyes darting to the floor. “Could you give something to Byers? It was supposed to be for Christmas, but—yeah. Just…a thing.” He tried for casual, but his words still tripped over themselves.

Nancy blinked. “Jonathan?”

“Yeah.” His laugh came out a bit forced. “Who else? It’s nothing big. Just thought he should have it.”

He handed her the box, but she just studied him, eyebrows tight. “You really want me to be the messenger?”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “He’d probably spit in my face if I showed up. Break it just to prove a point. This way’s…safer.”

Her eyes dropped to the box in her hands. She didn’t open it, just brushed her fingers along the seam like she could already feel what was inside. Recognition flickered, quick and sharp.

Steve felt his stomach clench. Jesus. She hadn’t even opened it, and already she was putting it together. He shouldn’t have been surprised—Nancy Wheeler had always been quicker than anyone gave her credit for. Still, watching her figure it out in seconds left him off-balance.

How the hell did she do that? He’d spent days staring at the thing in his closet, chewing himself up over whether giving it to Byers was the dumbest idea he’d ever had, and she unraveled it with one look.

It was infuriating. And, in a way he wouldn’t want to admit out loud, kind of… impressive. Of course she knew. Nancy Wheeler always knew.

When her eyes lifted back to his, he braced himself. “You bought him a camera.” It wasn’t a question, more a quiet realization.

Steve shifted. He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough.

Nancy drew in a slow breath, hugging her books tighter with her free arm. Something flickered across her face—admiration, maybe, or disbelief that Steve Harrington of all people would do something like this, something considerate. Then her mouth pressed thin. Conflicted.

She sighed softly, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll give it to him.”

Relief surged, though it didn’t feel clean. “Thanks,” Steve muttered, already backing away before he could humiliate himself further.

He didn’t wait for her reply. Just shoved his hands deep into his pockets and slipped down the hall, head down, trying to ignore the stares that always seemed to follow him now.

The plan had been simple: hand off the box, let Nancy do the rest, and then stop thinking about Jonathan Byers.

It didn’t work.

Byers wasn’t at school the next day. Or the one after that. And Steve noticed.

At first, he brushed it off—Jonathan probably just didn’t want to be seen, not after everything that had happened. Not after what Steve had done. It made sense. But logic didn’t stop the discomfort gnawing at him.

By the third day, the quiet felt unnatural, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

By the fifth, it had curdled into something heavier— wrong.

Tommy cracked jokes about Byers hiding out. Carol muttered something about him finally knowing his place. Steve laughed when they looked at him, but it came out sharp, hollow.

Because he kept catching himself scanning the halls anyway, looking for brown unkempt hair, for dark eyes that never flinched, not even when the whole school wanted him gone.

He didn’t find him.

Word slipped through by day nine—Mike Wheeler whining to Lucas at lunch, his voice carrying just enough for Steve to catch.

Jonathan had been staying home, taking care of Will. Watching over him since he’d gotten out of the hospital.

Steve froze mid-bite, tray of fries cooling under the buzz of cafeteria lights.

Taking care of Will. Of course he was.

And Steve hated how that made everything feel worse.

Because it meant Jonathan wasn’t hiding from him, or from school, or from the whispers. He was just…being himself. Taking care of his brother. Doing the thing Steve never could, the thing he’d never even tried.

Steve stared at the wall until the noise of the cafeteria blurred. The taste in his mouth was ash.

That night, the silence in his house pressed in so heavy Steve could barely breathe.

Tommy had called twice, Carol once. He didn’t pick up.

Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the number he’d copied down from one of the missing posters for Will. The paper was crumpled now, edges soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. His thumb hovered over the rotary dial, stomach twisting.

Don’t be an idiot, Harrington. What are you even gonna say?

He dialed anyway.

The phone rang, each buzz rattling through him until he thought he might hang up—until it clicked.

“Hello?”

Jonathan’s voice. Rough, tired, closer than Steve had heard it in weeks.

Steve’s throat closed. Every word he thought he’d rehearsed dissolved into static.

“…Hello?” Jonathan said again, sharper this time. “Who is this?”

Steve gripped the receiver tighter, heart pounding.

Just say something.

But nothing came. The silence stretched.

Jonathan huffed, the sound edged with irritation. “Look, if this is some kind of joke—”

Panic surged. Steve slammed the receiver back into the cradle, the sound clattering too loud in the empty house.

He sat there, chest heaving, the silence roaring back around him.

Jonathan’s voice still echoed in his head—sharp, tired, familiar. And Steve hated himself for the way his pulse wouldn’t slow, like just hearing it had cracked something open.

Heart in his throat, he buried his face in a pillow and screamed.

⸻

The days after Will came home blurred together.

Jonathan barely slept. Every time his head touched the pillow, he jolted awake to the sound of coughing, of Will’s ragged breathing through the walls. He spent most nights sitting on the edge of his brother’s bed with a glass of water nearby, checking the clock, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

The doctors had said Will was recovering well but Jonathan didn’t believe it. His skin was too pale, his eyes too shadowed. Sometimes Will flinched at noises only he could hear. Sometimes his hands shook so badly Jonathan had to steady the glass against his lips.

Joyce worked herself raw, fluttering around with soup and blankets, refusing to leave the house for more than an hour. Jonathan picked up the rest — laundry, groceries, making sure the lights were plugged in when she forgot. Whenever he left the room, guilt gnawed at him until he came back, just to check Will was still breathing.

By the fifth day, he knew people were talking. The school had called twice. He ignored it. Teachers could wait. Rumors could wait. Everything could wait—except Will.

But then, slowly, Will started getting restless. One morning, Jonathan walked in to find him sitting up, blanket draped around his shoulders, sketching with trembling fingers. The lines were shaky, but they were lines.

“You should go back,” Will said, without looking up.

Jonathan froze in the doorway. “What?”

“To school.” Will shaded in a corner of the page, his voice small but steady. “Mom’s gonna lose her job if she misses more shifts, and I’m fine now. You don’t have to keep watching me every second.”

Jonathan stepped closer, kneeling beside the bed. Will’s sketch was nothing but dark shapes, sharp angles stacked into one another. He reached out, wanting to take the pencil, but stopped himself. “You’re not fine.”

Will finally looked at him. His eyes were clear in a way Jonathan hadn’t expected. “I don’t want you to fall behind because of me.”

The words landed like a stone.

Jonathan wanted to argue, to insist grades and teachers and all of it didn’t matter—but he saw the way Will’s shoulders squared, the stubbornness he only got when he meant it. The same stubbornness Jonathan carried.

“Just one class,” Will said. “For me.”

Jonathan pressed his lips together. He brushed a hand gently over Will’s hair, pretending to fix it, really just steadying himself.

He didn’t agree out loud. But the next morning, he was standing in the hall of Hawkins High, bag heavy on his shoulder, the air thick with whispers the second he walked in.

No one said anything to his face. They didn’t need to. Heads turned as he passed, conversations breaking off mid-sentence, then starting up again in lowered voices.

Laughter caught on the edges of words, sharp and clipped, not meant for him but carrying all the same.

Jonathan kept his eyes fixed on the floor, on the scuffed linoleum tiles and the squeak of his sneakers. His grip tightened on the strap of his bag until his knuckles ached.

It wasn’t new—people had always stared, always whispered—but it felt different now. Like everything he’d done, everything he’d seen, was somehow written on his face for them to pick apart.

He ducked his head lower, shoulders hunched, willing himself to disappear into the tide of students. But the air stayed heavy, thick with the weight of eyes he couldn’t shake.

Nancy caught him just as the last bell rang. Jonathan was shoving his books into his bag, head down.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Can I talk to you a sec?”

He blinked, wary, and nodded. They ducked into a quieter hallway, lockers clanging in the distance. Nancy shifted the strap of her bag, then pulled out a small cardboard box, plain except for the faint crease where tape had been peeled away. She held it out.

“This is for you.”

Jonathan frowned. “What is it?”

“Just—open it when you get home,” she said quickly, her voice tighter than usual.

He stared at the box, suspicion rising sharp. “Why?”

Nancy’s eyes flicked to his, then away again. She hugged her books closer, shoulders tense. “Because you need it. That’s all.”

Jonathan took it slowly, feeling the weight through the cardboard. His chest tightened. He didn’t want to unwrap it here, under the fluorescent buzz of the hall with Nancy watching. Whatever it was, he already felt cornered.

“Thanks,” he muttered finally, though the word felt stiff in his mouth.

Nancy gave a small nod, her smile faint and fleeting. Before he could press her, she was slipping back into the crowd, hair vanishing among the tide of students.

Jonathan stood frozen for a long second, the box heavy in his hands.

⸻

At home, he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at it. The cardboard was unmarked, taped clean. He slid a fingernail under the seam and peeled it open.

Inside, beneath the folds of paper, lay a small box wrapped in tissue — and a single Christmas card.

The card was plain, red and green with a snowy cottage on the front. Just the pre-printed holiday greeting in looping cursive, untouched. Jonathan turned it over once, twice, waiting for something — a signature, even just an initial. But there was nothing.

He set it aside carefully, almost reverently, before pulling the tissue back from the box.

The air seemed to drop out of his lungs.

A camera.

Not old, not passed down — brand new. The kind he’d only ever seen locked behind glass at Melvald’s, the kind he’d lingered over in catalogs until the pages creased. Sleek. Weighty. Untouched.

For a long moment, he just stared, the breath catching in his throat. His chest felt too tight, his hands almost trembling when he lifted it out. No cracks. No broken glass. Not like the other one buried in his drawer.

The lens caught the light, smooth and whole. He could smell it — sharp metallic tang, the crisp leather strap that hadn’t been worn in.

It was too much. Too expensive. Too thoughtful.

Why would Nancy—?

The thought snagged, bitter at the edges. Of course she’d pity him. Of course she’d want to fix the quiet freak whose camera had been smashed in front of half the school. Maybe she thought she was being kind. Maybe this was what kindness looked like in her world—expensive and easy.

He wanted to hurl it across the room.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t forget her quiet understanding the night he stumbled over his words, trying to explain why he couldn’t care for her the way she deserved.

He remembered the way her hand had slipped into his—not out of pity, not because it cost her nothing, but because she chose to hold on. The way her words had wrapped around the parts of him he’d never dared to say out loud: I see you. You’re brave. Whoever you let in will be lucky.

That night had carved something open in him, something raw and startling. She hadn’t flinched from his brokenness—she’d named it rare. Worthy.

Still, his fingers hovered, torn between hurling it against the wall and holding on. His grip tightened, steady even as his chest shook.

He imagined the crack of plastic shattering on impact.

Instead, he set it gently on his desk.

⸻

The hallway felt longer than usual. Jonathan kept his head down, his bag heavy on his shoulder, the new camera tucked safely inside. Every turn, every locker he passed, whispers followed. Not outright laughter, not like before, but enough. Always enough.

He was halfway to class when a voice cut sharp through the din.

“Well, look who it is.”

Jonathan froze before he even turned. Tommy Hagan, grinning wide, Carol right at his shoulder. A little pack had already formed around them, eager for the show.

“Careful, guys,” Carol drawled, lips curling. “He might snap a picture. Oh, wait—” she mimed lifting a camera, then let her hands drop, laughing. “Guess you’ll have to draw us instead.”

Tommy barked a laugh. “Better keep Harrington out of sight—don’t want the freak snapping any more of his special shots.”

Heat crawled up Jonathan’s neck. His grip on the strap of his bag tightened, knuckles white. He didn’t look up, didn’t answer—just shifted his weight like he could slip past without touching any of them.

But then—

“Shut up.”

The word cut clean through the hallway.

Jonathan’s head jerked up. Steve Harrington had stepped out from the crowd, jaw tight. His voice carried farther than Jonathan had ever heard it in a crowded hall.

Everyone stilled.

Tommy blinked, smirk faltering. “What?”

“I said shut up.” Steve’s gaze pinned them both, steady in a way that made the silence hum. “You think you’re funny? You’re not. You’re just pathetic.”

A ripple went through the circle of onlookers.

Carol’s smile slipped, brittle now. “Steve—”

“No,” Steve snapped, sharper than Jonathan had ever heard from him. He stepped closer to Tommy, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “You don’t get to act like you’re better than anyone. You’re not. You’re just a couple of assholes who can’t keep up without an audience.”

Tommy’s grin returned, but it looked strained, twitchy at the edges. “Since when do you care, huh? Since when do you hang out with—” He jerked his chin toward Jonathan. “—the freak?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Since I realized I’d rather hang out with him than spend one more second listening to you run your mouth.”

That landed. The crowd murmured, some smothering laughter, others just staring, hungry for the fallout. Carol’s hand caught Tommy’s arm, tugging him back, but her gaze flicked nervously over the circle forming, over how no one seemed to be laughing anymore.

Tommy sneered, muttering, “Whatever, man. You’ve changed.”

“Yeah,” Steve said flatly. “I have.”

The crowd reacted—half gasps, half whispers, none of it aimed at Jonathan anymore. For once, the heat in his chest wasn’t humiliation but something stranger, heavier.

Steve let the silence stretch a second longer, eyes catching Jonathan’s for a flicker of a second, then turned on his heel. “Come on,” he muttered—not to Tommy, not to Carol, but to Jonathan.

And before Jonathan could think, he found himself walking beside him down the hall, the whispers in their wake changed—sharper, surprised, confused. But not cruel. Not anymore.

Jonathan’s pulse hadn’t slowed by the time they rounded the corner. He kept his gaze fixed on the linoleum floor, his breath uneven, the strap of his bag digging deeper into his shoulder. Steve walked steady beside him, expression unreadable. The hallway behind them was still buzzing—he could feel it, like static following them all the way down.

Finally, Jonathan found his voice. “You didn’t have to do that.” It came out low, rough.

Steve glanced sideways at him, just for a second. “Yeah, I did.”

Jonathan frowned, the words catching him off guard. He wanted to press, wanted to demand what the hell that meant, but his throat felt tight.

They passed another cluster of students; heads turned, whispers sparked again. Jonathan braced himself, but the tone was different this time—not sharp, not jeering. More like curiosity.

It didn’t make the weight in his chest any lighter.

Steve slowed as they reached the stairwell, leaning against the rail like it was the most natural thing in the world. “They’ll back off now.”

Jonathan shifted his bag, uneasy. “Until the next time.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “Don’t worry about that.”

The words landed heavier than they should have, echoing in Jonathan’s head long after Steve pushed away from the railing and started down the stairs.

By lunch, the story had already grown legs. Jonathan heard it whispered on the walk between periods, caught it in the way people stared a half-second too long.

By the time Jonathan pushed into the cafeteria, trays clattering and voices bouncing off tile, the whole place felt… tilted.

Tommy and Carol still held their court at the center table, loud enough for everyone to hear. But it wasn’t the same. Their laughter was a little too sharp, their jokes thrown out like bait nobody wanted to bite. Every so often, someone would glance at the empty space at their side—the one that should’ve been filled by Steve Harrington.

He wasn’t there.

Jonathan slid into his usual corner seat, back to the wall, food untouched. From here he could watch the whole room. He didn’t have to listen hard to catch the fragments:

“—actually stood up for him—”

“—what’s going on with Harrington?”

“—Carol looked pissed—”

It wasn’t about him, not really. It was about Steve, about the breach in whatever unspoken order kept this place running. Jonathan wasn’t used to hearing his name without the word freak attached, but here it was, tangled up in confusion and speculation.

He kept his head down anyway. Pretended to eat. Pretended not to notice the gap Harrington had left wide open in the school.

⸻

The final bell rang like a mercy, spilling everyone into the halls. Jonathan kept his head down, weaving through the noise and the scrape of lockers. He just wanted to go home.

But when he stepped into the parking lot, Steve was there. Leaning against his car like he’d been waiting.

Jonathan slowed, stomach tightening.

“You need a ride?” Steve asked, casual in a way that was too deliberate.

“I’m fine,” Jonathan muttered, already veering toward the street.

“Jonathan.” Steve pushed off the car, keys jingling in his hand. “It’s out of my way anyway.”

It wasn’t. Jonathan knew that. He should’ve kept walking, but for some reason, he stayed put. The echo of Steve’s voice in the hallway—sharp, certain, cutting down every jeer before it reached Jonathan—still rang in his ears.

After a beat too long, he nodded once, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat. Not because he trusted Steve. But because curiosity had edged out pride, and Jonathan needed to know why.

The ride was silent. The kind of silence that pressed in, filled with things neither of them wanted to say out loud. Jonathan watched the trees smear past the window, hands clenched tight in his lap. Steve’s fingers tapped the wheel, restless.

When they pulled up outside the Byers’ house, Steve shifted into park but didn’t kill the engine. For a second, neither moved.

“If you ever…” Steve’s voice trailed off before he tried again. “If you need help. With Will. Or anything.”

Jonathan turned, sharper than he meant to. “Why are you doing this?” The words came out low, almost a snap. His throat felt tight.

Steve froze, jaw tightening. The weight of it hung in the air. For a long moment he didn’t answer, eyes fixed on the windshield like he could find something written out there.

Finally, he said quietly, “Because I want to. I want to help.”

Jonathan stared at him, searching for the angle, the punchline, the trap. But there wasn’t one. Just Steve, shoulders hunched, voice steady in a way Jonathan hadn’t heard before.

He shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “You don’t have to play the hero, Harrington.”

Steve flinched, barely, but covered it with a sharp exhale through his nose. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel.

Jonathan didn’t wait for a response. He pushed the door open and stepped out, the chill of the evening air biting against his face. He didn’t look back, just slammed the door harder than he meant to and started up the driveway.

Behind him, the car idled a beat too long before pulling away.

Jonathan kept walking, jaw set, pretending the sound of tires crunching on gravel didn’t leave something restless and unsettled in his chest.

He dropped his bag by the door, rubbing a hand down his face before heading toward the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator.

He half-expected to find Will crashed on the couch again, but instead his brother sat at the table with a sketchbook open, pencil moving in steady lines.

Jonathan paused in the doorway. “You’re… drawing?”

Will glanced up, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not,” Jonathan said quickly, stepping further in. “Just… it’s good. You look… good.”

Will shrugged, eyes dropping back to the page. “I’m trying. Helps me think less.”

Jonathan leaned against the counter, arms folded. “That’s… yeah. That’s good.” He wanted to leave it there, but the words pressed out anyway. “School was… interesting today.”

Will glanced up again, reading him too easily. “People still being jerks?”

Jonathan hesitated. “Not exactly. Just… whispers. Stares. And Steve Harrington.”

Will’s brows pinched. “What about him?”

Jonathan let out a humorless laugh. “He’s… different. Keeps stepping in. Even offered me a ride.”

Will tilted his head, pencil stilling. “That’s… not bad, right?”

Jonathan bristled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know what it is. He says he wants to help, but…” He trailed off, searching the floor for words that didn’t sound weak. “I don’t get why.”

Will tapped the eraser against the page, thinking. “Maybe he feels bad. Or maybe he just… means it.”

Jonathan scoffed. “Since when does Steve Harrington mean anything?”

But his voice came softer than he intended, almost uncertain.

Will looked at him, steady and calm in a way that made Jonathan feel older and younger at the same time. “Since now, maybe.”

Jonathan had no answer for that. He just sighed, pushed off the counter, and ruffled Will’s hair on his way to the stairs.

⸻

Steve pushed his cart down the aisle, eyes skimming over cereal boxes without really seeing them. He hated grocery stores — too bright, too many people. He was halfway to zoning out when he spotted Joyce Byers at the end of the aisle, clutching a list in one hand and comparing cans of soup.

For a second he almost ducked away. She looked tired, worn thin. But then she noticed him, and her face softened into a small, surprised smile.

“Steve,” she said, like she didn’t expect to see him here.

“Mrs. Byers,” he answered, lifting a hand in a lame half-wave. “Uh… hey.”

They stood awkwardly for a beat, then Steve blurted, “How’s Will?”

Joyce’s smile faltered, though not unkindly. “Better. He’s… managing. Some days are easier than others.” She set the soup into her cart and exhaled through her nose. “It’s been hard on Jonathan too. He won’t admit it, but I see it.”

Steve shifted his weight, throat tight. He remembered Jonathan snapping at him in the car, that sharp edge of distrust. “Yeah. I figured.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I know it’s… weird. But I want to help. With Will. With whatever. I just—” He gestured vaguely, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want you guys handling all of this alone.”

Joyce studied him for a long moment, her eyes sharp but not unkind, as if she was testing the honesty in his face the way she might check the edge of a knife. Then, slowly, she nodded. “You mean that.”

Steve swallowed, nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Her hand brushed his arm lightly—grateful, weary, but not dismissing him. “Well,” she said, tilting her head in a brisk, practical way, “you could start small. My dryer’s been rattling like it’s about to walk out the door. If you’re serious about helping, maybe you can take a look at it? Or at least carry the laundry basket for me so it doesn’t break my back.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard by how ordinary the request was. Not monster-fighting, not babysitting—just laundry. But something in him loosened. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

Joyce gave him a faint smile, one corner of her mouth tugging up despite the lines of exhaustion carved into her face. “Then you’ll stop by tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, firm this time.

And when she turned down the aisle, reaching for another can of soup with her cart squeaking faintly in protest, Steve felt something settle deep in his chest. Like a decision had been made, even if Jonathan would hate it.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

⸻

Jonathan was half-sprawled across the sagging couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees while Will hunched beside him, pencil in hand, copying a panel from one of his comics. It was quiet, domestic, the kind of rare lull where Jonathan could almost believe they were just normal again.

The knock at the door broke it.

Jonathan frowned, setting his pad aside. “Stay here,” he murmured, though Will was already looking up curiously.

He pulled open the door—and froze.

Steve Harrington, leaning awkwardly against the frame, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Jonathan’s brow furrowed. His gut clenched. “What are you doing here?”

Steve’s mouth opened, like he was about to answer, but before he could, a warm voice called from inside—

“Steve, sweetheart, how are you?” Joyce’s footsteps padded closer, and Jonathan blinked as she swept into the entryway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

Steve straightened instantly, almost guiltily, but Joyce’s tired smile softened him. She touched his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come by. The dryer’s being a menace again.”

Jonathan’s confusion sharpened into irritation. He glanced between them. “Wait—what?”

Joyce, oblivious, tilted her head toward the hall. “Jonathan, grab the laundry basket, would you? Steve’s here to help.”

Jonathan’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment, disbelief pricking hot under his skin. “He’s… what?”

But Joyce was already moving back toward the kitchen, tossing the towel over her shoulder. “It’ll just take a minute.”

Steve gave a weak half-shrug, eyes flicking to Jonathan’s with a mix of apology and stubbornness. Like he knew exactly how unwelcome this was—and wasn’t backing down anyway.

⸻

Steve showed up every day after that.

Sometimes with a toolbox, sleeves rolled up as he crouched in the laundry room, muttering at the dryer until it finally stopped rattling. Other times with grocery bags he insisted on carrying in for Joyce. And when there wasn’t anything to fix or carry, he just… lingered.

From the stairs, Jonathan caught the sound of laughter rising up—bright, boyish, too easy. He froze, jaw tightening.

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, he forced himself down the last few steps, schooling his face into something flat. Sure enough, there was Steve—cross-legged on the rug, leaning in like he belonged there. Will sat across from him with a sketchpad spread open, explaining something about shading. Steve nodded along, attentive, like he understood. Like he cared.

Jonathan’s stomach knotted.

“Hey,” Steve said casually when he noticed him. Too casual, like this was his house. “Will’s showing me his stuff. He’s really good.”

Jonathan crossed his arms. “Yeah. I know.”

Will glanced between them, too perceptive for his own good. “Steve said he’d help me practice for art class. You don’t mind, right?”

Jonathan’s throat tightened. “Why would I mind?”

Will’s eyes narrowed just a fraction—that knowing look Jonathan hated. Because his little brother shouldn’t be able to read him this easily.

Steve, either oblivious or stubborn, grinned. “Yeah, figured I could hang out for a bit.”

Jonathan muttered something about homework and slipped into the kitchen, jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it.

He hated this.

Not because Steve was doing anything wrong—if anything, he was doing too much. Too helpful, too attentive, too eager to wedge himself into corners of their life where Jonathan hadn’t invited him.

His mom looked at Steve like he was a godsend. And Will, for reasons Jonathan couldn’t begin to understand, lit up every time Steve walked through the door.

But Jonathan? Jonathan bristled.

It felt like an invasion. Someone elbowing into the fragile balance they’d managed to piece together after everything. This house had been theirs—broken, messy, private. They didn’t need Steve Harrington clattering around, asking where the dish soap was like he lived here.

Jonathan tried ignoring him for days now. He’d slip upstairs under the excuse of homework, shut his door tight. Pretend he didn’t care when Steve’s voice carried through the walls—easy, warm, coaxing laughter out of Will that Jonathan hadn’t heard in weeks.

But he noticed. He always noticed.

And Will—Will noticed him noticing. His little brother caught his eye across the dinner table, quiet and sharp in a way Jonathan couldn’t stand. Like Will could see straight through him.

The next afternoon, Joyce cornered Jonathan before he could escape upstairs.

“Light in the hallway’s out again,” she said, setting down a basket of laundry. “Steve said he could help fix it.”

Jonathan’s stomach sank. He glanced toward the living room, where that familiar voice drifted out—Steve, laughing at something Will said. Of course he was here. Again.

“Why can’t we just call an electrician?” Jonathan muttered.

“Because we can’t afford one,” Joyce shot back, sharp but tired. “Besides, Steve offered. Just go hold the ladder for him.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to argue, but she was already moving on, humming distractedly as she disappeared into the kitchen.

So that’s how he ended up standing in the narrow hallway, arms crossed, watching Steve Harrington wrestle with a rickety step ladder.

“You know this thing’s about as stable as a three-legged dog,” Steve muttered, testing the rung with his sneaker. He looked over at Jonathan with a lopsided grin. “You sure it’s not gonna collapse with me on it?”

Jonathan gave a flat shrug. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Steve just huffed a laugh, then climbed up, screwdriver tucked behind his ear. Jonathan braced the ladder without looking up, jaw tight.

Above him, Steve fiddled with the light fixture, muttering under his breath. “Man, I swear I was not cut out for this handyman gig.” A pause, then, casually: “But your mom asked, so, y’know.”

Jonathan didn’t answer.

After a moment, Steve leaned down just enough to peer at him. “You always this chatty, Byers?”

Jonathan’s glare shot up before he could stop it. “You always this—” He stopped, words catching. Too helpful? Too stubborn? Too there? He settled for, “—loud?”

Steve blinked at him, then broke into a grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Jonathan looked away, teeth gritted.

Steve tightened the last screw, the bulb flickering once before humming to life. “Well, look at that. Harrington saves the day again.”

Jonathan muttered, barely audible, “Try not to dislocate your shoulder patting yourself on the back.”

He hadn’t meant for it to carry, but Steve’s head tipped anyway, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’d caught him out. “Wow. Sarcasm. That’s new. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to talk—I’ve been here for days and all I’ve gotten are grunts.”

Jonathan’s jaw worked. “Maybe I just don’t have anything worth saying.”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, that tracks. Pretty sure I’ve had deeper conversations with your mom’s toaster.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth betrayed him—just a twitch, a huff of air that slipped out like a laugh before he slammed it down with a scowl.

Steve’s grin spread, sharp with satisfaction. “Knew it. Knew there was an actual person under all that broody silence.”

Jonathan’s scowl deepened, but it was too late—Steve had seen it.

“Don’t get all pouty now,” Steve said, climbing down the ladder with a clatter. “That was almost charming. Kinda ruins the mysterious brooding-artist vibe you’ve got going, though.”

Jonathan crossed his arms tighter. “Didn’t know I had a vibe.”

Steve grinned, leaning the ladder against the wall. “Oh, you’ve got one. It’s all leave me alone, I hate everyone mixed with just enough tortured soul to make girls want to write bad poetry about you.”

Jonathan’s head snapped toward him. “You don’t even know me.”

“Sure I do,” Steve said, smug as ever. “You’re the guy who pretends he doesn’t care, but actually cares so much it eats him alive.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened, the words landing closer than Steve had any right to aim. He turned away, muttering, “You never shut up.”

Steve just chuckled, falling into step beside him like he belonged there. “And you never say anything. Guess that balances out.”

Jonathan shot him a look over his shoulder. “No, it doesn’t.”

But Steve only smirked, grabbing an apple off the counter like he lived there. “Yeah, it does.”

Jonathan snatched the apple right out of Steve’s hand, tossed it back onto the counter. “That’s not yours.”

Steve held up his hands, grinning. “Alright, alright. Didn’t realize I had to ask permission to breathe in Casa Byers.”

“You don’t,” Jonathan said flatly. “You just have to not act like you live here.”

Steve tilted his head, mock thinking. “Huh. Pretty sure your mom likes me here.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “She doesn’t.”

“Oh, she definitely does,” Steve said, that smug Harrington smile plastered across his face. “Who else is fixing the dryer, changing the lightbulbs, keeping this place from collapsing?”

Jonathan shot back, “Maybe you should send us an invoice. Then you can stop hanging around after.”

Steve tapped the counter, feigning deep thought. “Nah. Payment’s already solid. Will’s sketches? Worth more than cash. Kid’s a better artist than half the adults I know.”

Jonathan froze for half a second—just enough for Steve to catch it.

“What?” Steve teased. “Didn’t think I could appreciate stuff without, like, hairspray and pom-poms?”

Jonathan gave him a withering look. “Pretty much.”

Steve leaned in, smirk sharp. “Guess I’ll just have to keep proving you wrong, huh?”

Jonathan’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t fire back.

Will liked Steve being here. His mom liked Steve being here.

And Jonathan? He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that. It was like Steve had slipped into the cracks of their house and made himself comfortable, no invitation needed. Every grin, every easy comment just wedged him deeper in. And Jonathan couldn’t tell if that was good, or if it made him want to slam every door in the place shut.

⸻

The house was finally quiet.

Steve’s car had rumbled off ten minutes ago, yet the echo of his laughter still clung to Jonathan’s ears. He sat at the kitchen table, thumbing the corner of a photography magazine he hadn’t turned a page in. The kettle sat forgotten on the counter—water long gone cold—though he kept telling himself he was waiting.

Will padded in, socked feet soft on the linoleum. He slid into the chair across from Jonathan, clutching a sketchpad to his chest like a shield. For a while, he didn’t say anything—just flipped absently through the pages.

Jonathan glanced up, uneasy. “What?”

Will tilted his head, too calm. “Steve asked about you.”

“Why?”

The word came out sharper than intended.

Will only shrugged—too casual, too knowing. “Wanted to know what you’re into. Music and stuff.”

Jonathan’s head snapped up. “And you told him?”

Will smirked, pencil scratching lightly across the page. “Relax. I didn’t give him your diary. Just said you like niche rock bands nobody else listens to.”

Jonathan scoffed, turning back to the crumpled magazine, heat creeping up his neck. “Figures.”

Will’s grin widened, enjoying every second. “He thought it was cool. Asked me to write a few names down, actually.”

Jonathan froze again, scowling at the magazine like it had personally betrayed him.

But Will didn’t let it drop. His voice shifted, softer now—the careful tone he used when he knew he was pushing. “I think he’s just… trying. With you.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “With you, maybe.”

Will’s smile was small, knowing. “He doesn’t hang around here all week just for me.”

Jonathan looked up sharply, but Will had already bent his head, sketching something loose on the corner of a blank page. Acting casual. Acting like he hadn’t just peeled Jonathan open with a single sentence.

Jonathan swallowed hard, throat dry. “Go to bed, Will.”

Will’s pencil scratched against the paper, but he nodded. “Goodnight, Jon.”

He left the sketchpad on the table when he went. Jonathan didn’t mean to look, but his eyes snagged anyway.

It was a rough sketch of the living room. Two figures sitting cross-legged on the rug. Will and Steve. Both smiling.

Jonathan shoved the magazine over it and sat in the silence, pulse too loud in his ears.

⸻

Steve pulled up to the Byers’ like he had a hundred times now, hand drumming easy against the steering wheel. Except—he didn’t kill the engine right away.

Because there was already a car in the driveway. A familiar one. The Wheeler’s.

His stomach dipped before he could stop it. Nancy’s family car, parked where his should be. Two weeks of slipping into this driveway, and somehow it already felt like his spot.

His brain went blank for a beat. He shook it off, running a hand through his hair like he could smooth the thought away. It was nothing. No big deal. Just a car.

But when he pushed the door open and stepped inside, the picture didn’t get better.

Nancy was at the dinner table with Jonathan, notebooks and textbooks spread between them. Studying. Together.

Jonathan’s head bent low, Nancy’s pencil tapping near his hand, both of them murmuring in quiet tones that Steve wasn’t supposed to hear.

Steve’s chest tightened, a twist low in his gut. He tore his eyes away and found the living room instead.

Mike was sprawled on the couch, a comic in hand, his socked foot braced against Will’s leg. They were passing the book back and forth, half-whispering jokes between them that kept breaking into giggles.

The old him would’ve had something to say about that—how close they were sitting, how Will’s shoulder tipped into Mike’s when they laughed. He would’ve frowned, maybe made a joke that landed too sharp.

But now? He just stood in the doorway, suddenly all too aware of how out of place he felt. Like he’d walked into a room that had already decided what the picture should be—and he wasn’t in it.

Steve cleared his throat, aiming for easy. “Wow. Full house tonight, huh?”

Nancy glanced up first, surprise flickering across her face before it settled into something calmer. “Steve.” Her voice held a thread of hesitation, but not unkind. She clearly hadn’t expected him—but she accepted his presence nonetheless.

Jonathan, on the other hand, didn’t bother looking up. “We’re busy.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Steve crossed the living room, dragging a chair out with his foot. “Looks like riveting stuff. What is it, trig? History?”

“Chemistry,” Nancy supplied, before Jonathan could snap again.

Steve winced theatrically. “Yikes. Definitely dodged a bullet there. Pretty sure I almost set a Bunsen burner on fire once.”

That earned him the tiniest upward twitch of Nancy’s mouth, even if she smothered it quick. Jonathan still looked like he’d swallowed nails.

Steve leaned back in the chair, drumming his fingers against the table. “So, what are we working on? Balancing equations? Lab reports?”

Jonathan’s eyes finally cut toward him, sharp. “We’re working. You’re… not.”

“True,” Steve said easily, spreading his hands like that settled it. “But lucky for you, I happen to be excellent moral support. You know—encouraging words, motivational snacks…” He snagged an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it lightly in the air. “I’m a real asset to any team.”

Nancy shot Jonathan a look—half warning, half don’t make this worse. She sighed. “You can sit. Just… don’t distract us.”

Steve smirked, sinking into the chair like he’d won something. “Scout’s honor.” He bit into the apple with a loud crunch, eyes dancing toward Jonathan. “Promise I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Jonathan muttered under his breath, “Some mouse.”

Steve grinned wider, satisfied.

Mike’s laugh cut across the room, sharp and bright, pulling Steve’s attention back toward the couch. Will ducked his head, shoulders shaking, and Mike shoved at him with his foot, both of them dissolving into another round of half-whispered giggles.

Steve felt that twist in his gut again. He shoved it down with another crunch of apple, forcing his eyes back to the open notebook in front of Nancy.

She was scribbling something quick in the margins, brows drawn in concentration. When she noticed him watching, she gave him a look—pointed, steady. Behave.

Steve raised both hands like he’d been caught stealing cookies. “Hey, I’m good. Model student.” He flicked a glance at Jonathan, adding with a grin, “Could’ve been, you know. In another life.”

Jonathan finally lifted his head, gaze flat. “In what life?”

Steve’s smirk faltered for a beat, but he powered through, leaning back like he hadn’t just been jabbed. “One where they graded on hair. I’d have been valedictorian.”

Mike snorted from the couch—loud enough to make Will smack him with the rolled-up comic.

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”

But Nancy was hiding a smile again, ducking her head like she could disguise it as focus. Steve caught it, and his chest eased a fraction.

He tapped the end of her pencil with his finger, casual. “So. What’s the question?”

Nancy hesitated. “We’re balancing redox equations.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “English, please?”

Will looked up from the couch, voice quiet but amused. “It’s when one element gets reduced while another gets oxidized. You have to make the numbers match on both sides.”

Steve blinked at him. “Right. Yeah. Totally what I was gonna say.”

That cracked Will into a grin. Steve caught it, felt something soften in his chest, then glanced back at Jonathan.

Jonathan’s jaw was tight, pencil digging into the page like he wanted to snap it clean in half.

Steve leaned an elbow on the table, apple still in hand, and offered his brightest grin. “Well, good news—you’ve got the dream team now. Let’s make some science magic happen.”

Nancy sighed, scribbling the next problem onto the page. But Steve didn’t miss the way she slid the notebook just slightly between them.

Like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Nancy tapped her pencil in a steady rhythm as she explained, “You have to make sure the electrons balance—otherwise the reaction won’t work.”

Steve squinted at the scrawled half-equation like it had personally wronged him. “Right. Balance the… electrons. Sure. Totally tracking.”

Jonathan didn’t even look up. “You’re not tracking anything.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, tossing the apple core toward the trash can with a casual flick. It bounced off the rim and hit the floor. He winced. “Okay, maybe not anything, but hey—close enough.”

Nancy pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “You could at least pick it up.”

Steve popped to his feet, scooping the core into the bin with a mock bow. “Your wish, my command.”

Behind him, Mike stage-whispered, “King Steve lives.” Will muffled a laugh into the couch cushion.

Jonathan shot them a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Do you guys mind? Some of us are actually trying to get work done.”

Mike raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, we’re just providing background ambiance.”

Will added softly, “Better than listening to Steve guess wrong every five seconds.”

Steve swung around, pointing a finger at him. “Betrayal. Absolute betrayal. I thought we had a good thing going, Byers.”

Will only grinned, eyes darting toward Jonathan, who looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow them all.

Nancy cleared her throat firmly. “Focus, please.” She slid the notebook toward Steve, tapping the problem. “Try this one.”

Steve blinked down at it like it was written in hieroglyphics. “Okay. Uh… the little two goes here, so… I put another two there?”

Jonathan groaned, dropping his pencil. “That’s not even close.”

“Harsh,” Steve said, though he couldn’t keep from grinning. He scratched something onto the page anyway, scribbles that looked more like a football play than chemistry. “See? Progress.”

Nancy exhaled slowly through her nose, erasing his marks with careful strokes. “Not… exactly. But points for effort.”

Mike piped up from the couch, sing-song. “She means no points.”

Will giggled again, hiding behind his comic.

Steve shot them a look, then leaned toward Nancy with a conspiratorial stage-whisper. “You know, if this whole chemistry thing doesn’t work out, you could always tutor me in… I don’t know. History. Something with less numbers.”

Jonathan stiffened, jaw tightening.

Nancy didn’t rise to it, just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned the page. “Let’s finish this first.”

Steve sat back, biting back the rest of the quip that wanted out. Instead, he drummed his fingers against the table, letting his grin settle into something smaller, almost real.

For a moment, the laughter from the couch, the scratch of Nancy’s pencil, even Jonathan’s frustrated sighs—

It almost felt like he belonged here.

Jonathan picked his pencil back up, scribbling the actual balanced equation with quick, sharp strokes. “There. That’s how it’s supposed to look.”

Steve leaned over the page, nodding sagely. “Right, right. Just like I had it—except completely different.”

Jonathan’s head snapped up, glare loaded. “Are you seriously—”

“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” Steve cut in smoothly, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m just pointing out how close I was. Like, dangerously close. You should probably be impressed.”

Jonathan deadpanned, “You put a football play on the page.”

“Yeah, and the play was balance the electrons. I’d call that a win.” Steve leaned back, folding his arms like he’d just dropped the smartest take in the room.

Nancy sighed through her nose, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

From the couch, Mike whispered to Will, “Touchdown,” and they both snorted.

Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Steve said brightly, “you haven’t kicked me out. So what does that say about you, huh?”

Jonathan muttered, “Says I’m too tired to argue.”

Steve smirked. “Or says you secretly like me around.”

Jonathan’s pen stopped mid-scribble. He shot Steve a look like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

“Relax,” Steve added quickly, grin widening. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Nancy cut in before Jonathan could bite back. “Steve, if you’re going to stay, at least quiz us instead of distracting.”

Steve perked up like she’d just handed him the crown. “Finally, a role worthy of my talents.” He snatched a flashcard from the pile and squinted at the writing. “Okay, uh… what’s the—” He flipped it upside down. “Yeah, okay, it was upside down, but still. What’s the definition of a catalyst?”

Jonathan answered flatly, “Something that speeds up a reaction without being consumed.”

Steve’s eyes flicked to the back of the card. He grinned. “Correct. Ten points to House Byers.”

Jonathan scowled. “We’re not playing for points.”

“Not with that attitude,” Steve shot back.

Mike groaned dramatically from the couch. “Can you two flirt quieter? We’re trying to read.”

Will choked on a laugh, burying his face in his comic.

Jonathan turned beet-red. “We are not— ”

Steve just threw an arm over the back of his chair, grin lazy and unbothered. “See? They get it. Chemistry.”

Jonathan dropped his pencil with a clatter. “Unbelievable.”

Nancy pressed her lips together hard, shoulders shaking like she was trying not to laugh.

Steve leaned back, smug, apple juice still sweet in his teeth. Yeah, maybe he didn’t belong here—but damn if he wasn’t going to make himself comfortable anyway.

Chapter Text

The Broken Tape

Jonathan tracked Steve with narrowed eyes as he drifted from the dinner table, abandoning the study session for the couch as if the equations had bored him. He slipped into Mike and Will’s orbit without hesitation, as if he belonged there.

Will, ever polite, shifted to make space. Mike didn’t bother hiding his annoyance—but Steve brushed it off with ease, laughing at Mike’s muttered comments as though nothing could touch him. On his way, he lobbed another half-eaten apple core into the trash, movements too casual. Too practiced. Too easy.

And then Nancy cleared her throat.

Jonathan startled, heat crawling up the back of his neck at being caught staring. Her gaze cut to him—quick, sharp, knowing. “I heard what happened at school,” she said.

Jonathan let out a low huff, pencil biting too hard into the page. “Yeah. Hero Steve Harrington saves the day.”

Nancy hummed, the sound loaded. “And now he’s here?”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened. “Every day for the past two weeks.”

Her pencil went still. Jonathan didn’t need to look up to feel her eyes on him, sharp and probing. When he finally did, Nancy was already leaning in, her voice dropping to a whisper edged with curiosity. “Oh, really?” she murmured. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Jonathan blinked, frown deepening. “What?”

“The way he keeps looking at you.” Her tone sharpened, urgent, like she was trying to pin him down before he could wriggle free.

Jonathan’s stomach lurched. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Nancy’s gaze flicked toward the couch, then back. “Jonathan, I’ve seen this before. The way he hovers. The way you—”

He shook his head, too fast. “No. Don’t.”

But she pressed on. “You just told me Steve’s been haunting your house for the past two weeks.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. Will’s voice drifted back: He doesn’t hang around here all week just for me.

“You don’t remember the fight? How you yanked him out of the way? That thing nearly took his head off—and you didn’t even hesitate.”

The image hit him hard: Steve’s jacket gripped in his fist, shoulders colliding, Steve’s wide eyes inches from his own. Jonathan shoved the memory down, throat tight. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Nancy leaned closer, refusing to let him bury it. “It does and he knows it. Why do you think he gave me the camera?”

Jonathan blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“He cornered me at school,” Nancy said firmly. “Pressed it into my hands. Said he knew you wouldn’t take it from him, but you wouldn’t smash it either—not if I brought it over. He trusted me to get it to you.”

Jonathan’s stomach dropped, the words landing harder than he wanted them to. He hadn’t known—hadn’t even guessed. Something warm flickered through his chest, sharp and disorienting, before he crushed it down so fast it ached. He shook his head, eyes fixed anywhere but hers, but his pencil dug into the page until the lead snapped.

He shoved the broken piece aside. “It’s nothing,” he muttered.

But his gaze betrayed him, drifting back to the couch—toward Steve, sprawled out between Will and Mike, listening intently as they walked him through the panels like it was the most natural thing in the world. And despite himself, that unwelcome warmth lingered, refusing to be stamped out.

From the living room, Will’s voice carried over—careful, deliberate, cutting through the shuffle of comic pages.

“Hey, Jon?”

Jonathan stiffened, already wary from the lilt in his brother’s tone, his pencil pausing over his half-finished equation. “What?”

Will glanced up from the comic in his lap, feigning innocence. “You think you could dig out one of your mixtapes? The good ones.”

Jonathan froze mid-scribble. His eyes flicked up, sharp. “Why?”

Will’s grin was small, knowing. “You’ve always had the best musical taste—Steve should hear it.”

On the couch, Steve spread his hands like he wasn’t part of the setup, shoulders lifting in an easy shrug. “Hey, don’t blame me. Your brother’s been hyping you up. Figured I should see if it’s true.”

Jonathan’s throat went dry. His pencil slipped, leaving a faint smear across the paper. Across the table, Nancy arched an eyebrow, like she was waiting for him to crack.

Steve’s laugh floated over—light, careless. “Only if it’s not all depressing stuff, Byers.”

Mike snorted. “Good luck with that.”

The session dragged on another half hour, Nancy finally closing her book with a decisive thump. “That’s enough chemistry for tonight,” she said, shooting Jonathan one last look like she knew his mind had been anywhere but ions and covalent bonds.

Mike stretched, loud and deliberate, like he was about to announce his exit—then dropped back onto the couch with a thud, arms flung wide across the cushions. “Yeah, no way I’m leaving yet.”

Nancy’s head snapped up, a crease forming between her brows. “Mike—”

“Mom can deal,” he cut in, already snatching another comic from the pile. He flipped it open with a pointed snap, his legs stretching out until his sneakers nearly brushed the coffee table. “We’ve barely even gotten through half the stack.”

Will shot him a sideways look, one brow arched. Mike only grinned, snagging another comic from the pile and sprawling closer to Steve and Will like he’d just claimed his spot for the night.

Nancy lingered as she gathered her notes, then brushed Jonathan’s arm in passing—a touch that landed somewhere between warning and encouragement. Before he could decide which, she was gone.

That left Jonathan shuffling papers with exaggerated care, stalling while Will and Mike stayed welded to the couch. Steve had leaned back, legs stretched out, flipping through the comic he clearly didn’t understand but was humoring anyway.

Will cleared his throat. Too loud. Too pointed. “So, Jonathan—about that mixtape?”

Jonathan froze. “Will—”

“C’mon.” Will was all fake sweetness, standing and tugging Jonathan’s sleeve. “Don’t make me look like a liar.”

Jonathan scowled, but his brother didn’t budge. And when Jonathan risked a glance at Steve, the guy was already on his feet, amusement written all over him.

“Guess I’m coming along,” Steve said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tipped his head toward the hallway. “Lead the way, Byers.”

Jonathan’s stomach lurched. He wanted to tell them both to drop it—to forget the whole thing. But Will was already herding him toward his room, and Steve trailed after with that lazy, lopsided grin that made Jonathan’s chest feel like it was caught between fire and ice.

His room felt smaller with Steve in it—like the walls had drawn in just to watch him squirm. Will gave a satisfied little nod, then slipped out, shutting the door behind him with way too much cheer for someone who’d just lit a match and tossed it onto gasoline.

Silence pressed in. Jonathan dropped to a crouch by the shelf, rummaging through stacks of old tapes and trying not to notice how Steve leaned against the dresser like he belonged there. His cologne—warm, a little musky—threaded through the air, irritating and distracting all at once.

Jonathan yanked out a cassette and turned it over in his hands, more for something to do than because he’d decided on it. “They’re just… old mixes,” he muttered. “Not a big deal.”

“Byers,” Steve drawled, the grin audible in his voice. “You’re acting like I asked you to hand over your porn stash.”

Jonathan shot him a glare over his shoulder. Steve just lifted his eyebrows, unbothered, and started scanning the spines of Jonathan’s records like he had all the time in the world.

“Relax,” Steve said. “I just figured—if Will swears by your taste, maybe I should actually listen instead of pretending I know what half the bands are.”

Jonathan’s fingers stilled on the tape. Heat prickled the back of his neck. It would’ve been easier if Steve was mocking him, if he’d smirked and called his music depressing again. But the casual sincerity in his tone made Jonathan’s chest tighten, like it had no business being there.

