Jonathan has been staring at you for a while now. You can feel it without even looking—his gaze warm and steady, the way it always is when he’s trying to understand something he doesn’t quite have words for. When you finally glance up, you catch it: that soft, familiar look in his eyes, the faint curve of a smile he probably doesn’t even realize he’s wearing. It’s the same expression he used to give you back when things were simpler. Before the Upside Down. Before secrets and fear and near-death experiences became part of your everyday vocabulary.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap, sharper than you mean to, your arms folding defensively over your chest. You’re trying—really trying—to stay mad at him. You deserve to be mad at him.

Jonathan blinks, clearly caught off guard, but he doesn’t look away. He never does. “Like what?” he asks quietly, his voice calm in that way that only makes your frustration burn hotter.

Your relationship has always been complicated—best friends first, something deeper hovering just beneath the surface, neither of you brave enough to name it out loud. You trust Jonathan with things you’d never tell anyone else. He’s seen you at your worst, and you’ve stood by him through everything the world has thrown at him. Which is exactly why it hurts so much.

He went into the Upside Down without you. He made that choice alone, like it was his burden to carry and his alone. And now he’s back—safe, breathing, standing right in front of you like nothing could’ve gone wrong. Like he hadn’t scared you half to death.

The living room is crowded, the air thick with unspoken tension. Steve leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the two of you like he’s bracing for impact. Nancy stands close to Jonathan, concern etched into her expression, clearly torn between relief and guilt. Robin fidgets near the couch, glancing between everyone, while Mike, Will, and Dustin hover nearby, unusually quiet for once, all of them sensing that this isn’t just another argument.

Jonathan shifts his weight, finally looking a little uncertain. His hands hang at his sides, fingers twitching like he wants to reach out but knows better. „I didn’t mean to—” he starts, then stops, exhaling slowly. His eyes meet yours again, apologetic and sincere. „I just didn’t want you getting hurt.”

That’s what makes it worse.

Because he didn’t go without you because he didn’t care. He went because he cared too much. And standing there, surrounded by friends and chaos and the aftermath of yet another nightmare, you’re not sure whether you want to scream at him… or pull him into a hug and never let go.