Finally, Jonathan shoved the tape into Steve’s hand without meeting his eyes. “Here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Steve turned it over, squinting at the messy handwriting scrawled across the label. His grin softened into something smaller, quieter. “Thanks.”

Jonathan pretended to busy himself with straightening a stack of cassettes, heart hammering as Steve’s presence filled the room—warm, steady, impossible to ignore.

Steve weighed the tape in his hand like it meant more than it should, then drifted over and dropped onto Jonathan’s bed without asking. The mattress dipped, the springs giving a soft creak that made Jonathan’s shoulders lock.

“Comfortable?” Jonathan muttered, stacking tapes with way too much precision.

Steve sprawled back on his elbows, looking infuriatingly at ease. “You kidding? I’ve had worse seats. Besides…” He held up the cassette, squinting at it again. “Feels like front row access to the mysterious inner world of Jonathan Byers.”

Jonathan snorted under his breath, too sharp. “It’s not that deep.”

“Sure it is.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, studying him like he was daring Jonathan to argue. “You probably spent hours picking which songs went where. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”

Heat crept up Jonathan’s neck again. He hated the flush, hated giving anything away—but there was something in Steve’s tone that snagged at him. Like maybe it wasn’t just the music Steve was trying to figure out, but Jonathan himself.

He dropped another cassette onto the stack a little too hard. “You sound way too interested.”

Steve grinned, wide and unbothered. “That’s ‘cause I am.”

Jonathan’s throat went dry. He finally turned, meaning to glare, to tell him to quit it—but Steve was closer than he expected, sitting on the edge of the bed, that lopsided smile softening just enough to knock the wind out of him.

For a second, Jonathan forgot to move. Forgot to breathe.

Steve tilted his head, eyes flicking over Jonathan’s face with something that almost felt like curiosity—or maybe recognition. The air between them stretched thin.

Then Steve smirked, breaking it before Jonathan could. “Relax, Byers. I’m not gonna write a review or anything.”

Jonathan shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring just enough to hide the way his pulse was pounding. “Good. Wouldn’t want King Steve Harrington passing judgment on my taste.”

Steve only laughed, warm and careless, but his knee brushed Jonathan’s as he shifted—and Jonathan couldn’t make himself step back.

⸻

Steve still came over.

Not every night—Jonathan would’ve lost his mind—but enough that it started to feel… normal. Enough that Will would shoot Jonathan a knowing look before leaving them alone, or Mike would groan and mutter about how Steve was hogging his spot on the couch.

And every time, without fail, Steve would bring up that damn mixtape.

“So, that first track—” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grinning like he’d solved some riddle. “Total, uh… anthem vibes. Right?”

Jonathan, sprawled on the rug with his camera parts spread around him, didn’t even look up. “It’s Joy Division.”

Steve blinked, nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Right. I knew that.”

“You didn’t.”

“Okay, maybe not, but I felt it.” Steve jabbed a finger in his direction, grinning wider when Jonathan finally glanced up. “Like, it’s got that… deep, broody… thing going on. Totally your brand.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but his mouth betrayed him with the hint of a smile. “Broody isn’t a genre.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Steve shot back, leaning back against the couch. His knee brushed Jonathan’s shoulder as he stretched out, careless as always, like he hadn’t just barged his way into Jonathan’s private universe and made himself comfortable.

By the third time Steve showed up, he was practically making a game of it. “So track four? Definitely about heartbreak. Or—uh—aliens.”

Jonathan’s laugh startled him—it slipped out before he could catch it, quick and quiet. Steve lit up like he’d just won something.

And Jonathan hated how easy it was. How easily Steve Harrington turned the sharp edges of his world into something lighter, something he wasn’t sure how to handle.

Somewhere along the line—Jonathan couldn’t even remember when—it just became normal for Steve to sprawl across Jonathan’s bed like he owned it, hands laced behind his head, tossing out half-baked commentary about lyrics he barely understood.

He didn’t even bother pretending he was there for Will anymore—half the time Will wasn’t even home. Steve was there for Jonathan.

“Track six? That one’s gotta be about… like, running away. Freedom. Or drugs.”

Jonathan would roll his eyes, muttering something sharp—“It’s about war, Harrington”—but Steve never seemed to mind getting it wrong. He just grinned, shrugged, and kept going, like the whole point wasn’t the songs but the way Jonathan reacted to them.

And Jonathan hated that he noticed. Hated that he’d catch Steve watching him sometimes, head tilted, smile tugging at his mouth like Jonathan was another puzzle to figure out. Hated how when Steve shifted closer, knees brushing Jonathan’s, the words got stuck in his throat.

⸻

Steve had gotten used to the new version of Hawkins High—the one where people didn’t whisper when he walked by, didn’t call him King anymore. Tommy and Carol didn’t bother him much, leaving him alone these days, only glares sent his way. But they didn’t seek him out either. He wasn’t a target, just background. A little too easy to ignore.

So he floated. Sat in the back of class, passed notes to no one, went through the motions. Most days he didn’t even notice the empty space at his side until he did. Until he noticed Jonathan.

That day in the cafeteria, Steve didn’t think about it much—he just carried his tray over and slid onto the bench across from him. Jonathan didn’t look up. Headphones in, hair falling into his eyes, like the whole world was locked out. Steve tapped his knuckles lightly on the table.

“Hey.”

Jonathan startled, nearly knocking over his drink. He tugged his headphones down, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Steve shrugged, playing casual. “Sitting. Eating. Same as everyone else.”

A few tables over, heads turned. Curious stares, the kind that prickled at the back of Steve’s neck. Jonathan felt it too—Steve could see the flush rise on his cheeks, the way he almost stood, muttering something about needing to go.

Steve leaned back, easy smile plastered on. “Relax, Byers. I’m not gonna bite. Just figured… cafeteria’s big enough, right?”

He wasn’t sure if the cafeteria went quiet or if it just felt that way. Jonathan’s stiff shoulders, the burn of eyes from every table, the way the noise around them seemed to sharpen until Steve could hear every clatter of a fork and scrape of a chair. He played it off with jokes about mystery meat and shrugged shoulders, and eventually Jonathan stayed put—reluctant, flustered, but not running.

That had to count for something.

When the bell rang and people spilled into the halls, Steve told himself he’d done okay. That sitting with Jonathan hadn’t been a disaster.

Then Nancy Wheeler fell into step beside him.

“You really don’t think things through, do you?” she said, tone light but her eyes cutting sharp.

Steve groaned. “What did I do?”

“You sat with him,” she said. Not accusing, just stating it like the obvious fact it was. “In front of everyone.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “It’s a cafeteria. That’s what people do. You sit, you eat, you leave.”

“You don’t sit with Jonathan Byers,” Nancy shot back. “Not if you don’t want the entire school watching like it’s a freak show.”

He bristled. “So what, I’m supposed to avoid him? Pretend I don’t know him?”

“You’re not supposed to make it harder for him.” She stopped, turned to face him fully, arms folded. “Steve, he hates that kind of attention. You know that.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Because she was right. Jonathan had looked like he’d wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“I was just… trying to be nice,” he muttered.

Nancy’s expression softened, but only a little. “I know. But nice looks different to him than it does to you.”

They walked in silence for a moment. Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at the lockers flashing by. “You make it sound like I should’ve known better.”

“You should have,” she said simply. Then, after a beat, her gaze tilted sideways, sly but knowing, “Especially since you like him.”

Steve nearly tripped over his own feet. “What—” He barked out a laugh, too loud, too defensive. “No. Come on. That’s—”

“Obvious,” Nancy cut in. “At least to me. Maybe not to him.”

He sputtered. “I don’t— I mean, yeah, he’s… different. Not like the guys I used to hang out with. But that doesn’t mean—”

Nancy arched a brow. “Doesn’t it?”

Steve’s laugh came out cracked, uneven. “I don’t even like guys, Nance. That’s not—” He stopped, the words jamming in his throat. Because the second he said it, it rang hollow. Too rehearsed.

Her eyes softened, not with pity, but something sharper—like she was waiting for him to catch up with himself.

And suddenly all he could think about was the way Jonathan looked when he shoved his headphones down, wide-eyed and annoyed, the flush creeping up his neck like he’d been caught off guard. The way Steve had liked that—liked that he could do that to him and wanted to keep it going, even with half the cafeteria staring.

He thought of sitting on Jonathan’s floor after school, mixtapes spinning in the background, knees brushing now and then. At first, he told himself he liked the music, liked figuring out what made Jonathan tick. But that wasn’t all of it. It was the heat crawling up Steve’s own neck whenever Jonathan leaned closer, the silence that felt too charged, too alive.

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, flustered. “I just—I thought I wanted to figure him out, y’know? Like—like a puzzle or something. But it’s not just that. It’s…” He trailed off, unable to name the thing sitting heavy in his chest.

Nancy didn’t push. She only tilted her head, expression patient but certain. “Then maybe stop pretending it isn’t what it is.”

Steve swallowed hard, pulse quick. He couldn’t meet her eyes, because deep down he knew—she was right.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Nancy’s expression softened properly this time, almost kind. She let out a quiet sigh, then nudged his arm. “Look, I’m not saying don’t talk to him. Just… not like that. Not where he’ll feel cornered.”

Steve glanced at her, uneasy. “So what then?”

Nancy’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Just stay as you are, just you and him,” she said. “Somewhere he doesn’t feel like the whole school is waiting to laugh. He might surprise you.”

Steve frowned, still chewing over her words, when Nancy added—almost casually, amusement tugging at her mouth—“Besides, Mike says you’re not just hanging around the Byers anymore. You’ve been in Jonathan’s room nearly every day this week. For hours.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “He—what?” His voice pitched embarrassingly high. “Mike told you that?”

Nancy smirked, clearly enjoying his fluster. “It wasn’t much of a secret. But if even Mike noticed…” She let the thought hang, eyebrows raised.

Heat crawled up Steve’s neck. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “It’s not—it’s not like that,” he muttered, though the way Nancy’s knowing smile widened told him she didn’t believe it.

“Sure,” she said lightly. “Good luck, Steve.”

She gave him a small, wry smile—the kind that said she knew more than she was saying—and then turned down the next hallway, leaving him alone in the crowded corridor, pulse thudding in his ears, Jonathan’s face burning behind his eyes.

He liked Jonathan. More than he’d let himself see.

And apparently, Nancy had known long before he did.

⸻

One night, Steve didn’t even pretend to know what he was talking about.

He let the track spin out in the background, quiet enough that Jonathan could hear the low hum of his own nerves, and said, “Alright, fine. I don’t get it. But you do. So… tell me.”

Jonathan glanced up, caught by surprise. “What?”

Steve shifted on the bed, propping himself on one elbow, watching him with an expression that was too open to be dismissed as a joke. “Tell me what it’s about. The song. Any of them.” He gestured vaguely toward the stereo. “You’ve been rolling your eyes at me for a week, Byers—least you could do is teach me something.”

Jonathan tightened his grip on the camera part in his hand, knuckles white. He wanted to say no, wanted to brush him off like always, but the way Steve said it—easy, but careful—knocked something loose.

He cleared his throat, set the part down, and leaned back against the dresser. “It’s about disillusionment,” he muttered finally. “About people pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t. About the world… coming apart.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. He didn’t laugh, didn’t smirk. Just nodded slowly, like he was letting the words settle. “Yeah. Okay. That tracks.”

Jonathan didn’t know what to do with that—didn’t know what to do with the sudden absence of banter. The room felt smaller with Steve looking at him like that, like he’d actually been listening this whole time and wanted to know more.

So Jonathan did what he always did—looked away. Reached for another lens to polish, something to keep his hands busy.

Steve let the silence stretch a moment longer before leaning back again, deliberately casual, like he hadn’t just cracked something open. “Still think track four’s about aliens, though,” he murmured, and Jonathan hated the way relief and disappointment tangled in his chest at once.

It didn’t last long because the thing was, Steve didn’t pull all the way back. Not really.

After that night, his commentary changed. He still cracked dumb jokes, still mixed up Joy Division and The Smiths, but sometimes—between the throwaway lines—something else slipped through. A phrase too sharp, an observation too real. Like he was testing how far he could push before Jonathan looked away again.

And Jonathan hated how much he noticed.

One evening, Steve sprawled on the bed as usual, but instead of filling the air, he just watched Jonathan work. Camera parts scattered across the rug, Jonathan hunched over the lens, hyper-aware of the weight of Steve’s gaze on him.

“You ever think,” Steve said finally, low, like it wasn’t meant to leave his mouth, “that maybe you make these tapes so somebody’ll get it? Like—really get you?”

Jonathan froze, cloth pausing against the glass. His chest tightened, too sharp, too fast.

“Or maybe you just don’t want anyone to,” Steve added quickly, covering, voice lighter now. But the look in his eyes wasn’t.

Jonathan’s throat went dry. He wanted to deflect, to roll his eyes, to call him an idiot again. But the words didn’t come.

Instead, he shifted, muttered, “You think too much,” and set the lens down a little harder than he meant to.

Steve just smiled faintly, not smug this time, didn’t look away. And the air between them—thin already—pulled even tighter.

Jonathan ducked his head, pretending to line up screws that didn’t actually need lining up. His hands moved too fast, fumbling. He hated that Steve could make him clumsy without even trying.

When he reached for the screwdriver, Steve’s hand was already there—passing it over without being asked. Their fingers brushed, barely, but Jonathan felt it like static. He should’ve pulled back immediately.

He didn’t.

Steve didn’t, either.

For a fraction of a second, their hands lingered, and Jonathan made the mistake of looking up. Steve was watching him, eyes steady, unreadable in the worst way—like he wasn’t joking, wasn’t covering, wasn’t about to smirk and turn it into nothing.

Jonathan’s breath hitched, quiet but too loud in the silence between them.

And then Steve did smirk, but it was softer this time, closer. He let the screwdriver slip fully into Jonathan’s palm and leaned back like nothing had happened. “See? I’m useful sometimes.”

Jonathan muttered something noncommittal, looking down fast. But the screwdriver felt heavier in his hand, like it carried the weight of everything neither of them had said.

Steve still watched him as he worked, chin propped in his hand. “Can I ask you something?”

Jonathan grunted, not looking up, trying to ignore the beating of his pulse.

“Why do you even bother with that old thing? You’ve got the new one, right? That… Canon or whatever.”

Jonathan froze, the screwdriver pausing mid-turn. He looked up sharply, tired of the way Steve always circled things, never landing. “You think I don’t know?”

Steve blinked. “Know what?”

“That it was you.” Jonathan’s voice was flat, cutting through the pretense. “The camera.”

For once, Steve didn’t have a comeback. He shifted, suddenly restless, like Jonathan had yanked the rug out from under him. His hand raked through his hair, and he sat up straighter, shoulders tense. But he didn’t look away.

“Okay,” Steve said finally, low and uneven. “Yeah. It was me.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened, something heavy and dangerous pressing in. He didn’t know what answer he’d expected, but not this—Steve meeting him head-on, no smirk, no swagger, no mask. Just open. Exposed.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to make you feel weird about it,” Steve added quickly, like he could feel the weight of Jonathan’s stare. “I just… thought maybe you’d use it. That it’d matter after everything. That maybe someone should do something for you, for once.”

The screwdriver slipped in Jonathan’s grip, clattering against the desk. He swallowed hard, pulse jumping in his throat. Steve’s words hung there, thick in the small room, and Jonathan didn’t have the first clue how to handle the fact that they were true.

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. He just stared down at the old camera like it might offer him a way out, some excuse not to deal with what Steve had just admitted.

But Steve didn’t give him that out. He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, watching Jonathan with an intensity that made the back of his neck prickle.

“You know…” Steve’s voice had shifted—lighter, but not in a way that let Jonathan off the hook. “Now that I think about it, if I wanted to see you this much, I could’ve just… asked. Didn’t really need to bribe you with a camera, huh?”

Jonathan’s head snapped up. “That’s not—”

Steve grinned, but it was softer this time, almost shy at the edges. “What? Not true?” He tilted his head, pretending to think it over. “’Cause you didn’t exactly kick me out. Not once. And trust me, Byers, you’ve got the face for it.”

Jonathan’s stomach flipped. He forced his eyes back down, muttering, “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Steve said easily, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Or maybe I just like being around you.”

The words landed heavier than they should have, sinking past Jonathan’s defenses. The screwdriver lay forgotten in his hand. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, steady and warm, like Steve was daring him to believe it.

Jonathan wasn’t sure what scared him more—pushing back, or not.

And then Steve shifted. Not the careless sprawl Jonathan was used to, but something deliberate this time. He leaned closer, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders hunched like he was done pretending to be casual. His hand dragged slow across his thigh, restless, then stilled just shy of Jonathan’s knee.

When he tipped in further, Jonathan swore the room tilted with him. Steve’s knee pressed against his this time, deliberate, grounding. His shoulder angled in until Jonathan could see every detail up close—the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw, the way his mouth curved like he was already fighting a smile, the flicker in his eyes that wasn’t mockery, wasn’t armor, just bare and intent.

He was so close that his breath ghosted Jonathan’s cheek, warm, almost dizzying. If Steve leaned in an inch more, there’d be no mistaking it.

Jonathan’s breath caught. His hand twitched on the desk, caught between pushing away and holding still. For half a heartbeat he didn’t move—didn’t want to.

Then his survival instinct kicked in.

He jerked back, the words tearing out harsher than he meant. “I’m not another notch on your belt, Harrington.”

The silence that followed cracked like ice. Steve froze, a faint flinch flashing across his face before it deepened—his mouth parting like he might speak, his eyes sharp with something Jonathan didn’t dare read into.

But he did. He couldn’t help it. He saw the way Steve’s jaw tightened, the way his hands flexed uselessly against his knees.

Jonathan couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand Steve looking at him like that—raw, unguarded—as if Jonathan had just thrown a punch.

So he shoved past the chair, heart hammering, breath thin. He grabbed his jacket without looking back, muttering something that wasn’t even words, and left the room—left Steve sitting there alone, with no invitation to stay, no dismissal either.

Letting him find his own way out.

The slam of the screen door rattled against its frame as Jonathan stalked out onto the porch, jacket half-zipped, lungs dragging in air like he’d just run miles.

The cool night air clung damp against his skin, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to clear the noise in his brain, the sound of his own voice still hanging in the air, sharper than he meant, crueler than he wanted.

Behind him, floorboards creaked.

Jonathan didn’t turn, but he knew. He knew Steve well enough by now to recognize the rhythm of his steps, the hesitation that wasn’t really hesitation at all.

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Steve’s voice cut through the dark, not loud but heavy, pitched low with something that wasn’t just his usual swagger.

Jonathan’s jaw clenched. “Go home, Harrington.”

“No.” The word landed flat, stubborn. “Not until you quit running.”

Jonathan spun then, too fast, too sharp, his anger rising to meet the heat sparking off Steve. “Running? You think this is about you?”

Steve’s hands went up, half a mockery of surrender, half raw frustration. “Kinda seems that way when you shut me down every time I try to— Christ, Jonathan, what is it you’re so scared of?”

The question lodged like a stone in Jonathan’s chest. His throat worked around it, but nothing came out.

Steve stepped closer, reckless, eyes bright in the dark. “I like being here. With you. You think I’d keep showing up if it didn’t mean something?”

Jonathan flinched like he’d been struck. “Stop.”

“Stop what? Saying it out loud? Acting like you don’t feel the same—”

“Stop!” Jonathan’s voice cracked, too loud in the quiet street, and it silenced even the crickets. His hands curled tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He could barely breathe for how close Steve was standing. “I’m not—” His chest heaved. “I’m not built for this. Not with you.”

Steve’s face twisted, equal parts hurt and defiance. “Yeah? Pretty sure that’s my call.”

Jonathan shook his head, ragged. “You don’t get it. You don’t get me. And I can’t—” He broke off, breath catching like glass splintering. “I can’t do this with you. Not now. Not ever.”

The finality in his tone left no room for argument.

Steve’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t push. Not this time. After a beat, he looked away, swallowing hard, the fight bleeding out of him. He dragged a hand through his hair, let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, and stepped back.

“Fine,” he said finally, voice rough. “Have it your way.”

He turned on his heel, footsteps crunching hard against the gravel drive, leaving Jonathan standing there with the night pressing in and the hollow echo inside.

⸻

The gravel still crunched under his shoes long after he’d stormed off, every step sharper than the last, like maybe stomping hard enough would shake loose the knot in his chest. It didn’t.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down, and tried to breathe past the sting of Jonathan’s words.

Not now. Not ever. Christ. The guy had a way of cutting you open with just a few words.

And yet—Steve wasn’t as wrecked as he thought he’d be. Not because it didn’t matter, but because he finally understood.

He’d spent a whole month drifting toward the Byers’ place like it was gravity, telling himself it was about helping out, or checking in on Will, or just killing time. But none of those excuses held anymore. 

It wasn’t a puzzle. It wasn’t about figuring Jonathan out, or breaking past that stubborn wall he built around himself.

It was simpler than that. Steve just liked Jonathan. A lot.

He liked the long silences that weren’t really silent at all, the way Jonathan would tilt his head when he was about to say something sharp but true.

He liked the rare smiles, the sparks of dry humor that slipped through when he wasn’t guarding them.

He liked being listened to, really listened to, in a way no one else ever bothered with.

And yeah, okay—he liked the way Jonathan’s neck went pink every time Steve caught him staring, the way his hand lingered a second too long when he passed something over.

Jonathan felt it. Steve knew he did.

So why was he so damn afraid of it? Steve had already proved himself, hadn’t he?

He kept showing up, kept sticking around. He went out of his way for Jonathan’s family—just because he noticed when Jonathan stopped showing up to school.

He wasn’t scared off by Jonathan being a guy, not really. Small town or not, Steve figured they could keep it lowkey. He didn’t care what people thought anymore—not after fighting monsters from another dimension. That kind of thing changed a person.

No, what hurt was knowing Jonathan was terrified of admitting it—terrified enough to slam the door in his face before either of them could step through.

Steve’s hand closed around something in his jacket pocket. His thumb brushed the edge of worn photo paper, and his chest eased.

The photo. The one that started it all. He’d studied every line of it, every grain of light and shadow. Jonathan had seen him—really seen him—that day and captured that moment like it mattered.

He slipped the photo out, held it up in the dark until the streetlight caught it. He knew it by heart now. Knew it the way he knew the shape of Jonathan’s voice or the heat of his gaze when he thought Steve wasn’t looking.

A bitter laugh caught in his throat, but it faded before it could take root. Because if Jonathan could look at him like that—long enough to want to remember it on film—then this wasn’t one-sided. It couldn’t be.

Steve tucked the photo back into his pocket, his hand curling protectively around it. He’d give Jonathan time. Maybe that was all he needed.

For the first time that night, the weight in his chest shifted, lighter somehow. Not gone, but bearable.

Because Steve knew the truth now.

And he knew Jonathan did too.

⸻

Jonathan barely touched his sandwich. He’d picked it apart more than eaten it, mind stuck replaying last night in jagged loops he couldn’t smooth out. The cafeteria was loud enough that no one noticed his silence, but every clatter of trays and burst of laughter made his temples throb.

Because what if he was right? What if Steve wasn’t serious about any of it—just restless, bored, killing time with the weird Byers kid because he didn’t have anywhere better to be?

The thought dug under Jonathan’s skin, sharp and sour. Steve had been showing up for weeks now, proving himself over and over, and still Jonathan couldn’t shake the fear that it was temporary. That one day he’d wake up and Steve would be gone, moving on to the next distraction, leaving Jonathan gutted for even thinking he mattered for a moment.

He shoved at the bread crust on his tray, appetite gone. Better to push him away first, Jonathan told himself. Better to end it on his own terms than risk being left behind.

When someone dropped onto the bench beside him, his chest seized. He didn’t even look. It had to be Steve. His tongue was already sharp, the words primed: Piss off, Harrington.

But then he turned his head, and it wasn’t Steve at all.

It was a girl he didn’t recognize.

Jonathan’s mouth snapped shut. He blinked, stumped.

“Hi,” she said, voice a little rushed, like she’d had to push herself into motion before nerves talked her out of it.

“Hi?” It came out like a question, clumsy, his throat catching on it.

The girl’s lips quirked, faintly amused. “You’re Jonathan, right?”

Jonathan nodded slowly, still thrown off, still waiting for the punchline that never came.

“Robin,” she said, sticking out her hand like it was something that might steady her. “Robin Buckley.”

Jonathan blinked at the hand before shaking it, a beat too late, like he’d forgotten how social cues worked. “Uh… nice to meet you.”

Robin sat back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking around the cafeteria before landing back on him. “I hope you don’t mind me just… sitting here. I figured it was safer than wandering around looking like I lost a bet.”

Jonathan frowned, not unkindly, just wary. “Safer?”

Her smile curved, quick and knowing. “Word gets around in a place like this. People talk. Sometimes louder than they should.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. He shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the space between them, of the eyes that probably weren’t watching but still could be.

Robin leaned her elbows onto the table, casual in a way that felt practiced. “I’m not here to give you a hard time, if that’s what you’re thinking. Quite the opposite, actually.”

Jonathan searched her face, trying to read what she wasn’t saying.

She gave him a lopsided grin, softer this time. “Let’s just say… it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who doesn’t exactly fit the script around here.”

Something unspoken settled between them, quiet but solid. Jonathan didn’t answer right away, but for the first time since last night, he didn’t feel like bolting. He picked at the edge of his tray. “You don’t… know me.”

“True,” Robin said easily, propping her chin in her hand. “But I’ve got a decent radar for people who don’t exactly blend.” Her eyes flicked over him, not unkind, like she was cataloguing the slouch of his shoulders, the wary quiet. “You’ve got that look.”

Jonathan’s brows pulled together. “What look?”

“The one that says you’d rather be anywhere but here.” She smirked faintly, then softened. “Trust me. I know it well.”

Jonathan swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. He didn’t say it out loud, but he knew she wasn’t just talking about the cafeteria.

Robin tapped her fingers against the table, restless energy leaking through. “Look, I’m not gonna, like, corner you into some soul-baring heart-to-heart. That’s… not my style. But I figured…”

Jonathan studied her for a long moment, and in the tilt of her smile, the steadiness under her nerves, he started to get it. She wasn’t just being nice. She was looking for something—someone—too.

“You don’t even know if I want a…” He trailed off, struggling for a word that didn’t feel dangerous.

Robin just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Friends aren’t exactly thick on the ground when you don’t check the right boxes.”

Jonathan didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at her, trying to work out if this was a trap or not. Robin shifted in her seat, then leaned back, arms folding across her tray. “You know,” she said, tone deliberately casual, “I once had a really inconvenient crush on a girl who only talked to me about band practice. Absolute waste of time.”

Jonathan blinked. His fork froze halfway to his plate.

Robin gave a crooked little smile, like she hadn’t just lobbed a grenade onto the table. “Point is, I get it. Not everyone… fits the way they’re supposed to. Makes the cafeteria a minefield.”

Jonathan’s throat worked, dry. He dropped his gaze to his plate, but the words still hooked in, heavy and deliberate.

“I didn’t… tell,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” Robin said, voice light but eyes sharp. “Sometimes you don’t have to.” She popped a grape into her mouth like it was nothing, like she hadn’t just handed him a secret in broad daylight.

Jonathan finally let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

Robin, sensing the weight of the moment, let it drift. “So,” she said, stabbing her fork into a tater tot like she was making some grand point. “Tell me you’re not one of those guys who listens to, like, nothing but Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Because I gotta warn you—I will judge.”

Jonathan snorted, quiet, almost startled by the sound. “I mean… I like them. But I don’t only listen to them.”

“Oh, good,” Robin said, mock relief exaggerated. “Points for range. What else, then?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “The Clash. The Smiths. Joy Division. Sometimes Bowie. Depends on my mood.”

Robin’s eyes lit up. “Okay, see, now we’re talking. Bowie’s a requirement. And Joy Division—yeah, I knew you had taste. Kinda broody taste, but still.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but his shoulders eased a little, like the conversation was smoothing down rough edges he hadn’t realized were sticking out.

They drifted from music into classes, into random teachers, into Robin’s ongoing campaign against the vending machine that always ate her quarters. It felt… normal. Easier than he expected.

By the time they got up to head toward class, Jonathan was almost comfortable. Almost.

Then he noticed him.

Steve. Leaning against a locker down the hall, arms crossed, watching.

Jonathan’s stomach lurched. He quickly looked away, nudging Robin in the other direction. “C’mon. We’ll be late.”

But Robin had already clocked it. Her gaze flicked from Jonathan to Steve and back again, her eyebrows arching in quiet amusement.

“Oh-ho,” she said under her breath, a smirk curling. “What’s going on over there?”

Jonathan’s ears burned. “Just drop it.”

“Relax, I’m not saying anything,” Robin said, hands up in mock surrender—but her grin gave her away. “Just… interesting, that’s all.”

Jonathan clenched his jaw, walking faster, like speed could smother the flush creeping up his neck. Robin matched his pace easily, humming like she’d stumbled onto the most entertaining mystery of her week.

⸻

Steve told himself it didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter that Jonathan was laughing at something that girl said, leaning in just a little too close. Didn’t matter that Steve had stood there in the hallway like an idiot, watching, like a jealous ex he wasn’t even allowed to be.

Except now he knew why it had rubbed him raw. And knowing didn’t make it better. It just gave the ache a name.

So he did what he always did when the walls of the Harrington household pressed in too close—he drove to the Byers’. Told himself he was just checking in on Will, like always.

He wasn’t looking for Jonathan. He wasn’t.

He pushed the door open without knocking, familiar creak of the hinge grounding him. Joyce wasn’t home—he’d noticed her car gone—but voices floated from the living room, muffled laughter mixing with the low hum of a TV.

“Hey—” he started, stepping inside, only to stop dead.

Jonathan. Will. And her. Curled up on the couch, a blanket half-draped over them, the flicker of some grainy VHS washing across their faces.

She was the first to look up. Startled for a beat, then quick to recover with a lopsided grin. “Steve Harrington,” she said, like she’d just spotted a celebrity at the mall.

Steve arched an eyebrow, one hand finding his hip. “Yes. Who are you?”

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably beside her, the kind of twitch Steve knew meant he was seconds from bolting. Will bit his knuckle, badly disguising his grin.

The girl sat up straighter, eyes glinting like she’d just been handed gossip gold. “Robin Buckley,” she said brightly, sticking out her hand. “Pleasure to meet the king himself.”

Steve glanced at her hand, then offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “King, huh? Guess word gets around fast. What’d you hear—my hair routine or my win-loss record in basketball?”

Her grin sharpened. “Little bit of both, actually.”

Jonathan muttered something under his breath. Will choked on a laugh.

Steve leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, charm coiled tight around an edge. “Careful, Buckley. Keep flattering me like that and I’ll think you’re trying to steal my crown.”

Robin’s grin widened. “I like to improvise.”

“Clearly.” Steve sauntered to the armchair and dropped into it like it already belonged to him, stretching out with practiced ease. His eyes flicked to Jonathan—then away again, too quick, his smile just a shade too sharp. “So… Buckley. New recruit to the Byers’ exclusive movie club?”

Robin tilted her head, studying him like she was writing mental notes. “Guess so. Unless there’s an application process I missed?”

“Application’s strict,” Steve shot back smoothly. “Usually involves, I don’t know… surviving a horror movie at least once.” He raised his brows, daring her to bite.

Will snorted. “Don’t encourage him.”

Jonathan kept his gaze glued to the TV, ears turning pink. The sight twisted something tight in Steve’s chest, sharper than he wanted it to be.

Robin leaned back into the couch cushions, looking far too entertained. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

Steve smirked, but the humor never touched his eyes. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Robin propped her chin on her fist, eyes flicking between him and Jonathan like she was clocking every twitch. “So tell me, King Steve—do you get invited everywhere, or just barge in unannounced?”

Steve let his grin curl, lazy, practiced. “Depends who you ask. Some people call it charm.”

“Others call it trespassing.”

Will cracked up, muffling it behind his sleeve. Jonathan’s shoulders hunched tighter but he didn’t speak.

Steve turned just enough to catch Jonathan’s eye, voice smooth. “You’re not calling the cops, are you, Byers?”

Jonathan pressed his lips together. “Not yet,” he muttered, too quiet.

Robin leaned forward, sharp as a blade. “Oh, so there’s precedent.”

Steve chuckled, riding the rhythm she tossed him like a ball. “See? She’s quick.”

Jonathan flinched like it was aimed at him. That knot in Steve’s chest tugged tighter, not that he let it show. “I’m sitting right here,” Jonathan snapped quietly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Robin said brightly, like she hadn’t noticed the crack in his voice. “Front-row seat. Lucky you.”

Jonathan looked like he’d rather sink into the couch cushions. Will’s grin was too big, eyes darting between all three of them like he couldn’t believe his luck at the live entertainment.

Steve slouched deeper into the chair, letting his smirk do the work. “Careful, Buckley. If you keep this up, you might steal my gig.”

“Oh, please,” Robin scoffed. “I work solo. Less hair gel to dodge.”

Will wheezed, nearly tipping sideways. Jonathan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “You two are unbearable together.”

Robin only smirked. “Pretty sure the word you’re looking for is unstoppable.”

Steve’s eyes lingered on Jonathan a beat too long, his smile almost daring. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to us.”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

⸻

Jonathan barely registered the movie anymore. The screen flickered, the sound of bad dialogue filling the silence that might’ve been bearable—if not for the snickering around him.

Robin and Steve were trading quips like they’d been rehearsing them for weeks. Every time Steve lobbed some smirk-laced remark across the room, Robin caught it and tossed it back harder. Will, for his part, was eating it up, half-curled into the blanket, grinning at all the wrong moments.

Jonathan sat stiff, jaw tight, wishing he could sink through the floorboards. The laughter grated, needling under his skin.

It wasn’t even that Steve was funny—he wasn’t. Not really. It was the way Robin leaned forward like she was fascinated, like she’d found someone worth sparring with. And Steve—Steve soaked it up like sunlight, basking in it.

Jonathan could feel himself disappearing, becoming the awkward extra in a scene he hadn’t signed up for.

Eventually, Steve stretched like a cat and pushed to his feet. “Gonna grab a Coke. Anyone want one?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Robin chirped, all cheerful ease. Jonathan just shook his head, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV. Will didn’t answer—he was too busy smirking into his sleeve.

When Steve finally disappeared down the hall, Robin shifted. She turned to Jonathan, her voice dipping low, conspiratorial. “Okay,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully. “What was that?”

Jonathan’s head snapped toward her. “What was what?”

“That.” She jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen. “The whole—” she mimed a sharp eyebrow raise, a smirk—her best impression of Steve, which only made Will giggle harder. “Like, seriously, is there a story here I should know about?”

Jonathan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Drop it, Buckley.”

But she only grinned wider, scenting blood in the water.

“Come on,” she pressed. “You two were practically sparking across the room. That wasn’t just ‘oh look, someone new on the couch.’ That was—” she widened her eyes, mock-dramatic—“charged.”

Jonathan huffed, but before he could muster a reply, Will leaned forward, eyes glittering. “It’s because—”

“Will.” Jonathan’s warning was sharp, but Will only grinned harder, delighted.

“It’s because Steve’s been showing up here all the time,” Will said, ignoring Jonathan’s glare. “Like, for weeks. Pretending it’s just to hang out with me.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Pretending?”

Jonathan closed his eyes, mortified. “Oh my god.”

Will was on a roll now, elbows on his knees. “He’ll never admit it, but he’s always asking about Jonathan. Like— is he home? what’s he doing? does he need help with his camera stuff —”

Jonathan shoved a pillow into Will’s face, desperate to shut him up, ignoring the fact that Steve had already admitted as much. “Shut. Up.”

“I didn’t even know he’s—” Robin started, brows knitting, confusion written clear across her face. She gestured vaguely, like she was trying to connect dots that didn’t quite make sense.

Will yanked the pillow down just long enough to cut her off, grinning wickedly. “Trust me, you don’t have to finish that sentence.”

Robin barked out a laugh, quick and cutting. “Wow. Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington, mooning around like a sad golden retriever, and you—” she jabbed a finger at Jonathan “—just sulk about it in silence?”

Jonathan didn’t answer, jaw tight as he tried to will the heat crawling up his neck not to betray him across his face.

Robin flopped back against the couch with a wicked grin, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe her luck. “This is better than the movie. I should’ve brought popcorn.”

Jonathan groaned again, sinking lower, ears hot. Will muffled a snicker behind the pillow.

And from the kitchen, the fridge door clinked shut. Footsteps padded closer. Jonathan’s stomach dropped.

Robin’s grin only sharpened as she clocked his reaction. She didn’t say a word, but the look she threw him screamed oh, this is going to be good.

The living room lights flickered as Steve reappeared, four cans balanced in his hands. He passed one to Robin, tossed another across the couch to Will—who caught it with smug triumph—and then, without a word, held the third out toward Jonathan.

Jonathan hadn’t asked for one. He specifically shook his head no. The automatic protest— wasteful, unnecessary—rose to his tongue, but the second the can touched his palm the air shifted, charged in a way he hated noticing. Steve’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long, and across the couch Robin and Will were clearly watching, their smirks sharp enough to cut.

Jonathan’s skin burned. He muttered something that wasn’t words, staring hard at the condensation on the can, and wished he could vanish straight into the floor.

“Man, you guys look like you’re plotting a heist,” Steve said, popping his own can. He leaned against the doorway instead of sitting, gaze flicking again briefly—too briefly—toward Jonathan. “What’d I miss? Anything good?”

“Depends,” Robin said smoothly, snapping her can open with a hiss. “You want the recap, or the director’s cut?”

Jonathan stiffened. Will nearly choked on his soda.

Steve cocked a brow, amused. “Okay… sounds like I missed something entertaining.”

Robin gave him a long, considering look, clearly weighing just how much chaos she wanted to unleash. Jonathan’s stomach twisted, every muscle tensed, silently begging her not to.

For one terrifying second, he thought she’d do it. But then she smirked, all faux innocence, and took a long sip of her Coke. “Never mind. Just girl talk.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, confused, but before he could press, Will spoke up—far too casually. “You know, Jonathan was just saying he doesn’t really like this movie.”

Jonathan whipped toward him, betrayal etched across his face. “I didn’t—”

“Yeah,” Will said, voice dripping with false sincerity, “He said it’s not funny enough. That maybe the company’s what makes it worth watching.”

The jab landed, subtle but unmistakable. Robin bit her lip to smother a laugh. Steve glanced at Jonathan again, and this time the look lingered—something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Jonathan’s throat went dry. He looked away, muttering, “I’m going to bed.”

But before he could stand, Steve spoke, voice lighter than it should’ve been. “It’s only eight. You always bail early, man.” He smiled, easy on the surface but not quite reaching his eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to drag you out next time.”

Jonathan froze, feeling off balance.

Robin’s gaze bounced between them like she was watching her favorite sitcom unfold in real time. Will buried his face in the pillow again, shaking with silent laughter.

Jonathan swallowed hard, refusing to look at anyone, and shoved himself up from the couch. “Goodnight,” he muttered, fleeing down the hall before anyone else could make it worse.

⸻

As Jonathan’s bedroom door clicked shut, Steve caught himself staring after him a little too long. He pulled his eyes back, covering with another sip of Coke, but the taste was flat.

Something had shifted while he was in the kitchen—he could feel it as soon as he walked back in. The air still buzzed, like he’d missed the punchline to a joke.

Because he had seen it. The flush climbing Jonathan’s neck, the stiff shoulders, how he looked about two seconds away from sinking into the floor. That wasn’t nothing.

Steve shifted against the doorframe, trying to sound casual. “Okay. What the hell was that?”

Robin blinked innocently, slouched deep into the couch. “What was what?”

“Don’t—” he gestured vaguely at the air between them, frustrated. “Don’t do that. I walk in and you’re all conspiratorial, like I just missed the punchline. So, spill.”

Will muffled a laugh into the pillow he still hadn’t surrendered. Steve frowned. “You too? Great. Perfect. Love being the guy everyone’s laughing at.”

Robin gave him a long, infuriating look—like she was holding cards he didn’t even know were in the deck. “Relax, Harrington. We were just talking.”

“About what?”

“About…” She dragged the word out, like she was flipping through excuses in her head. Then she grinned, sharp. “The movie. Duh. Jonathan thinks it sucks.”

Steve frowned, glancing toward the dark hallway again. “Since when does Byers even talk that much during movies?”

Will snorted. “Exactly.”

Steve narrowed his eyes at him, then turned back to Robin. “Seriously. What were you guys saying?”

Robin only sipped her Coke, deliberately slow. “Don’t worry about it.”

Which, of course, made him worry about it. Made his stomach twist like he’d just stepped on stage without knowing his lines. Because if they had been talking about him—about him and Jonathan—what the hell did they know that he didn’t?

He forced a crooked grin, the kind he knew looked convincing from the outside. “That’s just Byers. Guy could win a medal for saying nothing. Doesn’t mean anything.”

But his eyes betrayed him, flicking down the hall again before he could stop them. He hated that Robin caught it.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, practically vibrating. “You do like him.”

Steve choked on his soda. “What? No. That’s—no.” He waved a hand, too quick, too obvious. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Will peeked over the pillow, smug as a cat. “You ask about him every time you come over.”

Steve shot him a look, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I do not.”

“You do,” Will said flatly, grinning when Steve scowled.

Robin leaned forward, eyes sharp and amused. “From what I’ve heard, you’ve been hanging around here for weeks, Harrington. And don’t even try the whole I’m just being friendly routine.” She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips. “You’re not subtle.”

Steve opened his mouth—ready to argue, ready to laugh it off—but nothing came out. His throat worked around words he couldn’t find. Because she was right. He wasn’t subtle. Not really.

Not with Jonathan.

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, searching for some kind of deflection. “Look, I just… wanted to make sure you guys were okay. Y’know, after everything.”

Robin’s expression softened for half a second before the grin came roaring back.

All she knew was that Will had been lost in the woods for a week—that was the limit of her understanding. She hadn’t seen the rest, hadn’t been there the way Steve had.

And the way she leaned in, smirk curling as she said, “Sure, sure. You came for Will. Stayed for Jonathan,” made something sharp flicker in his chest.

Will barked a laugh, and Steve groaned. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Robin grinned, teeth flashing. “Sweetheart, we’re way past don’t. This is act three.”

Will smirked into the pillow he still clutched. “Told you,” he said, muffled but smug.

Steve narrowed his eyes at him. “Told her what?”

“Nothing,” Will sang, leaning back like he’d already won.

Steve dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “You two are unbearable.”

Robin cackled. “Hah! You even sound like him.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, grin a little too sharp. “Don’t bother trying to play dumb—I’ve got eyes. And, shockingly, so does Jonathan.”

That one landed. Steve straightened, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “He doesn’t—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. No way was he giving them the satisfaction.

Robin tilted her head, studying him with mock sympathy. “Oh, buddy. He definitely does.”

Will piped up, soft but sly: “He’s just bad at showing it.”

Steve’s chest tightened. He wanted to laugh it off, to deflect, but the truth was buzzing under his skin, too loud to ignore. Jonathan had noticed. Maybe had always noticed. And still—he’d left.

He forced a smile, casual and lopsided. “Yeah, well, even if he did, what am I supposed to do? Stand outside his window with a boombox?”

Robin gasped dramatically, like she was ready to storyboard the whole thing. “Yes. Please. Do that.”

Steve rolled his eyes, pushing off the doorway. “You’re insane, Buckley.”

But as he dropped back onto the couch, letting Robin’s laughter and Will’s muffled snickers fill the room, Steve couldn’t stop his gaze from sliding toward the hallway door again. He exhaled, quiet, almost a laugh. Yeah, he knows.

And for the first time today, that thought made his chest ache.

He leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand down his face. “Alright. Fine. You wanna know?” His laugh came out short, bitter. “Last night was a car crash in slow motion.”

Robin and Will both stilled. Robin leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity; Will just went quiet, shoulders tense.

Steve let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling. “I was here, same as usual. He was messing with his camera junk, and I was just… watching. I don’t even know why I said half the crap I did—about the tapes, about him making them so someone could actually get him. And he—he looked at me like I’d peeled his skin back.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, restless. “Then he told me he figured it out. That it was me who replaced his camera after breaking it. I thought—hell, I don’t know. I confirmed it, thought he’d be pissed or he’d laugh it off. But he just… froze. Like I’d caught him out. And for a second, it felt like maybe…”

Steve’s throat tightened. He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I leaned in. And he—he flinched. Said I wasn’t gonna make him another notch on my belt.”

Robin winced. Will’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Yeah,” Steve said flatly. “That stung. And then he bolted, left me sitting there like an idiot. I followed him outside—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “Tried to tell him I wasn’t screwing around, that I… liked being here, with him. That it meant something. But he wouldn’t—he couldn’t—” His hand dropped uselessly against his knee. “He shut me down hard. Told me I didn’t get him, and that it was never gonna happen.”

Silence pressed in, broken only when Robin muttered, “Ouch,” under her breath.

Steve barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.” He scrubbed a hand over his face again, feeling raw. “So that’s where we’re at. He thinks I’m just bored. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m an idiot for even trying.”

Robin opened her mouth, clearly ready with a hundred words, but it was Will who spoke first, voice quiet but firm. “He doesn’t think you’re bored, Steve. He thinks you’re dangerous.” Steve’s head snapped toward him, startled. Will’s gaze didn’t waver. “You scare him. Because you matter.”

Steve swallowed, the weight of it hitting harder than he wanted to admit. He wanted to argue, to deflect, but all he could do was stare down at his hands, jaw tight.

Robin whistled low, leaning back with wide eyes. “Damn, Byers Junior, you just cracked him open like a walnut.”

Will flushed but didn’t look away. “I’m serious. He doesn’t push people out unless he’s scared of letting them in.”

Robin nodded, brushing hair out of her face. “Makes sense. I sat down with him today at lunch for the first time and he invited me for movie night.”

Steve’s head jerked toward her. “You’re kidding.” A sharp, bitter laugh escaped. “So when I try, he looks like he wants to bolt—but you sit down once and suddenly he’s rolling out the welcome mat?”

Robin lifted her hands in mock surrender, grinning crookedly. “Hey, don’t look at me. I guess my charm worked faster than yours.” She leaned back, eyes flicking between them knowingly. “Or maybe you just come on a little strong, Harrington.”

Steve laughed roughly, no humor in it. “Great. I’m terrifying. Just what I was going for.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. He’s scared because he likes you back. You don’t slam a door that hard on someone who doesn’t mean anything.” Steve arched a skeptical brow, but she barreled on. “Trust me—I’ve seen people brush off guys they don’t care about. It’s boring, it’s clean, it’s nothing.” She jabbed a finger at him. “What you two have? That was messy. Messy means something.”

Steve shook his head, voice low. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Robin shot back. “You’re in it. You’re basically drowning. But from the outside? It’s obvious. He’s into you, he just doesn’t know what to do with it yet. Which, honestly, same, if I had King Steve breathing down my neck.”

Will’s lips twitched, but he kept his tone steady. “He’ll come around. Just… don’t give up.”

Robin leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Exactly. Keep showing up, Harrington. That’s your whole thing, right? You keep showing up when no one expects you to.”

Steve looked between them—Robin’s relentless certainty, Will’s quiet conviction—and something in his chest ached in a way that almost felt like hope. He huffed out a laugh, low and shaky.

“Christ,” he muttered. “You two are unbearable.”

Robin cackled, triumphant. Will just smiled, soft but sure. And for the first time since walking in, Steve let himself wonder if maybe—just maybe—they were right.

⸻

From the hallway, Jonathan pressed the back of his head against the door, eyes shut tight.

He hadn’t meant to linger—he’d only come out for water, only paused when he heard his name. But then he’d caught Steve’s voice, low and raw in the same way Jonathan had heard the night before, and his feet refused to move.

He couldn’t make out everything. Just fragments. “…notches on a belt…” “I wasn’t screwing around…” “He thinks I’m bored…”

Jonathan’s stomach turned. He’d thought shutting Steve down would end it, draw a line clean enough to keep them both safe. But hearing him like this—laid open in front of Robin and Will of all people—made something in Jonathan splinter.

He pressed a fist hard against his ribs, trying to quiet the pounding in his chest. They were laughing now—Robin’s sharp cackle, Will’s softer murmur—but underneath it all was Steve.

Jonathan hated the part of himself that leaned closer to the hallway door, desperate to hear more. Hated the burn of jealousy at Robin’s easy teasing, at Will’s quiet steadiness. Hated most of all the aching truth that he wanted to believe Steve.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t open the door. Just stood there in the half-dark of the hall, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to step into the living room, until his legs gave him no choice but to retreat.

When he was alone in his room, Jonathan lay flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling until the plaster blurred.

This whole time, he’d told himself Steve was just bored—that he’d latched onto Jonathan because there was nowhere else to go, because the girls and parties and noise had dried up for now, but would start up again soon.

But then he remembered the way Steve’s knee had pressed against his. The way he lingered, close enough that Jonathan’s breath caught. The way he’d looked—unguarded, intent—like none of it was casual.

Jonathan shoved an arm over his eyes, groaning low into the quiet. If he let himself believe Steve, if he let himself want it, it would break him when it ended.

And it would end. Of course it would. Steve Harrington never stayed. Everyone at Hawkins knew that. His dating history wasn’t just gossip—it was gospel, passed along like scripture in the hallways.

Jonathan had seen it himself: girls hanging off Steve’s arm at basketball games, one kissed at a party on Friday, another laughing in the passenger seat of his car by Monday. That practiced tilt of his head, that easy smile that made people feel like they were the only one—until they weren’t.

Jonathan hated that he remembered them all. That he could picture the trail Steve left behind, each girl another name on a list that never seemed to stop growing.

Steve could have anyone, and he did. He was the guy who could snap his fingers and find a girl waiting at his locker. The guy with a new number inked across his palm, a body pressed close at every party, another pair of lips whispering his name.

And maybe it had meant something—to those girls. But not to Steve, not for long anyway. Steve’s orbit was always moving, always spinning, leaving people behind as easily as he picked them up. The endless cycle of flings, the swagger of someone who could choose and discard in the same breath.

Jonathan pressed his palms hard against his eyes. How was he supposed to believe he’d be any different? That Steve Harrington—king of casual flings, always moving on to the next—would suddenly stop for him? For awkward, prickly Jonathan Byers, who couldn’t even get through a single night in his company without snapping or shutting down?

The thought lodged heavy in his chest. If he let himself want this, if he let himself believe, he’d only end up as another story in Steve’s long history of almosts.

And yet—his chest ached anyway. Every part of him wanted to believe it was real this time, despite it all.

⸻

Jonathan told himself it was just another day. Alarm, shower, school. Keep your head down, keep moving, pretend the last few nights hadn’t happened.

By third period, his notebook was still empty. The teacher’s voice droned on, chalk squeaking against the board, but all Jonathan could hear was the restless scrape of Steve’s chair two rows over. Every time he risked a glance, Steve wasn’t even looking at him—just bent over his notes, chewing his pen like a normal student. Still, Jonathan’s pulse jumped, his thoughts splintering, the lesson dissolving into static.

In the cafeteria, Robin leaned across the table, smirk curling too sharp. “You’ve been twitchy all day, Byers. Got a guilty conscience?”

Jonathan stabbed at his sandwich, muttering something about not sleeping well. Robin’s grin said she didn’t believe a word.

Two tables over, Steve leaned in toward a girl whose name Jonathan couldn’t place. He looked casual enough on the surface, but his shoulders carried a stiffness Jonathan knew too well.

Jonathan ducked his head, crammed another bite of bread into his mouth, chewing too fast—anything to keep from looking again.

That night at home, Will wouldn’t meet his eyes. With their mom on another late shift, it was just the two of them. Dinner dragged in silence, every scrape of cutlery too loud in the quiet. Will ate fast, head down, then mumbled something about homework before disappearing upstairs.

Jonathan sat at the table longer than he had to, staring at the empty chair across from him. The silence pressed down on his chest, thick and suffocating, like the whole house was holding its breath.

Normal wasn’t working. He could pretend at school, pretend in front of Robin, pretend even to himself when the lights were off and he was alone.

But here—at home, with Will shutting him out—that was the pressure point that finally made him break.

He shoved back his chair, the legs screeching against the floor, and stormed down the hall. His knuckles rapped hard against Will’s door, sharper than he meant. “Will.”

There was a beat, then a quiet, “Come in.”

Jonathan pushed the door open to find his brother cross-legged on the bed, sketchbook propped on his knees. Will didn’t even glance up, pencil moving steadily across the page.

He didn’t look surprised. If anything, it was like he’d been waiting—expecting this.

Jonathan lingered in the doorway, suddenly unsure, words caught in his throat.

Will’s pencil stilled. “You’re not gonna scare me off by saying it out loud,” he said softly, without looking up.

Jonathan blinked, thrown. “What?”

Will finally met his eyes, steady in a way that made Jonathan’s stomach twist. “It’s about Steve, right?”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him like that would keep the truth from leaking out into the rest of the house. He dragged a hand through his hair, restless.

“It’s not—” His voice cracked. He started again, lower, rougher. “It’s not what you think.”

Will tilted his head, unconvinced. “Then what is it?”

Jonathan’s chest burned. He hadn’t come out to Will—not really, not in words. He’d buried it under work and noise, convinced himself it didn’t matter if he never said it out loud. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, too fast. “It’s not like that.”

But Will didn’t let him off this time. His voice was calm, sure. “It is. And you know it.”

Jonathan sat down hard on the edge of the bed, hands clasped tight between his knees. For a moment he couldn’t look at Will, couldn’t look at anyone. “It’s nothing,” he said, desperate, like repeating it might make it true. “It has to be nothing. Because if it’s not, then…” He trailed off, shaking his head, unable to finish.

Will didn’t look away. Didn’t soften. “Then it’s real. And that scares you.”

Jonathan flinched, but Will just set the sketchbook aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying him with a seriousness far too old for his young face. “You keep trying to push him away but he keeps showing up anyway. Doesn’t that mean something?”

Jonathan let out a bitter laugh, hollow in his chest. “It means he’s bored. It means I’m just—something to fill the time until he gets tired and moves on.”

“Does it?” Will asked simply. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he’s the one doing all the chasing, and you’re the one running.”

The words lodged heavy in Jonathan’s chest, because they were true, and he hated that Will could see it so clearly. His throat worked, but nothing came out.

Will’s expression softened. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two. But I know this—Steve’s different around you. I’ve seen it. And if you’re too scared to believe it, that’s on you. Not him.”

Jonathan dropped his head into his hands, groaning. “Christ, Will…”

Will just sat back, quiet now, like he’d said what needed saying. The silence stretched, heavy but not hostile, until Jonathan finally dragged his hands down his face and looked at his brother.

“I don’t…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to do.”

Will’s brow furrowed, but he stayed quiet, knowing Jonathan needed the space to keep going.

“I’ve spent so long trying to keep my head down, trying not to want anything,” Jonathan admitted, words tumbling out rough, unpolished. “And now he’s—he’s just there. Every day. Saying things he shouldn’t, looking at me like—” He broke off with a heavy sigh.

For a moment, the room felt too small, the silence stretching. He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere but Will’s.

“I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to trust it.”

Will tilted his head, thoughtful. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”

Jonathan let out a sharp laugh, bitter at the edges. “Feels like I do. Like if I screw this up now, I’ll wreck everything. Hell, maybe I already did. Maybe I’m trying to wreck it. And it’s selfish—because he’s good for you. For Mom. You actually like having him around. And I don’t wanna drag anyone down with me if I…”

He broke off, rubbing the back of his neck, the words splintering before they could leave his mouth. If I want him. If I let him in.

Will’s voice was steady when he finally spoke. “You’re not dragging anyone down. Not me, not Mom. And Steve?” He shrugged, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If he’s still here after everything, maybe he doesn’t scare so easy.”

Jonathan blinked at him, caught between disbelief and the faintest glimmer of hope. “You make it sound so simple.”

Will gave a soft, almost teasing huff. “It’s not. But it is honest. Which is more than you’re being with yourself.”

Jonathan sat back, words tangled on his tongue, the ache in his chest refusing to ease. He didn’t have an answer—not yet. But admitting it, even in fragments, left him feeling lighter.

Raw, but strangely freed.

Chapter Text

The White Noise Static

Steve shouldn’t have been so surprised.

He’d been telling himself that for the past five minutes, but the shock still sat there, prickling under his skin. He didn’t expect this—not after every failed attempt to get through to Jonathan, every conversation that slipped sideways, every look that told him to back off.

So when Jonathan crossed the cafeteria with a tray balanced in his hands, gaze flicking around like he was still second-guessing the whole thing, Steve almost convinced himself he was seeing things.

But then Jonathan slid into the seat across from him, quiet, deliberate—like a man forcing himself to jump into cold water.

Steve blinked at him, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Uh… hey,” he offered, tone lighter than he felt.

Jonathan’s shoulders shifted, not exactly a shrug, not exactly a wince. “Hey.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp—not like it usually was between them. It was… awkward, sure, but softer. Like Jonathan was going for something, like maybe he wasn’t here to shut Steve out this time.

Steve cleared his throat. “So… what’s this? Social experiment? See how long you can sit with me before bolting?”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched—half amusement, half warning. “Don’t start.”

“Who, me? I’m just saying. A week ago you would’ve rather starved than sit here.”

Jonathan shot him a look, sharp but not cutting. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

Steve blinked, then let out a short laugh, more startled than smooth. “Yeah? Guess I must be more convincing than I thought.”

Jonathan didn’t rise to it. He just picked at the edge of his tray, voice low. “Figured you’d be over it by now.”

That tugged Steve upright. “Over what?”

Jonathan didn’t look up. “Me.”

The word landed heavier than Steve expected. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You seriously think I’d still be here if I wanted to be over it?”

Jonathan finally glanced at him, quick and sharp, like he couldn’t believe Steve just said that out loud.

Steve shrugged, trying to play it casual even though his chest was buzzing. “I mean, you’ve given me about a hundred chances to bail. And yet…” He spread his hands toward the table between them. “Here we are.”

Jonathan shook his head, muttering something under his breath that Steve couldn’t catch.

Steve leaned in, cupping a hand around his ear with exaggerated dramatics. “Sorry, what was that? Gonna have to speak up, Byers—some of us don’t speak fluent mumble.”

Jonathan huffed, but the sound came closer to a laugh than annoyance. He ducked his head, and Steve felt the small victory bloom warm in his chest.

“See, that’s better,” Steve said, grinning. “Almost like you don’t hate sitting here with me.”

Jonathan’s eyes flicked up, narrowing. “Don’t push your luck.”

Steve raised his brows, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Who said anything about luck? I’m going for charm.”

That earned him a look—half disbelief, half something sharper—that made Steve’s stomach flip. He pretended to go back to his sandwich, though his grin refused to leave.

“Careful,” Jonathan muttered, but his voice wasn’t harsh. If anything, it sounded like a warning aimed at himself.

Steve caught it, and instead of backing off, leaned his chin into his hand, studying him openly. “What, you’re saying it’s working?”

Jonathan’s fork stilled midair, and for a second too long he didn’t answer. Steve let the silence hang, playful on the surface, but underneath, his pulse was pounding.

“Thought so,” he said, leaning back like he’d won something.

Jonathan shook his head, finally shoving a bite of food into his mouth just to avoid replying.

Steve pointed with his sandwich. “Classic Byers move. If you can’t argue, chew.”

Jonathan swallowed pointedly. “Or maybe I just don’t think it deserves a response.”

“Ouch.” Steve pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Brutal. Remind me never to sit with you unarmed.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, the corner threatening to curl, and Steve pounced on it. “There! That was almost a smile. You keep this up, people are gonna think you like me.”

Jonathan’s gaze darted up, sharp, but the heat in it didn’t quite land. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Steve grinned, all teeth. “Too late.”

Jonathan exhaled through his nose, somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

He went back to picking at his tray, but he didn’t leave. And that, Steve thought, felt like winning the whole damn game.

“Wow.”

Both their heads snapped up. Robin Buckley plopped her tray down on the table, raising her brows like she’d just walked in on a soap opera. “I leave you alone for five minutes, Byers, and suddenly you’re fraternizing with Harrington? What happened—did Hell officially freeze over?”

Jonathan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t start.”

Robin smirked, unbothered. “What? I’m just saying, this is suspiciously cozy.” Her gaze flicked between them, sharp and far too entertained.

Steve tried for charm, flashing a grin. “Hey, don’t look at me—I’m innocent here. Byers is the one who sat down.”

Robin cackled, stabbing her fork into her salad. “Oh, I know. That’s what makes this so good.”

Jonathan shot her a glare that only made her grin harder.

Steve leaned an elbow on the table, tilting his head. “See? She gets it.”

Robin arched a brow at him. “Careful, Harrington. You’re still on probation.”

Jonathan muttered, “Permanent probation,” into his tray, but Robin heard it and laughed anyway.

For once, Steve didn’t mind being the punchline. Not when Jonathan was still sitting there across from him, not running, not shutting him out.

⸻

They didn’t talk about it. Not in the cafeteria, not on the way out, not even when the whole damn hallway seemed to notice Jonathan Byers trailing just a step too close to Steve Harrington.

By the time Steve hit the parking lot, he was already bracing for Jonathan to peel off, mutter something about walking, headphones in, pretending none of it ever happened. That was how it usually went.

But instead—Jonathan didn’t slow. He marched right past the staring clusters of kids, chin tilted up like a dare, and yanked open the passenger door of Steve’s car. Tossed his bag in, slid into the seat, and slammed it shut, jaw set.

Steve froze for a beat, keys dangling in his hand. “Uh—”

Jonathan stared out the windshield, defiant and tight-lipped. “What? You driving or not?”

Steve blinked, then huffed a laugh under his breath, sliding behind the wheel.

He didn’t ask where. He didn’t have to. His hands knew the route on their own—out of the lot, down the familiar stretch of cracked road, toward the Byers’.

He drummed his fingers against the wheel, glancing sideways. “You know, most people ask before commandeering my car.”

Jonathan slouched deeper into the seat, eyes fixed out the window. “Most people don’t drive around like they’re waiting to be commandeered.”

Steve barked a laugh. “Wow. That’s what I get for offering free chauffeur service?”

“You didn’t offer,” Jonathan muttered.

“Semantics.” Steve shot him a grin. “Besides, if I wanted passengers with manners, I’d have joined a carpool. You, Byers, are clearly first-class entertainment.”

Jonathan finally turned his head, brows lifting in disbelief. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

Steve shrugged, lips twitching. “What can I say? You make brooding look fun.”

Jonathan huffed, shaking his head, but Steve swore he caught the corner of his mouth twitch. Victory. Small, but real.

He tapped the wheel again, lighter this time. “So… what’s the occasion? You just wake up today and decide, Hey, Harrington’s not that bad, maybe I’ll sit with him?”

Jonathan shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. “Or maybe I just didn’t feel like listening to Robin talk with her mouth full.”

Steve laughed, leaning into the joke. “Wow. So I was the lesser evil. I’m flattered.”

He drummed his fingers against the leather, then tilted his head, like he was mulling something over. “Be honest, though. Is it the hair? The whole tragic-monster slayer thing I’ve got going? You thought, Yeah, Harrington looks good in fluorescent lighting, maybe I’ll give him a shot.”

Jonathan snorted, gaze fixed firmly out the window. “Pretty sure no one looks good in fluorescent lighting.”

Steve grinned, unbothered. “Yeah, but maybe you made an exception. Maybe you were like, ‘Okay, fine, he’s—what’s the word?—tolerable. Maybe even… cute, if I squint.’”

That earned him a sharper exhale from Jonathan, something between a laugh and a groan. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

“Nope,” Steve said easily, keeping his eyes on the road. “Not when I’m curious.”

For a second, the air in the car felt charged, heavier than just banter. Steve didn’t look over, but he could feel Jonathan sitting stiff beside him, jaw set, like he couldn’t decide whether to shut the window or let the draft in.

Jonathan broke first, snorting under his breath. “Don’t flatter yourself. Your ego doesn’t need the extra boost.”

Steve clutched his chest theatrically, eyes still on the road. “Ouch. Brutal. And here I was thinking we were making progress.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest twitch.

Steve leaned back, smug. “If I get you to actually laugh, do I win something? A prize? Trophy? Eternal bragging rights?”

“If you did, you’d never shut up about it,” Jonathan said flatly.

“Exactly,” Steve shot back, grinning.

The car settled into silence, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the rattle of loose change in the cup holder. But for once, it wasn’t an awkward kind of silence. Steve didn’t feel like he had to fill it.

He flicked his eyes sideways again. Jonathan was still angled toward the window, but not closed-off like before—more like he was just letting himself breathe.

Steve tapped the wheel once more, softer this time. “Hey, for what it’s worth… cafeteria seating upgrade is always open. No charge.”

Jonathan didn’t answer, but his reflection in the rearview mirror betrayed him again: another twitch of a smile, quick and gone.

By the time Steve turned onto the cracked driveway, the Byers’ house came into view, leaning and familiar in the late noon light. He cut the engine, and silence settled between them, heavier than before.

It was obvious—of course Steve wanted to follow him in, to stretch the day a little longer. He still couldn’t shake the quiet disbelief that Jonathan had let it happen at all.

But Jonathan had to be the one to say it.

He unbuckled slowly, fingers brushing the door handle. For a moment he lingered there, then shot Steve a look—measured, unreadable, but not cold. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Steve’s grin tugged wider, hands lifted in mock-surrender. “Me? Never.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. Steve followed a beat later, climbing out into the cool air. By the time they reached the porch side by side, he realized he was grinning like an idiot anyway.

The front door creaked as Jonathan pushed it open, and they stepped inside. The living room was dim except for the glow of the TV, where Will sat sprawled on the couch with a sketchbook balanced on his knees. His pencil stilled the second he spotted them walking in together.

His eyebrows lifted—just slightly—but it was enough to make Jonathan bristle. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Will replied, far too innocent. But his eyes flicked between them, already filing away the way Jonathan’s shoulders sat too stiff, the way Steve hovered just a half-step behind him, uncertain.

Jonathan hesitated, then said, almost too casually, “Come on. My room.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t argue—Jonathan inviting him in wasn’t exactly an everyday thing.

So he shoved his hands into his pockets and trailed after him as he lead the way down the narrow hall. The floorboards creaked under their steps, every sound sharper than it should’ve been.

When Jonathan shut the door behind them, the quiet that settled wasn’t exactly comfortable—but it wasn’t unfriendly either.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms like he hadn’t just tripped over his own pulse. He forced a crooked grin, aiming for casual. “Your brother’s got that whole knowing look down. Kinda terrifying.”

He kept his tone easy, but every muscle in him was tight with the effort of not screwing this up. Jonathan had actually invited him in this time, and Steve wasn’t about to be the idiot who broke it.

Jonathan crossed his arms, head down, hovering by the door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay. “That’s just Will. He notices… everything.”

Steve tilted his head, watching him. “He’s like you, then. Quiet, but nothing gets past him.”

Jonathan let out a humorless huff, but he didn’t argue. His gaze drifted toward the posters tacked to his wall, like they suddenly demanded all his focus.

“Not the worst thing,” Steve added after a beat, softer now. “Kinda nice, actually. Having someone who sees more than you say.”

For the first time since they walked in, Jonathan’s eyes flicked to Steve—quick and unreadable. His voice came low, careful, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer. “Is that what you do with… the others? Say things that sound good?”

The question knocked the grin right off Steve’s face. He sat up a little straighter, blinking like maybe he’d misheard. “Uh—what?”

Jonathan shifted his weight, arms folding tighter across his chest. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, like he’d rather be talking to the grain in the wood than to Steve. “You lay it on thick with them too?”

Steve’s mouth went dry. For a second, he thought about brushing it off, making a joke, spinning it into something easy. But Jonathan’s tone lingered—weighted, pointed in a way that made it clear he wasn’t just curious.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, buying time. “I mean… I don’t know. With them, it was different.” His throat felt tight, the words catching like splinters. “I was just… saying stuff half the time. Not really—seeing. Not like—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

Jonathan’s gaze lifted then, sharp and steady, pinning him in place. Waiting.

Steve’s chest went tight. He knew what Jonathan was asking for—not in words, but in the silence pressing between them. He could feel it, like standing at the edge of a pool and knowing the water’s cold but leaning anyway.

“Not like with you,” he heard himself say, quieter than he meant to. The words felt stripped down, raw. Honest in a way he hadn’t planned.

Jonathan didn’t look away. And for a moment, Steve swore he could hear both of their heartbeats thudding against the walls of the room.

Finally, Jonathan spoke, low but not unkind. “What does that mean?”

Steve blinked, not expecting Jonathan to actually drag it out of him.

At least he’d had the decency to question him here, in the privacy of his room, and not in the middle of the school cafeteria.

“It means…” He faltered, dragging a hand through his hair, wishing the right words would just line up. “It means I wasn’t really there. Before. I was just… playing along—dates, parties, whatever. Like if I just kept moving, no one would notice I didn’t care.”

A rough laugh slipped out, sharp and self-directed. “Truth is, I could barely stand myself half the time. So how the hell was anyone else supposed to?”

Jonathan’s jaw tightened, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. He moved away from the door at last, dropping into the chair opposite Steve with a heaviness that made the air shift.

His arms stayed crossed, a makeshift shield across his chest, but when he spoke, his voice had lost its edge. “You can’t just throw words around. Not with me.”

Steve held his gaze, steady for once. “I know,” he said, quieter. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.” He wanted to leave it there—let the words hang, let Jonathan take them or not. But his fingers twitched, restless against the seam of his jeans, like they knew he was already in too deep to backpedal now.

“Look…” he muttered, dragging in a breath. “I’m not good at this. Saying things.” His hand slipped into his pocket, closing around the worn edges of paper he’d carried too long. For a second, he almost chickened out—almost shoved it deeper and kept his mouth shut. But then he pulled it free.

The photo.

The one Jonathan had taken at the pool—Steve caught mid-laugh, the porch light glinting at the edge of his grin. Proof, maybe the only kind, that he could still look like himself. Just him. No role, no mask, nothing expected.

Jonathan’s eyes flicked to it immediately, and Steve saw the moment recognition hit. Saw the way Jonathan’s shoulders went rigid, the way his gaze lingered on the photo—on the faint creases that had been pressed flat again and again, like someone couldn’t stand to see it bent out of shape.

“You… kept that?” His voice was low, almost disbelieving.

Steve’s throat went dry. He nodded anyway, forcing the words out before he lost his nerve. “Yeah. Been carrying it around. Guess I wanted to… I don’t know. Remind myself I can still be—” He broke off, jaw tight, eyes dropping to the floor. “—in the moment. Not just whatever version of me everyone expects.”

For a long beat, Jonathan didn’t say anything. Steve braced for the judgment, the suspicion—hell, even laughter. Anything but the silence.

When it finally broke, it wasn’t what he expected.

Jonathan’s arms loosened, the stiffness bleeding out of him as he studied the photo, then Steve, then back again. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but not the glare Steve had grown used to either.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see King Steve carrying around one of my pictures,” Jonathan said, voice softer now, tinged with something that might’ve been amusement. “Guess I should start charging.”

Steve blinked. Heat shot up the back of his neck. “You’re joking,” he said, half accusing, half desperate.

“Maybe.” Jonathan’s gaze lingered, warmer than it had any right to be. “Though if that’s the shot you kept… I must’ve done something right.”

Steve huffed a breathless laugh, shoulders easing like someone had just let him step out from under a weight. He glanced up, and Jonathan was still looking at him—really looking, like the photo had cracked something open now he couldn’t close back up again.

His head tilted, a slow, assessing curve of his mouth forming. “Y’know,” he said, voice low, almost testing, “I’ve taken a lot of pictures of people. But I don’t think I’ve ever had someone… carry one around.”

Steve’s pulse kicked hard. “It’s not like—” The words tangled, slipping uselessly off his tongue. The way Jonathan was looking at him—God—it knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

Jonathan arched a brow, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Not like what? Like you saw yourself happy for once and didn’t want to forget it?” He let the words hang, sharp but softened by the way his tone lingered just shy of teasing. “Or maybe you just wanted me in your pocket.”

Steve stared. For a moment, he couldn’t think. His laugh came out shaky, disbelieving. “Jesus, Byers…”

“What?” Jonathan asked, all faux-innocence, though his eyes gleamed with something bolder than Steve had ever seen from him. “I’m just saying—if you wanted another, you could’ve asked. I don’t usually let my work go for free.” His voice dipped, that half-smile tugging wider. “But maybe I’d make an exception.”

Steve’s throat went dry. He hadn’t expected this—Jonathan pushing instead of retreating, leaning in just enough that the space between them felt thinner than it had any right to be. The easy barrier Jonathan usually kept in place—cool, unreadable, untouchable—suddenly wasn’t there.

And the way he held Steve’s gaze, steady and unblinking, was almost worse. Almost like he knew exactly how off balance he was knocking Steve, and wasn’t planning to stop.

Jonathan’s gaze flicked down, just for a second, before returning to Steve’s eyes. He looked calm, collected. “Besides,” he murmured, tone slow and deliberate, “if you really wanted something of mine to keep close, you wouldn’t have to settle for a picture.”

Steve froze. The words hit like a sucker punch, shorting out every clever comeback he’d ever stockpiled. His mouth opened, closed, useless, the only sound a stunned exhale.

Jonathan didn’t move back. If anything, he let the silence stretch, gaze steady, lips curved into a smirk that looked far too natural on him. “What?” he asked again, softer now, almost amused at Steve’s shock. “Cat got your tongue?”

For once, Steve Harrington—the guy who always had a quip, a grin, a way out—had nothing. Absolutely nothing.

His pulse thudded in his ears. He blinked once, twice, shifting restlessly on the bed as if the mattress couldn’t hold him steady. His fingers twitched against his thigh before he shoved them into his pockets, like burying the nerves might keep them out of sight.

But every curve of Jonathan’s mouth, every deliberate pause, landed heavy—flirtation so brazen it left Steve reeling, thrown off in a way no fight or sharp word had ever managed. He bit the inside of his cheek, reaching for words that refused to surface.

Jonathan, meanwhile, only leaned back in his chair, shoulders loose, the picture of ease. One hand slipped into his pocket, thumb hooking there lazily, though the sharp glint in his eyes was anything but relaxed. He tilted his head, watching Steve flounder with quiet, deliberate satisfaction.

“So what now?” He asked, the corner of his mouth tugging higher, like he already knew the answer.

Steve blinked, startled. “What?” His voice cracked just slightly, and he cleared his throat, as if that could erase the slip.

Jonathan’s smirk didn’t falter. If anything, it sharpened as he leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees, closing the space inch by inch. His eyes never left Steve’s, steady and unblinking.

“Are you gonna ask me out sometime soon,” Jonathan murmured, tone deceptively casual, “or do I have to keep doing all the work?”

The words were direct enough to knock the breath out of Steve’s chest. He stared, lips parting, but no sound came out. His throat worked like he might speak, then didn’t.

Jonathan’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, the patience in his eyes was almost daring, a quiet challenge wrapped in calm. He leaned back just slightly, enough to look like he wasn’t pressing—though the tilt of his mouth gave him away.

Steve swallowed hard, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He tried for a laugh, something easy, something to brush it off, but it snagged on the way out and came out thin, shaky. “You—you’re serious?”

Jonathan arched a brow. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Steve blinked, heart tripping over itself. His palms itched, restless, but he didn’t move, didn’t trust himself to. “I—” he started, then faltered. His tongue felt clumsy in his own mouth. “I mean—”

Jonathan’s brow stayed arched, gaze steady, like he was watching Steve dig his own grave and wasn’t about to offer a rope.

Steve swallowed, forced the words out before he could lose his nerve. “Do you… wanna go out? With me?”

For the first time, Jonathan didn’t make him wait. He leaned back, expression unreadable except for the glint in his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

Steve’s brain short-circuited all over again. He gaped, mouth dry, every half-formed idea scattering like spooked birds. “Uh—what do you like?”

Jonathan let the silence hang, long enough for Steve’s ears to burn, then finally tilted his head. “What do I like? Let’s see… I’m not really a dinner-and-a-movie kind of guy.”

Steve blinked, scrambling. “Okay, cool, yeah, me neither. Totally overrated. I mean, sitting in the dark not talking? Pointless.”

“Mm.” Jonathan’s lips quirked. “So maybe you’ll take me bowling? You look like a bowling alley type.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Bowling? No— what? I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with bowling, but—” He cut himself off, groaning into his hand. “God, I sound like an idiot.”

Jonathan just watched him flail, calm as a cat in a sunbeam. “Or maybe mini-golf,” he added, voice all mock-serious. “You’d probably cheat, though.”

“I don’t cheat!” Steve shot back, before realizing how defensive he sounded. “I mean—I don’t need to. I’d win fair and square.”

Jonathan arched a brow, leaning in again, elbows braced on his knees. “So our first date’s you trying to prove something? Classic Steve Harrington.”

Steve’s brain stuttered at the words first date, like hearing them out loud made them real. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and ended up muttering, “I just… don’t want to screw this up.”

Jonathan tilted his head, voice low. “Don’t worry. I’d tell you if you were blowing it.”

He let the silence stretch, just long enough for Steve to squirm against the mattress, before adding—casual, but not careless—“There’s a photo exhibit at the library this weekend. Local stuff. Could be worth checking out.”

Steve blinked, thrown. For a second he wasn’t sure if Jonathan was still teasing him, but there wasn’t a trace of a smirk this time—just that steady look, cool and unhurried.

“A photo exhibit,” Steve repeated, testing the words like they were foreign.

Jonathan’s lips curved, not quite a smile but close. “What? Too boring for King Steve?”

“No, I—” Steve ran a hand through his hair, his default tell when he didn’t know what to do with himself. “I mean, yeah, sure, I like… photos. Pictures. Art. Whatever.” He winced as soon as it left his mouth. “God, I sound like an idiot and a jackass.”

Jonathan’s gaze softened just slightly, though the teasing edge was still there. “Relax. It’s not a trick question.”

Steve exhaled hard, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, okay. Exhibit. That’s… yeah. I can do that.”

Jonathan tilted his head again, studying him like he was framing a shot. “Good. Then it’s a date.”

Steve’s brain short-circuited all over again. “A date,” he echoed, voice faint, like maybe saying it twice would make it settle in his chest.

And Jonathan, damn him, just sat back with the kind of ease that made it clear he knew exactly how off balance Steve was—and liked it that way.

⸻

The clatter of silverware was the only sound for a while. Joyce had made chicken, though Jonathan barely registered the taste.

His head was still in his room, replaying every beat of the conversation. He’d never seen Steve so off balance before—the guy who used to glide through the hallways with a smirk like he owned the school, now reduced to restless hands and half-formed replies the moment Jonathan let himself flirt for the first time.

It should’ve been ridiculous. Somehow, it wasn’t. It was… endearing. Jonathan nudged a piece of chicken across his plate, more out of habit than appetite.

Across the table, Will shot him a look, the kind that was way too knowing for someone his age. Then, with all the fake casualness in the world, he asked, “So? ”

Jonathan glanced up mid-bite, blinking. “So?” The word came muffled, food still in his mouth.

Will’s grin was immediate, delighted. “Why was Steve here?”

Joyce’s fork clattered softly against her plate. “Steve was here?”

Jonathan swallowed, setting his fork down with a sigh. He should’ve known this was coming. His brother’s grin, his mom’s raised eyebrows—it was like they’d been waiting, circling.

“He just… stopped by,” Jonathan muttered, which only earned him more pointed stares.

“Stopped by, ” Will repeated, clearly savoring the words.

Joyce tilted her head, that mother-knows-everything expression sharpening. “Jonathan. What exactly does ‘stopped by’ mean?”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying for nonchalance, but it came out more awkward than smooth. “It means he was here, we talked, that’s it.”

Will leaned forward on his elbows, eyes sparkling. “Talked about what?”

Jonathan shot him a look, but it didn’t dent the grin plastered on his brother’s face. “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Will echoed, dragging the word out with a grin. “Like how you’re going to the photo exhibit with him on Saturday?”

Jonathan’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”

Will just shrugged, all faux-innocence, though his eyes glinted with mischief.

“You eavesdropped?” Jonathan pressed.

Will rolled his eyes. “Please. I just asked Steve, and he told me. You’re really jumpy for someone who actually scored a date.”

Joyce’s fork paused halfway to her mouth, eyes widening before her smile bloomed. “Wait—you’re going on a date?”

Jonathan froze, caught between glaring at Will and avoiding his mom’s gaze. “I didn’t—” He broke off with a sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat. “Fine. Yeah. Saturday. A date.”

The word felt strange in his mouth, almost unreal, like saying it too loud might break whatever fragile thing had started between him and Steve.

Will practically bounced in his seat, grinning ear to ear. Joyce leaned back, her smile warm and just a little smug. “Well. It was about time.”

Jonathan groaned, grabbing his fork and stabbing at his dinner like maybe the mashed potatoes could shield him from this conversation.

“What?” Joyce laughed softly. “He’s over here all the time—you think it’s for my benefit?”

Will snorted, almost choking on his drink. “Exactly. The guy might as well have his own chair at the table.”

Jonathan shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but Will only grinned wider, delight written all over his face.

Joyce tilted her head, her voice softening. “He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”

Jonathan’s fork hovered over his plate, shoulders going tight. He didn’t look up when he answered, low and uneven. “Yeah. I think so.”

Will’s grin eased into something quieter, more sincere, and Joyce only nodded, like she’d already known the answer.

And even with their amusement hemming him in, Jonathan couldn’t quite stop the flicker at the corner of his mouth—something small, traitorous, and dangerously close to a smile.

⸻

Saturday came way too fast.

Steve spent half the morning convincing himself it wasn’t really a date, not when it was just the library and some local photographers.

He showed up at the Byers’ ten minutes early, which for him might as well have been an hour. His car was idling at the curb, headlights throwing pale streaks across the yard, but instead of honking like he usually would, he killed the engine and sat there for a beat, palms slick against the steering wheel.

He could’ve stayed put, let Jonathan come out. But for once, sitting back didn’t feel right. Not when his chest was already tight with nerves, not when Jonathan had called this a date with the kind of certainty Steve couldn’t stop replaying in his head. So he shoved the keys into his jacket pocket, stepped out, and walked straight up to the door.

Will opened it before Steve could knock, like he’d been waiting. The kid’s grin was immediate, wide enough to be suspicious. “Hey, Steve.”

“Uh—hey,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Byers home?”

Will leaned against the frame, eyes flicking from Steve’s too-neatly combed hair to the jacket he’d swapped out last minute. “He’s getting ready.” A pause, then, with a spark of something Steve didn’t like one bit: “You look nice.”

Before Steve could figure out if that was a compliment or a jab, Joyce appeared behind him. She stopped short when she saw Steve on the threshold. Her face lit up, warm and knowing in a way that made his stomach lurch.

“Steve,” she said, like she’d already been briefed on everything. “Come in, sweetheart. Jonathan’ll be down in a minute.”

Steve stepped inside before he could think twice, the familiar creak of the Byers’ floorboards under his shoes making the whole thing feel unnervingly domestic. Will shut the door behind him, still grinning like he knew exactly what was going on.

Joyce gave him a once-over, quick but sharp. “Library exhibit, right?”

Steve blinked. “Uh… yeah.” His ears went hot. “Jonathan mentioned it.”

Her smile tilted. “He did.”

Will snorted, trying to smother it with a cough. Steve shot him a look, but the kid only raised his eyebrows, like what, you thought you were being subtle?

And then Jonathan came down the stairs and Steve forgot about Joyce’s knowing eyes or Will’s smirk. Because Jonathan wasn’t teasing now. He was looking right at him—steady, unhurried.

And Christ, he looked good. He wasn’t even dressed up—just jeans and a dark button-down rolled at the sleeves—but something about the way he carried himself made Steve feel underdressed, like his carefully chosen polo suddenly screamed trying too hard.

It wasn’t fair, how Jonathan Byers could look like that without even trying.

“Ready to go?” Jonathan asked at last, voice low, deceptively casual—except for the way his eyes lingered, holding Steve’s just a beat too long, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Steve swallowed, too quick, like he’d forgotten how. “Yeah,” he managed, though it came out rougher than he meant. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets just to give them something to do.

Jonathan grabbed his own coat from the hook by the door, movements easy, unhurried in that way that drove Steve insane—like he had all the time in the world to watch Steve squirm.

Joyce cleared her throat softly, and Steve nearly jumped. He’d forgotten she and Will were still there, watching like they were front row at a live show.

“Have fun,” Joyce said, warm but pointed, and Will just gave him a little salute, smirk firmly in place.

Jonathan ignored them both, stepping past Steve onto the porch. “Come on,” he murmured, not looking back—like he trusted Steve to follow without question.

And, of course, Steve did.

⸻

The exhibit was quieter than Steve expected.

Rows of framed photos lined the walls, a mix of landscapes, street shots, and portraits. A hush hung in the air, broken only by the squeak of shoes on the tile.

Steve shoved his hands in his pockets, pretending to study a grainy photo of a kid on a bike. “So… this is what you do for fun?”

Jonathan’s lips curved, faint. “Sometimes. Try it. You might learn something.”

Steve tilted his head, squinting at the picture like he could force meaning out of it. “Okay, yeah… that’s, uh, a kid. On a bike. Very artistic.”

Jonathan huffed, low and amused. “You’re hopeless.” He stepped closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed, and pointed. “Look again. It’s not just the kid. It’s the shadow. The way it swallows half the frame. That’s the story.”

Steve’s breath caught, not so much at the photo as at the warmth of Jonathan’s voice—low, intent, like he was letting Steve in on a secret.

“Right,” Steve managed, softer than he meant. “The shadow.”

They moved together down the row, Jonathan explaining pieces here and there, Steve throwing in dumb comments just to keep him talking. Somewhere between the portraits and the landscapes, Steve stopped pretending he was only here for Jonathan’s sake.

At one point, Jonathan paused at a black-and-white of an empty road. “This one’s my favorite,” he said quietly. “It feels like… waiting.”

Steve glanced at him instead of the photo. The light caught along his profile, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the furrow etched deep between his brows, the nervous pull at his lower lip.

It was so unguarded, so close, that Steve’s mind blanked. He didn’t have a quip ready—just the unsettling realization that he wanted to keep looking.

“Yeah,” he said, a little breathless. “I get that.”

Jonathan turned his head then, meeting his eyes, and for a beat the world seemed to fall away. Noise, light, even the air itself stilled.

Steve caught the flecks of gold in Jonathan’s irises, the scatter of small freckles, the hitch of his breath—and his own heart lurched into his throat, pounding with the reckless certainty that if either of them moved, everything would change.

And then someone coughed somewhere behind them, the spell breaking. Jonathan immediately straightened, clearing his throat. “Come on,” he said, voice lighter now. “There’s a diner down the street. You buying?”

Steve recovered fast, forcing the rush in his chest back where it belonged. Plenty of time for this later—not in the middle of Hawkins’ public library. He barked a laugh, the sound too loud for the hushed hall. “Smooth, Byers. First date and you’re already going for my wallet.”

Jonathan’s mouth curved into that almost-smile again. “Somebody’s gotta teach you culture. Might as well start with a bite.”

Steve fell into step beside him, the grin stuck on his face no matter how hard he tried to play it cool. If this was what dates with Jonathan Byers felt like, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the second one.

⸻

The diner smelled like coffee grounds and grease, same as it always did. Jonathan had sat in these booths a hundred times before, but tonight it felt sharper somehow—brighter.

Maybe it was him. Or maybe it was the hum lodged in his chest since that moment in the library, the one that wouldn’t quit after Steve looked at him like that.

He’d been confident earlier. The library had been his territory—quiet, familiar, something he could explain. And Steve had looked so stupidly cute trying to understand the photographs, tilting his head, asking questions like he wanted to get it right. It had made Jonathan feel steady, even bold.

But here, in the diner, the confidence wavered. The vinyl seats, the buzzing lights, the scent of fried food—all of it was familiar, but the weight pressing at the back of his mind wasn’t.

This was different than his other visits here. It was a date. And Jonathan knew his own thin stack of experience couldn’t possibly compare to Steve’s.

He slid into the booth first, pressing himself against the cracked red vinyl like it could anchor him. Across from him, Steve sprawled out like he belonged there—like he belonged anywhere, really—one arm along the backrest, grin still tugging at his mouth as if he hadn’t noticed Jonathan watching. Or maybe because he had.

Jonathan busied himself with the menu he didn’t need. He knew this place by heart, but his eyes kept skimming over words he couldn’t focus on because Steve was right there, stretching his long legs under the table until their shoes bumped. Not hard, not enough to be obvious, but Jonathan felt it anyway.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna order a salad,” Steve said, smirk lazy, but his eyes sharp. Like he was looking for something.

Jonathan huffed, finally setting the menu down. “Burger. Fries. Milkshake.” He raised an eyebrow, daring him. “Happy?”

Steve grinned wider. “Ecstatic. Now I know you’re not a secret vegetarian.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward before he could stop it. He reached for the water glass the waitress had left, anything to ground himself.

When the waitress came by, Steve ordered like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like this—like them—was normal. Jonathan gave his order next, keeping it quick, steady. The waitress scribbled and moved on, and just like that, it was just them again.

The hum of the neon sign outside, the rattle of dishes behind the counter—background noise that only made Steve’s presence sharper.

Steve leaned back against the booth, arm stretched along the top like he owned the place, like he owned the moment. Jonathan hated how easy he made it look. He fiddled with the condensation on his glass, tracing circles with his fingertip.

“So,” Steve said, tilting his head. “Do you actually come here for the food, or is this your safe, low-lighting, nobody bothers me spot?”

Jonathan snorted. “Both. Sometimes neither.” He risked a glance up. Steve was watching him—really watching him—with that half-lidded curiosity that always felt like a test.

“Thought so,” Steve said softly, like he’d just confirmed something.

Jonathan’s chest tightened. He forced himself to look away, to the window, where the neon glow bled into the glass. “What about you? You don’t exactly scream diner guy.”

Steve grinned, unabashed. “What do I scream then?”

Jonathan swallowed, pulse betraying him. A dozen answers crowded his throat, sharp and reckless, none of them safe.

You scream out of my league.

That was the truest one, the one that hit like a bruise every time Steve leaned in with that grin, every time he looked at Jonathan like he wasn’t a freak, but something more.

He forced out the safer one instead. “You scream… drive-thru. Fast food. Extra-large soda.”

Steve laughed, head thrown back, and Jonathan hated how good that sound made him feel.

The waitress slid their plates and drinks onto the table a minute later, breaking the tension but not easing it. Jonathan picked up a fry, stalling. Across from him, Steve dipped his into ketchup like it was nothing, like Jonathan’s whole world wasn’t tilting off its axis.

Jonathan toyed with the fry, dragging it through the ketchup before biting down. He kept his gaze on the plate, but Steve’s laugh still echoed in his ears, buzzing in his chest like an aftershock.

“You’re not wrong,” Steve said, mouth curling as he reached for his burger. “I’ve had more drive-thru cheeseburgers than I care to admit.” He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough that Jonathan had to glance up. “But, for the record, this beats McDonald’s any day.”

Jonathan arched a brow. “That your expert opinion?”

“Hey, don’t knock my expertise. I know burgers. I practically majored in them.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away again—like it always did around Steve lately. He shook his head, forcing his focus back to his plate, to the clatter of the diner around them.

But then Steve’s foot brushed his under the table again—unmistakable this time, deliberate.

Jonathan froze. His pulse stuttered, sharp in his throat. When he looked up, Steve wasn’t smirking. Not exactly. His eyes were steady, searching, and it made Jonathan’s chest go tight.

The noise of the diner faded for a beat—just the two of them, framed by flickering neon and the smell of coffee and grease.

Jonathan cleared his throat, reaching for his milkshake. “You’re—” His voice came rough, so he tried again. “You’re different lately.”

Steve tilted his head. “Different how?”

Jonathan swallowed, dragging his straw through the milkshake just to give his hands something to do. “Different like…you’re suddenly an expert on diner burgers. Didn’t know self-appointed food critics wore hair this perfect.”

Steve huffed out a laugh, leaning back like he’d been waiting for that deflection. Jonathan knew he’d caught it, but—for once—Steve didn’t push. He just let him have it, let him steer the conversation.

“Jealous?” Steve asked, easy grin in place, but his eyes stayed on Jonathan.

“Of what?” Jonathan deadpanned. “Your encyclopedic knowledge of grease stains?”

“Please.” Steve gestured at himself with a fry. “This—” he motioned to his hair, smug grin returning, “—takes skill. Years of practice. Dedication. You don’t just wake up like this.”

Jonathan arched a brow, lips twitching. “Pretty sure you do.”

Steve barked out a laugh, warm and loud enough that the waitress glanced their way. Jonathan ducked his head, hiding behind a fry, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him for the millionth time.

The tension had eased, the air lighter—but the weight of that earlier moment still hummed underneath, like a wire Jonathan wasn’t ready to cut or touch. Not yet.

Jonathan toyed with the straw again, then glanced up at Steve through his lashes. The question had been gnawing at him all night, and now felt like the right moment. “So what do you usually do on dates like this?”

Steve blinked, mid-bite of his burger. “Dates like this?” he echoed, a little too quick.

Jonathan’s mouth curved, confidence seeping back in. He leaned against the booth, letting the smirk settle. “Yeah. Neon lights, greasy food, a milkshake with one straw. Feels like a signature Harrington move.”

Steve set the burger down slowly, eyes narrowing in mock offense. “First of all, I don’t share straws. That’s unsanitary.”

Jonathan snorted. “Good to know your standards kick in somewhere.”

“Second,” Steve went on, undeterred, “you’re acting like I’ve got a playbook. Like I drag every poor soul in Hawkins to Benny’s knock-off cousin.”

Jonathan tilted his head, feigning thought. “Don’t you?”

Steve leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, grin sharp as ever. But behind it, something shifted—recognition sparking in his eyes, like he’d just caught onto the game Jonathan was playing.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough around the edges, the kind that made Jonathan’s stomach twist.

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but his ears felt hot. He hid it by stabbing at his fries. “Guess I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Or,” Steve said, voice dipping lower, steadier, “you could take it as—this is new. Just for you.”

Jonathan’s hand froze around his fry. He gave a scoff, shaking his head, but the burn in his chest told on him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and the grin softened into something real, almost vulnerable. “But you’re still here.”

Jonathan shoved another fry into his mouth, chewing slower than necessary just to give himself time to breathe. Then, casual as he could manage, he tipped his head toward Steve. “So, you actually talk to your dates? What do you even talk about? Weather? Your hair routine?”

Steve’s grin widened. “Jealous again.”

Jonathan made a face. “I’m just trying to picture it. You, leaning across the table, charming some poor girl with your—what? The secret to volume?”

“Funny,” Steve said dryly, though his eyes still sparkled. He toyed with a fry, spinning it between his fingers like it was a cigarette. Then he leaned in, voice dropping just a notch. “Wanna know what I do?”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Oh boy. Here we go.”

“I play a game.”

Jonathan frowned, suspicious. “A game?”

“Yeah.” Steve pointed at him with the fry like he’d just declared something profound. “The questions game. You ask me one, then I ask you one. Back and forth. Easiest way to break the ice.”

Jonathan snorted, skeptical. “The questions game? That’s your big move?”

Steve shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, it works. Way better than sitting here pretending you don’t wanna know stuff.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes, but there was already a twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Uh-huh. And what happens if one of us doesn’t wanna answer?”

Steve grinned. “Then you gotta finish your milkshake.”

Jonathan let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“And yet,” Steve said, leaning back smug, “you’re considering it.”

Jonathan huffed, the sound meant to be annoyed but slipping too close to a laugh. “Fine. Shoot.”

Steve leaned back like he’d already won. “Nah, you go first. You’ve got that look, Byers—all quiet, like nobody ever gets to know what’s really going on in there.” His grin curved, softer now. “Makes me want to hear it.”

Jonathan slouched deeper into the booth, eyes flicking to the neon sign buzzing outside like it might offer him an easier way out.

Finally, he let out a long breath. “Alright. First question.” His gaze lifted to Steve—slow, deliberate, steady. If he was going to ask anything, it had to be this. “Why me?”

Steve’s brows shot up. “Why you?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said, shrugging like it was nothing. “Out of everyone in this town, why are you here with me?”

Steve’s mouth curved slow, like he’d been expecting something lighter—favorite color, dumbest injury—but he didn’t flinch. “Easy,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “Because you don’t let me get away with anything. Everyone else buys the act. You don’t.”

Jonathan’s throat worked, but he kept his expression flat, stabbing at his fries again. “That’s… kinda bleak.”

Steve’s grin tilted, a little cocky, a little self-deprecating. He picked up a fry, twirling it between his fingers like it was a prop. “What can I say? Had some big revelations lately.”

He popped the fry in his mouth, chewed, then leaned forward with a shrug that was way too casual to be unplanned. “Turns out, I like being challenged.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“My turn,” Steve said, seizing the opening. He tapped his finger against the table like a drumroll. “Alright, Byers—what’s the weirdest song on your mixtape collection? And don’t lie. I know you’ve got one.”

Jonathan let out a short laugh despite himself, head ducking. “That’s what you wanna know?”

“Desperately. Life or death here.”

Jonathan smirked into his soda straw. “Fine. Uh… ABBA.”

Steve blinked. “Like… Dancing Queen ABBA?”

Jonathan shrugged, unbothered. “They’re good.”

Steve leaned back, jaw dropping dramatically. “Oh my god. Jonathan Byers—closet disco fan.”

Jonathan smirked, settling into the game now—though he’d never admit Steve was right about it. “You asked. My turn.” He tapped his straw against the rim of his glass, pretending to think hard. “What was the worst date you’ve been on?”

Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face like Jonathan had just sentenced him to death. “You’re evil. Pure evil.”

Jonathan lifted a shoulder. “You said you liked being challenged.”

Steve pointed at him with a fry, squinting. “Not like this, man. Not with… emotional trauma.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched. “So there is a story.”

Steve leaned back in the booth, groaning like Jonathan had asked him to relive his own funeral. “Okay, so. Worst date.” He rubbed the back of his neck, stalling. “You know, I’ve had a lot of contenders.”

Jonathan raised his brows, unimpressed. “This isn’t a bragging competition.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved him off. “I’m just saying—it’s hard to narrow it down. There was the one in seventh grade where the girl’s dad showed up halfway through and threatened me with a wrench. That was… memorable.”

Jonathan smirked into his milkshake. “Sounds like you deserved it.”

“Probably,” Steve admitted easily. “Then there was the one freshman year where she spent the whole night talking about her ex. Like, the entire night. I knew more about that guy’s shoe size by dessert than I knew about her.”

Jonathan chuckled, shaking his head. “That does sound rough.”

Steve snapped his fingers, as if remembering. “Oh! And the one last year where the girl brought her best friend. Which—okay, fine, could’ve been fun. Except the best friend wouldn’t stop hitting on me, and my date ended up crying by the end of the night. ”

Jonathan laughed outright now, covering his mouth with his hand. “That’s… brutal.”

Steve grinned, but there was a little glint in his eye now, like he was winding up for something. “But, no. None of those win the crown. My worst date? Easy.”

Jonathan tilted his head, curious despite himself. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was sharing a state secret. “My worst date…” He let it hang just long enough for Jonathan to roll his eyes.

“…is happening right now.”

Jonathan choked on his milkshake. “You’re an ass,” he sputtered, coughing around his straw.

Steve just sat back, smug as hell, dimples out in full force. “What? You asked.”

Jonathan set his milkshake down a little too hard, glaring. “You’re unbelievable.”

Steve didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back, arms draped across the booth like he had all the time in the world. “Hey, I’m serious. Worst date.”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Part of him waited for the punchline—for Steve to smirk, to let the mask slip, to reveal this whole night as some elaborate setup.

Steve made a show of thinking—tilting his head, tapping his chin. “Well… for starters, I had to chase the guy down for, what, five weeks straight? Just to land a date. So much effort. Tragic, really. Anyone else and I’d have dumped them already.”

Jonathan’s stomach dropped. His face went hot.

“Strike two,” Steve said, holding up two fingers. “He hasn’t complimented my hair even once tonight. Sarcastic comments excluded. I mean, come on. Effort goes both ways.”

Jonathan huffed, but it came out closer to a laugh, and Steve’s grin widened.

“And finally…” Steve leaned forward on his elbows, eyes catching the neon glow as they glinted with mischief. His voice dipped low, almost conspiratorial. “If this is not a date… then it’s the most frustrating almost-date I’ve ever had.”

Jonathan froze.

“I mean, I know the guy can flirt.” Steve’s smirk tilted sly, head cocking just enough to make it a challenge. “And now he’s giving me nothing, acting so nonchalant.”

The diner noise seemed miles away, the neon light buzzing faintly overhead. Steve’s gaze stayed locked on his, steady and unflinching, like he was daring him to call the bluff.

Jonathan’s throat worked, but no words came out. He busied himself with his straw again, stirring a milkshake that didn’t need stirring.

Steve didn’t let up. “Look, I’m not saying you’re doing everything wrong. You showed up, which is half the battle. And you even laughed at my jokes—” his grin softened, something warmer edging past the teasing, “—that’s at least two points right there.”

Jonathan muttered, “Pity points.”

Steve grinned. “Still counts.” He ticked off on his fingers. “And you didn’t ditch me the second I started rambling at the library, so clearly I’m not a complete idiot.”

Jonathan lifted his gaze, deadpan. “Debatable.”

“See?” Steve pointed a fry at him like he’d proven something. “That right there. That was a test and you failed. You’re supposed to tease me affectionately on a date. It’s practically rule number one.”

Jonathan shook his head, but there was no real heat in it. His lips twitched before he could stop them.

“And the milkshake thing?” Steve went on, leaning across the table, voice dropping conspiratorial. “Classic date move. Two straws, shared dessert. You blew it, Byers.”

Jonathan raised his brows, finally pushing back. “Pretty sure you ordered that milkshake for yourself.”

“Details,” Steve said with a shrug. Then, softer, almost slipping past the joke, “Could’ve shared if you asked.”

Jonathan looked away fast, but he felt the weight of Steve’s words settle in his chest, heavy and impossible to shake. He huffed out a breath, trying to look exasperated instead of cornered. “You’ve really got this whole script worked out, huh?”

Steve’s grin widened. “Hey, I told you—I like a challenge. But if this isn’t a date…” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with mock-innocence. “What would you call it, then?”

Jonathan froze with a fry halfway to his mouth. “I’d call it—” He stalled, grasping at the first lifeline that came to mind. “Dinner.”

Steve let out a dramatic groan, slumping back in his booth seat. “God, you’re hopeless. Who just calls it dinner? That’s like…watching Star Wars and saying it’s a space thing.”

Jonathan bit back a laugh, smirking despite himself. “Pretty sure it is a space thing.”

Steve pointed at him, victorious. “Exactly! And this—” he gestured between them, fry still in hand, “—this is totally a date thing.”

Jonathan’s smirk faltered, but before Steve could press the advantage, he cleared his throat. “Alright. My turn. Since you’re the expert…” He leaned back a little, trying for casual. “What do you usually do on dates like this—other than lob softball questions to keep the conversation going?”

Steve blinked, the question catching him off guard. For a second, his bravado softened, a real thought crossing his face before he masked it with another lopsided grin. “Usually?” He drummed his fingers against the milkshake glass. “Talk too much. Order something messy. Pretend I know what I’m doing.”

Jonathan arched a brow. “And tonight?”

Steve’s smile tugged crooked, softer than his usual smirk. “Tonight…kinda feels different.” He hesitated, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug, but his eyes didn’t leave Jonathan’s. “It feels like… like I don’t want the night to end. Like I actually give a damn about the person sitting across from me.”

Jonathan felt it land heavier than it should’ve. He ducked his head, suddenly intent on the fry basket between them. “Loaded answer,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Steve admitted quietly, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Jonathan shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under him. Steve’s words pressed against something in his chest he wasn’t ready to name. So he smirked instead, pushing his empty glass a little closer to the center of the table. “Guess that explains why you’re still here and not running out the door screaming.”

Steve snorted. “Please. If this was one of my bad dates, I’d already be halfway to the parking lot by now.”

Jonathan raised his brows, playing along. “So this doesn’t qualify?”

Steve leaned in just enough that Jonathan caught the faintest spark in his grin. “Not even close.”

Jonathan looked away, heat crawling up the back of his neck. Awkwardness prickled at him for even asking, for wanting Steve to spell it out. He plucked at a fry crumb on the plate, rolling it between his fingers like it might distract from the burn in his cheeks. “Well…good. Because I don’t think I could handle getting dumped in a diner.”

Steve laughed—loud and easy, like he didn’t realize how much lighter it made the booth feel. Then he tapped a finger against the table, his gaze never leaving Jonathan. “Alright, I’ll confess. My real worst date ever.”

Jonathan looked up, deadpan. “This should be good.”

“Oh, it’s a masterpiece of disaster.” Steve leaned back, spreading his hands like he was about to unveil a grand tale. “Picture it—sophomore year, me thinking I’m hot shit because I finally got my license. Took Tammy Thompson to the drive-in. Big night, right?”

Jonathan arched a brow. “The singer?”

Steve winced. “Allegedly a singer. Back then, I didn’t know nasal could be a whole vocal range.”

That earned him a snort, quick and sharp. Steve grinned wider, encouraged.

“So anyway,” Steve went on, “we’re parked, movie’s rolling, I’m trying to be smooth. But Tammy decides she’s more interested in narrating the entire plot of the movie—which, by the way, she’d already seen twice. Every jump scare? She spoiled it five seconds early.”

Jonathan smirked, settling in now. “Brutal.”

“Oh, it gets better. Halfway through, she spills a cherry slushie all over my lap. Which, you know, looked exactly like I’d pissed myself. And then—because clearly that wasn’t enough humiliation—the car battery dies. So there I am, soaked in neon sugar, listening to Tammy sing along to the credits while I wait an hour for a jump start from her dad.”

Jonathan laughed—really laughed, head tipping forward as he covered his mouth.

Steve leaned across the table, chin propped on his hand, smug. “Told you. Worst date ever.”

Jonathan shook his head, still chuckling. “That’s…yeah, that’s bad.”

Steve’s grin softened, a beat longer than it should’ve. “Your turn.”

Jonathan rolled his straw between his fingers, the smile lingering but faltering at Steve’s push. “My worst date?” He stalled, staring at the melting ring of condensation on the table. Steve nodded, leaning in with that expectant grin.

Jonathan exhaled, low. “I don’t…really have a list of disasters like that. Just—awkward ones.”

Steve’s grin widened. “Awkward’s still good.”

Jonathan hesitated, then gave in. “Okay. Uh—middle school. I let this girl talk me into going to the Harvest Dance.” He huffed, half at himself. “It wasn’t even about her. She just…didn’t want to show up alone, and I felt bad saying no.”

Steve tilted his head. “So far, not terrible.”

Jonathan’s fingers tapped restlessly against the table. “Yeah, except…it was the only one. My only date. We barely talked. She wanted to dance, I didn’t. She wanted to take pictures, I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I just stood there like an idiot. Whole night, I kept thinking about how much she probably wished she’d asked anyone else.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. “Wait. Only date?”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched in something close to a shrug, but it came out too heavy to pass as casual. “Didn’t really…have friends before. Or dates. Wasn’t exactly the guy people lined up for.” He kept his eyes fixed on the water ring under his glass, heat rising in his chest like he’d admitted too much.

For once, Steve didn’t have a quick reply. His smirk softened into something smaller, steadier. “That’s not the worst date. That’s just—wrong person.”

Jonathan gave him a look, sharp but uneasy. “Exactly. That’s worse, somehow.”

For a beat, neither of them spoke. The clatter of plates, the hiss of the fryer, filled the space. Steve’s eyes had that same steady, searching weight as before, like he was trying to read between Jonathan’s words.

Jonathan’s fingers tapped restlessly against the table, like he could shake off the weight pressing down. He swallowed. “It’s easier when you’ve got more than one—you chalk it up to a bad date, laugh about it after. But when it’s the only one you’ve ever had, and there’s no one to laugh about it with… you start wondering if maybe it’s not the date at all. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re the problem.”

Silence settled between them, heavier than the diner noise around them. Jonathan watched his plate as if it was the most interesting thing in the room. When Steve finally spoke, his voice came quieter, stripped of the usual shine. “Or maybe you just didn’t have the right people around you yet.”

Jonathan blinked, his chest tightening. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, steady and unflinching, and he wanted to look up, to see if he meant it the way it sounded—but that felt dangerous, like stepping out onto thin ice. So he nodded instead, the smallest deflection he could manage. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The silence stretched, heavy but not unbearable. There was something raw in it, something that made Jonathan want to stay in it longer than he knew he should.

Then Steve leaned back in the booth, exhaling like he’d caught himself getting too close. He nudged Jonathan’s soda with a finger, tipping it just enough to make the straw bob. “Alright, too serious. Your turn again before I start crying into my fries.”

Jonathan huffed, the sound breaking some of the tension. “Pretty sure that’d be the worst date for anyone.”

Steve grinned, shaking his head. “Nah. Some people might call that a bonding moment.”

Jonathan found himself smiling too—smaller, steadier—but the echo of the other words lingered, humming under his skin. 

“Okay,” Steve said, tapping the table like he was laying down some kind of rule. “Let’s lighten it up. No more tragic Harvest Dances.”

Jonathan almost rolled his eyes, but the look came out softer than he meant it. Wary, sure—but not unwelcome.

“Alright—easy one. Favorite movie snack. Go.”

Jonathan blinked at him. Of all things. “Snack?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, like it was the most obvious question in the world. “Popcorn? Twizzlers? Do you sneak in candy in the movies? Don’t lie—I can tell.”

The laugh slipped out before Jonathan could stop it, small but real. “Uh…probably Twizzlers.”

Steve’s grin spread like he’d won something. “Knew it. You look like a Twizzler guy.”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“Means you’re the type to sit there pulling them apart piece by piece, making it last the whole movie.” Steve mimed it out, peeling invisible strands, tossing one in his mouth.

Jonathan shook his head, trying to bite back a smile. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve leaned in, eyes bright. “Prove me wrong.”

Jonathan smirked despite himself, rolling the straw again between his fingers. “Maybe I will.”

Something eased in his chest, like the air itself had shifted between them. Steve must’ve felt it too—because a second later he jumped in, words tumbling out fast, like he’d had them holstered all along.

“Alright. Next one. Favorite band?”

Jonathan narrowed his eyes, but there wasn’t tension in it anymore. Just—something else. Something lighter. “That’s not how it works. It was your turn to answer, I just answered two.”

Steve only leaned back further, smug. “Hey, I’m just trying to keep you talking.”

And Jonathan—God help him—laughed again. Real, unguarded. He wasn’t used to this—being looked at like he was worth the effort of drawing out. Most conversations were something to endure: answer just enough to make people stop pressing, keep his world tight and small.

But Steve didn’t let silence mean the end. He leaned into it, filled it with something easy until Jonathan forgot he was supposed to keep his guard up. For the first time since they’d sat down, he didn’t feel out of place. He felt…comfortable.

Steve watched him openly, grin wide and attention fixed solely on him. He twirled the straw between his fingers, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “You’re relentless, you know that?”

“Relentless and charming,” Steve added, like it was fact carved in stone.

Jonathan snorted. “Debatable.”

Steve only grinned wider, like he’d been waiting for that exact word. “See? You’re debating me. Which means you’re engaged. Which means—” He tapped the table for emphasis. “I’m crushing this date.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the fight in it was gone. He leaned back against the booth, let the cushion take his weight, and found himself studying the way Steve’s hair still curled at his temples even after all the years of hairspray. A stupid detail to notice.

He looked away quickly, eyes landing on the ketchup bottle instead. “Fine,” he muttered. “You get one more question.”

Steve leaned forward, elbows on the table, smirk tilting sharp again. “Just one?”

“That’s all I’m giving you.”

“Better make it count, then.” Steve tapped his chin, pretending to think. Jonathan waited, pretending not to care, even though his pulse had picked up in ways he didn’t want to examine.

Finally, Steve’s eyes lit up like he’d struck gold. “Dream car. And don’t you dare say minivan.”

Jonathan snorted. “That’s the question you’re dying to ask me? And why the hell would I say minivan?”

“You’d be surprised,” Steve shot back, wagging a finger. “Some people are all about cupholders. Total deal breaker, if you ask me.”

Jonathan chuckled—quieter, but easier than before. “Fine. Uh…something old. Classic. Maybe a ’67 Mustang.”

Steve lit up, leaning back like Jonathan had just passed some secret test, his grin stretching wider. “Okay, Byers. Didn’t know you had taste.”

Jonathan’s mouth quirked before he could stop it. He tipped his head down, pretending to study the straw between his fingers. “Neither did I. Apparently I’m on a date with Steve Harrington and not hating it.” The words slipped out drier than intended, but there was a warmth behind them, something half-hidden.

Steve blinked, caught off guard for a split second—then his grin shifted, sharper, playful. He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, like he wasn’t about to let Jonathan escape that one.

“Hold up.” He jabbed a finger across the booth, mock-accusing. “So, one—you’re not hating hanging around me. And two—I’m your taste.” He sat back again with a smug little nod, like he’d just cracked a code. “Finally breaking through that tough exterior, Byers. Took me long enough.”

Jonathan shook his head, failing to smother the smile tugging at his mouth. He lifted his glass like it might hide him, but Steve’s eyes were already on him, sharp and amused. “My turn to ask,” he said, voice steadier than he felt.

Steve lifted a hand, wagging a finger like he was calling a timeout. “No, no, no. Let’s stay with that for a second. Mull it over.” He leaned back against the booth, arms spreading across the top like he’d just won some kind of victory. “You just admitted that I’m—direct quote—your taste. So what is it about me you like?”

Jonathan groaned, dragging a palm over his face. “You’re unbearable.”

“Unbearably charming, you mean?” Steve cut in smoothly, one brow arched. “Unbearably handsome? Unbearably your type—apparently.” His grin tilted softer at the edges, almost careful now, though his eyes never left Jonathan’s.

Jonathan huffed a short laugh, hand lingering near his mouth like he was still half-hiding. “You’re twisting my words.”

“Not twisting,” Steve countered, voice lighter but steady. “Just… replaying the highlights. Asking important questions.”

Jonathan lowered his hand, the faintest challenge sparking in his eyes as he set his drink down with a quiet clink. “Fine. You want to know what I really think of you?”

Steve’s smirk flickered, faltering for the first time. His elbows slid off the booth, body angling forward despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, like he wasn’t sure if he was bracing for a punch or a gift.

Jonathan let the pause stretch, studying him, letting the silence carry weight. For a second, he heard the echo of Steve’s rough laugh from the other day.

Truth is, I could barely stand myself half the time. So how the hell was anyone else supposed to?

His mouth curved into something caught between a smile and a dare. “You’re not half as bad as you think you are. That’s the problem.”

Steve blinked—once, twice—before the grin came rushing back, brighter, reckless. “Not half as bad,” he repeated, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “Byers, that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Jonathan huffed a quiet laugh, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass as if to keep his hands busy. His gaze flicked up, steady despite the faint curve tugging at his mouth. “You’re welcome,” he said, voice low, casual. Then he leaned back just slightly, eyes narrowing like he was weighing his next shot. “You know what else I think of you?”

Steve tilted his head, cocky grin firmly in place even as his knee bounced under the table, betraying the nerves under all that swagger. “Lay it on me.”

Jonathan held his gaze for a beat too long, then deadpanned, “You talk too much.”

Steve’s grin split wider, triumphant. “But you’re still here listening. Which means you like it.”

Jonathan shook his head, biting back another smile. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And yet…” Steve raised his glass, tipping it toward him like a toast. “Still your taste.”

Jonathan clinked his glass against Steve’s before he could stop himself, muttering, “Don’t push it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve said smoothly, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him instantly. He leaned in across the table, voice dropping like they were sharing some great secret. “So you like that I talk too much?”

Jonathan raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “I didn’t say that.”

Steve ignored the protest, drumming his fingers against his glass. “Alright, so it’s my voice, then. That what does it for you? Velvety baritone? Smooth Harrington charm?”

Jonathan snorted into his drink, setting it down with a soft thud. “More like constant static in the background. White noise.”

Steve gasped, hand over his heart like he’d been mortally wounded. “Background? That’s cold, Byers. Real cold.”

“Truth hurts,” Jonathan said, but there was a flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, well—” Steve pointed his straw at him like a weapon, eyes narrowing with mock intensity. “White noise still keeps you company when it’s too quiet.”

Jonathan’s smile finally broke through, small and reluctant. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

Steve’s grin softened, eyes lingering on him just a fraction longer than necessary. “Not with you.”

The words landed heavier than either of them expected. Steve seemed to realize it a beat too late—surprise flickering across his face.

Jonathan stilled, the half-smile slipping as he studied him. Steve’s hand still hovered near his glass, fingers drumming once against the condensation before going still, like he’d just given something away and didn’t know how to take it back.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved. The noise of the diner carried on around them—plates clattering, a jukebox humming in the corner—but between them, there was only silence.

Jonathan swallowed, gaze flicking down to his drink, then back up. Steve shifted, restless, but his eyes didn’t leave Jonathan’s. His knee had stopped bouncing. His smirk was gone.

Jonathan cleared his throat, looking away first. “Careful, Harrington,” he muttered, but the words lacked bite. “People might think you mean it.”

Steve leaned back slowly, exhaling a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Yeah,” he said, softer now. “Maybe I do.”

Jonathan froze, the words settling heavier than he wanted them to. His fingers tapped restlessly against his glass before he forced himself to meet Steve’s gaze again. “Alright,” he said, quieter, a challenge buried in it. “What do you like about me then?”

Steve blinked, caught off guard. His mouth opened, then closed, the practiced grin faltering into something rougher, more unsteady.

Jonathan, uncomfortable with the silence, gave a short laugh and shrugged. “I mean, you’re sitting here on a date with me, admitted to chasing me for almost a month and a half… so yeah, I already know you like me. Saves you the trouble of making a list.”

It was meant to break the tension, but Steve didn’t laugh. His eyes lingered on him, steady in a way that made Jonathan’s stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I do like you. More than you probably think.”

Jonathan’s smirk faltered, the weight of it landing heavier than he’d been ready for. But he wasn’t about to flinch. He leaned in, just enough to erase the lazy distance between them, his gaze fixed. “Come on, Harrington. You’ve been talking nonstop all night—don’t get shy on me now. Let’s hear it.”

Steve swallowed, throat working like the words had lodged there. His hand raked through his hair, stalling, but Jonathan held his stare.

He wasn’t going to let him off. Not this time.

“I like—” Steve began, then broke off with a breathy laugh, shaking his head like he was trying to chase the words back. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer, stripped down. “You don’t make me feel like I have to be someone else all the time.”

Jonathan stilled.

Steve’s eyes flicked up, meeting his for a beat too long before he dropped them again, tracing the rim of his glass. “With everyone else it’s… exhausting. But with you—” He hesitated, a flicker of fear crossing his face. “With you, it’s different. Easier. Even when you’re looking at me like I’m an idiot.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitched, but the ache behind his ribs outweighed the humor. He set his glass aside, needing his hands free, grounding himself in the grain of the table under his fingertips. “I like that you don’t let me disappear,” he said, voice low but steady. He didn’t blink, didn’t turn away. “Most people do. They… they don’t notice when I go quiet, or they’re fine with it. But you—” he gave a shaky laugh, equal parts apology and surrender—“you don’t let me. You make me come back.”

Steve drew in a breath, sharp enough that Jonathan could almost mistake it for a laugh—except he knew it wasn’t.

“And maybe I hate it sometimes,” he went on before he could lose the nerve, heat crawling up the back of his neck. “But mostly I don’t.” His mouth tugged into something small, uneven, but honest. “Mostly I think I need it.”

The words hung between them like live wire, daring either of them to cut it. Jonathan’s chest tightened, waiting—for Steve to laugh it off, or smother it, or take it somewhere Jonathan couldn’t follow. Instead, Steve leaned in too, close enough that Jonathan could feel the warmth rolling off him, close enough that the hum of the diner dulled under the sound of his own pulse.

Jonathan’s breath stuttered, and for one suspended second, he thought—this is it.

But Steve only searched his face, eyes wide open, unguarded in a way Jonathan had never seen before. His voice came out quiet, almost reverent. “I’m glad.”

Jonathan held his ground, though it felt like balancing on the edge of a cliff. If Steve said one more word, if he moved even an inch closer—Jonathan knew he’d fall. His fingers itched to reach across the table, to touch, to test whether this sudden fragile closeness could hold. But the space between them wasn’t just wood and air—it was walls, eyes, the weight of what it would mean if either of them broke it here.

So instead, he leaned back in his chair, steadying his breath, letting a small half-smile tug at his mouth. “You don’t make this easy, Harrington,” he said, low enough that Steve had to lean in to catch it.

Steve smirked, but it was softer now, worn at the edges. “You think you’re any better?”

The words lingered, brushing too close, and Jonathan felt them settle somewhere under his ribs. He could see it in Steve’s eyes—an unspoken dare, an invitation he wasn’t sure either of them was ready to accept.

Jonathan curled his hands into fists beneath the table, grounding himself. “We should probably finish these before the waitress thinks we’re about to move in,” he muttered, nodding at their half-finished drinks and food.

Steve’s laugh slipped out, quiet but warm, like relief wrapped in something heavier. He lifted his glass, clinked it lightly against Jonathan’s. “To not making it easy,” he said.

Jonathan huffed a breath, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he didn’t look away. Not this time.

The toast felt like a promise neither of them had the courage to name yet, but beneath the soft clamor of the restaurant, the silence between them said everything.

⸻

The rest of the meal was a blur, and not because it wasn’t good. Steve just couldn’t focus on the food when Jonathan’s knee kept brushing his under the table, when the scrape of a boot lingered against his ankle like it had a mind of its own. Every nerve in him lit up at the smallest contact, and Jonathan didn’t move away. Neither did he.

Jonathan’s fingers stayed close too—resting on the table’s edge, twitching sometimes, close enough that Steve swore he could feel the ghost of a touch even when there wasn’t one. He thought about it—Jesus, he thought about it too much. He wanted to grab that hand, wanted to see what would happen if he gave in.

But he had to remind himself they were in public, that he couldn’t just reach across and test how far this charge between them would go, so he shoved food in his mouth, pretended to listen to the hum of the restaurant, and tried not to look like he was seconds away from combusting. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, it was loaded. Every time Jonathan looked up, eyes catching his, it felt like the whole place disappeared and Steve was left fumbling for air.

By the time they paid and stepped into the night, Steve was practically vibrating. The cool air didn’t help—it only sharpened everything, made the fact that Jonathan was walking beside him feel louder.

Too close, but also not close enough.

They turned down the street toward his car, and Steve’s mouth got ahead of his brain. “I know I should probably say it at the end of the date,” he blurted, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop them from doing something reckless, “but I don’t want this date to end so I’ll say it now. This was the best date I’ve ever—”

Jonathan didn’t let him finish. One sharp tug at Steve’s jacket and suddenly he was shoved against rough brick, the narrow alley swallowing them whole. Before Steve could breathe, Jonathan’s mouth was on his—hot, demanding, nothing held back.

Steve’s brain went white-noise static. He staggered back against the brick, half from shock, half because his knees forgot how to work. Jonathan kissed like he’d been holding it in all night—maybe longer—soft and desperate, done pretending he could keep this contained. Steve’s only instinct was to kiss back, helpless and just as hungry, his hands clutching Jonathan’s hips, dragging him closer until there was no space left between them.

When Jonathan finally pulled back, Steve’s head thunked lightly against the wall, dazed. He blinked, trying to catch up. “Uh,” he managed, eloquent as ever. “What—what were we talking about?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. He just fisted another handful of Steve’s shirt and dragged him back in. Steve didn’t resist—he urged it on. Jonathan kissed like he was starving, and Steve could only try to keep up. His hands slid up Jonathan’s back, desperate, before knotting in his hair and yanking him closer, closer still.

When Jonathan’s teeth caught his lip, sharp and deliberate, a moan tore out of Steve—low, helpless. Jonathan pressed harder at the noise, like he wanted to wring every last bit out of him, and Steve’s head spun with it, drunk on the way Jonathan wouldn’t let him go.

The world shrank to breath and heat and the rough scrape of brick against Steve’s shoulders. Jonathan’s hips slotted between his, pressing, grinding just enough to make Steve’s whole body jolt. He clutched tighter, his pulse in his throat, everywhere, his brain screaming to slow down but his body begging for more. It was messy, desperate, perfect—Jonathan’s hand gripping his jaw, thumb swiping over the edge of his mouth, Steve tugging at Jonathan’s shirt like he wanted it gone, like he didn’t care they were in public. He barely recognized the sound that ripped out of him when Jonathan sucked at the corner of his mouth, sharp and needy.

For a second, he thought they’d tip straight over the edge, right there in the alley, lose themselves completely. But Jonathan broke the kiss, panting, forehead pressed hard against Steve’s, eyes wild. Steve’s chest heaved like he’d just run a mile. “Jesus, Byers,” he whispered, voice wrecked. Jonathan’s breath still ghosted over his lips, close enough Steve could taste him every time he inhaled. “You’re—” He stopped himself, biting the words back, but the hungry look in Jonathan’s eyes said he already knew.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them trusted themselves to. But the world was still out there—the noise of traffic, the glow of the restaurant’s sign bleeding faintly into the alley. Jonathan was the one who finally leaned back, just an inch, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. His mouth was swollen, eyes dark, and Steve’s stomach dropped at how undone he looked.

Undone because of Steve.

Steve’s fingers flexed helplessly at his sides, like they didn’t quite understand why he wasn’t still touching Jonathan. He swallowed hard. “So, uh. Guess I was right about the best date thing.”

Jonathan huffed, half a laugh, half a groan, and scrubbed at his face. “We should—get to your car. Before I…” His voice broke off, rough, like admitting the rest might light the fuse again.

Steve nodded, way too fast. “Yeah. Car. Good idea. Walking. Normal people walking.” His brain felt like static, like he’d short-circuited somewhere back in the kiss and hadn’t quite come back all the way.

They stepped out of the alley, too careful about the space between them, as if keeping a few inches would stop the current that had just ripped through both of them. But their hands kept swinging too close, knuckles brushing once, twice, until Steve shoved his into his pockets before he did something stupid like grab Jonathan’s and never let go.

By the time they reached the car, Steve’s heartbeat still hadn’t slowed. He unlocked it with a shaky hand, glanced at Jonathan across the roof, and almost laughed at how wrecked they both looked. Jonathan’s shirt clung crooked at the collar, hair sticking up in wild, irresistible directions. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, lips parted like he couldn’t catch his breath. And his eyes—blown wide, dark and dazed—made Steve’s pulse trip hard, like Jonathan couldn’t quite believe how the night had ended.

Steve couldn’t look away. He wanted to memorize him like this—undone, unguarded, devastatingly alive. It left him delirious. And maybe he did laugh—low, breathless, helpless—because he had never wanted anything as badly as Jonathan Byers in that moment.

Chapter Text

The First Shared Signal

After yet another breathless make-out session in Steve’s car, the world outside blurred into nothing but mouths and hands. Jonathan’s fingers slid into Steve’s hair, curling tight, dragging him closer. Steve leaned into it with a low hum of approval, heat rushing straight to his chest.

It was all urgency and want, tongues moving together with an ease that felt endless until Steve couldn’t tell where he stopped and Jonathan began. But then, all at once, Jonathan wrenched himself back, chest heaving, forehead pressed to Steve’s like sheer will was the only thing keeping him from caving.

Steve swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay on Jonathan’s shoulders instead of where they ached to go. He forced a grin, breathless. “What? Stopping already? Thought you were supposed to be the one with stamina, Byers.”

Jonathan huffed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well… maybe I’m trying to keep us from doing something really stupid in your car.”

But he didn’t lean away—not yet—and the closeness alone sent Steve’s pulse racing. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, close enough that his breath ghosted Jonathan’s jaw. “Define stupid,” he murmured, low and daring.

Jonathan didn’t back off. Shoulders tight, he met Steve’s eyes with a look that felt more like warning than retreat, yet the faint flush rising on his cheekbones gave him away, softening the edge of his words. “Like, I don’t know… getting arrested for indecent exposure?”

Steve arched a brow, eyes sweeping slowly down and back up, lingering just long enough to make it obvious. “Pretty sure indecent would mean less clothes, Byers. Unless you’re saying you were thinking about that too.”

Jonathan’s breath hitched, a sharp inhale betraying him before he could rein it in. He covered it with a scoff, raking a hand through his hair like he could shake the moment off.

His gaze skittered sideways, refusing to land on Steve. “Don’t tempt fate,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he meant. “With our luck, someone would still show up.”

Steve leaned back, warmth humming under his skin, the grin pulling at his mouth more fond than sharp. The sight of Jonathan Byers avoiding his gaze, ears pink, only made his chest feel lighter. “Please. Who’s gonna call the cops? Your neighbors?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, leaning back against the passenger seat with a long, steadying breath, but the twitch at his mouth gave him away. “My mom, if she looks out the window and sees your dumb car parked here all steamed up.”

Steve didn’t push, not this time. He let the grin linger, soaking in the quiet thrum between them. The dashboard glow painted Jonathan’s profile in soft amber, tracing the line of his jaw and catching on the curve of his mouth as he breathed. Steve was content, in that moment, just to watch.

For a long moment, the car stayed hushed, windows fogged faintly with leftover heat. Neither of them moved—just sat in it: the quiet, the closeness, the weight of the date and everything it had shifted between them—until the silence felt breakable, almost fragile.

Jonathan moved first, running a hand through his hair before reaching out, almost absentminded, to smooth Steve’s collar. The touch was quick, but it lingered all the same.

Steve huffed a low laugh and returned the favor, tugging Jonathan’s jacket straight, his fingers brushing just a little longer than necessary. Then, almost without thinking, he reached up to smooth Jonathan’s hair too, letting his hand linger a fraction longer than the gesture called for.

Jonathan’s eyes found his, and Steve forgot how to breathe. A small, almost shy smile tugged at his mouth—soft, fleeting—and it hit Steve like a jolt, his pulse hammering in his throat.

Before he could catch his breath, Jonathan leaned in and pressed his mouth to Steve’s—just once, soft and chaste, tender in a way that felt impossibly more intimate than the hunger from before. By the time they finally climbed out of his car, the walk up the path vanished too quickly—gone before the ricochet of that last kiss left Steve’s veins.

He didn’t know how Jonathan could be such a phenomenal kisser—but he was glad for it, wrecked by it. Even after, he felt unsteady, like the ground shifted under him every time he replayed the press of Jonathan’s mouth, the steadiness of his hands, the look in his eyes—that quiet certainty Steve realized he’d been chasing without even knowing. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool, but every step toward the Byers’ front door made it harder to breathe like a normal person.

Jonathan slowed at the porch. His shoulders tightened the way they always did when he knew someone was waiting on the other side, and Steve caught the flick of his eyes toward the doorframe.

Right—Will. Probably listening. Maybe even pressed against the wood, holding his breath like a kid catching his big brother sneaking in late. Jonathan cleared his throat. “We should probably call it a night.”

Steve’s stomach dropped faster than he wanted to admit. “Wait,” he blurted, before he could think better of it. “Do you want to do something tomorrow night?”

For a second—half a second—Jonathan’s eyes flickered bright, like he wanted to say yes without even thinking. Steve felt that rush again, reckless and unstoppable.

But then Jonathan’s expression shifted; his brows knit, his mouth pressed thin, and his shoulders dipped. “I, uh… promised Will we’d watch The Thing tomorrow. Robin’s supposed to come too — she offered to bring snacks.”

Steve blinked, his eyebrows tugging together. “The thing?”

Jonathan huffed a little, the corner of his mouth twitching like he almost wanted to smile. “Yeah. Carpenter. Antarctica, paranoia, the whole deal. Will’s obsessed—he says it’s, like, the perfect monster movie. Half the time you can’t tell who’s human and who’s not.” He shrugged, eyes flicking down between them. “It’s kind of our thing. We’ve watched it more times than I can count.”

“Oh.” Steve’s hand twitched at his side, fingers curling tight around nothing. He forced a smile, casual, easy. “Can I come?”

He hadn’t lied about the Byers’ movie club being extremely exclusive—he’d been banished enough times to know the rule by heart. Once it got late, Jonathan would mutter Byers only, Will tossing him an apologetic look as he shut the door. It had always stung a bit.

Which was why Jonathan’s blink now—quick, startled—and his quiet, “You want to come?” felt like stepping into brand-new territory.

Steve met his eyes, steady this time, no joking edge to it. “Yeah. I do.”

Jonathan didn’t answer right away. His eyes darted down, then back up, like he wasn’t sure if Steve was serious. Steve held the silence, heart thudding too loud, willing him to believe it.

“Yeah,” Jonathan said finally, softer than before. “Yeah, okay.”

Something loosened in Steve’s chest. The sound that left him wasn’t quite a laugh—more like relief disguised as breath. And then Jonathan’s eyes found his again and Steve forgot the rest of the world existed.

It felt like the night itself was holding still, waiting just for them. Jonathan was so close it was too easy to lean in again, too easy to think maybe this time they didn’t have to stop.

Steve could see every detail—the faint flush climbing Jonathan’s cheekbones, the way his lashes cast shadows under the porch light, the nervous pull of his lower lip between his teeth. His pulse thundered in his ears, begging him to close the distance.

Jonathan’s breath hitched, his hand twitching at his side like he might meet him halfway. They were close enough that Steve could feel the heat rolling off him, close enough that—

The door creaked open.

They sprang apart like kids caught with a stolen liquor bottle. Will lounged in the doorway, arms crossed, amused and sharp. “Took you long enough.”

Jonathan’s eyes went wide. “Will—”

Will smirked, head tilting like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Relax. I’m not gonna tell Mom.” His voice was light, teasing, but the glance he flicked between them lingered too long, carrying more weight than his words.

For a beat, the porch went still—Steve shifting on his feet, clearing his throat as heat crept up the back of his neck. Jonathan’s glare could’ve cut glass, but it only made Will grin wider, the silence stretching.

Jonathan finally broke, looking like he wished the floorboards would swallow him whole. “Don’t you have something better to do than stand there?” he muttered, brushing past his brother into the house.

“Not really,” Will said easily, stepping aside but not moving far. His smirk hadn’t faded, and Steve had the sinking feeling it wouldn’t anytime soon.

Steve hovered a beat too long on the threshold, like maybe he should back out before this got worse. But Jonathan glanced back, shoulders still taut, and that was enough to pull him inside.

The living room was dim, one lamp buzzing faintly. Jonathan dropped onto the couch, arms folded, pretending to be comfortable. Will sprawled in the armchair opposite, looking far too entertained. Steve, with no safe ground to claim, perched on the other end of the couch like he might bolt.

For a second, no one spoke.

“So…” Will tilted his head, all false innocence, “what were you two doing out there?”

Jonathan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. Steve coughed into his fist, aiming for casual but hearing the rasp of it anyway. “Just… talking.”

“Mm-hm.” Will leaned back, still watching them like he was cataloging evidence. “Looked intense.”

Jonathan’s glare snapped to his brother, sharp enough to promise retribution, but Steve caught the flicker of something softer underneath. A twitch of guilt. A flicker of protectiveness.

It almost made Steve feel bad. Almost.

Instead, he sat back on the couch, ears hot but enjoying the view with barely disguised amusement: Jonathan Byers cornered in his own living room, trapped under his kid brother’s microscope.

Jonathan dragged a hand down his face again, voice muffled through his palm. “Go to bed, Will. It’s late, and you’re not supposed to wait up for me when I come back from my dates—”

“Oh, so it is a date?” Will cut in, grin curling like a knife.

Jonathan’s head snapped up. “Yes! You know it is!”

The room went still for a beat. Steve blinked. He hadn’t expected Jonathan to confirm it—at least not out loud, not in front of Will.

His heart leapt so fast it felt reckless.

Will just hummed, leaning back, smug as a cat. “That’s what I thought. Will it happen again?”

“I hope so,” Steve said before he could think better of it. His voice came out too quick, too certain—but hell, maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.

Jonathan went pink, mouth working like he wanted to argue and couldn’t. Steve grinned into the silence, loving how Jonathan looked ready to sink straight into the couch cushions.

“Actually,” he added, glancing at Will, “I was kind of hoping to crash movie night tomorrow. If that’s cool.”

Will’s smirk softened for a second. “Yeah,” he said easily. “The more the merrier.”

Steve nodded, relief buzzing through his chest. “Thanks, kid.”

Will tipped his chin, eyes gleaming. “Mike’s gonna love this, you know. He hated when you and Nancy dated.”

Steve’s head jerked up. “Wait—really?”

“Yeah.” Will grinned wider. “Said you two were disgusting. Always making out, always corny. He used to come over here just to complain about it. Drove him insane.”

Steve groaned, scrubbing at his face. “Christ, the kid’s brutal.”

Then Will dropped the hammer. “Although… he’s gonna be sad about losing me the bet about you, Jon.”

Jonathan groaned into his palm. “What bet?”

Steve blinked, eyebrows shooting up. “Wait—hold on. There was a bet?” He leaned forward on the couch, grin already tugging at his mouth, caught between confusion and delight. “About Byers?  Okay, now I really need details.”

Will’s grin turned wicked. “Mike swore Jonathan had a crush on you for ages. Said it was obvious.” He leaned back smugly. “Bet he’d be the one to crack first and make the first move.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. He turned—just in time to see Jonathan stiffen, jaw locked, shoulders squared.

Except Steve remembered the end of the date. God, how could he forget? Jonathan had kissed with certainty—hungry and sure in a way that didn’t come from nowhere. That wasn’t new. It had been simmering in Jonathan for a while. Almost confirmed now, if Steve was honest with himself.

Jonathan groaned again, low and muffled, but didn’t deny it. “You two seriously have nothing better to talk about?”

Will smirked, sinking deeper into the chair. “Not when you make it this easy. Mike even said—and I quote—Jonathan acts like he’s allergic to Harrington, but he’s always listening when he’s in the room.”

Steve choked on a laugh, heat climbing his neck. “Wow, you guys really dissected this, huh?”

Will shrugged, breezy. “What can I say? You’ve been the main topic for a while now—way before you started showing up six nights a week. Don’t act so surprised.”

Jonathan groaned again, face buried in his hands, ears bright red. And Steve—well. He couldn’t stop smiling. Watching Jonathan Byers flustered by his little brother was the sweetest thing he’d seen all week.

Jonathan muttered an “Unbelievable” into his hands, and Steve leaned back, still biting down on his grin. “So…” He let the pause hang, grin tugging wider, “you’ve been listening to them gossip about us?”

Jonathan snorted under his breath, finally dropping his hands but dragging a thumb along his jaw like he could scrape the whole topic off his skin. His gaze flicked away, settling somewhere past the lamp instead of on Steve. “Not really. Just heard mumblings sometimes. They were always a gossipy pair, giggling whenever someone walked into a room.”

At that, his eyes finally cut sideways—sharp, narrowing in on Will. “I just didn’t think you were discussing my love life, especially not with Mike.”

“Oh, come on.” Will rolled his eyes. “You knew we were thinking it. You just refused to acknowledge it. You were always so busy at home or working at the diner, you barely had time to—”

Steve’s head snapped around, frown sharp. “Wait. You work in a diner?”

Jonathan froze, shoulders stiff.

Steve’s brows shot up, incredulous. “Which diner?”

Will piped up, smug as ever. “The one on Main, across from the pharmacy.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “The one we just went to?”

Jonathan groaned once again, ears flaming red as he shot Will a withering look, while Steve sat there, stunned, his mind flashing back to the end of the meal. He’d insisted on paying—of course he had—but Jonathan had pushed right back, muttering that Steve didn’t have to. They went a couple of rounds over it, Steve throwing in a grin and a “shut up, Byers, let me feel useful,” until Jonathan finally sighed and let him win.

When the waitress dropped the check, Steve slid his card onto the tray, leaning back like the argument was settled. He was happy to wait for her to come back—victory earned, end of story. Except Jonathan was already sliding out of the booth, snatching up the tray before Steve could blink. “I’ve got it,” he said, quiet but firm, brushing off Steve’s halfhearted protest with a flick of his hand.

Steve had been too buzzed, too wired from the date to think twice about it—but now he remembered the way Jonathan came back with the check already handled—his card run, the total lower than it should’ve been. At the time, he’d just shrugged it off, grinning too hard to care.

But now?

Jonathan had known Steve wanted to pay, had let him pay—but still slipped in the staff discount, quiet and unobtrusive. A small act of appreciation he never meant to call out.

It was so Jonathan. Never making a show of it, just finding a way to make things easier without drawing attention to himself.

The realization curled warm and guilty in Steve’s chest all at once. He’d spent half the night trying to impress him, and all along, Jonathan had been silently looking out for him.

Will leaned back, looking downright smug. “Mike’s gonna lose his mind when he finds out he was right about your crush—and still owes me twenty bucks. I told him you’d never make the first move. You’d rather hole up forever than admit it.” Steve bit his lip, trying to keep his smile under control. Jonathan groaned into his palms, though the twitch at his mouth betrayed him.

“Man,” Steve said lightly, nudging Jonathan’s knee under the coffee table, “Jonathan Byers crushing on me. Gotta admit, that’s pretty flattering.” Jonathan peeked up through his fingers, glare half-hearted, but Steve only softened his smirk, tilting his head. “Don’t worry, Byers,” he added, voice low, warm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Wow. Gross. I’m definitely telling Mike.”

Jonathan muttered something murderous into his hands. Steve just chuckled and leaned back, throwing his arm across the couch, feeling perfectly at home.

For once, he didn’t care if Will saw it—the grin stuck on his face, the pulse still racing in his throat. Steve had never felt better in his life.

Will finally stretched, arms overhead, like he’d wrung every ounce of satisfaction out of the night. “Alright,” he said, still smirking, “I’ve done my job here. Goodnight, lovebirds.”

Jonathan groaned, muffled into his palms. “Don’t ever call us that.”

“Too late,” Will tossed over his shoulder as he padded down the hall.

A door clicked shut a few seconds later, leaving the house in the low hum of the lamp and the quiet tick of the clock. Jonathan muttered into his palms, voice low and sharp. “Don’t say a word.”

Steve couldn’t help it—he laughed, warm and unbothered. “I just don’t get why you’d hide it. Especially since we were literally sitting in your place of work.” His head tilted, brows drawing together. “How did I not know about it?”

Jonathan exhaled slowly, his voice quiet and muffled. “I used to do more shifts. But after what happened with Will… I stayed home, helped out more. When I went back to school, my mom made me cut back. Said it wasn’t working—said I’d taken on too much, and that I should still be a kid while I could.” His lips twitched faintly, almost rueful. “Didn’t mind. Two, three nights a week is plenty. Covers what we need.”

Steve let the words settle before asking, gently, “And you just… never thought to mention it?”

Jonathan’s shoulders lifted in a faint shrug, his head still buried in his hands. “It’s embarrassing.”

Steve sank back into the couch cushions, his gaze lingering on the empty doorway—thinking of all the nights this past month when Jonathan slipped out with nothing more than a muttered goodbye, leaving Steve to wonder where he went. When his eyes slid back, Jonathan sat there wound tight, his whole frame strung like he didn’t know how to let himself ease.

And then it clicked.

Sure, Jonathan thought bussing tables at a diner was embarrassing—but that wasn’t really it. By now, he had to know Steve wouldn’t care about something like that. Not after he’d seen him roll up his sleeves to fix the Byers’ dryer, or replace the flickering hallway light without a second thought.

No, what really burned Jonathan was the other thing Will had dragged into the open, the thing he’d been denying for years.

The crush.

Jonathan Byers, once again tucking away the parts of himself he didn’t want the world to pick apart, hiding even harder when it came to Steve.

His face was still buried in his hands, shoulders hunched, ears blazing red. It was so endearing Steve almost laughed. Instead, he nudged Jonathan’s knee, gentler this time. “Hey,” he said quietly.

Jonathan peeked through his fingers, suspicious, like Steve might be ready to pile on. But Steve only offered him a lopsided smile. Not teasing—just warm. He let out a breath, dropping his hands at last. The tips of his ears were still pink, but his glare had lost its bite.

For a second, Steve just looked at him—at the way the lamplight softened the edges of his hair, at the faint crease still carved between his brows. “Y’know,” He said quietly, “you don’t have to hide like that. It’s not embarrassing.”

Jonathan blinked at him, caught off guard. His mouth opened, then shut, like he didn’t know where to put that kind of reassurance. His hands fidgeted against his knees before he finally muttered, “It feels like it.”

Steve shifted a little closer on the couch, knees brushing Jonathan’s. He kept his posture easy, shoulders relaxed, voice steady. “Yeah, well… maybe to you. But not to me.”

He nudged Jonathan’s knee again—gentler this time, almost like punctuation—before his voice dropped lower, more honest. “I like knowing you liked me—back then. Even if it was just for a while.” His mouth twisted, almost self-conscious. “Because I’ve never felt like this with anyone before, and hearing that…” He let out a shaky breath. “It kinda validates it. Makes me feel less crazy. Like I’ve been chasing this for a while now without even realizing—and at least one of us knew what it was.”

Jonathan’s eyes flicked toward him, startled. For once, he didn’t look away and Steve watched the breath catch in his chest, sharp and shaky, before he finally let it out slow. “When… when did you realize?” His voice was low, hesitant, but steady enough to land between them.

Steve blinked. Out of all the things he’d just spilled, that was the part Jonathan wanted to focus on? Not the feelings part, not the mess of obsession he’d practically confessed—just when. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth, half amused, half pained. “Honestly? Nancy told me.”

Jonathan’s eyes went wide, his whole face tightening like the words had blindsided him. For a second he just stared, lips parted, and Steve could practically feel the questions crowding behind his silence.

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a rough laugh. “I mean, I was wrecked over the holidays. Couldn’t stop thinking about you—about how you saved me when you had every reason not to. Felt like crap for it. I’d just sit there staring at that photo you took, feeling like the biggest asshole alive.”

His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “And then, somehow, we end up… not friends exactly, but close enough that you didn’t shove me away. And even then, I still needed Nancy to spell it out. My ex-girlfriend—the only girl I ever thought I’d get serious with—had to look me in the eye and basically go, Hey, Steve, maybe it’s more than friendship. How pathetic is that?”

He let out a short laugh, but it fizzled quick. His gaze slipped away, the humor draining out of him. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fingers restless, then dropped it to his knee, tapping once before going still.

He wasn’t even sure why he was saying all of this, why the words kept tumbling out. A part of him knew he should stop, shove it all back down—but looking at Jonathan, he didn’t want to. He wanted him to know. And that kept his mouth moving, pushed the confession past the walls he usually kept up.

“The night before our fist fight…” His voice wavered, then steadied. “When I saw you with Nancy in her room… I told myself it was about her. Classic jealous boyfriend, girl moving on too fast—standard Harrington tragedy.”

He paused, shoulders tightening, his eyes dropping to the floor. His breath came uneven, catching once in his throat before he forced himself to look back up, meeting Jonathan’s eyes.

“But the more I replayed it, the less it felt like losing Nancy and the more it felt like…” He swallowed hard, words dragging out. “It was you. You with your arm around her, like you belonged there. That’s what burned. Not her. You.”

For a moment, neither of them breathed. Steve’s words were still ringing in his ears like he’d set something volatile loose in the room. He stayed perfectly still, afraid that if he pushed even an inch further, Jonathan would bolt.

Jonathan didn’t answer right away. For a second, his eyes flickered—sharp, startled, betraying him before he could rein it in. But then the weight of the moment settled.

His shoulders eased, the tight line of his jaw softening. His knee shifted, brushing Steve’s, not pulling back this time. The space between them felt narrower than it had a minute ago, as if the couch itself had drawn them closer.

When Jonathan finally spoke, his voice came rough, low, his gaze dropping. “I always noticed you. I was in denial about it myself for a while. Even when it was obvious to me, I still shoved it down. It was easier to hate you. And I did—I did really hate you.”

The hate didn’t surprise him. He’d earned that a hundred times over, back when being an asshole was practically his whole personality. But Steve’s breath still caught.

Even after Will’s smug little reveal and Jonathan’s lack of denial, those four words—I always noticed you—rang louder than anything else in his mind. He caught the flicker in Jonathan’s eyes, the way he didn’t move away. It made his pulse kick harder—because Jonathan Byers wasn’t just letting him stay close. He was choosing it.

But Jonathan wasn’t finished.

“I hated you because you had everyone in the palm of your hand—and the worst part was, it seemed like you didn’t even care. Meanwhile, I had to work twice as hard just to get anyone’s approval.” His voice hitched, the words snagging mid-breath, and he went quiet for a long moment, knuckles pressed white against his knees. When he spoke again, it came out rougher. “Even my own family’s.”

Steve blinked, the words landing heavier than he knew how to process. Just minutes ago they’d been circling each other with half-smirks and banter, but now Jonathan’s voice had stripped all of that away—no edge, no bite. Just the kind of weight that dragged the air down with it.

Family? What was Jonathan even talking about? Joyce adored him. Will looked at him like the sun rose whenever he walked into a room.

Steve started to say as much, the protest right there on his tongue—but Jonathan cut him off with a single look. When he spoke, his voice was low, uneven, like every word dragged against his throat. “My dad… he never really saw me. Or anyone, except himself. Everything I did, everything I was—it was never enough. He’d pick it apart, tear me down until I believed him.”

Jonathan’s mouth tightened, and for a second it looked like he might stop there, but the words kept pushing out, halting and rough. “And I… I tried, you know? I tried so hard to shield Will from it. Kept the volume down, told him it wasn’t as bad as it sounded, made excuses for the bruises when I couldn’t hide them. I thought if I took the worst of it, maybe he’d be spared.”

Steve watched Jonathan’s throat work around the words, saw his hands clench white in his lap, then loosen just long enough to drag through his hair before curling tight again. “But who was I kidding?” His mouth twisted, bitter. “Will noticed. Of course he did. Kids always do. And maybe he didn’t get the fists or the slurs straight to his face, but he saw what it did to me. He carried it anyway.”

A laugh slipped out—short, jagged, humorless. It yanked tight at Steve’s chest, because it wasn’t a laugh at all. Just another fracture in a dam already cracking. “Like I was doing him some big favor—when really I was just teaching him what it looks like to get crushed on a daily basis and pretend it’s normal. I let Will watch me carry it like that was the only way forward. I’m still carrying it.”

Jonathan’s voice faltered, but he forced the next words through. “And when you said… that I’d end up just like him… When you dragged Will into it. That was worse than any punch I ever took at school. Maybe I snapped because it was you. Because you sounded like him.”

Steve’s stomach dropped. The words landed like a blow, sharper than anything Jonathan had ever swung at him. For a second, all he could hear was his own voice in that alley, spitting venom he hadn’t even meant.

His chest ached with it now, regret burning hotter than the memory itself. Comparing Jonathan—Jonathan—to his asshole of a father was the lowest blow he’d ever thrown. It wasn’t just cruel. It was cowardly. And it made him feel like he’d crossed a line, became someone he barely recognized—someone he never wanted to be.

“Jonathan,” he whispered, his voice frayed. He shifted on the couch, knees brushing Jonathan’s, hands clenching uselessly before raking through his hair. “I—shit. I’m so sorry. For that. For all of it. I didn’t mean—” The words choked, and he scrubbed both hands over his face, shoulders curling inward like he could fold himself smaller. “I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself more than I did after saying it.”

Jonathan looked at him then, steady but tired, something softer beneath the sharp edges. He let the silence stretch for a beat before nudging Steve’s knee with his own—small, grounding, calm in a way Steve hadn’t expected. “I forgave you a long time ago,” he said quietly.

Steve froze. “You—what?”

Jonathan just nodded, a quiet sound in his throat, almost like he was humming to himself. His knee stayed pressed against Steve’s, steady, deliberate, and Steve’s mouth went dry.

“After you started coming around,” Jonathan said, voice low but certain. “Fixing stuff that broke, carrying groceries in without being asked, sitting with Will and admiring his art like it was the most natural thing in the world. You went out of your way for us and I just… couldn’t keep holding on to it. Not when my mom finally looked like she wasn’t carrying it all alone anymore—like she didn’t have to feel guilty about me stepping up all the time. Not when you actually tried.”

He gave a small shrug, eyes dropping for a beat, then lifted again—close enough that Steve could see the reflection of the lamplight in them. “I still feel guilty sometimes. For the alley fight.”

Steve blinked, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “No. No, I definitely deserved it.” His grin crooked sideways, easing the heaviness. “Besides, you’ve got some serious skills. Maybe you should teach me sometime.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched despite himself. “Teach you?”

Steve shifted closer, his knee brushing Jonathan’s as he dipped his voice playful, just shy of flirty. “Yeah. Could be fun. And besides…” his grin curved, lazy and reckless, “I’ve recently discovered I’ve got a thing for strong guys. Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

He leaned back just enough to drink it in—the way Jonathan’s face flushed high on his cheekbones, the tips of his ears going pink as his eyes flicked away. Steve’s grin sharpened, smug and unrepentant, riding the high of it. “What? You throw a mean right hook, Byers. Gotta give credit where it’s due.”

Jonathan scoffed, recovering quick, and this time leaned in too, his shoulder brushing Steve’s as he murmured, “Careful, Harrington. Sounds like you’re asking me to knock you out again.”

“What if I am?” His voice was low now, almost brushing Jonathan’s ear.

Jonathan shot him a look, dry but glinting with something else beneath it. “Then you’re an even bigger masochist than I thought.”

Steve barked a laugh, leaning in close enough their thighs pressed side by side. “Guess that makes you the problem, Byers. You beat me once and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Jonathan huffed, but the edge of his mouth twitched. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably into this conversation,” Steve murmured back, their knees pressed tight, eyes locked on his.

The air between them shifted—tight, charged, pulled taut like a wire about to spark. Steve felt it hum under his skin, every nerve on alert.

To his utter delight, Jonathan didn’t back down this time. His gaze locked onto Steve’s, steady and unflinching, the faintest quirk at the corner of his mouth making it look less like a retreat and more like a dare.

And then—

“Ahem.”

Both of them jolted, heads snapping toward the doorway. Joyce Byers stood there with a laundry basket balanced against her hip, eyebrows raised just high enough to make Steve’s ears burn.

Jonathan sat back fast. “Mom.”

She didn’t comment, just shifted the basket higher, voice even. “You should know better than to come back this late, Jonathan. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Jonathan muttered a quiet, “Sorry,” while Steve fought to keep his face neutral.

Joyce gave the smallest nod, already moving toward the hall. “Goodnight. Wrap it up soon.”

They both exhaled in quiet relief—only for her voice to drift back from the doorway, calm but laced with something almost fond. “Boys?”

As they turned to look at her, her mouth curved, subtle but sharp enough. “Looks like you had a good time.” Her tone was light, almost teasing, and then she disappeared down the hall, her amusement lingering in the air long after she’d gone.

The words made Steve’s neck burn, and he was trying to think of something to say. Jonathan went still beside him, scrubbing a hand over his face like he could wipe the moment clean.

Then Steve glanced at him, catching the rigid set of Jonathan’s shoulders, and bit back a laugh that felt too close to a choke.

Because yeah, he was mortified—he really was. If it had been any other date, a parent catching them and saying something like that would’ve been the kind of mood-killer he’d laugh about later, swearing he’d never show his face again.

But this was Jonathan. And under the flush of embarrassment, a flicker of pride warmed through. Joyce wasn’t only teasing just now. She was actually happy for them—and that landed with Steve more than he’d expected.

He’d really grown to like her. She was hardworking, endlessly caring, pouring everything she had into Jonathan and Will with the kind of love Steve wasn’t used to.

Sometimes, watching her with them, he caught himself wishing he’d had a parent like that.

When he was younger, he’d brushed the thought off—it didn’t matter, not with a brand-new car in the driveway and an empty house to throw parties in. But ever since Jonathan had saved him from the demogorgon, the silence in the Harrington house felt louder, the cracks in its empty walls harder to ignore.

The clock ticked in the silence that followed. Jonathan pushed up from the couch too fast, the movement jerky. “Come on,” he muttered, voice low. “I’ll walk you out.”

Steve followed, the air still buzzing in his chest, his head swarming with thoughts.

Jonathan hadn’t hesitated that night, hadn’t cared what Steve had done or said before—he’d just fought, protective down to his bones. It wasn’t bravado. It was something else, something built from growing up with Joyce’s relentless care.

Steve had never known what it was like to be raised that way, to have someone teach you how to protect instead of perform. His father was all sharp edges and business deals, forever preaching that Steve needed to man up—whatever that was supposed to mean. His mother, quiet and distant, floated on the edges of his life. Nothing warm. Nothing steady.

And sure, it wasn’t the same—not even close to what Jonathan and Will had lived through with Lonnie. Steve knew better than to compare. His parents weren’t violent, weren’t cruel in that way. But their absence, their indifference—it carved its own kind of hollow.

Steve had skipped family dinners for years, drowned himself in parties and dates, and the worst part was, as long as the Harrington name stayed polished, his parents never cared.

Every creak of the floorboards was louder in the stillness. Jonathan didn’t touch him, didn’t say anything else as they crossed the living room, but the night clung to them anyway—heavy, steady, and unsaid.

Maybe his family life affected him too—more than he’d ever cared to admit.

And maybe that was why Joyce’s approval landed so hard—because she didn’t just tolerate him. She folded him into the rhythm of her family, welcomed him, made space for him.

More than that, she actually approved of him being with her son.

Jonathan leaned against the frame, arms crossed like he could hide how restless he was. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, as if measuring the distance to Joyce’s room—or how fast Will might sneak back out.

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, watching him—the angle of his shoulders, the way his hair slipped into his eyes under the lamplight. He hadn’t lied earlier. Jonathan was too hot, and it felt downright unfair.

“You know,” he said softly, leaning in just enough to test the waters, “we could pick up where we left off.”

Jonathan’s eyes darted back to him, wide. “Here?”

Steve grinned, leaning a little closer. “Why not?”

Jonathan shook his head, glancing toward the hall again. “Because my mom just left. And Will’s probably not even in bed yet.”

“So?” Steve murmured, his grin turning smug. “Makes it more fun.”

Jonathan’s ears flushed, but he held his ground against the doorframe. “Steve—”

Steve cut him off by leaning in, close enough that his breath ghosted Jonathan’s cheek. He didn’t press, not yet—just hovered there, letting the tension thrum. “C’mon, Byers. Just one more. For the road.”

Jonathan exhaled through his nose, caught somewhere between exasperation and temptation. His eyes flicked down to Steve’s mouth, then back up, and that was all the invitation Steve needed. He stole a quick kiss—soft, warm, gone too soon.

Jonathan startled, glancing toward the hallway like someone might’ve seen, and Steve pulled back just far enough to smirk. “See? No one died.”

Jonathan huffed, shaking his head, but the twitch at his mouth betrayed him as usual. He finally opened the door, gesturing out into the night. “Go, Harrington.”

Steve lingered on the threshold, grinning like an idiot. “Worth it.” He stole one more quick peck, just to see Jonathan’s glare flare again, before jogging down the porch steps.

When he glanced back, Jonathan was still at the doorframe, arms folded, lips parted like he hadn’t quite gotten his breath back. Steve’s grin widened, chest light.

Best. Date. Ever.

⸻

Jonathan had been dreading this all day.

Movie nights were supposed to be a simple Byers tradition—popcorn in the microwave, soda on the table, the TV humming with whatever Will swore was essential viewing.

It was safe. Predictable.

But now there was Steve. And the date. And the way Jonathan’s chest still felt off-balance, like his ribcage hadn’t settled since.

He told himself it didn’t matter, but it did. 

Alone with Steve was one thing, the two of them shoved into the same space, heat pressing between them until it was too much to deny. It had felt almost like a fever dream—too intense, too good, the kind of thing that couldn’t last once the world came rushing back in.

And it had, almost immediately. Will was proof of that last night. Jonathan could practically feel him as they approached the porch, hovering on the other side of the front door. The creak in the floorboards, the quiet hush in the house—tell-tale signs his brother was waiting, ready to catch him, ready to demand every detail the second he walked in. Ready to remind Jonathan that as much as he wanted to keep Steve to himself, real life was always going to come pressing in.

Jonathan had said they should call it a night and then Steve had blurted, Wait. Do you want to do something tomorrow night?

He could still see the look in Steve’s eyes, reckless and certain all at once, and he hadn’t been ready for it. And then came the second shock—Steve asking to come to movie night. Jonathan had been floored. Steve Harrington wanting to sit on their sagging couch and watch The Thing with him and Will? It didn’t make sense.

But he had.

Steve had looked him dead in the eye, no joking edge to it, and asked to come. He wasn’t asking out of politeness, but because he truly wanted to be there—and Jonathan, despite every instinct to protect the little corner of his life he shared with Will, couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.

The flicker of brightness in his chest had been immediate, instinctive, like his body answered faster than his brain ever could. He’d forced himself to play it slower, to drop his eyes, to act like he was weighing it—but the truth was, he’d wanted to say yes before Steve even asked.

The truth was he didn’t want to push Steve away. Not anymore.

Jonathan had replayed it a dozen times already—the way Steve’s laugh had cracked open, not quite a laugh at all but relief spilling out of him, like Jonathan’s yes had been the only answer he’d been holding his breath for. It terrified him just as much as it made him want to lean closer, to let that yes keep unfolding into something bigger.

Now, in the light of day, it all felt... Different. Because letting Steve come to movie night wasn’t just letting him sit on the couch—it was letting him all the way in. That thought twisted Jonathan’s stomach with nerves, even as he replayed Steve’s crooked laugh endlessly in his mind.

Maybe he’d been wrong about Steve after all.

Still, out in the open—with Robin, with Will, maybe even Nancy eventually—it was another story. He wasn’t used to people knowing. Not really.

And Will. God. He could feel it in his bones—his brother had already spilled. By the time the knock came—an hour earlier than planned—Jonathan wasn’t surprised. Just resigned.

Robin Buckley blew into the house with her arms loaded like she was staging an invasion: two grocery bags stuffed with chips, a family-sized pack of Twizzlers, and a large Coke sweating condensation onto her palm.

“Movie night, Byers!” she announced, kicking the door shut with her heel. “I bring offerings. Accept my snacks, feed me sugar, and then tell me everything.”

Jonathan blinked at her, cautious. “Everything?”

She dumped the bags onto the coffee table, grinning like a cat with cream. “Don’t play dumb. Will already gave me the headline—Steve and Jonathan went on an actual date last night.”  She said it with mock gravity, her voice dropping low, then popped the Coke open with a hiss. “So. Spill. Start to finish. And don’t you dare leave out the juicy parts, because I know there were juicy parts.”

Jonathan’s stomach twisted, heat prickling at the back of his neck. Twizzlers. Of course she brought Twizzlers. He’d barely touched the bag before his head was already replaying last night again—Steve leaning across the booth, eyes bright, grinning like he’d caught him out on a secret.

Knew it. You look like a Twizzler guy.

The memory tugged at his mouth before he could stop it, warmth creeping in despite himself. He still tore the candy open too hard, the plastic crinkling loud in his hands, like maybe that could drown Robin out. “You’re really early.”

Robin plopped herself onto the couch like she owned it, legs stretched across the cushions. “Yeah, well, news like this doesn’t wait. So c’mon, Byers—don’t leave me hanging. Was it good? Bad? Earth-shattering? Did Harrington try to impress you with his hair-flip ratio or whatever?”

Jonathan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, but the flicker of a smile betrayed him anyway. “You really that desperate to know?”

“Of course!” Robin waved a Twizzler for emphasis, eyes gleaming. “I’m invested. And you’re stalling.” She leaned forward, relentless but not unkind. “Come on. Spill.”

Jonathan twisted the cap back onto the Coke just to have something to do. “It was… good.”

“That’s not a story,” Robin said, already peeling open the Twizzlers. “That’s a weather report. Headline, please.”

Jonathan stared at the candy in her hand, warmth rising anyway. “We… talked. Library. Then the diner.” He knew better than to mention what came after.

“And?”

“And it was a date.”

Robin just shot him a look, grin going supernova. “Uh, yeah? Obviously. Was he insufferable in the charming way or charming in the insufferable way?”

“Both,” Jonathan admitted, a smile he couldn’t shake tugging at his mouth.

She clocked it and softened a notch. “Excellent. Did you kiss him?”

The words landed like a thrown pebble—small, direct, perfect aim. Jonathan’s ears heated. He busied himself tearing a Twizzler into neat strands, hoping that would be answer enough.

“Uh-huh,” Robin said, delighted. “You did. How bad?”

Jonathan stalled, the candy snapping between his fingers. His mind flashed to the alley—Steve’s back against the brick, the heat of his mouth. And then later, in the car…

He hadn’t meant to lose control like that. But when his teeth caught Steve’s lower lip for the first time, the moan Steve gave in return undid him completely—low, ragged, helpless. He could still hear it now, echoing in his chest like it had branded itself there.

And the worst part? He’d fantasized about Steve for years without ever admitting it—quiet, shameful daydreams he never let himself linger on for long. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, conjuring the heat of Steve Harrington pressed close, his breath at his throat, the dizzy rush of being wanted that way.

Because Steve was his type. Always had been, though Jonathan hated admitting it even in his own head.

Broad shoulders that filled out a sweater too well, the careless sprawl of long legs that made any chair look built for him, the way his hair caught the light like it had been designed to draw every eye in the room.

The curve of his mouth when he smirked—too easy, too confident, enough to make Jonathan’s chest ache in ways he couldn’t explain away.

Sometimes, late at night, the details blurred into something almost tender—imagining what it would feel like if that grin was meant only for him, if those hands ever reached for him in the dark. He’d let the thought hover, dangerous and sweet.

And then Lonnie’s voice would cut through, sharp as ever. Useless. Freak. The words were so ingrained they didn’t even have to be spoken anymore—just echoes in his head, reminders of what wanting someone like Steve was supposed to make him.

So he shoved it down. Called it hate instead. Easier than admitting he wanted something he thought he could never have.

But last night… last night changed everything.

Steve had moaned into his mouth, clutching at him like he wanted Jonathan closer than anyone should ever risk in public. And when Jonathan finally tore himself back, Steve looked wrecked in a way Jonathan had only ever dared to imagine—hair mussed, lips flushed and swollen, chest rising too fast, eyes blown wide and dark, locked on Jonathan like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

Steve Harrington, undone.

Because of Jonathan.

And then later—god, the whiplash of it—Steve in the living room, unbothered and warm even with Will right there.

Jonathan Byers crushing on me. Gotta admit, that’s pretty flattering. Don’t worry, Byers, your secret’s safe with me.

The ease of it—how Steve could be so openly fond while Jonathan felt like a live wire—only made the memory hit harder. He’d spent years burying want under anger; Steve met it like it was simple, like it didn’t have to ruin anything.

Jonathan knew he’d replay that moan—and the quiet promise in Steve’s voice—a hundred times more. Not as fantasy, but as proof it was real.

His stomach knotted. His ears burned hotter. He finally muttered, “Pretty.” He caught himself, swallowed, and surrendered, “Pretty great.”

Robin’s grin went sharp and wicked, like she could read all the missing info in the way his voice dipped. “That’s what I thought—which, frankly, is adorable.”

Jonathan dragged a hand through his hair and let the smile have him for a second. “Adorable is… not the word I’d use.”

“Then pick one,” Robin pressed, leaning forward, relentless but not unkind. “Was he nervous? Did he do the hair thing? Did you do the scowl-but-secretly-fond thing?”

He snorted. “Maybe.”

“Thought so.” She shoved the Twizzlers toward him with a triumphant little flick.

Jonathan shook his head, but he still took one.

Robin watched him chew for a beat, then leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “Okay, but you’re not off the hook yet. I need specifics. Was it awkward at first, or smooth right away? Did he miss your mouth and almost kiss your chin? Did you bump noses?”

Jonathan choked on the Twizzler. “Robin.”

She grinned wider, merciless. “What? These are the important details. Was it with tongue or was it tight-lipped? Wait, of course it was, it’s Harrington. Did he use too much or just enough? Did he do that thing—” she mimed a dramatic head tilt, flipping imaginary hair—“because I swear if Harrington hair-flipped mid-kiss, I’ll never let him live it down.”

Jonathan just groaned, dragging a hand down his face, ears blazing. 

Robin smirked. “So that’s a yes to at least one of those.”

A knock rattled the door, and Jonathan nearly sagged in relief. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered, pushing himself up before Robin could aim another question. At the porch, Mike was practically bouncing on his heels, with Nancy just behind him, looking half apologetic, half annoyed.

Jonathan’s stomach lurched, the memory striking sharp—the night before, Steve’s voice low and uneven on the couch.

Honestly? Nancy told me.

The words had spilled out of Steve almost guilty, but honest—about the photo, about how he couldn’t stop thinking, about how he’d needed Nancy to spell it out for him.

Jonathan remembered sitting there, stunned silent at the idea that Steve Harrington had been that wrecked over him. That Nancy had been the one to put words to something Jonathan had buried so deep he could barely admit it to himself.

Back then, Jonathan hadn’t seen any of it. He was too caught up in the holidays—holding onto the relief of having Will home, settling into the fragile rhythm of being a brother again—and later annoyed every time Steve burst that bubble by showing up.

But now, knowing the truth, the memory tilted sideways—like the picture had always been bigger, and he’d only ever seen a corner of it.

What stuck most, what looped every time he closed his eyes, was Steve’s confession: that the jealousy hadn’t been about Nancy at all. Now, her standing on the porch in front of him, the echo of that confession made it harder to breathe.

“Sorry,” she said with a grimace, unaware of his headspace. “He drove me crazy wanting to come.”

“I didn’t drive you crazy,” Mike cut in, eyes wide and eager. “I just said we couldn’t miss movie night! Come on, it’s tradition.”

Before Jonathan could respond, Will’s door creaked open down the hall. He all but bolted into the living room when he saw Mike. “You came!”

Mike’s grin split wide. “Of course I came.”

Jonathan frowned, arms folding. “You know it’s usually a Byers thing, right?”

Will shot him a look, unbothered. “You invited Robin. And Steve. Hi Robin.”

Jonathan opened his mouth, stalled, then shut it again. After a short acknowledgement of Robin, Will only crossed his arms, smug in his victory, while Mike looked like Christmas had come early.

Robin raised her brows on the couch, gesturing with a Twizzler like it was a weapon. “Wow. So he bursts out for Wheeler, but I had to bring half the candy aisle just to get a hello?”

Will flushed, ducking his head. “It’s not—it’s just different.”

Jonathan smirked faintly. “Don’t take it personally, Robin.” His tone was even, but his eyes flicked briefly between Mike and Will. The bond there was obvious, always had been.

Robin huffed but didn’t argue, already eyeing Nancy. “So, Harrington’s ex,” she said bluntly, leaning forward on the couch. “I’m Robin. You’re staying, right?”

Jonathan winced, shooting her a quick, nervous look. “You don’t have to. But… you can, if you want.”

Nancy blinked, a little caught off guard, her gaze flicking to Jonathan. “Stay?”

Mike wrinkled his nose. “Since when? Thought this was a Byers thing.”

Will shot him a look, sharp enough to cut. “Don’t be an idiot. Nancy stays. She’s family.”

That settled it. Nancy slipped off her coat, still smiling a little uncertainly. Jonathan didn’t say anything, just let the corner of his mouth twitch. He was happy Nancy decided to stay, and for once, he was grateful Mike and Will were busy snapping at each other—because Robin’s attention had finally shifted off him, giving him a much-needed reprieve.

He just hoped—prayed—that Robin would drop the subject now that there was extra company in the room.

He should’ve known better.

The second everyone settled, Robin crossed her arms, eyes narrowing with deliberate mischief. “So,” she said sweetly, “as I was saying—Jonathan was just telling me about kissing Steve Harrington last night.”

Jonathan froze, nearly choking on the Twizzler he hadn’t finished. “Robin—”

“What?” Mike’s voice cracked, shooting up an octave. He whipped toward Will like his friend had betrayed him. “You didn’t tell me that!”

Will blinked, caught between delight and alarm. “I—uh—was going to?”

Nancy, meanwhile, didn’t look surprised so much as smug. Her lips pressed together, eyes sharp as they flicked to Jonathan. “So you finally went for it,” she said, matter-of-fact, like she’d been waiting for confirmation all along.

Jonathan groaned into his hands. “Can we not—”

“Definitely not,” Robin said cheerfully. “We’re absolutely doing this. PG details, though. Kid-friendly.” She shot Mike and Will a look. “But I need the highlights.”

Mike leaned forward, eyes wide. “You kissed Steve? Like… willingly?”

Will smacked his arm. “Obviously willingly.”

Jonathan wanted the couch to swallow him whole. “It’s not—”

Nancy cut in, still smug. “Did he do that thing where he holds on to you, like he’s afraid you’d disappear?”

Jonathan’s face flamed red as he sputtered. “Nancy.”

Her mouth only curved, sharp. “Thought so.”

Robin let out a delighted laugh, leaning across the couch like she’d just been handed gossip gold. “Oh my god, he does that? Amazing. Please tell me Harrington did the hair-flip mid-kiss.”

Jonathan buried his face in his hands again, muttering something unintelligible.

Will perched on the arm of the chair, grinning now. “He’s not denying it.”

Mike groaned, flopping against the couch. “This is insane. Steve Harrington. With Jonathan.”

“Yup,” Robin said brightly, popping a Twizzler into her mouth. “And from the way Byers is blushing, I’d say it was good.”

Jonathan let out a low groan. Nancy, though, only smiled, soft around the edges. “I’m glad.”

Jonathan peeked out from behind his hands, startled. Her look wasn’t mocking—it was warm. He blinked, throat tightening, and nodded once.

Robin immediately ruined the moment by clapping her hands. “Great! Now that we’ve got that already settled, who made the first move?”

Jonathan groaned again, but this time, his ears betrayed him, burning hotter than ever.

Will leaned forward from where he’d settled on the arm of the couch, eyes gleaming. “By that reaction, it was Jonathan. He made the first move.”

Jonathan dropped his hands just far enough to glare, but the tips of his ears burned brighter. “Shut up.”

Robin gasped, delighted. “Oh my God, it was you! Byers, you sly dog.” She pointed accusingly with a Twizzler like it was evidence in court. “Details. Now.”

“No,” Jonathan muttered, crossing his arms tight.

Nancy, seated neatly in the corner, tilted her head, calm and merciless. “So it wasn’t Steve, then?”

Jonathan’s grunt was noncommittal, but it was all the answer they needed.

Will grinned like a cat. “Definitely not. He would’ve bragged about it by now.”

Robin immediately leaned forward, a wicked gleam in her eyes, “Was it a sudden, dramatic thing? Like a grab-the-shirt, smash-mouth kind of move?”

Jonathan groaned, dragging his palms down his face. “I’m not—answering that.”

“Okay, so yes,” Robin said immediately, pointing her Twizzler at him like a gavel.

Nancy hummed, lips twitching. “More likely somewhere out of sight. Jonathan doesn’t exactly seem like the type to risk an audience.”

“Unless,” Will jumped in, “he was the one who got shoved against the car.”

“Will.” Jonathan’s ears went hot, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Mike shook his head at once, frown sharpening like he was solving a puzzle. “No. That doesn’t track. Steve’s been the one chasing this whole time, which means Jonathan had to be the one making the move—just not where anyone could see.”

Jonathan groaned again, dragging a hand down his face.

Nancy’s smirk sharpened. “So… not denying it.”

Robin practically bounced. “Not denying it at all.”

Will leaned back, victorious. “Case closed.”

Jonathan caught the quick glance that passed between him and Mike—warm, almost conspiratorial. Will’s grin softened at the edges, and Mike looked stupidly pleased with himself, like solving this had been some grand achievement.

Robin clutched her chest in mock swoon. “Jonathan Byers, secret Casanova. I’m living for this revelation.”

Nancy arched a brow, calm but lethal. “Honestly? I should’ve seen it coming. Quiet ones always surprise you.”

Will smirked, folding his arms. “Yeah, next thing we know he’ll be writing Steve poetry.”

“Sonnet to the Hair,” Mike said, deadpan, and they all broke into laughter.

Jonathan muttered something murderous under his breath and reached for another Twizzler, chewing on it like maybe sugar could drown out their cackling.

⸻

Steve walked up the Byers’ driveway with his hands shoved in his pockets, jacket slung loose around his shoulders.

Calm. Cool. Collected. At least, that was the plan.

His stomach had other ideas though—knotted, jittery, a mix of nerves and excitement he couldn’t shake.

Byers’ movie night. He’d actually been invited this time, not kicked out with some half-apology from Will. It wasn’t a date-date, not like last night, but hell if he didn’t want Jonathan around him as much as possible—date, movie night, whatever. He’d take it.

He knocked once out of habit, then pushed the door open like he belonged there, trying not to grin at how natural it felt. “Anybody home?” he called, already shrugging his jacket off.

He stopped dead.

The living room was full. Jonathan on the couch, Will curled in the armchair like usual, Robin sprawled with a Twizzler dangling out of her mouth like she’d moved in already—no surprise there. Steve had figured she’d show early.

What he hadn’t counted on was the other two.

Mike Wheeler—the kid who’d never really seemed to like him, tolerating him at best—was slouched back like he owned the place, a smug grin tugging at his mouth.

And Nancy. His ex-girlfriend. Sitting prim and composed in the corner, eyes sharp enough to make Steve’s pulse stutter.

Four pairs of eyes locked on him. Five, if he counted Jonathan’s—wide, wary, the tips of his ears burning pink.

For a second, no one said a word. Just the lamp buzzing faintly, the tick of the clock, and Steve standing there with his jacket half-off, realizing all at once that everyone in this room knew.

His new—probably—boyfriend. His boyfriend’s brother. His new—kind of—friend Buckley. His ex-girlfriend. Her brother. He cleared his throat, forcing his grin back into place even though his ears were burning. “Wow. Okay. Full house tonight.”

Robin twirled the Twizzler between her fingers, grinning like a cat. “Surprise.”

He let out a low whistle, stepping further in the room. “Didn’t realize admission to movie night came with a whole jury. What’s next—you guys quizzing me about last night?”

“Basically,” Robin said cheerfully. “We just interviewed Jonathan, so… it’s probably your turn.”

Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Steve with the kind of smugness that made him itch. “So, are you gay now?”

Jonathan made a strangled noise. “Mike.”

Steve didn’t flinch. A grin curved his mouth, easy, almost cocky, even as his pulse kicked up a notch. “Nah. Still like girls.” His glance flicked briefly toward Nancy—quick, crooked—before sliding back to Jonathan. His shrug was loose, unbothered. “Turns out I like guys too. What can I say? I’m versatile.”

And the thing was—he really wasn’t bothered. It felt like stating a fact he’d already made peace with. He really liked Jonathan, and he’d liked girls before. None of it felt wrong.

Nancy tilted her head, voice calm but precise. “It’s not really surprising. Sexuality is actually a spectrum—some people are only attracted to one gender, some to more. It’s pretty common.”

The words landed with a steadiness that cut clean through the teasing. Mike blinked, startled. Will shifted in his chair, his smile quiet but pleased. Robin nodded sagely, like she was adding this to her running log of Harrington Facts. And Steve felt a knot in his chest ease, one he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

Mike was the first to break the silence with a frown, arms crossed but curiosity leaking through. “Okay, but how do you even know? Like, what if you think you like both and then… don’t?” His glance flicked—pointed, not subtle—toward Steve.

Nancy answered before he had to. “It’s not about changing your mind. It’s about being honest with yourself when things shift. People grow, their experiences change how they see themselves. Sexuality isn’t rigid. It’s more like—figuring out what fits, not what you’re told to fit into.”

Mike still looked unconvinced, like he was picking at threads. “Yeah, but then how do you know it’s real? Like—not just a phase?”

“Because it feels different,” Nancy said simply, her tone sharp enough to leave no room for argument. “The connection doesn’t fade out when it’s real. It stays. Sometimes it even surprises you.”

Steve slid down onto the couch beside Jonathan. Their knees brushed, deliberate on his part, and he felt Jonathan shift just slightly to meet the contact. He nudged Jonathan’s knee, a quiet grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched, eyes flicking toward him for a second too long before he looked away—pink blooming at the tops of his ears again.

⸻

The opening credits flickered across the screen, painting the living room in blue-gray light. Popcorn bowls sat abandoned on the table; Twizzler wrappers crinkled underfoot.

For once, the chaos of who was sitting where had worked in Jonathan’s favor. Robin had decided to sprawl sideways in the armchair like she was preparing to narrate the entire movie. Mike had claimed the other end of the couch, Will tucked in next to him with their shoulders practically fused together. Nancy perched neatly at the edge of the rug, back against the couch, legs folded, already focused on the screen like she’d been dragged here against her will but didn’t mind staying.

Which left Steve.

Right there. Close enough that Jonathan could feel the warmth bleeding through his sleeve every time their arms shifted. His thigh brushing Jonathan’s every so often, subtle, but enough to make his pulse trip.

He still couldn’t quite believe Steve confirmed their date, their kiss, so easily in front of everyone. The casual certainty of it hit hard, leaving his chest tight, his thoughts scrambling to catch up.

On screen, the first scene unraveled—men in snow, a dog running across white nothingness, helicopters in pursuit. Robin whistled low. “Bad omen dog. Classic horror setup. Mark my words.”

“Shut up,” Mike hissed, though he was grinning.

Will leaned forward, eyes wide, whispering something to Mike about foreshadowing. The two of them sank fast into their own commentary, like they always did, building theories and picking apart details.

Jonathan only half-heard them. Steve shifted again beside him, and his focus blurred, zeroing in on the brush of denim against his leg, the faint scent of Steve’s cologne lingering warm and familiar now.

I like knowing you liked me back then.

By the time the infamous blood-test scene rolled around, the room was a mess of reactions. Robin practically yelled CALLED IT, while Will grabbed Mike’s arm, and Mike actually flinched, cursing under his breath. Nancy even gasped—sharp, involuntary—and Jonathan caught the quick press of her hand to her mouth.

But Steve—Steve laughed, low and nervous, his hand flying to Jonathan’s sleeve like instinct. Just a quick grip, gone almost as soon as it was there. Still, it left Jonathan reeling—the echo of Steve’s words from this same couch lingering in his mind.

I’ve never felt like this with anyone before.

The movie raged on. Suspicion, paranoia, fire in the snow. And through it all, Jonathan felt this strange, steady warmth under his ribs—like all the noise of Robin’s commentary and Mike and Will’s banter faded to a hum. What stuck was the press of Steve at his side, the fact that he hadn’t moved away, not once.

I’ve been chasing this for a while now without even realizing—and at least one of us knew what it was.

When the credits finally rolled, the room buzzed with chatter—arguments about who was infected, Robin declaring she’d survive any apocalypse, Will countering with a ten-point plan. Mike threw popcorn kernels at Nancy until she told him to grow up.

Jonathan sat quiet in the middle of it, letting the noise wash over him. Steve’s shoulder still brushed his, casual, comfortable, like it belonged there.

And then another sound threaded through Jonathan’s memory—the low hum of the diner fryer, the clatter of plates. He could still see Steve across the booth, eyes steady, his voice softer than Jonathan ever expected.

Or maybe you just didn’t have the right people around you yet.

He swallowed. Tonight, with Steve warm and unmoving at his side, the words didn’t feel like thin ice anymore.

They felt true.

And for once, Jonathan wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop. For once, the chaos around him felt good—Will, Robin, Nancy, even Mike.

It was loud, but alive. And in the middle of it, Steve’s shoulder stayed pressed to his, steady and grounding.

When Jonathan finally glanced over, he caught Steve already looking at him—soft, certain, like he was in on some secret the rest of the room hadn’t noticed.

For the first time in a long time, Jonathan didn’t just feel like he was in the room—he felt like he belonged there.

Chapter Text

The Castle in the Woods

Mike’s voice carried all the way down the hall, sharp with indignation. “No way, I won that bet. Jonathan kissed him first, that was the deal.”

Will trailed after him, unbothered as ever, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket. “We never talked about a kiss. We talked about the first move. Steve asked Jonathan out. That’s the move.”

Mike spun, glaring like Will had just insulted his entire bloodline. “No, the move is physical. Like—actual proof. The kiss was the proof.”

Will didn’t blink. “The proof was Steve showing up at our door every other night like a lost puppy. Give me my twenty.”

They bickered all the way to the entryway, volleying back and forth—until Mike finally groaned, digging into his pocket. He slapped a crumpled bill into Will’s waiting hand.

Jonathan just rubbed at his temple, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Will smirked, triumphant. “Since when do you have twenties in your pocket?”

Mike’s shoulders slumped, muttering, “Stole from Nancy.”

Nancy froze mid-motion, halfway into her jacket. “You what?” She rounded on him, eyes narrowing like she could burn a hole straight through his forehead. “Mike, are you kidding me? You can’t just steal from me—”

“I was going to pay you back!” Mike yelped, stumbling as she shoved him toward the door.

“With what? The money you steal from me next week?” Nancy snapped, voice sharp as she guided him out.

Robin cackled, holding the door open like it was the best show she’d seen in months. “This is amazing. Ten out of ten.”

Will tucked the twenty neatly into his pocket, satisfaction radiating off him as he drifted down the hall toward his room. “Pleasure doing business,” he called, sing-song as his bedroom door shut.

The front door had barely shut behind Robin when silence dropped heavy over the house. Nancy’s scolding and Mike’s groaning faded down the walk.

Jonathan stacked the last of the soda cans into a neat row, fingers fidgeting with the rim of an empty bowl. He glanced up once—just enough to see Steve still leaning in the doorway, not making a move to leave.

“You survived movie night,” Jonathan said, quieter than he meant to. “That’s a first.”

Steve grinned, walking over. The familiar tang of his cologne threaded through the buttery smell of popcorn, pulling Jonathan’s pulse into his throat. “Well, for the record,” Steve said, voice low, eyes glinting, “I had a good time.”

Jonathan ducked his head, fighting the smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t let Will hear you—he takes The Thing like gospel and would probably make you watch it again.”

“Guess I’ll keep it between us, then,” Steve murmured, leaning just a little closer. The words lingered, warm on the air, laced with a hint of flirt he didn’t bother hiding. For a long moment, he didn’t move, just hovered in Jonathan’s space, gaze dipping—mouth, eyes, mouth again. Jonathan’s breath caught, certain that Steve was going to kiss him.

They hadn’t kissed since last night, which made sense—of course it did. Too many people in the house: Steve’s ex-girlfriend, Jonathan’s little brother, and two more people nosy enough to make a federal case out of a glance. Jonathan wasn’t about to give them a show.

But none of that changed the truth burning in his chest: he wanted to kiss Steve. God, he wanted to kiss him all night. Every time their knees brushed, every time Steve leaned past him for the soda, every time their eyes caught in the flicker of TV light.

But then Steve blinked, grin flickering softer at the edges, and eased back instead. No kiss tonight—just the echo of it, buzzing in Jonathan’s chest like static. 

He exhaled through his nose, sharp with annoyance—at himself for wanting it, and at Steve for not giving it. “Tease,” he muttered under his breath.

Steve only smirked, backing toward the door as he dug into his pocket. “See you tomorrow,” he said, tossing something small and folded onto the coffee table as he turned the knob. The door clicked shut behind him. 

Jonathan’s frown lingered, irritation still warm in his chest—until his gaze snagged on the crumpled scrap by the empty bowls.

He wiped his palms on his jeans before reaching and unfolding it, eyes tracing the scrawl once, twice, before the words finally sank in.

My home number. You know, in case you’re into a second date with a guy who apparently screams drive-thru. I promise if you pick up, I’ll actually talk this time instead of slamming the phone down like a jackass. Hope you’ll call.

At the top, just above the messy handwriting, a string of digits stared back at him. Steve’s number.

Heat rose to his face so fast it left him dizzy. He sank down on the arm of the couch and pressed the paper flat on his knee, staring at the uneven letters until they blurred. 

He remembered that night, two months ago—the static buzz of the phone, his own annoyance, the silence on the other end. He’d told himself it was nothing. Just a dumb prank. Hawkins being Hawkins. He’d pushed it out of his mind.

The note was pure Harrington — cocky and self-deprecating at the same time. But the ending… That wasn’t a joke. That was a tell.

He didn’t hear the creak at first. Or the soft shuffle of slippers on carpet. He was too busy staring at the note, pulse caught between disbelief and something sharper. 

Steve Harrington was still into him. 

Jonathan knew, logically, that Steve had been chasing him for a while. But believing he wouldn’t give up after their date was harder. He kept waiting for the drop—for Steve to get bored and move on, the way Jonathan had expected from the start. Only… he hadn’t.

And still, Jonathan couldn’t shake the pressure off his chest. Because that was the fear, wasn’t it? That sooner or later Steve would see him the way everyone else did: too quiet, too weird, too much work. Jonathan had spent years bracing for that kind of dismissal, and Steve’s history—fast flings, easy breakups—didn’t exactly help. It was easier to believe he’d be tossed aside than to believe Steve.

“Jonathan.”

He nearly jumped out of his skin. The paper crumpled in his fist before he realized it was just his mom, standing in the hallway doorway with her arms crossed.

She’d come home about fifteen minutes ago, catching the tail end of the movie. By then the living room had been crowded—Will curled in his blanket, Mike and Robin heckling side by side on the rug, Nancy settled back into the armchair she’d traded with Robin, and Steve still sprawled next to Jonathan on the couch. Joyce had taken it in stride, disappearing down the hall with a smile.

He’d forgotten she was still here.

“Jesus, Mom,” he muttered, clutching at his chest. “You scared me.” She just arched an eyebrow, a little amused. He shoved the note into his pocket too fast, trying to smooth his face into something neutral. “Sorry, I just… Didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered,” Joyce said wryly. She padded into the room. “Full house tonight.”

Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of the warmth still in his ears. “Yeah.”

“I thought it was just going to be you and Will and that Carpenter movie again.”

Jonathan huffed. “Pretty sure you gave up on banning horror night ages ago.”

“I didn’t give up,” Joyce said, but her tone was fond. “I adapted.” She reached over, brushing a crumb from his shoulder like he was still twelve, then squeezed once before pulling back. “It’s good, you know. Seeing the house this full.”

Jonathan froze, caught between wanting to argue and the lump climbing into his throat. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice quieter than he meant.

His mom studied him for a beat longer—sharp as ever, while he kept his eyes fixed anywhere but her. “I never went to him for help, you know. Steve came to me.”

Jonathan blinked, thrown. “What?”

She gave a small shrug, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Ran into him at Bradley’s. He offered.” Her voice softened. “Said he didn’t want us carrying all of it alone.”

Jonathan’s stomach flipped. It added up—the camera, the dinners, the way Steve kept showing up—but he still couldn’t quite picture it. Couldn’t picture King Steve stopping his mom in the grocery store, volunteering for laundry duty and errands. “He really said that?”

Joyce smiled faintly, weary but sure. “He did. I think he was a little disappointed when all I needed was help with the dryer.” She let the corner of her mouth curve, like it was funny and touching all at once.

Jonathan didn’t have an answer. He sank a little deeper into the couch, gripping the edge of the note through his pocket.

Joyce lingered, her gaze softer now. “You’ve always carried too much on your shoulders, Jonathan. Ever since you were little—looking out for me, for Will. It’s nice to see you with someone who cares enough to look after you for once.”

Jonathan’s throat tightened. He pressed harder against the note in his pocket, as if that could steady him. 

The words hit harder than she probably knew. They echoed too closely—Steve’s voice in his memory, low and unguarded: That maybe someone should do something for you, for once.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just nodded, eyes fixed on the pattern of the carpet, hoping she wouldn’t notice how much her words rattled him. She noticed—of course she did—but she didn’t press. She just wished him goodnight and squeezed his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. 

When the hall light clicked off, the silence pressed in again. Jonathan slumped back against the couch. Steve had been circling closer for a long time—longer than Jonathan had let himself admit. The realization left him unsteady. 

He wanted to trust it, to believe Steve wouldn’t just vanish when the novelty wore off. Last night, and tonight’s movie, the way Steve had grinned like he belonged in their living room—all of it braided together into something that almost felt real, like maybe it could last.

And yet, the fear still pressed in. Steve was easy with jokes and bravado, but what would happen in school? Outside this house, where the walls didn’t protect them?

Jonathan unfolded the note again. His thumb lingered over the paper, tracing the ink.

Hope you’ll call.

⸻

The next morning, Jonathan walked into Hawkins High with his head still crowded. The note in his pocket felt heavier than the books in his bag, its creased edges ghosting against his fingertips whenever he adjusted his jacket. He was supposed to be thinking about algebra, about the essay due Friday, but all he could hear was Steve’s scrawl in his head.

By the time Jonathan realized he’d been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes straight, the page was already a blur. His pencil tapped uselessly against the margin, his thoughts everywhere but the lesson.

A scrap of paper slid onto his notebook. Jonathan glanced sideways—Steve was leaned back in his chair, his signature smirk firmly in place.

Jonathan unfolded the note under the table.

Caught you zoning out. Guess that makes me the model student after all.

His lips twitched before he could stop himself. He scribbled quick across the bottom and slid it back.

Congrats. Want a gold star to go with your attendance trophy?

Steve bit back a laugh, and Jonathan turned back to his book, shaking his head and pretending his pulse wasn’t humming.

But warmth sparked low in his chest anyway.

By the time lunch arrived, Jonathan was still carrying the warmth with him, fingers brushing now and then over the two notes tucked safely in his pocket. Nancy fell into step beside him as he made his way down the hall, clutching her books against her chest. She glanced over, eyebrows lifted just enough to make him uneasy.

“I saw you two exchanging notes in first period,” she said lightly. “I take it things are going well?”

Jonathan’s ears burned. “We were…” He blew out a breath, defeated, and muttered, “Yeah. I guess.”

Nancy’s smile was small but real. “That’s good, Jonathan.”

He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. “It’s just—” He hesitated, then forced the words out. “I don’t know how long it’ll last. With him. He’s… Steve.”

“Steve,” Nancy repeated, steady as if she was weighing the name. Then she tipped her head. “He’s different lately. You’ve noticed that.”

Jonathan frowned at the floor tiles, throat tight. “Yeah. But what happens when he isn’t? When it gets old?”

Nancy didn’t answer right away. Her gaze flicked ahead, thoughtful, like she was considering more than she wanted to say. Finally, she murmured, “All I know is—he’s never been like that with me.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. He looked at her, caught between guilt and confusion. “Nancy…” He shook his head, words rough. “I’m not—I’m not trying to rub it in.”

Her mouth curved, faint and wry. “I know. I’m not saying it like that.” She shifted her books against her side. “I just mean… maybe he’s different because it’s you.”

Jonathan frowned, uneasy. “What does that mean?”

Nancy exhaled, her steps slowing like she wanted to be careful with the words. “When Steve and I were… something. He chased, sure. But it wasn’t like this. Not for two whole months. And it wasn’t subtle.” Her lips twitched at the memory, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “It was flowers, attention, showing off. And the second we were steady, it was like he didn’t know what to do with me anymore.”

Jonathan kept his eyes forward, jaw tight.

“But with you,” Nancy went on softly, “it’s different. He’s been trying to know you, your family… making amends even before the two of you were anything. And he hasn’t stopped. Last night, I could see it—he looked at you like, if we hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have held back.”

Her gaze held steady on him, calm but unflinching, like she wanted the words to land. “He adores you, Jonathan.”

Jonathan blinked, the hallway tilting a little around him. He wanted to argue, to deflect, but the words caught in his throat, and he couldn’t find an answer before they reached the cafeteria doors. 

Inside, the buzz of voices hit, trays clattering. Jonathan scanned the room out of habit—and froze when a familiar voice cut across the noise.

“Over here!”

Steve leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over the backrest like the table was already theirs. His grin was easy, deliberate, as if he hadn’t noticed half the room glance their way—or had, and didn’t care. He waved them over with a flick of his hand, casual but claiming.

Nancy glanced sideways at Jonathan, lips tugging into the faintest smirk. “You were saying?”

Heat crept up Jonathan’s ears as they crossed the room. Steve’s grin sharpened when their eyes met, the noise of the cafeteria thinning to nothing until all Jonathan felt was the burn in his lungs.

“Saved you a seat,” Steve said, nudging the chair beside him like it had been reserved all along. Then, with a quick flash of a grin toward her, “You too, Nance.”

Nancy slid into the chair without hesitation, calm and certain in a way Jonathan envied. He, meanwhile, stood there a second longer, the weight of a hundred eyes pricking his back. Steve didn’t look away—just leaned back, knee angled out like the space beside him was inevitable.

Jonathan exhaled, low and steady, before finally sinking into the seat, the brush of Steve’s shoulder against his making the whole room feel just a little less sharp.

A second later, Robin breezed in, tray piled so high a soda threatened to topple. “Hope you left room at the table,” she declared, sliding into the seat across from them without waiting for an answer. “Because I’m here, and I bring fries.”

Steve immediately swiped one, grinning like he’d been waiting for the setup. “You mean my fries.”

Robin gasped theatrically, smacking his hand. “Unbelievable. Harrington, you are a menace.”

Nancy shook her head, faint smile tugging at her mouth. “You two are children.”

Steve threw her a mock-offended look, hand over his chest. “Nuh-uh. I’m very mature.”

Robin barked a laugh. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”

Jonathan sat back, watching the three of them go at it, their banter bouncing quick and easy. Beside him, Steve shifted, knee bumping his under the table—casual but deliberate. Jonathan felt the contact hum through him, grounding and dizzying all at once.

Robin turned her attention to him, pointing her straw like it was a weapon. “And you—are you seriously just gonna sit there and let him steal from me? Thought you, of all people, were supposed to be on the right side of justice.”

Jonathan blinked, caught off guard for a second before he deadpanned, “Pretty sure justice means I get the fries.”

Nancy actually laughed, soft but real. Steve leaned back with a smug grin like he’d been waiting for Jonathan’s answer. Robin shoved the tray toward him in defeat. “Fine. But if you side with him again, you’re dead to me.”

Jonathan shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching up. For the first time all day, the eyes in the cafeteria didn’t matter—their table felt louder than the stares.

Unfortunately, the day had been going too well for Hawkins High. The scrape of chairs carried across the cafeteria, followed by laughter pitched just a little too loud. 

Jonathan didn’t have to look up to know who it was. 

Tommy and Carol were weaving their way between tables, eyes already locked on Steve like sharks scenting blood.

“Wow,” Tommy drawled as they came to a stop two tables away, voice carrying over the low din of the room. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day Harrington traded us in for the freak table.”

Carol’s smile was sharper, her gaze flicking from Steve to Jonathan like she was cataloging something she could use later. “Guess everyone’s got a type. Didn’t think yours came with… camera equipment.”

Jonathan could feel the tension spike under his skin. Half the cafeteria was staring outright now, waiting to see how this would play out. Then Steve’s knee nudged his under the table—deliberate, steady. A wordless don’t move. 

Jonathan forced his face blank even as his stomach twisted. Beside him, Steve smirked, unbothered, like the whole scene was just background noise. “Don’t worry, Tommy. I’ll send you a postcard from the land of people who don’t suck.”

Robin hummed, with exaggerated boredom.  “Yeah guys, riveting material. Truly, you should take this act on the road. Nothing says comedy duo like ‘high school cliché number one and number two.’”

Tommy sneered. “Cute. But not as cute as the new couple.” His gaze slid to Steve, grin nasty. “What’s next, Harrington? Mixtapes by candlelight? Maybe Byers can take some sexier photos of you while he’s at it.”

A ripple of laughter broke from a few nearby tables. Jonathan’s jaw locked, pulse roaring in his ears.

But Steve didn’t flinch. He just leaned back, arm still draped over Jonathan’s chair, grin easy but sharp at the edges. “Jealous, Tommy? Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think Byers here is interested.” He flicked his gaze to Carol, smirk widening. “What’s the matter—things that bad at home you’ve gotta heckle us to get it up?”

Silence dropped sharp over the cafeteria, heavy enough that Jonathan caught the tiniest details—the scrape of a chair leg, the clatter of a fork hitting a tray somewhere behind him, the buzz of the fluorescent lights that suddenly felt too loud in the hush.

Then it cracked—loud laughter rippling all over the cafeteria, sharp and eager, a release that only made Jonathan’s pulse pound harder. 

Jesus. Steve had really just said that out loud. He hadn’t denied anything they were spewing, hadn’t flinched. Just swung back harder, like there wasn’t a single part of him that doubted whose side he was on. Jonathan pressed his knee harder against Steve’s under the table, not sure in that moment if he meant it as a warning or thanks.

Carol rolled her eyes, her voice slicing through the laughter around them. “God, you’re pathetic, Harrington. Trading in us for him?” Her eyes slid to Jonathan, sharp and cruel, like she knew exactly where to aim. “You think this is real? He’ll drop you the second he gets tired of slumming it.”

The laughter thinned out, a few gasps scattered through the room. Jonathan’s grip on his tray tightened, jaw locked, but before he could speak—

Nancy set down her tray with a sharp clink. The sound carried in the hush, small but commanding. Her voice was calm, almost bored, but her eyes had that steel Jonathan knew too well. “Careful, Carol. You might want to quit while you’re ahead.”

A ripple went through the crowd—quiet oohs, the kind that rolled through any fight worth sticking around for.

Carol’s brows arched, a nasty little smile tugging at her mouth. “Or what, Wheeler? You gonna give me a lecture? Little miss perfect finally gonna get her hands dirty?”

Nancy’s smile curved, sharp and smug. “No. But I could tell everyone here where you really disappeared to during Homecoming. And who with.”

The smirk slid right off Carol’s face. Tommy’s head snapped toward her. “What?” The word cracked through the hush, too loud, too sharp, like it didn’t belong.

Carol’s face went pale, then blotchy red, lips parting like she wanted to spin it, but nothing came out while Nancy just sipped her drink, calm as ever.

Tommy leaned closer to Carol, muttering hot in her ear, “What the hell is she talking about?” but the cafeteria noise surged, murmurs of speculation and a hundred half-formed guesses darting from table to table, sparking like wildfire.

Robin slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in mock shock. “Oh my God. Scandal.” She leaned across the table, eyes glittering at Nancy. “Who was it?”

Nancy just raised her cup, unbothered. “Let’s just say… Carol should learn when to keep her mouth shut and her legs closed.”

A gasp cut through the cafeteria. Carol’s face went even redder as she stalked forward. “You little—” Her voice cracked, shrill with fury. “You think anyone’s gonna believe you freaks over me?”

Steve chuckled low in his throat, still lounging back in his chair like this was exactly where he belonged. “No one has to, Carol. Your little outburst just sealed it. Guess that postcard’s already stamped, huh?”

Jonathan didn’t miss a beat. “Better add ‘fragile’ on the label.” His voice was flat, almost bored, but the corner of his mouth tugged up just enough for Steve to catch it.

Tommy bristled, leaning forward. “What’d you say, Byers?”

Jonathan just shrugged, letting the silence drag a second longer. “Nothing. Just…” His gaze flicked up, flat but steady. “Funny thing about mail.” He paused, deliberate. “It spreads fast.”

The words landed clean, sharp enough to cut through the hush. Then the laughter broke—quick, merciless, rippling across the nearby tables and carrying further, until even the far end of the cafeteria buzzed with it.

Beside him, Steve’s grin widened. His knee pressed into Jonathan’s under the table—steady, deliberate, a wordless nice one. Then he tipped his head at Tommy, grin lazy while his eyes cut sharp. “Guess you’ve got bigger things to worry about than me and Byers, huh?”

That did it. Tommy shoved back from his chair, muttering darkly, but the damage was done—the cafeteria had already turned on them, scenting blood. Carol scrambled after him, her voice pitching desperate, “Babe, wait!”

The slam of the doors as Tommy and Carol fled was swallowed up by the roar that followed—cheers and laughter erupting from every corner, a wave rolling through the cafeteria. Whistles, clapping, mocking shouts—the sound swelled until it felt like the whole school had decided to pile on.

Jonathan sat back, pulse still racing, his palms damp against his thighs. For once, they weren’t the ones on the defensive. Not this time.

Robin broke the tension first, snorting into her drink before dissolving into a laugh she couldn’t hold back. Nancy’s lips curved, a sharp smile slipping into something lighter as her eyes flicked briefly to Jonathan, then Steve. Steve caught her look and let out a low chuckle of his own, shoulders shaking, his gaze sliding sideways to Jonathan like they were in on the same joke. 

Jonathan felt it catch in his own chest—quiet at first, then spilling free, his laugh mingling with theirs until it was their table, not the cafeteria, filling the space with noise.

He almost couldn’t believe it—moments ago the cafeteria had been a battlefield, eyes and whispers closing in from every corner. Now, somehow, it was just them, their laughter cutting through the noise, their table holding steady like its own little island.

“Wow, Wheeler,” Robin gasped between laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Didn’t realize you were so cold.”

Nancy only lifted her cup, sipping calmly, eyes glinting over the rim. “She deserved it.”

Steve barked out another laugh. “Cold-blooded Wheeler. I like it.”

Robin wagged her straw at her like a warning. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. I’ll end up exiled from Hawkins by lunchtime.”

Nancy smirked, setting her cup down with deliberate grace. “Depends. Are you planning on heckling people just to cover your own insecurities?”

Robin pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Me? Never. I’m a delight.”

Steve snorted. “Sure you are.”

Robin narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know, Harrington, I’m delightful. Ask literally anyone.”

“Anyone who?” Steve shot back, grinning. “Your fan club of one?”

Robin slapped the table with her palm, laughter spilling over again. “That’s it. I’m starting a petition. Byers, sign it. Prove I’m delightful.”

Jonathan raised his brows, trying not to smile. “Pretty sure petitions don’t work if you have to guilt people into signing them.”

Nancy failed to hide her laugh this time, shoulders shaking as she set her cup down. “He’s right.”

Robin threw her hands up, groaning loud as the table buzzed with laughter, the sound spilling over itself. Jonathan couldn’t help it—he laughed too, the weight in his chest easing. 

“Unbelievable. Betrayed on all sides,” Robin declared, shooting them dirty looks with no real heat.

“Welcome to the freak table,” Steve said, smirking as he stole another fry off her tray.

“Hey!” Robin snapped, pointing her straw at him like it was a sword. “You’re new here. And you’re a thief.”

Steve only leaned back, smug as ever. “Pretty sure that makes me a pioneer.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “More like a parasite.”

Steve clutched at his chest like she’d shot him. “First Carol, now me? Nobody’s safe.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, the comeback slipping out before he could stop it. “Thought you said you like to be challenged.”

Steve blinked, eyebrows shooting up, and for a second Jonathan thought he’d dodge it with some easy joke. Instead, his grin softened at the edges, not the usual cocky tilt—something smaller, like it was meant just for him.

Jonathan dropped his gaze fast, pretending to study the crumbs on his tray, though he could feel Steve watching, the weight of it warm against his skin.

Robin’s eyes narrowed immediately, bouncing between the two of them. “Hold up. What does that mean?”

Nancy tilted her head, sharper but just as curious. “Yeah, what are you talking about?”

Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face in mock despair. “Come on, Byers. Really?” He shot him a sideways look—equal parts exasperated and amused, like he’d let himself be caught and didn’t mind.

Jonathan kept his head down, but Steve’s knee pressed steady against his under the table, and he knew Steve had caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

With a sigh, Steve leaned back. “Fine. On our date, we played the questions game, and Byers here goes straight for the jugular—asks why I wanted to date him. Which, by the way, rude.”

Jonathan’s ears burned. Our date. Steve had said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it wasn’t risky to toss into a crowded cafeteria. His stomach flipped, nerves knotted tight—but heat spread low in his chest anyway.

Steve gestured with a fry, smirk tugging at his mouth but softer now, almost shy. “And I might’ve said I, uh… liked being challenged.”

Robin’s grin went feral, eyes glinting with mischief. “Challenged. Oh my God, is that what we’re calling it now?”

Steve rolled his eyes, but there was color high on his cheeks when he muttered, “Shut up.” He tried for nonchalance, but it came out a little too quick, a little too defensive.

Robin leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “So you’ve got a thing for difficult people?”

Steve huffed. “Not necessarily. More like people who call me out, too perceptive for their own good.”

“Oh really?” Both Jonathan and Nancy turned to him at once, twin stares pinning him to the spot.

Steve’s mouth opened, then closed again. “Well, I mean—uh—” He gestured helplessly with the fry still in his hand, words tangling in his throat. For the first time all lunch, his smooth front cracked.

Then his eyes flicked to Nancy, but when they came back to Jonathan, they lingered—long enough to make his stomach twist. He forced the grin back into place, crooked but sure. “What can I say? Guess I’ve got a type.”

Nancy let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Figures.”

Jonathan’s nerves still buzzed under his skin, but beneath the unease ran a quiet thread of satisfaction—one he couldn’t quite shake—because Steve looked so damn pleased with himself, like he’d managed to spin the slip into exactly what he wanted.

His knee stayed pressed against Jonathan’s under the table—steady, deliberate—and when his gaze shifted back to him, the grin that had been crooked a moment ago softened at the edges, meant only for him.

And just like that, Jonathan was back at the diner—the flicker of neon in the window, the smell of grease and coffee. Steve leaning across the booth, grinning like he’d cracked some secret code. 

Unbearably charming? Unbearably handsome? Unbearably your type—apparently. 

That last part had come softer, almost careful, like Steve hadn’t been joking anymore. It wasn’t just a line, he realized—not some throwaway Harrington charm. Steve kept circling back to it, because he meant it.

Jonathan ducked his head quickly, pretending to fuss with the edge of his tray, hoping no one else could see the heat creeping up his neck. 

And then Steve’s voice cut through, softer than the rest—pulling Jonathan back to the now.

“Hey,” Steve said, his hand lifting just slightly, palm tilting toward the cafeteria around them before dropping again, like he didn’t want to draw attention. His voice stayed low, meant only for Jonathan. “Before all this—” a vague flick at the lingering whispers, the buzz of laughter—“I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out today.”

Jonathan blinked, caught between surprise and the warmth still spreading in his chest. “I was actually… gonna head out to the woods. Take some pictures.”

Steve’s grin returned instantly, bright and smug. “Perfect. You can do your artsy thing, and I’ll tag along, lend my face to the cause. Might as well give Hawkins the gift of my good side.”

Robin nearly choked on her soda. “Good side? Please. You’ve got one side and it’s your hair. Everything else is downhill.”

Steve shot her a look, affronted. “Excuse me? This—” he gestured to himself with both hands, shameless—“is a full package deal.”

Nancy arched an eyebrow, lips curving. “You can’t even sit still in homeroom. There’s no way you’d last in front of a camera.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, betraying him before he could hide it—and Steve caught it instantly. He turned toward him, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Don’t even start, Byers. You know I’d make an excellent model.”

Jonathan let his mouth twitch again, just barely. “Sure. You would.” Steve leaned back with a smug little grin—so smug Jonathan couldn’t help himself.

“If the assignment’s on motion blur.”

Robin nearly spit out her drink, and Nancy smirked behind her cup. Steve groaned loud enough to turn a few heads, throwing his arms out like Jonathan had just mortally wounded him. 

The girls drifted into their own side chatter, laughter low between them. Steve, though, edged closer, his voice dropping quiet, meant only for Jonathan. “Pretty sure you just don’t want to admit you’d enjoy pointing that camera at me.”

Jonathan’s pulse jumped, but he forced his face flat. “You’d never shut up long enough for me to get the shot.”

Steve’s grin spread, sharp and sure. “Try me.”

Jonathan busied himself with the straw wrapper, pretending not to hear the thrum in his chest—but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching like he might just take Steve up on it.

⸻

Steve had to admit, the woods weren’t exactly his first choice for a second date. Too many sticks underfoot, too many shadows that made a guy think about bats and monsters he’d rather forget. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected.

Something broody, probably—Byers disappearing into the wilderness with a camera, all tortured-artist vibes. But it wasn’t like that. Not really.

Jonathan moved through it like he belonged here, like the whole place quieted for him. Steve, on the other hand, had already tripped over a root, whacked himself on a low branch, and declared war on a particularly rude squirrel.

“Alright, Byers,” Steve called, brushing a branch out of his way with more flair than necessary. “Where do you want me? Should I lean dramatically against a tree?” He narrowed his eyes and struck a ridiculous pose, chin tilted like he was on the cover of GQ.

Jonathan didn’t even glance up from adjusting the focus. “You’ll break the lens.”

Steve clutched his chest. “Wow, and here I was about to give you my smolder.”

“You don’t have a smolder,” Jonathan said flatly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Steve grinned, stepping closer and striking another fake-serious pose with one hand on his hip. “Don’t I? You’re telling me this—” he gestured broadly to himself, “—isn’t cover-worthy?”

Jonathan finally looked up, camera resting steady in his hands, and shook his head. “Motion blur. Every time.”

Steve laughed, the sound bouncing easy between the trees. He caught that flicker at the corner of Jonathan’s mouth—the warmth sneaking in under all that deadpan. Quick, almost hidden, but Steve was getting better at spotting it, and it lit something in his chest every time. “You’re obsessed with that. One shaky hand on the shutter and suddenly I’m a blur. Maybe it’s because you’re nervous around me.”

Jonathan lowered the camera just enough to give him a flat look. “Or maybe it’s because you can’t stop moving for more than three seconds.”

“Three seconds is an eternity,” Steve countered, flopping back against a log like he’d just run a marathon. “You’re lucky I’m even standing still long enough for you to immortalize my good side.”

Jonathan muttered something about there being no good side, but Steve caught the faintest smirk when the camera clicked.

Yeah. For once, it was easy. Just them, trees overhead, no cafeteria eyes, no whispers. Just the sound of Jonathan’s camera shutter, and Steve making a fool of himself to keep that almost-smile alive.

Jonathan crouched low with the camera, lining up a shot. Steve leaned over his shoulder, trying not to breathe too loud. “So what’s this one? Artsy tree bark? Fallen leaf? The soul of the forest or whatever?”

Jonathan adjusted the lens without looking at him. “It’s called composition. You wouldn’t get it.”

Steve gasped, clutching his chest like Jonathan had actually stabbed him. “Byers, you always wound me. I’ll have you know I possess a very refined eye—and, obviously, a model body.”

Jonathan flipped his camera strap over his shoulder, tone dry. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“You’ll see, now that you’re actually putting me in front of a camera. You’ll see.” 

Steve struck his pose, holding it with all the gravitas he could muster—chin tilted, one hand on the tree like he was about to launch a fragrance empire. He could practically hear the imaginary shutter clicks already. Jonathan, though, just leveled the camera at him, unimpressed as ever.

For a second, Steve thought he’d call his bluff. Roll his eyes. But then Jonathan actually lifted the camera, squinting through the lens, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite hide how ridiculous he found the whole thing.

The shutter snapped.

Jonathan lowered the camera, deadpan as ever. “Motion blur.”

Steve groaned, dramatic as he threw his head back against the tree. “You’re obsessed. It’s not my fault I have kinetic energy.” He flailed a hand at himself like that explained everything.

Jonathan just looked at him, amused. “Kinetic energy?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, grinning wide. “Couldn’t even crawl the right way as a baby. My mom says I crawled backwards for, like, a year.”

Jonathan lowered the camera, blinking at him like he wasn’t sure if that was just another bit. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Steve said proudly, hands on his hips. “Whole childhood was just me scooting backwards across the floor. Strong legs, though. That’s probably why I’ve got such a killer jump shot.”

Jonathan shook his head, but Steve caught the twitch of his mouth again—the one he was definitely trying to hide. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Dumbest and most charming,” Steve corrected, leaning down just enough to catch Jonathan’s eye. His voice dropped a little, playful but steady. “You’re smiling. Which means I win.”

Jonathan lifted the camera again like a shield, but not fast enough to hide the smirk pulling at his lips. The shutter clicked.

Steve flopped down beside him in the dirt, shameless. “See? That one’s a keeper. You’re welcome.”

Jonathan muttered something about regretting this whole trip, but Steve just stretched out in the pine needles, content. For once, there weren’t eyes watching, no whispers chasing them. Just trees, the click of the camera, and Jonathan trying—and failing—not to laugh at him.

Eventually, Jonathan tugged him back onto his feet, brushing pine needles off his jeans as they started down the path again.

Steve kicked at a pinecone as they wound their way through the trees, Jonathan a few steps ahead with the camera strap looped around his wrist. The woods were quiet, except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional snap of a twig.

“Where exactly are we heading?” He asked, brushing a branch out of his way. “Don’t tell me this is one of those tragic artist things where you wander into the wilderness and get eaten by coyotes for the sake of a good shot.”

Jonathan just rolled his eyes, clearly used to Steve’s nonsense by now. “We don’t have coyotes here.”

“Yet,” Steve shot back, grinning like he’d just won the argument. They crested a small hill, pine needles crunching underfoot, and Steve almost tripped when a shape came into view through the trees.

It stood crooked but proud, a haphazard patchwork of wood scraps and old blankets, its edges a bit softened by time and weather. Branches leaned over it like they were keeping guard, green shadows dappling the roof. 

Steve slowed, blinking, taking in the details: the mismatched boards hammered together with a kid’s determination, the blankets nailed like curtains, even a dented tin lunchbox half-buried near the door. 

Then his eyes caught on a painted sign nailed above the entrance—letters uneven, faded by rain but still readable.

CASTLE BYERS

“Whoa,” he muttered, slowing as he took it in. “This your art project or something?”

Jonathan’s expression softened immediately, like his whole face had shifted. “Castle Byers,” he murmured.

Steve blinked, still staring at the uneven letters on the sign.

“Will’s fort,” Jonathan clarified quietly. “We built it years ago.”

Something in Steve’s chest tightened. Of course Jonathan had built a castle in the woods for his little brother. Of course he’d hauled out the boards and blankets, hammered it all together, turned scraps into a kingdom so Will could have somewhere that felt safe.

As they stepped closer, his eyes caught the small details—the uneven boards, the weather-worn sign, the way Jonathan’s fingers brushed the frame like he’d done it a hundred times before. His chest squeezed again, sharp and unshakable.

This was Jonathan, wasn’t it? Always building, always carrying, always making space for someone else to feel safe. And it hit Steve all over again—the thing that had drawn him in from the start. Not the brooding silences or the camera, but the way Jonathan cared. Too much, maybe.

They both stilled when a voice drifted out from inside the fort, muffled but unmistakable. “Go away.”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, concern edging into his voice. “Will?”

There was a shuffle of movement, then the flap of a blanket lifted just enough for Will’s face to appear. His eyes narrowed the second he spotted them. “What are you doing here?”

Steve lifted his hands in mock surrender, flashing his best disarming grin. “Hey, kid. Nice digs. Way cooler than my old blanket forts—mine collapsed if you looked at them too hard.” He tilted his head, trying to catch Will’s eye without crowding him. “You build this yourself?”

Will didn’t bite, or even smile. He just ducked back inside the blanket, his voice drifting out, low and sulky. “I thought you guys were on one of your dates.”

Jonathan crouched near the entrance, careful not to touch the blankets. “And I thought you were headed to the arcade today.”

Will’s head poked out again, his shoulders sagging. “Mom won’t let me. Not yet.” His gaze dropped to the dirt, voice softening to a mutter. “She thinks it’s not safe.”

Something twisted low in Steve’s gut. He could see the frustration in the set of Will’s mouth, the way his fingers picked at the edge of the blanket. Jonathan saw it too; Steve could tell by the tight line of his jaw. “She’s just looking out for you,” he said carefully.

“I’m fine. I’m here,” Will shot back at his older brother, sharper now. His eyes flashed before dropping away. “I haven’t been out of the house in months except for school. And even then, it’s only because she drives me straight there and back — no more bike trips around town.” His fingers tightened on the edge of the blanket, knuckles pale. “Mike still comes over, but it’s not the same. I just want to go out with my friends. I just want to be normal, for once.”

Steve felt the guilt spike in Jonathan before he even said anything—the way his brother’s words landed heavy. “You know she’s not wrong,” he said quietly. “It’s just—it’s better to be careful.”

The words made Will flinch, like he’d been bracing for them. His shoulders hunched in, arms curling close as if he could make himself smaller, eyes on the ground now instead of either of them.

Steve winced. He got it, he really did. But the sight of Will folding in on himself hit harder than he wanted to admit. So he crouched down too, catching Will’s eye. “Tell you what,” he said, keeping his tone light even though his stomach tightened a little. “Arcade’s off the table for now, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck here. What if we set something up instead? Movie night. My place.”

Will blinked, suspicion cracking. “Like… just us?”

“Us, yeah,” Steve said quickly. “But also the others. Invite your friends. Movies, junk food, maybe even a night swim if you’re up to it. I’ll drive everybody over, make it easy.”

He risked a glance at Jonathan then, heart thudding a little too fast. He tried to look casual, but the silence stretched—long enough to make him worry he’d pushed too far. Will had gone still too, eyes fixed on his brother, hope flickering under the guarded set of his mouth. Jonathan’s jaw worked, the protective reflex written all over his face, and Steve braced for the shutdown.

Instead, Jonathan exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. When he spoke, his voice was low but softer now. “Let’s talk to Mom first. But… I don’t think she’ll have a problem with it, not if Steve and I are both there.”

Will practically bounced where he sat, grinning wide. “Really? That counts, right?”

Steve almost laughed in relief at how quickly the sulk vanished. Jonathan let out a quiet sigh, but there was no real fight in it—just the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think we can make it work.”

Will whooped, throwing his blanket off to dig out a half-crushed comic, already babbling about which movies they should pick.

Steve didn’t follow. He just stayed crouched by the entrance, watching Jonathan. The way his shoulders eased, the way his mouth tugged soft at the corners as he listened to his brother’s excitement. That quiet warmth, like the weight he carried wasn’t so heavy for a second.

And Steve felt it hit him all over again.

This was why. This was why Jonathan was different—why something about him tugged hard at Steve’s chest. Not the mystery, not the brooding silences, not even the sharp comebacks that left him spinning. It was this—Jonathan letting himself soften, even under the weight he never seemed to put down. He cared so much it hurt, and still he kept giving.

Something twisted in Steve’s chest, sharp and steady all at once. He wanted to be part of that. Not just someone orbiting on the outside, but someone who could take a little of that weight off Jonathan’s shoulders.

He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets before the feeling could spill onto his face. “Guess it’s official,” he said, aiming for light. “Movie night at mine. Better hope my VHS player doesn’t explode.”

Jonathan’s gaze flicked to him, unreadable for a moment—then softened, the edge of his mouth tugging up. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Chapter Text

The Napkin List

By the time they cut back through the Byers’ yard, the porch light was already on. Joyce was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, worry etched into every line of her face.

“Where have you been?” Her voice pitched tight, sharp with that particular brand of panic she carried these days. Her gaze landed on Will first—head ducked, hair still mussed from the fort.

“Mom, it’s fine,” Will muttered, trudging up the steps. “I was just at the fort.”

Joyce’s shoulders sagged with relief, but she still looked like she wanted to throttle him. “You can’t just sneak out without telling me, Will. Not right now.”

“I know,” Will said, softer now, guilt sneaking in. “I just… needed air.”

Jonathan opened his mouth, ready to smooth it over, but Steve beat him to it. “It’s my fault, Mrs. Byers,” he said, easy and steady, like it was no big deal. “I was with him the whole time. Didn’t let him out of my sight. Promise.”

Joyce blinked at him, surprise flickering into something warmer. Jonathan felt it too—that weird twist in his chest at Steve stepping in without hesitation, without even a glance his way. She sighed, shaking her head. “You kids are going to put me in an early grave.” But the edge had softened. 

She brushed Will’s hair back and kissed the top of his head before letting them all inside. Jonathan caught the grin that passed between Steve and Will—quick, conspiratorial, like they’d been in on the same joke all along.

Later, the living room looked like a nest—blankets thrown across the couch, textbooks and sketchpads littering the coffee table, Jonathan’s mixtapes stacked in uneven towers by the stereo.

Steve plucked one up, squinting. “Jesus, Byers, this handwriting. Looks like a raccoon dipped its paws in ink.”

Jonathan didn’t even glance up. “Some of us have to live with our handwriting. Not everyone’s lucky enough to date someone who’ll do their homework for them.”

Will snorted into his sketchbook.

Steve whipped around. “That’s not—Nancy didn’t do my homework!”

“Not anymore,” Jonathan muttered, perfectly dry.

Steve sat up straighter, indignant. “Okay, I may have let her help once or twice, but she didn’t do them.”

Jonathan finally looked at him, one eyebrow arched. “Right. She tried explaining at first, and when you still didn’t get it, she just gave up and did it herself.”

Will lost it then, laughing outright. Steve groaned, throwing himself back onto the carpet in defeat. “Character assassination complete. Hope you’re proud.”

Jonathan tried to bite back his smile, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Steve caught it instantly. His mock-devastated scowl cracked and melted in a heartbeat, replaced by a bright grin aimed straight at Jonathan.

For a moment, neither of them looked away. The noise of the room seemed to fade. Will flipping pages in his sketchbook, the soft thud of paper against paper... It was all background to the weight of Steve’s gaze. Jonathan felt it like static under his skin, warm and insistent.

Then Steve cleared his throat, too casual, breaking the silence with a flourish. He flipped the cassette over, reading the label in a voice dripping with mock horror. “‘Road Trip 83’? What was the theme, a hearse parade?”

Jonathan shot him a look. “It’s called taste. Not that you’d recognize it.”

Will didn’t even look up from his sketchbook, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “He’s right. Half those songs are classics.”

Steve clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Wow. I’m used to you, Byers, but not Byers junior. My own protégé turning on me.”

“I’m not your protégé,” Will said without looking up. “You’re just… comic relief. With bad hair.”

Jonathan couldn’t help it—he barked a laugh before he could stop himself. Steve’s eyes flicked toward him, smug. “Oh, you think this is funny?” Steve pointed the cassette like a weapon. “Careful, Byers. I’ve got a whole trunk full of better tapes in my car.”

“Louder isn’t better, Harrington.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, grinning anyway. “Alright, then. Let’s see what the master curator thinks is worthy of our ears tonight.”

He slid the tape into the deck. The speakers crackled, and then—bright piano chords, buoyant and unmistakable.

Dancing Queen.

Jonathan blinked, almost startled by it. He hadn’t thought about this song in years, except when Steve asked about it on their date. A hand-me-down record from his mom, one he used to play when she was out and he could crank it up loud without Lonnie sneering over it. 

Once, Lonnie had come home early. Jonathan had been caught with the volume high, eyes closed, mouthing the words, smiling at nothing. Just a kid letting himself believe in something good. He’d opened his eyes to Lonnie in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ,” his father had muttered, disgust curling every syllable. “Quit acting like a fairy.”

The words had stuck, like they always did. After that, Jonathan buried ABBA under stacks of Clash and Joy Division, teaching himself that anything too bright, too happy, was ammo in Lonnie’s hands.

But now, the song spilled through the room, filling it with warmth instead of shame. Jonathan’s foot tapped almost unconsciously against the blanket, the corner of his mouth tugging upward as he let the rhythm sink in.

Steve lit up like he’d hit the jackpot. He turned, finger-pointing theatrically at Jonathan. “See? I remembered. Closet disco fan.”

Will actually laughed at that, looking up at Jonathan from his sketchbook. “Seriously?”

He rolled his eyes, heat crawling up the back of his neck anyway. “Shut up. It’s a good song.”

“A great song,” Steve corrected, already swaying his shoulders to the beat. He leaned back on his hands, looking at Jonathan with that wide grin. “Admit it, Byers. You’re loving this.”

Jonathan didn’t admit anything. But he didn’t stop his foot from tapping, either. It should’ve felt strange—Steve Harrington sprawled in their living room, humming off-key to ABBA of all things. But instead it felt… Warm. Normal. 

Like maybe this was just what a night could be: homework half-finished, Will sketching, Steve pressing play on his music and somehow making it work, the house loud in a way that didn’t hurt.

But then Steve stopped humming. He launched straight into the chorus, voice loud and absolutely off-key, like he’d been waiting for permission from Jonathan to make an absolute fool of himself.

“You can dance! You can jiiiiive—” He pointed the pencil at Will like it was a microphone.

Will snorted, shaking his head, but Steve only leaned closer, belting the next line with twice the commitment. “Having the tiiiime of your liiiife!”

Jonathan groaned into his hand. “Please stop.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Steve said, grinning wide, tapping Will’s sketchbook in rhythm. “C’mon, Byers junior. Back me up.”

Will hesitated for half a second, then—almost shyly—sang under his breath, “See that girl, watch that scene…”

Steve whooped like he’d just scored a victory, throwing an arm around Will’s shoulders and dragging him into the chorus. Will tried to hold back at first, but the words slipped out anyway—clearer, steadier, almost in tune. Better than Steve by a mile and twice as joyful.

Jonathan pressed himself deeper into the couch, trying not to grin at the sight of them, the sound of them when Joyce’s voice cut in from the doorway. “What on earth is going on in here?”

Jonathan’s head snapped up, heat flooding his face. He hadn’t even heard her come in.

But Steve didn’t miss a beat. He spun on his heel, finger pointing toward Joyce like she was his next duet partner. “Perfect timing! Mrs. Byers—come on, you know the words.”

Before Jonathan could die of embarrassment, Steve had bounded over, taking Joyce’s hand with exaggerated flourish and twirling her right into the middle of the living room.

Joyce let out a startled laugh, shaking her head. “Steve—what—”

But he was already singing again, off-key and grinning: “Dancing queeeeen, young and sweeeet, only seventeeeeen—”

Will was doubled over, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Jonathan groaned into his sleeve, but when he peeked through his fingers he caught it—his mom, actually smiling, letting Steve spin her once before she swatted him away with mock exasperation.

“Alright, alright,” Joyce said, still laughing as she straightened her shirt. Jonathan sank lower into the couch, torn between mortification and something lighter, something he couldn’t quite name.

She smoothed her hair back, cheeks still flushed from laughing. “I should make dinner,” she said, more to herself than to them. Her voice softened, guilty at the edges. “I came back from work and you weren’t here, Will—I couldn’t think straight. By the time I finally sat down, I just… forgot. And we finished the casserole Karen Wheeler brought last week.”

Jonathan winced. He remembered the leftovers. And it had been one of the only times Karen had managed to look his mom in the eye since Will came back.

Joyce sighed, glancing toward the kitchen like she could will a meal into being. “There’s cereal, maybe some soup. I’m sorry.”

Before Jonathan could answer it’s okay, Steve straightened, as if he was prepared for the task. “Or,” he said, “I could run down to the diner. Burgers, fries, soda, pie—whatever you want. My treat.”

Joyce shook her head instantly. “Oh, no, Steve, you don’t need to—”

“Let me be useful,” Steve cut in, flashing the grin Jonathan had seen him use a hundred times before, equal parts charm and insistence. “Seriously. I want to. You’ve put up with me hanging around here for weeks now—least I can do is feed everybody.”

Joyce hesitated, chewing her lip, clearly torn between refusing and giving in. Will perked up at the mention of fries, eyes flicking between his mom and Steve in anticipation.

Finally she exhaled, shaking her head with a faint smile. “Alright. But only because I need to rest for a bit.”

“Perfect,” Steve said, triumphant. He snagged his jacket off the back of a chair like he’d planned this all along. “Diner special deluxe—what’s your order?”

Will didn’t hesitate. “Cheeseburger. Fries. Chocolate shake.”

Joyce sighed. “Just a burger for me.”

Steve’s gaze slid to Jonathan, expectant. “And you?”

Jonathan blinked, caught off guard by how fast this had turned into Steve running dinner orders like it was his job. He shifted, shrugging a little too slowly. “Whatever’s easiest.”

Steve smirked, quick and certain. “Surprise it is.”

Before Jonathan could think of something to say, Steve was already halfway to the door, tossing the words over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and the house fell quieter, the hum of the stereo filling the space. Joyce lingered for a moment, rubbing at her temple. 

“I think I’m going to lie down,” she said softly. “Just a headache. Wake me when he gets back, alright?”

Jonathan nodded, watching her retreat down the hall until her door clicked shut.

The house settled again, quieter now. Just the hum of ABBA in the background, Will absently flipping a page in his sketchbook, pencil poised but not moving. Jonathan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His chest felt tight—like he’d been carrying words around too long and if he didn’t let them out now, he never would. 

“Hey,” he said gently, “we should talk.”

Will glanced up, a bit wary but listening.

Jonathan hesitated, searching for the right place to start. “Back at the fort… you were right. It’s not fair, being stuck here all the time. I know you just want things to feel normal again.” He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “I wish I could fix it for you.”

Will’s shoulders rose and fell, a small shrug. “I know you can’t.”

“I can’t,” Jonathan admitted. “But I can listen. And I can be here. However bad it gets—however frustrated you feel—you don’t have to keep it bottled up.” He waited until Will’s eyes met his. “You know I’ll always be there for you, right?”

For a moment Will didn’t say anything, just studied him. Then his mouth tugged into a small but certain smile. “Yeah. I know.”

Jonathan’s chest eased, just a little. The music spun on in the background, soft and absurdly cheerful, while the two of them sat there in the glow of the living room lamp, the silence between them steadier than it had been in a long time.

They sat in the quiet for a while, both reluctant to change Steve’s music, both content in the way only brothers could be—Jonathan hunched over his homework, pencil scratching against paper, Will bent over his sketchbook, shading in the outline of some half-finished drawing.

But then, Will glanced up, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “You know,” he said lightly, “for someone who’s always telling me to do my homework, you don’t look like you’re enjoying it much yourself.”

Jonathan snorted, not looking up from the page. “That’s because I’m not.”

Will grinned, ducking back into his sketchbook. “Maybe you should’ve dated Nancy when you had the chance. Could’ve gotten your assignments done for you, too.”

Jonathan groaned, tossing his eraser at him. Will laughed, batting it away, and bent back to his drawing, the smile still lingering.

He hadn’t told Will much—not outright. But Will had always been too sharp for his age, picking up on the fragments Jonathan let slip, reading between the lines like it was second nature. 

Brother, best friend—sometimes there wasn’t much of a line between the two.

The crunch of tires on gravel cut through the quiet, followed by the slam of a car door. A beat later, Steve’s voice drifted inside—muffled, but smug enough to carry.

“Told you I’d be right back.”

Jonathan’s head turned toward the doorway, and there was Steve, gaze fixed only on him. Jonathan’s chest tightened, his heart stumbling in a small, traitorous skip.

They ate in the living room, plates balanced on laps, Joyce breaking her own rule about the dining table without a word. She even laughed once—really laughed—when Steve tried to steal one of Will’s fries and got swatted for it. 

Afterward, when Will ducked out to grab a stack of comics, Steve replayed the idea for Joyce, careful to keep his tone steady. He promised her he and Jonathan would both be there the whole time, watching over things, making sure it stayed just a movie night and nothing else. Joyce studied him for a long beat, then finally nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing. “If you’re both there,” she said, “I don’t see a problem.” Her gaze softened as she reached out to squeeze his arm. “Thank you, Steve. Really.”

By the time she disappeared down the hall with a murmured goodnight, the three of them were sprawled across the nest of blankets again, the TV screen casting blue light into the room.

Will fiddled with the last of his milkshake, straw scraping against the bottom of the cup. “So what are we watching?”

Steve lounged back against the couch, grin already smug. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll keep myself entertained. Like—hey, Will, did you know your brother’s basically a secret badass ninja?”

Jonathan’s head snapped around, eyes narrowing. “Steve.”

That only egged him on. Steve leaned forward conspiratorially, voice pitched like he was sharing state secrets. “Swear to God. Put me flat once with a right hook—pavement practically cracked under me.”

Will’s eyes went wide, curiosity sparking. “Wait, really?” He twisted toward Jonathan. “Show me.”

Jonathan groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Steve pressed, grin widening. “What’s the big deal? Teach him the legendary Byers technique—the ancient defensive arts of your clan.” He chopped the air in mock slow motion, nearly sending a pillow flying.

Will cracked up, shaking his head. “Yeah, Jon, c’mon. Teach me something.”

Jonathan hesitated, gaze flicking between them. Will’s grin was too earnest, too hopeful, and the edge Jonathan had been carrying since the woods eased another fraction.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, standing and brushing crumbs from his jeans. “But no ninja crap.”

Will scrambled to his feet, eager. Steve followed, eyes bright with anticipation.

Jonathan planted his feet and motioned for Will to mirror him. “First thing—balance. If someone bigger comes at you, don’t give them the chance to knock you over. Stand like this.” He nudged Will’s foot into place, steadying his stance. “You aim smart, not hard. Gut, nose, knee—spots that matter.”

Will’s brow furrowed as he tried, clumsy but determined. Steve, for once, stayed quiet—watching with real attention instead of filling the space with jokes.

Something about it hit Jonathan low. 

Passing on what he’d learned the hard way, showing Will how to stand his ground, and Steve seeing it, really seeing it—not mocking, but soaking it in…

It felt personal, like handing over a piece of himself.

Will threw a tentative jab, nearly stumbling. Steve laughed, swooping in to steady him. “Whoa, killer! Easy now. Can’t have you demolishing the living room your first day of training.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan murmured, lips twitching. “This house has suffered enough.”

Will cracked up at that, the sound bubbling out lighter than anything he had heard from him all week. 

Jonathan’s gaze flicked to Steve, and he found the other boy already watching him. For a beat, they held it—an unspoken acknowledgment of that night, the wreckage, the monster. 

Back then, Jonathan had tried to shove it down, to tell himself it hadn’t meant anything. But Steve’s stare made that impossible now.

There was no regret in the memory—not then, and not now. He hadn’t thought twice before dragging Steve out of the Demogorgon’s reach, and there was no part of him that wished he had. That was the terrifying part.

The glance broke, but the weight of it lingered, heavy in his chest. He let out a quiet breath—relief, not just that he wasn’t the only one still carrying that night, but that he wasn’t carrying it alone.

There was something safe in Steve’s gaze, and for once, Jonathan let himself lean into it.

⸻

At the end of the night, Will was sprawled on the living room floor, head tilted back toward Jonathan as he gathered the takeout cartons. “Jonathan’s birthday’s soon. Beginning of April. Big eighteen.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “That’s not soon. Your birthday’s sooner.”

Will just shrugged it off, grin lingering as he turned toward Steve with a conspiratorial smirk. “We should get him something.”

Steve perked up, instantly in on it. “Yeah? What’s he into? New mixtapes? A typewriter? Camera film by the pound?”

Jonathan shot him a look. “I’m right here. You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

Steve only grinned, smug and unbothered, holding Jonathan’s gaze a second too long—like the protest was the reaction he’d been fishing for.

Will tapped his chin like he was scheming, ignoring his older brother completely at this point. “Or maybe a punching bag, since apparently he’s some kind of secret ninja.”

That finally pulled Steve’s eyes away. He barked a laugh. “Perfect. You can test it out.”

Will’s laughter softened into a yawn, and he flopped back into the blankets. “You should stay over,” he mumbled, eyes bright even as sleep tugged at them. “We could build a fort, like in Mike’s basement. It’d be fun.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened—half nostalgia, half ache—but before he could say anything, Steve squeezed Will’s shoulder gently. “We’ll do it. Promise. Just not tonight, alright? Your mom would murder me if I kept you up any later.”

Will groaned but didn’t fight it, dragging himself toward the hall with his sketchbook tucked under his arm. “You’re no fun.”

Steve grinned after him. “Biggest lie I’ve heard all night. Good night, Byers junior.”

Will snorted, already halfway down the hall. “’Night, Steve. ’Night, Jon.”

Jonathan called after him, softer. “Good night, Will.”

The house quieted once Will’s door clicked shut. Jonathan bent to scoop up cartons, but Steve was already collecting cups and napkins, moving through the room like he’d always known the rhythm of it.

They cleared the coffee table, folded blankets, their movements easy, unspoken. And yet, even in the quiet, Jonathan felt the weight still lodged under his ribs. There had been something safe in Steve’s gaze, and it hadn’t gone anywhere now.

At the door, Steve lingered. Jonathan shifted, heat creeping up his neck. “You don’t have to get me anything for my birthday,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

Steve’s grin softened, quieter now. “Pretty sure that’s how it goes, though. Boyfriends give each other gifts.”

Jonathan’s head snapped up. “Boyfriends?”

Steve tilted his head, eyes steady, voice even softer. “Aren’t we?”

Jonathan froze. His pulse skittered, denial on his tongue—but it never came. Nancy’s voice flickered through his mind, sharp and knowing: You feel it too, don’t you? The way he keeps looking at you.

Steve leaned a little closer, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What else would you call us?”

Jonathan swallowed, throat tight. He ducked his head, voice barely above a murmur. “Then I’ll get you something too.”

“Byers.” Steve’s voice cut gently across his nerves, pulling his gaze back. His smile was small, certain. “Trust me. I already got what I wanted.”

Before Jonathan could ask what he meant, Steve leaned in and kissed him—soft, unhurried, certain in a way that made Jonathan’s chest ache. The warmth of it lingered even as Steve pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, “Today was the best birthday I ever had.”

Jonathan froze. By the time his pulse caught up, Steve was already pulling away, slipping out into the night with that crooked grin and a casual “Call me tomorrow” tossed over his shoulder. Headlights swept across the yard a moment later.

Jonathan stood there, still, the weight of the day kicking in. Guilt prickled—he hadn’t even known it was Steve’s birthday. Why hadn’t Steve told him?

And yet, beneath the guilt, something steadier lingered: Steve could’ve been anywhere else. With his old friends, at some loud party. Instead, he’d chosen this—an afternoon stroll with Jonathan in the woods followed by a quiet night in the Byers’ messy living room.

And when Jonathan let himself breathe, the whole day unspooled in flashes: Steve waving him over in the cafeteria, grin easy, uncaring of the way half the room turned to stare. Steve leaning back, arm stretched along Jonathan’s chair, choosing his side in the Tommy and Carol confrontation without hesitation. The way his knee had pressed steady against Jonathan’s under the table, wordless and certain.

And after—his voice softer than the noise around them, meant only for Jonathan. 

Before all this, I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out today.

Steve had wanted to spend his birthday with him. With them.

Jonathan’s chest pulled tight. The ache of guilt gave way to something heavier, steadier.

Steve wasn’t going anywhere. Jonathan let himself believe it.

⸻

The morning light felt strange—too bright for how little Jonathan had slept. He’d drifted in and out all night, the weight of Steve’s kiss still caught in his chest, looping over and over until it blurred with the steady hum of the house.

By breakfast, Joyce was already rushing for work, distracted and apologizing, Will still yawning into his cereal. Jonathan hovered by the phone, thumb tracing the frayed cord.

Don’t be an idiot.

Steve had said call me tomorrow. Jonathan knew he’d meant it—he hadn’t exactly been subtle. But morning felt too soon. Too eager. What if he had meant after school, or tonight, or whenever tomorrow didn’t sound like Jonathan had been waiting all night to talk to him?

He dialed anyway.

The ring hadn’t even finished once before it clicked.

“Byers.” Steve’s voice, sharp with alertness. Jonathan could hear the grin in it, bright and certain. “You finally called.”

Jonathan’s throat went dry. “Uh. Yeah, I—”

“Relax,” Steve cut in, warmth laced through. “I’m glad you did.”

Jonathan blinked at the floor, heat climbing his neck. He didn’t know what to do with the way his stomach flipped at those words.

And then Steve barreled on, casual but too quick, like he’d already rehearsed it. “So. Want me to swing by? Pick you and Will up for school?”

Jonathan froze, caught off guard. “You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I kinda do,” Steve interrupted, smug as ever. “That’s what boyfriends do, right?”

Jonathan blinked, stunned by how easy he made it sound. The silence stretched long enough that Steve laughed, soft but certain. “C’mon, Byers. Don’t make me beg.”

Jonathan ducked his head, lips twitching despite himself. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Perfect,” Steve said, triumphant. “Half an hour. Don’t be late.”

The line clicked dead, but Jonathan was still holding the receiver, pulse steadying in his throat. He couldn’t help but wonder how long was Steve waiting on the other end, answering on the first ring.

⸻

The crunch of tires on gravel carried into the kitchen before Jonathan even saw the car. He shoved his books into his bag, slipping the photo from yesterday’s forest walk in beside them. His heart tripped as he caught the familiar hum of Steve’s engine.

Will was already at the window, peeking through the curtain. “He’s here.”

Jonathan muttered something noncommittal, slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder as they stepped outside. 

The morning air was sharp, dew still clinging to the grass. Steve’s car idled at the end of the drive, headlights winking once before cutting off.

The driver’s door swung open, and Steve leaned out, grin already tugging at his mouth—but there was something sheepish tucked into it too. “Morning, Byers. Uh, full disclosure…” He jerked a thumb toward the backseat. “Got a stowaway.”

The backseat window rolled down just enough for Robin to pop her head out, chin propped on the frame, a wide grin plastered on her face. “Hey, Byers brothers. Surprise carpool!”

Jonathan blinked. “What—”

Steve spread his hands, half-apologetic, half-smug. “Sorry. She doesn’t have a license either. Apparently, I’ve become the designated chauffeur of the group.”

Robin scoffed, kicking the back of his seat. “You know you love it. Don’t let him fool you,” she told Jonathan and Will. “He’s thriving.”

Steve didn’t deny it. He leaned an arm over the wheel, grin crooked as his gaze caught Jonathan’s. “C’mon, get in. We’re gonna be late.”

Jonathan hesitated just a second longer than he meant to, then opened the passenger door. The car smelled faintly of fries and cologne, the same mix that had clung to Steve’s jacket the night before. Sliding into the seat beside him, Jonathan tugged the door shut, pulse steady but loud in his ears.

From the back, Robin leaned forward between the seats, grinning wide. “Shotgun with Harrington, huh?”

Will rolled his eyes, shoving her shoulder. “Leave him alone.”

Robin just shrugged, easy and playful. “I’m just saying—Steve made me take the backseat. Guess I know why now.”

Steve just smirked, glancing at Jonathan as he turned the key. “Don’t listen to them. You’re in the right place.” His eyes lingered a beat too long before flicking back to the road. “Buckle up, Byers,” he added, voice low and teasing.

The car rumbled to life, Steve settling in with one hand loose on the wheel, the other braced casually against the open window. A sidelong glance slipped Jonathan’s way, grin edging crooked. “So… you wanna do something today?”

Jonathan’s stomach did a small, traitorous flip. He focused on the passing houses outside his window. “Can’t. Got a shift.”

From the backseat, Will leaned forward just far enough to catch Steve’s eyes in the rearview. His tone was flat, but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“You’re obsessed with him.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “I am not.”

Robin giggled, kicking the back of his seat. “Please. You’re glued to him. If Jonathan so much as blinks, you’re there with a front-row ticket. You’re basically writing a thesis called How Not to Leave Byers Alone.”

Jonathan smirked faintly despite himself. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Funny,” Steve shot back, “I don’t remember asking for peer review.” He nudged Jonathan’s knee with his own between the seats, leaning just close enough that Jonathan caught the faint tang of his cologne. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for watching you sling coffee and pie for four hours.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the twitch at his mouth betrayed him. “You wouldn’t last an hour.”

Steve grinned, all teeth. “Wanna bet?”

Before Jonathan could answer, Robin leaned forward from the backseat, chin braced on the edge between them. “Sorry to interrupt the world’s weirdest flirting, but I have an important question to ask.”

Steve let out a long, theatrical sigh, eyes flicking to the rearview. “What?”

Robin raised her brows, unbothered. “Relax, dingus, it’s not about you.” She paused, then smirked. “Okay, maybe not directly.”

Steve groaned again, but she had his attention. Jonathan glanced back at her too, curious despite himself.

Robin clasped her hands together like she’d been waiting for this. “Okay, so yesterday, after the whole cafeteria… spectacle,” she gestured vaguely, “I figured I’d try to spread the net a little. Maybe make a new friend. Can’t leave all the awkward bonding to you two.”

The car shifted as one—Steve straightened in his seat, eyes flicking to the rearview. Jonathan’s pencil tap against his knee stilled, his gaze cutting sideways in quiet surprise. Even Will glanced up from the window, attention caught.

“I asked Nancy if she wanted to hang out after school,” Robin went on, unfazed. “Because obviously you two—” she jerked her thumb toward the front seats “—already had your little woods date lined up.”

Jonathan stiffened. Steve shot her a look, ears pink. 

“Anyway,” Robin steamrolled, “She was hesitant, so I tried again, said we could study, super low stakes. But she just kind of… shut it down. Said she studies alone.”

Jonathan frowned, the words snagging. That wasn’t true—he’d sat with Nancy more than once since Will came back, books and notes spread between them in quiet company. “That’s it?”

Robin shrugged, slumping back against the seat. “That’s it. I can’t tell if she was brushing me off or if she actually meant it. Either way, she bolted before I could ask again.” She then tilted her head, unusually serious. “So what do you guys think? I mean—you, Harrington, as her ex, and you, Byers, as her…” she squinted at Jonathan, “…occasional cafeteria buddy?”

Jonathan shifted uncomfortably in his seat but didn’t answer. Steve scratched the back of his neck, eyes on the road. “I don’t know. She’s always been—Nancy. Kinda stubborn. Maybe she just… didn’t feel like hanging out.”

“That’s insightful,” Robin deadpanned, chin propped on the seat back.

Steve shot her a glare in the rearview. “What do you want me to say? She’s complicated.”

“She’s avoiding me,” Robin said flatly. “And you’re giving me nothing useful on what to do about it.”

Jonathan’s frown lingered as Robin slumped back, frustration written across her face. Beside her, Will shifted, then leaned over to wrap an awkward but earnest arm around her shoulders. Robin blinked at him, surprised, before a small huff of laughter slipped out, the sharpness in her expression easing. Will didn’t say anything—he didn’t know Nancy well enough to offer advice—but the gesture spoke for itself.

Jonathan felt something loosen in his chest. Trust Will to cut through the noise with nothing but kindness. Too smart for his age, too gentle to hold back when someone needed it. His brother—his best friend—always had a way of seeing people.

Robin’s words still echoed, though, tugging at something Jonathan hadn’t let himself examine too closely. He thought of Nancy—quiet lately, withdrawn. Not hanging out with anyone at school except him sometimes, and even then only a few times at best.

And then the memories crept in. Her voice on his porch, urgent, shaking, telling him Barb was missing. The two of them stumbling through the woods with flashlights, Nancy’s jaw tight as she said For Barb. Her devastation when El’s voice cracked through the middle school gym, confirming Barb’s death. And the look in her eyes after, quiet but fierce as she said: “Then we kill it.”

He thought of Nancy, after everything ended, her eyes distant and raw. Thought of the pages of paperwork they’d all signed for hours at the hospital, the weight of the government’s silence pressing down on them.

Jonathan’s hands curled tight against his knees. She’d been there for him—again and again, shouldering pieces of his guilt like a soldier when she had every right to fall apart herself. And he’d been so focused on Steve, on the rush of something new, that he hadn’t noticed how much Nancy had been carrying with her.

Jonathan stayed quiet while Robin and Steve bickered, Robin rolling her eyes every time he asked another useless question. He actually surprised himself when he finally cut in, his voice quiet but certain. “It’s not that simple.”

All three heads in the car turned toward him.

Jonathan stared down at his hands, then back out the window. “She’s… grieving. Her best friend died a few months ago.”

The car went still.

Steve’s hands tightened on the wheel. His jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Jonathan saw the way guilt flickered sharp in his eyes, understanding without words. 

From the backseat, Will’s posture shifted—subtle, but enough for Jonathan to notice. His fingers tightened against the edge of his sketchbook, eyes dropping to the window like he was bracing himself. 

Jonathan knew that look. In the early days after the hospital, Will had asked about Barb. Just once or twice, quiet, tentative, like he was testing if Jonathan would answer. Now, watching his brother go still, Jonathan understood why. Will knew better than anyone how easily it could have been him. That Barb had just been unlucky.

But Robin just blinked, caught off guard. “Wait—what?”

Jonathan kept going, careful. “It’s not something she talks about. Not at school. Not with anyone. But it’s there. And that kind of loss—it doesn’t just go away. It… closes you off. Makes it harder to let someone new in.” 

Robin’s expression softened. Jonathan swallowed but carried on. “Doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to. Just… takes time.”

Robin slumped back, chewing on her lip. “So I shouldn’t push.”

Jonathan leaned back too, the guilt still pressing at him—but steadier now. “Just be around. That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s grip tightened on the wheel, his gaze flicking sideways. For once, he didn’t crack a joke. He let out a breath, quiet but certain. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Jonathan glanced at him, faintly surprised.

Steve’s eyes stayed on the road, but his voice was steadier now. “It’s not about pushing. It’s just… showing up. Being there until she knows it’s safe.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but it carried something heavier. “Trust me—it works.”

Jonathan felt the weight of it land, his chest tightening at the quiet acknowledgment. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, catching Steve’s eyes for a beat. “Yeah, I think she could use friends. She just… might not know how to let anyone in again just yet.”

Robin kept chewing her lip, thoughtful now. “So we don’t drop it. Just… keep showing up. Not pushy. Just there.”

Steve nodded once, steady. “Yeah. She shouldn’t have to sit with that by herself.”

The car fell quiet in a way that didn’t feel strained. It felt like a promise. Like the three of them had agreed on something that mattered. 

Jonathan’s gaze drifted to the rearview, where he caught his brother’s eyes. Will gave the smallest nod, a faint smile tugging at his mouth—his way of saying he was okay.

And Steve and Jonathan immediately stuck to their promise.

Through first period, through the shuffle of halls, they made sure Nancy was never walking alone. She didn’t say anything about it, but Jonathan caught the way her eyes flicked toward them more than once, wary at first, like she was waiting for a punchline.

By midmorning, the suspicion softened into something else. She still kept her voice low when she spoke, still ducked her head, but she didn’t shake Steve or Jonathan off either. She even let them match her pace instead of pulling ahead.

At lunch, she hesitated automatically when they veered toward the table Robin had claimed. Nancy stopped short, tray clutched tight, the instinct to retreat written all over her face as Robin waved from across the room, dramatically shoving her bag into the middle of the table to block anyone else from sitting down.

Nancy blinked, a bit panicked. “I—actually, I was just gonna—”

“Come on,” Steve cut in smoothly, stepping around her. His grin was playful, teasing, but his tone left no room for escape. “Socializing won’t kill you.”

Jonathan saw the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth—like she wanted to argue, but didn’t quite have the energy. She let out a short breath and followed them, sliding into the seat across from Robin.

Robin immediately shoved her apple toward Nancy in some kind of peace offering. “You’re eating that. I don’t trust school fruit.”

Nancy snorted despite herself. It was small, fleeting—but Jonathan caught it. The tension in her shoulders had loosened just slightly. Steve leaned back in his chair, smug grin settling across his face, but Jonathan didn’t call him out on it. He felt it too—the quiet satisfaction of seeing Nancy relax, even for a minute.

Robin leaned forward immediately, elbows on the table, like she’d been waiting for this moment. “So, Wheeler, riddle me this. On a scale from one to ten, how much do you hate this cafeteria food?”

Nancy gave her a look, guarded but not unfriendly. “…Eight.”

“Eight?” Robin gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “Wow. You’re too kind. It’s a twelve at least.” She stabbed a fry with exaggerated disgust, holding it up like evidence. “See this? That’s not a potato. That’s… insulation foam with extra salt.”

Nancy bit back a smile, ducking her head. “Then why are you eating it?”

“Because I’m brave,” Robin said immediately, shoving the fry in her mouth.

Steve chuckled. “If you’re brave, we all are.”

Robin waved him off. “Don’t interrupt. This is girl talk.”

Jonathan almost choked on his soda from laughing. Steve smirked, clearly delighted, but he didn’t interfere.

Nancy glanced at Robin again, hesitant. “You’re not from Hawkins, are you?”

“Busted.” Robin grinned, leaning back. “Moved here last year. California. Land of palm trees, bad drivers, and way better cafeteria food. But don’t worry, I’ll spare you the culture shock. All you need to know is, Hawkins fries are a crime against humanity.”

Nancy shook her head, but she was smiling now, faint and real. “I believe you.”

“Thank you,” Robin beamed. 

Jonathan caught it then—the shift. Nancy wasn’t retreating, wasn’t looking for an excuse to leave. She was still cautious, but there was something lighter in her eyes now, a flicker of amusement breaking through the grief.

Steve nudged Jonathan’s knee under the table, subtle, smug. Jonathan didn’t react, but the warmth in his chest lingered.

“Okay, Wheeler,” Robin said, tapping the table for emphasis, “please tell me you don’t live exclusively on the Clash like Byers here.”

Jonathan made a noise of protest, but Nancy’s lips twitched. “I don’t.”

Robin’s eyes lit up. “Good. Because I’m on a mission to introduce Hawkins to actual taste.” She leaned in, dropping her voice like a conspirator. “Madonna.”

Nancy blinked, caught off guard. “…Yeah. I like her.”

Robin smacked the table like she’d just won a bet. “Knew it! See? We’re destined to be friends.”

Nancy shook her head, but the smile that tugged at her mouth softened her edges.

“What else?” Robin pressed.

Nancy’s fingers curled around her soda cup. “I don’t know. Just… whatever’s on the radio.”

“Name one,” Robin challenged, eyes narrowing like she wouldn’t let her escape.

A pause. Then Nancy exhaled, almost like she was embarrassed to admit it. “Cyndi Lauper. Time After Time.”

Robin gasped, dramatic, smacking her palm against the table. “Yes! I knew you had hidden depths.” She jabbed a finger toward Jonathan. “This one wouldn’t recognize a perfect hook if it bit him.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, chewing pointedly. “It’s bubblegum pop. Forgettable.”

“Blasphemy,” Robin declared, clutching her chest. She turned back to Nancy, eyes bright. “So, Wheeler, what do you say. You, me, record store after school. I was gonna swing by anyway—new shipment came in, and I refuse to let Hawkins High philistines snatch the good vinyl before I do. You can keep me from blowing all my cash on imports. Deal?”

Nancy hesitated, fingers tightening around her soda cup. Her eyes flicked to Jonathan, searching. He was already watching her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of encouragement, the kind he gave when he wanted her to know he believed she could handle something.

Nancy’s shoulders eased. She gave the tiniest nod, then turned back to Robin, voice firmer now. “Deal.”

Robin beamed, smacking the table like she’d just won the lottery. Steve clapped his hands once, drawing all eyes to him. “Great. Now that that’s settled.” His grin turned pointed, aimed at Jonathan. “Clearly Nancy and Robin don’t plan on joining me today at your shift. Which means it’s even more important that I come.”

Jonathan blinked, but the girls only exchanged a look, rolled their eyes at Steve’s routine, and went right back to talking between themselves. “Are you serious?”

Steve leaned back, smug as anything. “Of course I am. I’m taking you to work, Byers. And then I’m gonna sit there and watch you sling coffee and pie for hours on end.”

Jonathan stared at him. “Why would you even want to do that?”

Steve just shrugged, grin refusing to budge. “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”

Jonathan shook his head, dismissive, but he didn’t say no. Couldn’t, not with Steve looking so damn certain. He turned back to his tray, trying not to think too hard about why Steve would even bother.

Later, when they slipped out into the hall, Jonathan dug into his bag. The photo slid easily into his hand—the only good one of Steve from yesterday’s roll, sunlight caught in his hair, grin softer than Jonathan could ever have captured on purpose. He held it out, awkward but certain.

“It’s not much,” he muttered. “But I figured it’s a good enough gift for now. Especially since I didn’t know it was your birthday yesterday.”

For once, Steve didn’t deflect with a joke. He took the photo carefully, like it was something fragile. His grin softened, the edges melting into something tender, safe. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s amazing. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jonathan shifted, shoving his hands into his pockets. His throat worked, but the words slipped out anyway, quiet and certain: “It’s what boyfriends do.”

For a second, Steve just blinked, staring at him. But then his grin returned—slower this time, softened at the edges. His eyes held Jonathan’s, steady and warm, as if the words had been something he already believed but needed to hear out loud.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “That’s exactly what boyfriends do.”

Jonathan’s breath caught. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was full, charged with something frighteningly gentle, something that settled deep instead of pressing down.

Steve studied the picture another beat, then glanced back at Jonathan with a spark in his eyes. “Only downside is…” He tilted the photo like it proved his point. “Now I’ve got two pictures of me, beautifully taken, by the way—but none of you. It should be rectified.”

Jonathan froze, stomach lurching. “What?”

Steve’s grin curved slow. He leaned in just enough that Jonathan caught the low warmth of his voice. “C’mon, Byers,” he murmured, “you know you’re easy on the eyes.”

Jonathan’s chest tightened. His throat worked, but words stuck fast. The thought of being on the other side of the lens—of Steve wanting that—lodged deep, unsettling and grounding all at once.

When he finally found his voice, it was barely more than breath. “You don’t mean that.”

But Steve’s grin softened, certainty replacing the tease. The weight of it pressed close, warm and undeniable—until the bell shattered the moment, pulling them toward class. Jonathan lingered in it anyway, carrying the echo of Steve’s smile with him, wishing it hadn’t ended.

⸻

After school, Steve leaned against his car, tossing his keys and catching them like he had all the time in the world. When Jonathan trudged out, shoulders hunched around his bag, Steve straightened.

“Chauffeur service, remember?” He called, tossing the keys once more before catching them and ducking into the driver’s seat.

Jonathan sighed, but climbed in anyway. “You really don’t have to.”

“Please,” Steve smirked, buckling up. “You think I’m passing up the chance to see you in action? Besides—” He tapped the horn. The back door popped open.

Will slid in, grinning ear to ear. “Surprise.”

Jonathan froze halfway through buckling his seatbelt. “Will.”

Steve looked insufferably pleased with himself. “What? Your number one fans deserve front-row seats.”

Jonathan just stared at him, caught between exasperation and something he couldn’t quite shake.

“Don’t worry, Joyce already knows he’s with us,” Steve said, grin widening. “We’ll just loiter at the counter and order something greasy while you pretend you hate that we’re there.”

“I’m getting pancakes,” Will declared.

“And coffee,” Steve said, pulling out of the lot. “Gotta support local business, right?”

Jonathan muttered something under his breath, but the pink creeping up his ears gave him away.

Will practically bounced in the backseat, knees drumming against the upholstery. “Okay, so—movie night.” His words came out in a rush, already halfway through the plan. “I told Lucas and Dustin at school today and they freaked out. Mike already knew, but he’s excited too. Everyone’s set for Saturday.”

Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “When did you even talk to Mike? It was late when we finished last night.”

Will just ducked his head, lips twitching, not answering.

Jonathan scoffed. “I’m confiscating that walkie talkie.”

Steve caught Jonathan’s eye in the rearview, grin smug and certain. “Told you it’d be a hit. Lock it in: Harrington-Byers Film Festival.”

Jonathan shook his head, flat. “Overselling it.”

“Wrong,” Steve said easily. “Can’t oversell greatness. We need a list. Classics only. Raiders. Star Wars. Maybe Jaws if we’re feeling dangerous.”

Will leaned forward, grinning. “E.T.”

Steve slapped the steering wheel like it was divine inspiration. “Yes! Perfect. The little guy with the glowing finger—automatic win.”

Jonathan arched a brow. “I heard from Nancy you cried when you watched it.”

“Details,” Steve said, waving him off. “And I was just… empathizing.”

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan muttered, skeptical.

Will plowed on, undeterred. “Superman. And Tron!”

Steve nodded like a general approving orders. “All solid picks. And, of course, the king of them all—Star Wars trilogy marathon.”

Will lit up. “Yes! And Halloween is a must.”

Steve barked a laugh, flicking a look at them in the rearview. “Figures. Byers and their horror night. Pretty sure it’s a sacred ritual or something.”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched despite himself. In the rearview, Will’s grin flashed. “Exactly.”

Steve shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey, I know better than to interfere with family traditions.”

Will only grinned wider. “So you’re saying it’s a yes?”

Steve smirked, tipping his chin like it was obvious. “Hell yeah. I can survive horror night.”

Jonathan snorted. “Sure.”

Steve shot him a look in the rearview—no bite, just warmth that stuck. And then, without seeming to think about it, his hand drifted over, settling against Jonathan’s on the seat between them. 

Casual. Unthinking. Like muscle memory. 

Jonathan’s pulse stuttered, but Steve was already looking back at the road, as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d done.

Will leaned back in his seat, oblivious, triumph written all over his face. “This is gonna be the best movie night ever.”

Steve drummed the wheel with his free hand, his grin settling into something softer. “Correction, kid—it’s gonna be legendary.”

⸻

The bell over the door jingled. Late afternoon crowd: two truckers nursing mugs, a family wedged into a booth, a pair of old men arguing over a chessboard like the fate of Hawkins depended on a pawn. 

Behind the counter, Jonathan tied his apron too tight, his hair falling into his eyes. He shoved it back with the heel of his wrist.

Steve and Will already claimed the stools like they owned them. “Front row seats,” Steve announced, drumming the counter, eyeing him up and down. “Best view in Hawkins.”

Jonathan gave him a flat look. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True,” Steve said cheerfully. “But admit it—I make your uniform look less tragic just by sitting here.”

Will propped his chin in his hands. “He’s right. You look cooler with us here.”

Jonathan didn’t bother to answer, so Steve plucked a menu and flipped it upside down like he was reading a secret code. “What’s good here, Byers? Or are you gonna glare until we guess?”

Jonathan snatched the menu, set it right with a tap. “Order like a normal person, Harrington.”

Steve leaned in, grin crooked. “What if I want the Jonathan Special?”

“There’s no Jonathan Special,” Jonathan said too fast, ears going red.

Will nearly slid off his stool laughing. “There should be. Pancakes, coffee, and a side of brooding.”

“Yeah,” Steve added, eyes catching Jonathan’s, “the brooding’s just an added bonus.”

Jonathan turned to pour Will a Coke just to have something to do with his hands.

“See?” Steve stage-whispered. “He loves that we’re here.”

Will nodded, not bothering to whisper. “He’s pretending not to smile.”

Jonathan set the glass down harder than necessary, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him anyway.

“Knew it,” Steve said, smug.

“Fine,” Jonathan grumbled. “What are you ordering?”

“Pancakes for the kid,” Steve said, ticking items off on his fingers, “hash browns for scientific purposes, and—” he tipped his head toward Jonathan “—whatever keeps you coming back to this side of the counter.”

“Coffee,” Jonathan said dryly. 

“Perfect.” Steve saluted him with the stubby diner pen.

As Jonathan scribbled the ticket, Will nudged Steve. “Movie night?”

“Oh yeah.” Steve turned back like he was chairing a meeting. “Okay, logistics. Two tapes minimum. Pizza, Doritos, and whatever sugar gets the gremlins—your friends—to show.”

Will perked up immediately, already tugging a napkin out of the dispenser and flattening it on the counter like it was official business. “Okay. List time.”

Steve swiped the pen from behind the order pad, twirling it like he was about to sign a treaty. “Alright, let’s do this properly. Movie Night Agenda, draft one.” He scrawled it across the top in big crooked letters.

Jonathan dropped the ticket on the spindle, tied his apron tighter, and reached for the coffee pot. He tried to ignore the way Steve and Will’s heads bent together, conspiratorial.

“Star Wars trilogy,” Will said, leaning in, elbows planted on the counter. 

Steve started writing, then dramatically crossed something out. “Correction. Star Wars duology. Nobody wants to sit through the Ewok musical hour again.”

Will gasped. “Blasphemy. Keep it.” He shoved Steve’s arm, nearly knocking the pen out of his hand. “We’re doing all three.”

He gave them a flat look as he passed. “You’re both insane. We won’t finish them all.”

“Not insane,” Steve said, scribbling anyway. “Visionaries.”

Will ignored him, already adding to the napkin with quick little doodles of lightsabers. “Okay, then Raiders. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Agreed,” Steve said, voice suddenly serious as he jotted it down. 

Jonathan stacked glasses at the sink, the clink of glass against glass covering the tug at his mouth. He hated how much of him wanted to drift back to the counter, to lean in close like he belonged in their huddle. Instead, he kept his hands busy, and out of the corner of his eye caught Steve dramatically slashing a line through Jaws like it was a mortal enemy.

“Hey!” Will reached for the pen. “Why’d you—”

Steve held the napkin out of reach, smug. “Because I realized Byers senior over there will just make fun of me for screaming at the shark. So, nope. Gone.”

Jonathan slid a mug across the counter, not bothering to look up. “You? Watching Jaws without screaming?”

Steve narrowed his eyes at him across the counter, then scribbled Jaws back on the list just to spite him.

Will beamed, triumphant. “Yes! Majority rules.”

Steve groaned but didn’t cross it out again. Instead, he scribbled Gremlins with three underlines. “This one’s for the gremlin squad. They’ll revolt if we skip it.”

“Fair,” Will admitted. He chewed his lip, then leaned closer, voice lowering like he was letting Steve in on a secret. “What about Halloween?”

Steve paused, pen hovering. He glanced at Jonathan, then smirked. “Absolutely. That one stays just to freak your brother out.”

Jonathan shot him a look as he wiped down the counter. “I heard that.” But Steve just grinned, unbothered, underlining Halloween twice.

Will leaned in, puffing up with mock seriousness, pride flickering in his voice. “Good luck with that. Jonathan never gets scared.”

Steve raised his brows, clearly delighted at the challenge. “Never, huh?”

The bell above the pass-through clanged, sharp and metallic, pulling him out of Steve and Will’s chatter. Jonathan shook his head, muttering as he got to the kitchen window. “Don’t encourage him.”

By the time he circled back, they had a whole napkin covered—half titles, half doodles, half things angrily crossed out and rewritten. Will was cackling over a stick-figure shark eating a stick-figure Steve, while Steve was trying to sneak Footloose onto the list without Will noticing.

Jonathan set a fresh pot of coffee down in front of them and shook his head. “You two are hopeless.”

Steve slid the napkin across the counter like it was a winning poker hand. “Hopeless, maybe. But thorough. This, Byers, is history in the making.”

Jonathan just rolled his eyes and turned away, grabbing the coffee pot to make another round through the booths.

When the food came, Jonathan slid the plates across the counter. Will went straight for the pancakes, digging in with all the subtlety of a kid who hadn’t eaten in years. 

Steve, though, lingered on his plate a beat longer than necessary. His hand brushed Jonathan’s when he took it, deliberate or not, and when Jonathan glanced up, Steve was already looking at him—smile softer now, quieter than his usual grin. 

Every time it knocked the breath out of Jonathan. More than it should have.

He felt the answering curve tug at his own mouth before he could stop it. For a moment it was just them again, the noise of the diner dropping away like it had on their date—until the bell over the door jingled.

Robin and Nancy stepped inside, heads tipped together, laughing about something only they knew. Their arms were loaded with paper sleeves, a haul of vinyl they clearly couldn’t wait to show off. They made a beeline for the booth nearest the counter, records spilling across the tabletop in a messy, triumphant pile, and Robin waved the others over like it was urgent business.

Jonathan wiped his hands on his apron and drifted closer, the lull in the shift giving him cover. Steve and Will were already leaning in, curiosity written all over their faces as Robin fanned out her finds like playing cards. Nancy rolled her eyes at the dramatics, but the smile tugging at her mouth was real, her hand brushing almost protectively over a Cyndi Lauper record she admitted she’d picked.

Behind him, the bell over the kitchen window rang again, sharp and insistent. Jonathan pulled back, grabbing the plates waiting under the heat lamp. He slid them onto a tray and started toward the family booth, the smell of fries and bacon grease clinging to him as he moved.

Before he could duck away again, a voice cut in from behind.

“Byers.”

Jonathan turned, stiffening a little. His boss stood by the kitchen pass-through, dish rag slung over his shoulder, the look on his face somewhere between stern and sympathetic.

“Look, kid,” he said quietly, keeping it between them. “I know business is slow, but I still need people on the floor. You’ve been solid since you came back, but two shifts a week won’t cut it. Eric’s dead weight, and your replacement quit yesterday. I can’t keep covering the gaps myself. Can you pick up a few more shifts this week?”

Jonathan’s stomach sank. He’d liked the rhythm since Will came home—two, maybe three shifts at most. “I can try,” he said carefully, voice low. “But with Will—”

“I get it,” his boss cut in, not unkind. “I’m not asking you to live here, Byers. Just a little more. Someone steady I can count on.”

Jonathan nodded, though the weight of it pressed heavy. He opened his mouth, searching for something to say—

“Hey,” Steve’s voice carried from the counter, casual but cutting clean through. “If you’re short, I know someone who’s looking for a job.”

Jonathan froze, turning halfway before he could stop himself.

His boss raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

Steve didn’t miss a beat. He swiveled toward the booth where Robin and Nancy were still comparing records. “Robin—didn’t you say today you’re looking for work?”

Robin’s head snapped up, eyes going wide. “Wait—what? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d planned it all along. “Perfect fit, right?”

Jonathan blinked, thrown off balance, but something in his chest eased. Robin here would be… good. Certainly better than Eric, who never showed on time and always left Jonathan covering his slack. And the way Steve had stepped in, fast and certain—it hit him deeper than he expected.

His boss gave Robin a long look, then nodded once. “Come by tomorrow. We’ll talk.”

Robin pumped her fist under the table, mouthing a victorious “yes.”

Jonathan ducked his head, hiding the twitch of a smile. For the first time in weeks, the thought of more shifts didn’t feel like a weight. If anything, it almost felt manageable with Robin as a coworker.

And when he glanced sideways, Steve was already watching him, grin softer now. Like he knew exactly what he’d just done.

Robin leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes gleaming. “This place would be perfect. Put us on a billboard—Come for the coffee, stay for the angst.”

Jonathan shot her a flat look. “That’s not a selling point.”

“Please,” Robin scoffed. “It’s your brand. Jonathan’s patented Brooding Stare.”

Jonathan huffed, the sound slipping out more like a laugh than anything else. “I don’t have a patented brooding stare.”

Robin leaned in, grinning. “Oh, you do. I’m staring at it right now.”

Robin and Nancy stayed long enough to eat—Robin demolishing fries while Nancy pretended not to enjoy herself just as much—but it was clear they couldn’t sit still. Too eager to get back, too excited to put the records on and turn the volume up. They bundled the sleeves against their chests and headed for the door before the dinner crowd started to trickle in, Nancy actually laughing at something Robin said as they disappeared into the evening.

A rush hit, and Jonathan started ferrying plates. When he swung past again, Steve tore a napkin from the dispenser and scribbled with the stub pen, sliding it to Will. Will snorted, then palmed it onto Jonathan’s side of the counter when he passed with a coffee pot.

Jonathan frowned and flipped it over.

You’re hot when you’re annoyed. —S

He immediately stuffed it in his apron pocket.

By the end of Jonathan’s shift, Will was sugar-buzzed on pancakes, Steve was still perched at the counter like he’d moved in, and Jonathan was trying very hard not to look like he’d had fun.

But when Steve stood, tossing a few bills onto the counter and leaning in just close enough to murmur, “We’ll have to make this a habit, Byers. You almost smiled tonight,” Jonathan’s pulse stuttered all over again.

And Steve knew it, because he had that same crooked grin that always managed to knock Jonathan off balance.

Will, oblivious and still buzzing, bounced on his heels. “You should show us your place, Steve. I’ve never seen it, and we need to make sure it works for the plan.”

Steve caved the second Will said it, his grin breaking wide like he hadn’t even considered saying no. “Yeah, alright. Guess it’s only fair.” He stepped back with his hands raised, already giving in.

Jonathan crouched a little to catch Will’s eye. “Just a few minutes, okay? Mom’s probably already watching the clock, and I don’t want her worrying if we’re late.” Will nodded, though his restless energy buzzed just the same.

As they stepped into the cool night air, he leaned closer to Jonathan, pitching his voice just low enough that Will wouldn’t catch it. “Guess this means you’ll finally see the inside of my house. Since, y’know—you’ve only been acquainted with the outside.”

The memory slammed into Jonathan all over again—porch lights, pool water glowing sharp and blue, the click of his shutter as Steve laughed like the world was untouched by loss.

He froze mid-step, heat crawling up his neck, but Steve’s grin wasn’t mocking—if anything, it was careful, but still warm.

“I… uh…” Jonathan fumbled, throat tight. “Well, yeah.” He hadn’t expected Steve to ever bring that night up, not like this.

Steve just laughed, softer than Jonathan had braced for. “It’s okay, Jonathan. Really. You know it is. I like you—and I’m inviting you now. Just… wish I’d done it back then.”

The words caught him off guard, quiet but certain, threaded with something Jonathan hadn’t expected to hear. Regret.

Wish I’d done it back then.

It lingered, curling warm and steady under his ribs. Steve had said that. He meant it. Jonathan sat with it, letting the warmth spread until it was impossible to ignore.

Of course Steve knew Jonathan was there that night. He’d known for a while now, even if he didn’t mention it. Back then, Jonathan had hated him for it. Hated himself more for capturing it.

But now, with Steve’s grin cutting sideways at him, the heat rising under his skin wasn’t anger. It was something bigger that he couldn’t name, something that pressed heavier when Steve’s shoulder brushed his as they crossed the lot.

Chapter Text

The Empty House

Steve’s hands drummed against the wheel, steady enough to look casual, but his pulse was nowhere near calm. Will was in the backseat, humming with leftover sugar and sketching something on the diner napkin he’d smuggled out. 

Jonathan hadn’t said much since they left the diner. He sat angled toward the window, face washed in the glow of the passing streetlights, jaw tight in that way Steve could never read. For a second, Steve risked a glance—just long enough to catch the hard line of concentration in Jonathan’s profile, eyes fixed on the blur of houses sliding past. 

And all Steve could think was—what the hell had he just agreed to?

You’d finally see the inside of my house. 

He’d meant it like a lighthearted joke. 

Funny how the closer they actually got, the less funny it felt—like the punchline was aimed at him. 

The Byers’ place might’ve been small, crowded, half falling apart—but it had always felt like home. Mrs. Byers humming under her breath as she fussed with dinner, never quite still even when she tried to be. Will tucked into his sketchbook, whole worlds spinning out from a single pencil line. And Jonathan—anchored in his corner, always half-absorbed in whatever he was doing but still aware of everything around him. 

The house wore its mess openly, but it was the kind of mess that wrapped around you. The kind that made you feel like you belonged, even if you didn’t.

Maybe that was why Steve’s birthday at the Byers’ had felt different this year—warm and comforting in a way that clung to him even now. He hadn’t even told Jonathan until the night was over, but what was there to say? He never thought much of birthdays. 

They were just another date on the calendar, usually marked by his parents leaving a box on the counter with a neat bow and a card scrawled in the same rushed handwriting. Sorry we’re away, have fun, love Mom and Dad. 

He’d gotten used to it—the silence, the token gesture standing in for the people who were never there. 

So he’d thrown parties instead—packed the house wall-to-wall, cranked the music until the windows rattled, let strangers spill drinks on the rugs his mom loved. 

She’d just hire someone to clean anyway. 

He did everything he could to drown out the echo, to pretend the house was full because he’d chosen it to be, not because he couldn’t stand the quiet.

It never worked as well as he pretended it did.

It’s okay, Jonathan. I like you and I’m inviting you now. Just wish I’d done it back then.

The way Jonathan had looked at him after he said it—that flicker of surprise, the pause like he wasn’t sure whether to believe him...

He’d meant what he said—he did regret not inviting Jonathan before. All those nights crammed with people who didn’t matter, chasing noise for noise’s sake—Jonathan should’ve been there. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have come, not then. 

But God, Steve still wished he’d at least tried.

Yesterday—for the first birthday in his life—he hadn’t needed any of the noise. No parties, no crowd. Just Jonathan, Will, and Mrs. Byers’ messy living room, the kind of night that felt like it belonged to him in a way birthdays never had before.

He’d realized it a while ago, how he didn’t need a hundred voices to drown the quiet. Jonathan Byers was enough—more than enough—with that maddening twitch of a smile that settled deep and warm inside Steve’s chest, refusing to fade.

The tires hummed steady under them, streetlights sliding in and out of the windshield glow. Steve tightened his grip on the wheel, pulse ticking faster with every mile closer to home, trying not to overthink it. 

His house was supposed to be impressive—his parents had made sure of that. Big house on Cornwallis, perfect yard, spotless furniture that no one sat on unless there were guests. 

The kind of house people looked at and thought lucky.

Steve hated it. 

But Will had asked, and he had caved instantly. He could never say no to that kid.

Now, with the headlights sweeping over the familiar manicured lawns of his neighborhood, Steve felt his mouth go dry. 

Jonathan hadn’t said much the whole drive, and Steve couldn’t tell if that was good or bad.

“So… how big is it?” Will’s voice cut through from the back. 

His house? Too many rooms. Too much silence. The kind of place where his footsteps echoed back at him, reminding him how empty it really was.

He snorted, covering his nerves with a laugh. “Bigger than it needs to be.”

Jonathan glanced sideways at him, unreadable in the dim light, but Steve just stared at the road, jaw tight. 

He told himself it didn’t matter, but the truth burned anyway.

He wished he could take them anywhere but home.

The car rolled to a stop at the end of the drive, headlights sweeping across the trimmed hedges and wide front lawn. Every window was dark as usual.

Steve cut the engine but didn’t move, fingers clenched around the wheel, pulse hammering in the quiet. He finally dragged in a breath, forcing out a shrug. “This is it.”

“Whoa,” Will leaned forward between the seats, eyes wide as he took in the sprawling two-story silhouette. “You live here?”

Steve gave a short laugh, but it came out too quick to sound casual. “Yeah. Don’t sound too impressed—it’s mostly just empty space.”

Jonathan’s door creaked as he climbed out, gaze sweeping over the neat lines of the house. He didn’t say anything right away, but Steve caught the flicker of his expression under the streetlight—somewhere between curiosity and caution, like he wasn’t sure if he should look closer or look away.

Steve shoved his own door open, slamming it shut harder than he meant to. The air smelled like cut grass and chlorine from the pool, a sharp reminder of summer nights he used to spend trying to fill the silence here with noise.

“Come on,” he muttered, jamming his keys into his pocket. Behind him, the Byers brothers exchanged a glance before trailing after.

The front door gave with a low creak, the kind of sound that always made the house feel older than it was. The foyer spread out around them, polished floors and a chandelier that had never swung from anything more lively than a draft. 

Steve flicked on the light, the bulbs flaring too bright in the emptiness.

Will stepped in first, sneakers squeaking faintly against the waxed floor. His head tipped back, eyes wide as he took in the staircase curving up to the second floor. “It’s huge,” he whispered, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to talk loud in here.

Steve forced a grin, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Big enough to echo, at least.”

Jonathan followed slower, shoulders hunched as he stepped across the threshold. His gaze slid over everything—the gleaming banister, the framed paintings his mom had meticulously picked out, the living room with its couches arranged like a catalogue spread. 

Not a word, not even a twitch of a smile. Just that unreadable look that made Steve want to scream.

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly aware of every spotless corner. He could see it through their eyes—no blankets thrown over the couch, no music humming from the stereo, no half-finished sketches left on the table. 

No one was even home.

Just a house, staged for show. Pretty, but empty.

Will turned in a slow circle, craning his neck toward the vaulted ceiling. “It’s like a hotel.”

Steve forced a laugh. “Yeah. Five stars. Room service included.”

He risked a glance at Jonathan, his pulse in his throat. Jonathan hadn’t moved, hands buried in his pockets, his expression unreadable—eyes sliding over the room like he was taking it all in.

Steve’s grin faltered. If Jonathan was thinking what Steve always thought—that the place looked more like a display than a home—he didn’t want to hear it out loud. 

He cleared his throat, pushing past it. “Come on. Might as well give you the grand tour.”

He led them down the hall, voice pitching toward casual as he gestured at rooms he rarely used. “Living room. Dining room. Kitchen’s through there. Upstairs is just bedrooms, nothing special.”

Will darted ahead, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor as he peeked around corners. “Are you kidding? This is perfect! Look—couch here, TV there, we could set up everything for movie night.” 

He spun toward the living room, already mapping it out with his hands. “Pizza boxes on that table, popcorn on the counter. We could even make a fort with all these cushions!”

Steve forced another grin, watching Jonathan out of the corner of his eye. Jonathan trailed behind, quiet but thorough, eyes sweeping the room like he was cataloguing evidence and Steve was the one on trial.

Will, oblivious to Steve’s inner turmoil, bounced toward the entertainment unit, eyes wide. “And this TV? Way bigger than ours. Everyone’ll fit in here easy—no one crammed on the floor or fighting over a chair. We could actually all see the screen for once.”

Steve immediately chimed in, feeding Will’s enthusiasm. “Yeah—and the pool’s out back. We could set up a movie night, then jump in after. Or do a cookout—burgers on the grill, mixtapes blasting from the deck speakers.”

He kept going, tossing out ideas like candy: Nintendo marathons, roasting marshmallows, late-night board game battles. Anything to keep Will buzzing. Anything to keep Jonathan from noticing how tight his chest felt inside his own house.

Will’s pacing came to an abrupt stop. He pressed to the sliding glass door, eyes wide at the faint blue glow cutting through the dark. “Wait—you’ve got a pool? Can I check it out?”

Steve forced a shrug, trying to sound casual while his stomach knotted. “Go nuts. Just don’t fall in, alright?”

Will was already halfway to the sliding door, practically vibrating as he fumbled with the latch. A second later, the glass slid shut behind him, leaving Steve and Jonathan alone in the wide, echoing quiet of the living room.

Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the silence pressing in until the house felt too big, too bright. Every corner seemed to shout how oversized it was, how unnecessary—like it was trying to make up for something it didn’t have. He cleared his throat. 

“So,” he tried, stumbling over it a little. “What, uh—what do you think?”

Jonathan’s eyes traced the room one more time before settling back on him. For a beat, his expression was as unreadable as before. Steve felt his stomach sink.

Then Jonathan’s mouth twitched, the smallest smile tugging at the corner. “I mean… are you sure we’re not in the White House?”

The breath Steve hadn’t realized he was holding slipped out in a laugh—shaky but real. Relief curled warm in his chest, cutting through the nerves.

Jonathan’s joke wasn’t sharp. It was quiet, almost fond, like he was letting Steve off the hook.

Steve chuckled, loosening just a little. “Yeah, well—minus the Secret Service and the whole presidential thing. Guess my dad just really likes crown molding.”

Jonathan huffed a quiet laugh, glancing up at the chandelier like it was proof. “Not gonna lie,” he said, voice low but even. “This explains a lot.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, mouth twitching. “Yeah, well… houses like this don’t exactly teach you humility.” 

He tried to sound amused, but it came out half-hearted. He didn’t need a reminder of the guy he used to be.

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, like he almost smiled but didn’t. “Not just that.”

Steve blinked, a thread of discomfort tightening in his chest. He could pretend not to care—he’d done it for years—but something in Jonathan’s voice made that impossible now.

The question rose before he could stop it, quiet. “What do you mean?”

Jonathan didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted over the room—the chandelier, the polished banister, the spotless couch no one ever sat on—before settling back on Steve.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost careful. “You don’t talk about your family.”

The hesitant grin slipped off Steve’s face. Not because Jonathan had said it unkindly—he hadn’t—but because the words landed like a truth he’d spent years dodging.

He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, wishing Will would come crashing back through the sliding door, wishing for anything that might change the subject. “Yeah, well. Not much to tell.”

But Jonathan didn’t look away. Just folded his arms, posture easy enough to pass for casual. His gaze held steady though—sharp in that way that always seemed to cut deeper when it was aimed at Steve.

“Doesn’t seem that way,” he said finally. Not accusing, not even prying—just matter-of-fact in the way that left Steve nowhere to hide. “Big house like this, and you…” His eyes flicked back, pinning him there. “You spend all your time at ours instead.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, nothing coming out. Jonathan just waited, patient in that maddening way of his, like he already knew Steve would fold first. 

It drove Steve insane.

He dragged a hand through his hair, his laugh short and humorless. “Guess that’s ‘cause your place actually feels like someone lives there.”

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the kind of look that told Steve he wasn’t buying it. “That’s not all of it.”

Steve let out another laugh, sharper this time. “What, you moonlight as a shrink now?”

But Jonathan didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head, unshaken. “You never mentioned them, Steve. Not once. Why is that?”

The question landed heavier than Steve expected. He shifted his weight, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. 

He hated feeling cornered—especially here, in this house that seemed to echo every secret back at him. 

And yet, beneath the nerves, something twisted warm in his chest.

He’d had friends over plenty of times, but all they ever cared about were the parties, the pool, the free booze. No one had ever looked past the surface. Jonathan had walked in once and seen straight through it—through him—like he couldn’t help it.

What unsettled Steve most wasn’t that Jonathan noticed—he knew he would.

It was that he cared enough to ask about it.

Maybe that was what terrified him most on the drive over—knowing Jonathan could unravel him with a single glance.

He huffed, trying to laugh it off, to shake the weight pressing in. “Man, you really don’t let up. Guess you proved me right yesterday. Too perceptive for your own good, remember?”

Jonathan’s mouth twitched, as if the memory tugged at him, but he didn’t take the bait. He just watched Steve, steady and unflinching, like he had all the time in the world.

Which should’ve been infuriating—but instead it was unfairly, painfully attractive. Apparently being cornered was his new type, and Jonathan wore it too damn well. Stubborn, sharp, and way too good at peeling him open without even trying.

Steve swallowed. “Yeah,” he added, aiming for flippant, though it snagged in his chest. “Figures my type would be the guy who can see straight through all my bullshit.”

Jonathan snorted, the sound edged with amusement but not unkind. Steve dragged a hand through his hair, eyes darting anywhere but him—the chandelier, the gleam of the floor, the couch cushions that looked like they were waiting for someone who never showed.

“They’re… busy,” he said finally, the word tasting flat even as it left his mouth. “Work trips, conferences—whatever excuse works that month. Always somewhere else. But hey, house looks nice, right?”

He tried for a grin, but it faltered, snagged somewhere on the way out.

Jonathan’s gaze swept the room again, brow furrowing. “It’s like no one… really lives here,” he said at last—careful like he’d tested the weight of the words before letting them go.

Steve nudged at the rug with the toe of his shoe, shoulders wound tight. “I used to throw parties here,” he murmured more to himself than to anyone, the words slipping sharper than he meant. “Didn’t matter if I knew half the people or not. At least it felt like something.”

The second it was out, he regretted it. He’d aimed for casual, maybe even ironic, but it came out bare—lonely in a way he never meant for anyone to hear. 

Pathetic. 

His chest cinched tight, pulse hammering as the silence pressed in, unbearable and louder than any party ever had.

He didn’t dare look up at first, but when he finally risked a glance, Jonathan was still watching—unreadable, but softer somehow, like he’d heard more than Steve meant to give away. He let the quiet stretch like he was leaving Steve room to breathe. Then he nodded once, slow.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get why you hate it here.”

The words weren’t sharp but they weren’t pity, either. Just simple, even—an acknowledgment without judgment.

Something in Steve’s chest eased. He’d braced for a joke, or worse, for Jonathan to look at him the way most people did, like they already had the whole Harrington picture figured out. 

But Jonathan never did. He was always… understanding. 

And no matter how many times Steve saw it, he was never quite prepared for it.

Jonathan’s gaze lingered a moment longer. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “So I’m your type then?”

Steve blinked, words tripping out on a breath. “I—uh… thought I made that pretty clear a while ago.”

Jonathan laughed—sudden, unguarded, vibrant, like he couldn’t quite believe it. The sound startled Steve so much he just stared, caught flat-footed, while it filled the room like it had always belonged there.

Then Jonathan flushed, ducking his head, shoulders tight as if he could stuff the laugh back down. Steve, though, couldn’t stop staring.

He’d never heard Jonathan laugh like that before—so bright and alive—and something in his brain locked onto it. 

The sound tugged at him the same way that small, soft kiss in the car had — the one that followed all the heat, quiet and lingering, like Jonathan couldn’t help himself.

Steve had replayed it more times than he cared to admit. And every time, he reminded himself not to rush. 

He wasn’t going to pounce, wasn’t going to risk pushing Jonathan faster than he was ready—even if the urge clawed at him whenever they were close.

He wanted Jonathan to see it for himself — that Steve wasn’t going anywhere. That he meant it, no matter how many times Jonathan’s eyes flicked toward him in quiet surprise these past few days, like he was still waiting for Steve to break the spell. 

So Steve slowed down, matched his pace, carried what weight he could without turning it into a burden.

But God, it was harder now. Jonathan Byers—flushed, laughing, unbearably handsome—and the wanting was sharper than ever, until it ached and thrilled Steve just to look at him.

“I guess we’re both each other’s types,” He murmured, still riding the high of it, his eyes dragging openly over Jonathan. “That’s lucky.”

Jonathan cleared his throat, embarrassed but unwilling to break the thread. He stepped away, slow and aimless, fingertips brushing the edge of the couch as he wandered a few paces through the room.

“Oh, yeah. In more ways than one,” he said, voice steadying as he looked around. “We also have this… wasted space.” He gestured faintly at the wide, echoing room before glancing back at Steve, a flicker of something teasing in his eyes. 

“Maybe we can… fill it… sometime.”

Steve blinked, pulse stuttering as he tried to tell if Jonathan meant what it sounded like. His grin wavered, turning crooked — uncertain.

He remembered—too well—the way Jonathan’s hands had lingered on his collar that night, smoothing it down like he hadn’t been ready to let go. It had felt domestic then; now it felt like something else entirely.

The thought alone sent a flicker of heat down Steve’s spine.

“You volunteering to be my interior decorator?”

Jonathan gave a small shrug, eyes catching his with that flicker of heat Steve was starting to recognize. “Not sure I’ve got an eye for drapes.” Then his mouth curved, deliberate. “But I’m pretty good at making noise.”

Steve blinked, a sudden heat flaring low in his stomach. His laugh came out too quick, too rough. “Oh?”

Jonathan didn’t look away. His shrug was slow, deliberate, like he was taking his time with the words. “Could always start with the acoustics. Big empty house like this,” his mouth curved into the faintest smirk, “bet it carries.”

Steve’s laugh slipped out low, a little breathless — he wasn’t sure if Jonathan was still joking.

His mind flickered to the chandelier overhead — how fast it might shake if Jonathan really meant it. He leaned closer without thinking, pulled by gravity. “You saying we should… test it?”

Jonathan tilted his head, the light of the chandelier above catching in his eyes. He didn’t back away; if anything, he leaned in. “Depends,” he murmured. “You afraid the neighbors will hear?”

Steve’s chest tightened, déjà vu of their first date hitting him like a fist. The same flicker was in Jonathan’s eyes now—deliberate, teasing, like the car all over again. 

Back then it had been pink ears and muttering about steamed-up windows — now it was steady and unflinching, daring him closer.

He swallowed. When his voice came, it was rough, betraying just how much he wanted it. “Maybe I don’t care.” 

Jonathan’s mouth twitched.

The silence snapped taut, a live wire thrumming too close to fire. 

Steve swore he could feel the heat of Jonathan’s skin in the not-quite-space between them, every nerve alive with the question of what would happen if one of them gave in.

Jonathan leaned in first—just enough for Steve to catch the flicker in his eyes, the curve of his mouth—God, he was so damn pretty—then his breath ghosted warm across Steve’s lips, the faint brush of his nose against Steve’s.

Teasing. Testing. His gaze didn’t waver, steady and daring, and Steve’s pulse spiked until it almost hurt.

Their noses brushed, soft and electric, and Steve swore if he breathed too deep, their lips would meet. One more inch, one more breath, and—

“This house is amazing!”

Will’s voice cracked through the quiet as the sliding door banged shut behind him. Steve jolted back a half-step, running a hand through his hair too fast to look casual while Jonathan cleared his throat, stepping away as if it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Steve hated how quickly he missed it.

Will, oblivious—or maybe noticing and choosing not to care—was grinning wide, hair mussed from the wind. “You didn’t tell me the pool lights up! It’s like—a movie set out there.”

Jonathan’s faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, the kind that softened the air without fully easing the tension. “It’s late, Will,” he said quietly. “We should head back before mom starts to worry.”

Will’s grin faltered just a little, but he didn’t argue. He shoved his hands in his pockets, still humming with leftover energy.

Steve caught the shift—the way Jonathan’s voice gentled, the easy authority of it—and it hit him harder than it should’ve, how effortless he made it look. He cleared his throat, forcing a grin that didn’t feel quite steady. “I’ll drive you.” 

They gathered themselves quickly after that—Will chattering about the glowing pool as Jonathan steered him toward the door, Steve trailing behind with his keys clenched a bit too tight in his fist. The night air hit cool against his skin, sharp enough to make him shiver, though his heart was still pounding.

The drive was quiet at first—the hum of the engine filling the silence. Will slouched in the backseat, sketchbook open across his knees even though the streetlights only gave him scraps of light. Steve’s right hand settled on the console between him and Jonathan, more out of habit than intention. His fingers drummed restlessly, trying to bleed off the static still buzzing in his chest.

Then he felt it. 

Jonathan’s palm slid over Steve’s, warm and certain, holding him steady against the plastic.

His breath caught, sharp in his throat. He didn’t look away from the road, couldn’t risk it, but his pulse spiked so hard he knew Jonathan had to feel it. 

Jonathan didn’t squeeze, didn’t move, just left his hand there—solid, grounding, like it had always belonged. 

Steve’s fingers curled lightly under Jonathan’s palm, like maybe he could anchor himself there.

He knew exactly why he was drawn to Jonathan—had known for a while now. Before, dating had been a sport; he’d learned how to keep moving so no one would notice he wasn’t really there.

But Jonathan… Jonathan was different. He didn’t just see the cracks—he looked past them. He wanted to know what was underneath, and he stayed long enough to hear the answers Steve didn’t give anyone else. 

And he hadn’t realized, until this moment, how badly he needed that—someone who would notice, stay, and not let go.

The minutes blurred together after that, the road unspooling under the headlights. Steve kept his eyes fixed ahead, but the steady weight of Jonathan’s hand over his own grounded him more than anything else had in a long time. 

By the time he turned onto the cracked driveway of the Byers’ place, his chest felt tight in a way that wasn’t all nerves anymore.

The car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath the tires. Jonathan slipped his hand away to unbuckle, the warmth leaving Steve’s skin too fast, like a light switched off. He flexed his fingers once against the console, already missing it, before forcing himself to kill the engine. 

Will’s sketchbook slid off his lap as he blinked himself awake, the drowsy excitement of the night still clinging to his grin. “That pool was insane,” he mumbled, stretching. “I’ve gotta tell Mike—”

Jonathan’s voice cut in, low but firm, as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Nope. Bed. I told you—keep using the walkie half the night, and it’s gone.”

Will groaned, already defensive. “But—”

“Will.” Jonathan gave him the look, the one that brokered no argument. “You need sleep. Talk to him tomorrow—he’ll survive one night without it, and so will you.”

Will slumped back with a dramatic sigh, muttering under his breath, but he didn’t push it further.

Steve smirked faintly as he unbuckled. “Harsh.”

Jonathan shot him a sideways glance, no heat in it. “Necessary.”

Will shoved his sketchbook back into his bag, still pouting. “Fine. But I’m setting an early alarm for tomorrow. If I don’t talk to him, he’ll think something’s wrong.”

Jonathan just shook his head as he opened his door, though Steve caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Man,” Steve said as he climbed out after him, grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re stricter than Joyce. Next thing I know, you’ll be grounding him.”

Jonathan groaned under his breath, muttering, “Shut up,” but Steve caught the pink creeping up his ears as he herded Will toward the house.

This time Will didn’t argue—probably too tired to. He trudged inside ahead of them, dragging his bag across the floor. “Good night,” he muttered, shooting them a look over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. A door clicked shut a moment later, leaving the house quiet.

Steve lingered just inside the doorway until Jonathan nudged him back out with a tilt of his head. The porch light hummed above them, casting a yellow glow over the steps. Jonathan leaned against the rail, shoulders slouched, arms folded loose across his chest.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air was cool, cicadas buzzing faint in the trees, and Steve found himself once again staring at the curve of Jonathan’s profile in the light.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, trying for casual. “Kid listens to you,” he said. “Better than he listens to anyone else, from the looks of it.”

Jonathan huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, eyes still on the yard. “Yeah, he has his moments.”

Silence stretched again, steady but not uncomfortable. Steve’s mind scrambled for something else—anything—that didn’t sound like he was trying too hard. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat, but the words stuck.

Jonathan beat him to it. His voice was quieter now, almost careful. “I had fun today.”

Steve blinked, caught off guard, and before he could stop himself, a grin tugged at his mouth—quick and unguarded. “Yeah?”

Jonathan finally looked at him then, the porch light catching in his eyes. He gave the faintest nod, mouth curving just slightly. “Yeah. More than I thought I would.”

Steve’s grin widened, warmth curling in his chest. “So what you’re saying is, you’ll be fine with me hanging around the diner every time you’re on shift.”

He braced himself for Jonathan’s usual quirk of the mouth, the dry maybe not every shift. But instead Jonathan’s gaze lingered, a small smile spreading slow and certain. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Steve swallowed, throat tight. “Oh.”

Jonathan’s smile deepened, reaching his eyes. “I’m free tomorrow. Robin’s covering, and it’s supposed to be a slow night.”

For a heartbeat, Steve forgot how to breathe. He could feel Jonathan watching him, patient as ever, and that only made it worse.

He laughed softly under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh… you could come over to my place. If you want.”

Jonathan’s smile tugged wider, a glint in his eyes. “That include chauffeur service, too?”

“Yeah,” Steve answered quickly, then blurted before he could think better of it, “Mornings, too.”

Jonathan’s grin widened, the porch light catching on it as he leaned back against the rail, arms folding like he had all the time in the world. “Lucky me. Makes me wonder what else you’ll do for me.”

Steve stared, pulse jumping to his throat. His stomach flipped, heat creeping up his neck as a dozen what-ifs crowded his head — each one louder than it should’ve been.

Jonathan let the silence stretch just long enough to make Steve sweat before his mouth curved sharper. “Guess I’ll just have to test my limits.”

Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face to hide the grin threatening to break through. “You’re— Jesus, you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Maybe,” Jonathan allowed, unbothered, a spark of smugness still in his eyes—but it eased as he kept watching Steve. “But seriously… I meant it. I had fun today.”

The words hit different this time—less casual, more deliberate—and Steve felt his grin falter into something quieter, warmer. “I’m glad.”

Jonathan leaned against the rail, gaze skimming off to the side. “You’re not what I expected you’d be.”

Steve frowned, caught off guard. “You said that before. Our first date.”

Steve remembered that night—the two of them in the booth, the smell of coffee and fries, Jonathan stirring his milkshake. You’re different lately, he’d said, quiet and unsure, like he didn’t know if it was a compliment or a warning. Back then, Steve hadn’t known what to make of it. Now he thought maybe he did.

Jonathan’s nod was slow, thoughtful. “Yeah. I just didn’t know how to articulate it then, but…” He hesitated, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or keep going. “I always figured you were this cool, smooth guy… Like everything just came easy for you. But you’re not, not really.”

He glanced at him then, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, half-apology, half-tease. “Turns out you’re kind of a dork.”

Steve’s brows shot up. “Wow. Flattered.”

Jonathan’s mouth curved, softer this time, like he couldn’t quite help it. “No—I mean… you’re just… awkward as hell sometimes. But I… like that about you.”

The words hit harder than they should have, settling low in Steve’s chest. He hesitated, pulse quickening, then before he could think better of it, he blurted, “I like who I am around you.”

Jonathan’s head turned at that, his eyes locking onto Steve’s with a sharpness that made Steve’s pulse jump. He shifted his weight, suddenly restless, his palms itching to fidget with something. 

“I mean—” he started, scrambling to backtrack, “—not like I’m some totally different guy or whatever. It just feels easier with you. Like I don’t have to…” He trailed off, the words tangling in his throat.

Jonathan didn’t make him finish. His expression softened, his mouth tugging into the faintest smile—quiet but certain, like he’d already filled in the blanks himself. He leaned a little closer on the rail, shoulders brushing Steve’s. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t want you to pretend with me.”

Warmth spread through Steve’s chest—sharp and sweet all at once, stealing his breath. He huffed a laugh, shaky and unsteady, and nudged Jonathan’s shoulder with his own. “Careful, Byers. Keep that up and I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me.”

Jonathan’s eyes lingered on him, steady enough to make Steve’s pulse stumble. His smile curved slow—still edged with a tease, but softer now.

“You know I do.”

⸻

“Cold?” Jonathan asked.

“Nah,” Steve said, which meant yes.

Jonathan hid a smile, watching the way Steve’s shoulders hunched in against the breeze, hands shoved deep into his jacket like he could will warmth back into them. 

He couldn’t stop replaying the moment from before—the way Steve had looked at him when he said it. 

For a second, Steve hadn’t said anything, just stared, eyes a little wide, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that kind of honesty. The corner of his mouth had twitched then, small and helpless, something soft flickering through his expression before he looked away.

The tips of Steve’s ears were still pink now.

Jonathan chuckled under his breath. “I’ll be quick,” he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. The familiar crinkle of the pack broke the quiet as he pulled one out, rolling it lightly between his fingers before slipping it between his lips. He flicked his lighter, the flame catching on the first try—soft and blue at the base, sparking a warm glow across his fingers as he lit the cigarette.

He pulled in smoke with a practiced inhale. It settled low, familiar.

When he finally glanced sideways, Steve was staring like Jonathan had just sprouted a second head. 

“You smoke?”

Jonathan exhaled slow, the ember glowing. He let the corner of his mouth twitch. “Sometimes.”

He took another slow drag, watching the ember flare and fade before glancing sideways again. Steve was still staring—half-curious, half-amused now. His grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “What else are you hiding, Byers? Starting to think I don’t know half the things you get up to.”

Jonathan huffed a quiet laugh, smoke curling from his lips. “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?”

Steve tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low porch light. “Next thing I know, you’ll tell me you’ve got a motorcycle and a criminal record.”

Jonathan shook his head, trying not to smile. He flicked ash off the porch rail, gaze slipping back to the yard. “Guess you’ll just have to keep being surprised.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve grinned wider — that same mix of disbelief and delight that always seemed to knock the air out of Jonathan a little. For all his talk, Steve looked like he genuinely liked finding out more about Jonathan, like every new detail was something he wanted to keep.

Jonathan took another drag, mostly to distract himself from how warm that thought felt in his chest, then tipped his head and held the cigarette out — a silent offer.

For a beat Steve hesitated, eyes flicking from Jonathan’s hand to his face, but then he took it faster than Jonathan expected, like accepting a dare. 

Their fingers brushed, warm in the cool air. 

Jonathan leaned back against the rail, watching as Steve inhaled. 

It wasn’t graceful—too deep, a faint cough caught in his throat—but he steadied faster than Jonathan expected, exhaling with a practiced kind of determination.

Jonathan’s lips twitched. “Not bad.”

Steve arched a brow, feigning offense even as his voice came out a little rough. “What, like I’ve never done this before?”

Jonathan’s smile curved soft, almost fond as he watched him. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Steve took another drag, then coughed once and pretended he hadn’t. Jonathan bit down on another smile and looked away before he gave him grief for it. They passed it back and forth in easy beats. 

When he thought he wasn’t being watched, Steve’s posture shifted—chest easing, hip leaning into the rail, chin tipping toward the yard like he was listening to the dark itself.

When he was aware of Jonathan looking, though, he straightened, tried for cool again and overshot into stiff. 

Jonathan had to fight the tiny flicker of fondness that rose up every time that happened. 

The night was quiet—the smoke curling between them as Jonathan tapped ash over the porch rail, pretending not to care. “So… yesterday. Carol and Tommy. What’d you think?”

Steve huffed a laugh, eyes glinting. “Wasn’t surprised,” he said.

Jonathan’s brow ticked up. He angled the cigarette back toward Steve, feigning nonchalance even as curiosity needled at him. “What do you mean?”

Steve took it, their fingers brushing again. He inhaled quick, coughed again but pushed through, pretending it hadn’t happened. “Come on, Byers. Carol? She’s been cheating on Tommy since sophomore year. He just never wanted to see it. Guess Wheeler just decided to do everyone a favor and say it out loud.”

Jonathan blinked, absorbing that. He wasn’t a gossip—not really—but Steve’s tone was so unbothered, so sure, it was hard not to listen. “You knew?”

“Please.” Steve snorted, smoke curling from his mouth. “Half the school knew. I just didn’t care enough to call it. Tommy was too busy acting like an asshole, Carol was… well, Carol. They deserved each other.”

He held the cigarette out between two fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. Jonathan reached for it, their hands brushing—warm, brief, but enough to make him pause before he took it.

He brought it to his lips, drawing in a slow breath. The smoke stung on the inhale, but the quiet that followed settled easy between them. He let his mouth twitch, exhaling toward the yard. He wasn’t sure why that answer pleased him.

“Guess not anymore.”

Steve chuckled, softer now. “Yeah. Honestly? Nancy handled it better than anyone else could’ve. Cold as hell, but—” his grin spread, almost proud. “God, it was perfect. Did you see Carol’s face?”

Jonathan couldn’t stop the small laugh that slipped out. “Yeah. She shut her down fast.”

Steve nodded, leaning back against the rail, looking almost wistful. “Wheeler’s sharp. Always has been. I think Buckley’s figured that out, too. Those two together? Dangerous combination.”

Jonathan tilted his head, letting the thought settle. “Robin and Nancy,” he murmured after a beat, almost to himself. “Weird pair.”

“Works, though,” Steve said easily, taking the cigarette back with a small grin. Smoke curled between his fingers as he spoke, grin tugging fonder now. “Robin’s… Robin. Loud, impossible to ignore. Nancy’s… not. But when she does talk? People listen. And Robin, of course, absolutely loves that.”

Jonathan hummed, watching as Steve exhaled slow, shoulders easing into the night. For someone who swore he didn’t care what people thought, Steve Harrington was startlingly observant—about Nancy, about Robin, about everyone, really. Jonathan wasn’t sure he even realized it.

When Steve passed the cigarette back, their fingers brushed again — quick, warm, familiar now — before Jonathan brought it to his lips. He let the thought linger as he exhaled, watching smoke curl lazy from his lips before the breeze carried it away.

He studied Steve out of the corner of his eye, replaying the way his grin softened when he talked about Nancy and Robin, like it wasn’t just gossip. Like he gave a damn, maybe more than he realized.

Jonathan found himself saying it before he could think better of it. “You notice more than people give you credit for.”

“What, like I’m secretly a genius or something?” Steve smirked, going for playful, but Jonathan caught the flicker beneath it—the part of him that wasn’t sure if Jonathan was joking.

Jonathan shook his head, lips twitching as he took another slow drag. “No. Just… you pay attention. Even when you pretend not to.”

Steve’s brows lifted, faint surprise cutting through the smirk he tried to hold. “Yeah? You think so?” He shifted closer, shoulder brushing the rail beside Jonathan’s. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment, Byers.”

Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe because it is.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, but it came out softer than expected. He reached out, fingers brushing Jonathan’s as he took the cigarette back. “Careful, Byers,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I might start hoping you mean it.”

The words lingered between them, quiet and unguarded in a way Steve probably didn’t mean to admit. Jonathan watched the grin falter on Steve’s face—just for a second—before he pulled it back into place, too quick, too easy, like muscle memory.

He took a drag to fill the silence, exhaled smoke toward the yard like it could hide the warmth creeping up his neck. “Christ,” he said after a beat, shaking his head with a huff of laughter. “Keep that up, and people are gonna start thinking I’ve got it bad for you.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Pretty sure they already do.”

Steve coughed—whether from the smoke or the words, Jonathan couldn’t tell—and shoved the cigarette back at him. His grin was crooked now, a little too wide to be casual. 

Jonathan took it, their fingers brushing again, and something in his chest loosened, soft and unexpected. The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy—just steady, the night air settling around them like it was holding space for them.

Steve was the first to break it, quieter than his usual joking tone. “Guess I should head out before your mom kicks me out again.”

Jonathan smiled, faint but real. “Yeah. You probably should.”

Still, neither of them moved. Steve looked at him — and for once, there wasn’t anything performative about it. No trace of that reflexive charm he used like armor, no deflection hiding behind the grin. Jonathan felt it, the same pull that had been there all night, undeniable.

Steve’s voice was softer when it came again. “So… I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said, trying not to sound like it meant more than it should. “Tomorrow.”

Steve’s grin was small, almost shy, and then — before Jonathan could overthink it — he leaned in. The half-burned cigarette slipped from Jonathan’s fingers, a faint ember dying out against the porch rail just as Steve’s lips met his.

The kiss was quick, more a promise than anything else—warm, sure, gone in an instant—but the taste of Steve still clung to him, soft and sweet, like the moment refused to fade completely.

Steve pulled back, grin widening at Jonathan’s dazed look. “Night, Byers.”

Jonathan managed a quiet, “Night,” but Steve was already heading for the car, keys jingling. The headlights swept over the yard, then faded down the road until all that was left was the hum of crickets and the faint scent of smoke still clinging to Jonathan’s fingers.

⸻

Jonathan was still on the porch when the screen door creaked open behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Why are you not in bed?”

Will padded out barefoot, rubbing at his eyes but looking way too alert for someone who’d supposedly been asleep. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said with a shrug. “Too loud.”

Jonathan frowned. “Too loud?”

Will’s mouth twitched. “I heard you laugh. In Steve’s house. And now.”

“Oh.” Jonathan’s ears went hot. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Will hesitated, then smiled — small, genuine. “I’m glad he makes you happy.”

Jonathan blinked, the warmth in his chest spreading before he could help it. “Thanks, bud.”

Will nodded like that was that. Then, after a beat: “Also, I only came in because I didn’t want you guys to start having sex while I was there.”

Jonathan nearly choked. “What—Will!”

“I’m just saying!” Will lifted his hands in mock defense, grinning. “If you’re gonna do that kind of thing, maybe wait until the kid leaves the house.”

Jonathan groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Bed. Now.”

“Fine, fine.” Will threw up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning as he started back toward the door. Halfway there, he turned over his shoulder. “But just so you know — that rule applies here too. No sex while I’m in the house.”

“Will!”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Will waved him off with mock solemnity. “Good night.”

Jonathan could still hear him giggling all the way down the hall. He dropped his head back against the porch rail and exhaled, equal parts mortified and stupidly happy.

Chapter Text

The Other Shoe

The Byers’ kitchen smelled like toast and instant coffee — normal, for once. Sunlight cut through the curtains in thin, warm lines, catching on the chipped edges of the counter.

Jonathan sat at the kitchen table, elbows braced around his mug, still half-asleep. The coffee was too bitter, but it kept his hands busy. 

He could still taste smoke if he thought about it hard enough — smoke and something softer that made his stomach tighten in ways he didn’t want to name this early.

Will padded through, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp. He was humming under his breath — not loud enough to be annoying, just enough to make the quiet feel suspiciously cheerful.

Joyce moved between the stove and the counter, flipping toast, the radio mumbling faint static behind her. “You’re both up early,” she said, half-surprised.

“Steve’s giving us a ride,” Will announced, like he’d just said the bus comes at eight.

Jonathan nearly choked on his coffee. “Yeah.” He coughed. “Right, he—uh—offered.”

Joyce turned, spatula mid-air, brow arched. “Steve offered?”

Jonathan blinked. “…Yeah?”

Her mouth curved. “Steve offering help isn’t new, but—” she pointed the spatula at him, smirking, “—you agreed?”

Jonathan hesitated, buying time with another sip of coffee he didn’t need. “Transportation is transportation,” he said finally, like that explained anything.

Will made a heroic attempt not to laugh and failed halfway through his cereal.

Joyce hummed, setting down the spatula. “You’re in a good mood this morning,” she said, in that patient, knowing tone that meant she was filing it away for later. 

Jonathan tried to play it off, eyes fixed on his mug like the steam might hide him. He forced his shoulders to relax — a performance of casual that fooled exactly no one.

Then Joyce squinted at him, mock serious. “That thing you’re doing. With your mouth. It’s unsettling.”

Will snorted into his spoon. “Yeah, he’s been like that since last night.”

“Will,” Jonathan warned, voice sharp enough to be a threat if his ears weren’t so red.

Joyce turned, utterly unbothered. “Since last night?” she echoed, eyebrows lifting like she’d just discovered something interesting.

“Homework,” Jonathan said quickly. Too quickly. “We were—uh—working on stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” Joyce flipped another piece of toast, clearly enjoying herself. “During your shift?”

“Yeah. Big project.” He floundered for a second, scanning for the nearest plausible subject. “Chemistry.”

Joyce didn’t even look up. “Of course.” She plated the toast with practiced calm. “Well, whatever chemistry you’re working on, it seems to be agreeing with you.”

Will bit down on his spoon to keep from laughing.

Jonathan shot him a look that promised payback later, mumbled something about the coffee being strong, and reached for his bag — hoping the motion disguised the color creeping up his neck.

Outside, a car horn honked — two short notes, impatient but familiar.

Will perked up immediately, cereal forgotten. “That’s them!”

Jonathan groaned, low and resigned. He shoved back his chair, slung his bag over one shoulder like armor, and muttered, “We should go.”

“Tell Steve I said hi!” Joyce called after them, bright and unbothered.

Will was already halfway to the door. “I will!” he yelled over his shoulder.

Jonathan, following slower, sighed. “Please don’t.”

Joyce just laughed, spatula still in hand. “Have fun at school!”

Will flashed her a thumbs-up, and Jonathan managed a half-smile before the sunlight hit them again — bright, unforgiving, and too much like the kind of morning that might actually mean something.

The screen door creaked as they stepped out, Jonathan blinking against the light. The air outside felt different — sharper, the cold edging in where the kitchen’s warmth had been. Somewhere down the drive, Steve’s car idled, engine low, the radio bleeding faintly through the stillness.

Will jogged ahead, calling out something Jonathan didn’t catch. Jonathan lingered for half a second longer, pulse picking up for reasons he didn’t want to name.

By the time he looked up, Steve was already there — leaned against the car, hair still damp, grin lazy in that way that made it hard to tell if he’d been waiting long or just pretending not to care.

The sun hadn’t fully made up its mind yet — half-gold, half-gray — when Steve’s car rolled down the quiet stretch toward Hawkins High. The heater hummed against the late-winter chill, carrying the faint smell of Robin’s coffee from the back seat.

Their fingers brushed once on the console between them — brief, unintentional, but enough to pull the air taut. Neither of them pulled away right away, and neither held on, as if both understood that whatever this was couldn’t be rushed. Not yet.

Jonathan glanced sideways and caught Steve instead of the window — hair still damp from the shower, eyelids heavy with half-sleep. 

It suited him. The stillness. Like the world hadn’t quite woken up yet, and he was the only part of it worth watching.

Will was half-asleep against the glass, sketchbook open in his lap, pencil still wedged between his fingers. Robin sat beside him, sipping her to-go cup and muttering commentary at the radio like it was a debate partner.

It was only the second morning they’d done this, and somehow it already felt like a routine — the four of them orbiting the same small, safe pocket of time before the day could touch them.

“Fleetwood Mac before eight AM?” Robin exclaimed, mock scandalized and accidentally kicking Jonathan’s seat. “Bold choice, Harrington.”

Steve didn’t look away from the road. “You’re welcome for the free taste in music, Buckley.”

“You mean questionable taste,” she shot back. “There’s a difference.”

Jonathan hid a smile, watching the light flicker across Steve’s face as they passed under the trees. The exchange was familiar in a way he hadn’t realized he wanted — easy, unforced, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

He remembered when it used to feel alienating.

Back in his own living room, he’d listened to the rhythm between them — the teasing, the quickfire jokes, Will’s muffled laughter spilling through it. Robin and Steve tossing barbs like they’d known each other for years, while Jonathan shrank smaller with every quip.

Their banter had once made him feel invisible — like he was watching a scene from outside the frame, weirdly jealous of how effortless it all seemed. How easily Steve fit with someone new. He’d felt like a spectator in his own house, a prop in someone else’s inside joke.

Now, hearing them bicker, it didn’t sting. It felt shared. Like he was finally part of the noise instead of lost in it.

The laughter wasn’t something he had to brace for. It moved through the car in easy waves, warm and familiar, and when Steve glanced over with that crooked, knowing grin, Jonathan didn’t flinch from it.

Will stirred in the back, mumbling something about “no fighting before breakfast.” Steve snorted. Robin reached over to ruffle Will’s hair. For a second, the whole car seemed to exhale.

Jonathan turned toward the window, pretending to study the road ahead — mostly to hide the smile tugging at his mouth. He wasn’t used to mornings like this. Not quiet ones, not warm ones. Not ones where he could glance over and find Steve’s arm brushing his just enough to count.

The radio fuzzed mid-song, static cutting through the last chord. Without thinking, Jonathan reached forward and tapped the dial. Steve’s fingers brushed his, but neither of them pulled back right away.

Steve’s voice was low when he spoke again. “You ever gonna drive one of these mornings?”

Jonathan smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d let anyone else touch your car.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I’d make an exception.”

Robin groaned. “Ugh, we can hear the flirting. It’s too early for this.”

Will giggled from the back — light, unguarded, pure. Jonathan couldn’t help laughing a bit too, shaking his head. His eyes met Steve’s for half a second before Steve turned back to the road, the corner of his mouth still curved. The warmth lingered, spreading through Jonathan like sunlight against the chill.

Routine, he realized, didn’t have to mean boring. 

Sometimes it just meant safe. 

Sometimes it meant getting to start the day like this.

Outside, the school parking lot came into view — gray pavement, early students, the echo of bells and chatter carried on cold air. The car slowed. For a moment, Jonathan almost wished it wouldn’t.

Steve parked the car, cut the engine, and the quiet that followed was soft, familiar — the kind that made Jonathan want to stay a minute longer before facing everything else.

Robin finally broke it. “Alright, lovebirds, school awaits. Try not to make out before homeroom.”

Jonathan groaned again, grabbing his bag just to have something to do. Steve only grinned wider.

“C’mon, Byers,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go pretend we’re functional humans.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the smile that followed was real as they climbed out into the light.

⸻

It was minutes before second period. Jonathan was in his usual seat, halfway through his notes, when the scrape of a chair made him look up.

Steve Harrington stood at the front of the room, hands in his jacket pockets, scanning the rows like he owned them — which, once upon a time, he kind of had.

Then he started toward the back, toward Jonathan’s corner.

“Seat taken?” he asked, even though it obviously wasn’t.

Jonathan blinked. “Since when do you have advanced chem?”

Steve’s grin was pure nonchalance. “Since now.”

He dropped into the empty chair beside him — the one that had stayed vacant all semester, the one everyone avoided after Tommy’s crack about Byers and his freak lab corner. Chairs squeaked as heads turned. The murmur that followed was low, curious, but it never grew into anything louder than that.

Jonathan frowned, pencil paused mid-note. “Seriously. What are you doing here?”

Steve propped his elbows on the desk, flipping open a brand-new notebook like he’d been there all year. “Learning.”

Jonathan arched a brow. “You hate chemistry.”

“I hate failing chemistry,” Steve corrected, not even glancing up. He hummed, pretending to study the board. “We’re working through it.”

Jonathan waited. When he didn’t get an answer, he asked, “Meaning?”

Steve sighed, rolling his pen between his fingers. “Meaning I asked guidance to bump me up. Figured maybe if I actually showed up to the one class we have together, I’d stay awake long enough to pass this time.”

Jonathan knew that wasn’t true. Chemistry wasn’t their only overlap. Even before he’d started sitting with Steve in the cafeteria, he’d felt him everywhere — English, History, study hall. That quiet awareness that shouldn’t have meant anything, but did.

Which meant it wasn’t only about school — but it wasn’t a lie, either. Steve had actually shown up this time. Notebook open, pen ready, the faint crease of focus between his brows like he was determined to mean it.

Jonathan stared. “You transferred into advanced chem for that?” 

Steve’s grin twitched, caught between sheepish and smug. “Technically, I asked if they’d bump me up. Told them I was getting some extra help from a reliable student.”

Jonathan blinked, half a laugh escaping. “Me?”

“Yep. They said no at first, but then I reminded them I’ve been showing improvement.” Steve made air quotes, rolling his eyes with that effortless, performative charm he wore like a second skin.

Jonathan just stared. “You transferred into advanced chem. On purpose.”

For me.

“Don’t sound so shocked, Byers.” Steve smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess some of your overachiever energy rubbed off on me.”

There was something tentative in his gaze now — a flicker that didn’t belong to the old King Steve, like he wasn’t sure if he’d just made a mistake or a joke.

Jonathan couldn’t help it — a laugh slipped out. “That’s not a thing.”

The sound seemed to knock something loose. Steve’s shoulders eased, his grin turning real this time. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk in a steady rhythm. “Figured I should start proving I’m not a total lost cause.”

Then, with a half-smile: “Besides, chemistry’s the only class that ever gave me anything useful.”

Jonathan side-eyed him. “Like what?”

Steve’s grin curved slow. “Like an excuse to sit next to you.”

The words lingered — soft enough to sound like a joke, but not soft enough to go unnoticed. Jonathan could feel a few voices still murmuring around them, the scrape of chairs, the faint hum of the projector. 

Anyone could be listening. The awareness crawled up the back of his neck — that anyone could look up and see them sitting too close, smiling too much.

Jonathan shook his head, trying not to let it show. “You’re unbelievable,” he murmured.

“Hey, don’t knock a guy for academic enthusiasm.” Steve flipped to a blank page, scrawled Jonathan Byers = bad influence, and slid the notebook halfway across the desk.

Jonathan stared at it, then at him. The teacher — Mr. Bates, old, boring, and perpetually strict — had already arrived and was calling attendance in his usual drone.

“You’re gonna get us both in trouble,” Jonathan muttered.

Steve smirked, tore the page out in one smooth motion, and set it down beside Jonathan’s hand — close enough that the edge brushed his fingers. Then he leaned back, grin widening, and whispered, “Worth it.”

Jonathan tried to focus on his notes again, but his pulse was doing that irritating thing — too loud, too steady. The paper beside him was a distraction he couldn’t ignore. His eyes flicked to it once, then to Steve, then to the board. None of it stuck.

Mr. Bates’s voice cut through the haze. “Byers.”

Jonathan didn’t answer.

A second later, a light kick landed against his shin — not hard, just enough to jolt him. Steve’s shoe.

Jonathan blinked, straightened, cleared his throat. “Here,” he said quickly.

Mr. Bates gave a disapproving hum and moved on.

Beside him, Steve chuckled under his breath — low, unbothered. Jonathan refused to look at him, didn’t trust himself to, but the sound alone was enough to make his stomach twist.

He tried again to focus, pen hovering uselessly over the page, but it was pointless. The rest of the class blurred into static.

King Steve — somehow always untouchable, and yet right there, beside him, pretending to copy formulas while half the room pretended not to stare.

No one questioned it. They never did.

Still, Jonathan couldn’t help glancing sideways, watching the way Steve leaned back in the chair like he’d been sitting there his whole life, casually flipping open his notebook.

During class Steve didn’t even pretend to pay attention. Just rested his elbow on the desk, tapping his pen in lazy rhythm.

“Eyes front, Harrington,” Jonathan muttered, but his voice caught halfway between annoyance and a laugh.

Steve didn’t look up. “Relax, Byers. I’m taking notes.”

He tore out the page he’d been writing on, folded it once, and slid it across the desk.

Jonathan hesitated before unfolding it. In neat, looping handwriting, Steve had written:

stop glaring. it’s cute, but distracting.

He felt the corner of his mouth twitch before he could stop it. He reached for his own pen, angled the page just enough, and scrawled beneath it:

you’re hopeless.

Steve read it, bit back a grin, and scribbled in return:

and yet, here I am.

Jonathan shook his head, pretending to focus on the worksheet, but his pulse wouldn’t slow down. They kept it up through the rest of class — small jabs, half-thought comments about Mr. Bates’ tie, Steve’s dramatic little doodle of a camera with a heart over it.

By the end of class, Jonathan had almost forgotten anyone else was in the room.

Then the bell shrieked overhead, a sound too loud, too sudden — breaking the spell clean. Chairs scraped back, the usual shuffle of notebooks and chatter filling the room. Jonathan moved slower than usual, sliding his notes into his folder, trying not to look like his pulse was still misbehaving.

Steve, of course, didn’t rush. He leaned back in his chair, stretching like someone entirely unbothered by the stares still darting their way.

When the classroom finally emptied, Steve stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder before glancing down at Jonathan. “You coming, or are you planning to marry that notebook?”

Jonathan sighed, rolling his eyes as he gathered the rest of his things and shoved them into his bag. But the smile that crept up was small and unguarded. “You realize you just tanked your reputation by sitting here, right?”

Steve shrugged, easy. “Guess I’ll live.”

They fell into step together, the hallway a blur of lockers and chatter. For a moment, neither spoke — just the echo of their shoes and the muffled hum of the next period starting.

Jonathan could feel the glances, the curiosity, the small ripple of attention still following them. Once, that would’ve made him tense. Now, with Steve walking beside him, he just… didn’t care.

His chest felt too full for that to even matter — something unsteady and thrilling pressing up under his ribs, impossible to name without giving it away.

Steve bumped his shoulder lightly. “So, how’d I do?”

Jonathan glanced over, trying to sound offhand. “In chemistry?”

Steve’s grin tilted. “In general.”

Jonathan huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Passing. Barely.”

“Harsh,” Steve said — but the word came out lower than he probably meant, almost like a challenge. The sound of it caught somewhere deep in Jonathan’s gut, stirring heat that had nothing to do with the hallway air.

For a second, neither of them looked away. Then Steve grinned again, softer this time, like he’d heard it too. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder…”

Something in the way he said it — the lilt of his tone, the flicker in his eyes like he was waiting for a reaction — caught Jonathan completely off guard. The grin wasn’t just charm; it was searching, tentative in that quiet, dangerous way that made Jonathan’s pulse trip over itself.

He found himself watching Steve’s mouth, the curve of it, the small hitch of breath that followed — details he shouldn’t have noticed, but couldn’t seem to stop tracing.

For a moment, the rest of the hallway dissolved into blur and noise, and all he could think about was how dangerously easy it was to get lost in Steve Harrington’s eyes.

Before he could answer, a familiar voice called down the hall. “Jonathan!”

Steve blinked, shoulders straightening as if he’d been caught mid-thought. Jonathan exhaled, the breath shaking something loose in his chest before he turned toward the sound.

Nancy was leaning against a locker, arms folded, a faint smile playing at her mouth. Her gaze flicked between them — Steve’s soft grin, Jonathan’s half-smile — before she straightened, expression settling into something lighter.

“I was hoping to catch you,” she said, stepping forward through the crowd. “Mind if I steal him for a sec?”

Steve hesitated, reading something unspoken in her expression. Then he nodded once — playful as ever, but gentler this time. 

“Don’t take too long, Wheeler. I still need my tutor.”

Nancy arched a brow. “Pretty sure what you need is divine intervention.”

Steve’s grin lingered even after he turned away, like the echo of a light left on. “Same thing.”

Jonathan watched him go, the sound of his footsteps fading into the crowd. Then he turned back to Nancy, who was still watching him with that half-amused, half-knowing look that made him feel like he was twelve again — caught, embarrassed, and somehow seen all at once.

She tilted her head, almost the same way his mom had over breakfast. “You’re smiling.”

“Stop.”

“Fine,” she said easily, but her grin deepened — knowing, fond. For a moment, the hallway noise thinned to a hum, leaving just her and that steady look that always seemed to see more than he wanted her to. “It’s just nice to see.”

Jonathan felt his ears warm, unsure what to do with that kind of attention. He ducked his head, fumbling for something to say, but Nancy already beat him to it.

Her smile curved, a spark of mischief lighting in her eyes. “Advanced chem, huh?”

It took him a second to catch up — and then it hit him. 

Of course. She was in that class. She’d probably been there the whole time, seen everything. She must’ve waited for him on purpose, just long enough to make sure he knew it.

Jonathan groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I said stop. Don’t start.”

Nancy laughed, soft and unbothered. “Sorry. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder, still grinning as she stepped back into the flow of students. “See you at lunch.”

Jonathan watched her go, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. Leave it to Nancy to make teasing feel like reassurance.

He exhaled, tugging his own bag higher on his shoulder before heading the other direction. The hall had thinned, the noise fading to a steady hum. He could still feel the faint warmth of Steve’s shoulder where it had brushed his — a small, stupid thing that lingered longer than it should have.

When lunch came, it only cemented the shift. By the time the bell rang, the cafeteria noise had settled into the usual midday hum — chatter, trays, the scrape of chairs on tile. No stares, no whispers. Just noise that didn’t carry their names anymore.

Jonathan didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe the cafeteria had learned its lesson — Tommy and Carol’s meltdown still a whispered legend, retold in fragments between classes.

Or maybe it was just Steve — the shield of his charm, that strange gravity that told people not to bother.

Robin had already claimed their usual table by the time the others arrived — bag slung over one chair, tray spread out like a territorial flag. She’d waved them over the moment they walked in, like she was daring anyone else to try sitting there first.

No one dared to test Steve now. Even Tommy, passing by with his tray, just kept walking, jaw tight but silent. Carol’s laughter had thinned to background noise.

They sat at the same table they always did. Not huddled in a corner. Not hiding. Just there.

Robin talked with her hands, animated and unstoppable as usual. 

Nancy had joined them without hesitation, her notebook propped against her tray, laughing at Robin’s commentary and tossing in dry remarks that somehow turned the chaos into an actual conversation instead of just another one of Robin’s rants.

Steve was halfway through stealing Jonathan’s fries for the third time, pretending not to notice Jonathan watching him do it.

A few people glanced over. No one said a word.

Either way, it felt… easy. Easier than Jonathan ever thought it could.

Normal.

That was the strangest part.

Steve leaned in, his shoulder brushing Jonathan’s as he stole another fry. “Told you it’d blow over,” he murmured.

Jonathan stabbed at his salad, pretending to scowl. “You’re too confident.”

“Confident,” Steve corrected, smirking. “Not wrong.”

Robin pointed her straw at them. “If you two start flirting again, I’m moving to another table.”

Steve grinned. “You won’t.”

She sighed, dramatic. “Yeah, I won’t.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his mouth gave him away.

“Still weird, though,” Steve said after a beat, glancing around the room. “Feels like the whole school just… forgot.”

Nancy smirked over the rim of her drink, eyes glinting that knowing way she had. “You sound disappointed, Steve.”

He choked mid-sip, sputtering soda back into his cup as Robin instantly lost it, half-folding over the table with laughter.

Nancy leaned in, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s not like you’ve been the main topic of conversation in this school for the last three years or anything.”

Jonathan couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out — low, knowing. “She’s got you there.”

Steve wiped his mouth with a napkin, mock-offended. “Hey, I was just giving the people what they wanted.”

Jonathan hummed, amused. “Guess they finally want peace and quiet.”

Steve shot him a sideways look, grin crooked. “Or maybe they just realized you’re scarier than I am.”

Jonathan huffed a laugh, poking idly at his tray. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Robin pointed with her fork. “Honestly? Could be. You’ve got that brooding don’t mess with me thing down to an art form at this point.”

Jonathan didn’t miss a beat. “Why, thank you,” he said lightly — deadpan enough to make Robin snort.

Steve leaned back in his chair, stretching his arm along the back of Jonathan’s seat. “Not to mention how you kicked my ass in that alley. That rumor made the rounds, you know.” His grin sharpened. “Tommy and Carol made sure of that.”

Jonathan blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Oh yeah.” Steve’s tone was half amusement, half pride. “Guess it’s official — you’re the guy who finally took down King Steve Harrington. They’re terrified of you, Byers.”

He paused, grin softening. “Maybe a little impressed, too.”

Jonathan felt something in his chest tighten — not from embarrassment, but from Steve’s steady gaze, the warmth behind it threading through the usual cafeteria noise until everything else blurred.

Robin hummed her agreement, sipping her drink. “Can confirm. Today alone, three girls who’ve never looked at me twice suddenly started talking to me — all because I’m friends with Steve Harrington.”