The house has been too loud since Will came back.

Not with noise—no, Jonathan notices silence now. The way it stretches. The way it hums when it shouldn’t. The way the air turns sharp and cold for no reason at all, like something unseen is holding its breath.

They say Will is recovering.

Jonathan knows better.

He sees it in the way Will flinches at shadows. In the way his brother’s eyes go distant, unfocused, as if he’s listening to something no one else can hear. In the way the lights flicker when Will gets upset. In the way the cold creeps in through the walls.

And then Will looks at you.

It happens late—after the doctors leave, after Joyce falls asleep in a chair by Will’s bed, after the house finally settles. You’re standing in the doorway, quiet, wrapped in borrowed clothes that are too soft, too pastel, too carefully chosen. Jonathan picked them himself from the thrift store in town—gentle fabrics, loose fits, nothing scratchy. Nothing harsh for you.

Soft things, for someone who just helped save Will.

Will’s fingers curl into the blanket. His breathing stutters.

“…It’s cold,” he whispers. “She feels like it.”

The room goes still.

Jonathan doesn’t speak. He just watches Will’s eyes track you, the way his shoulders tense like he’s bracing for something unseen. Jonathan feels it then—deep in his chest, sharp and certain.

The Upside Down didn’t let go of you.

And Jonathan refuses to let it take you. —

You don’t remember agreeing to leave Hawkins.

Only Jonathan’s voice, low and steady, telling you it was safer this way. That the woods were quiet. That the cabin had heat. That you just needed rest—real rest—away from the noise, away from people who didn’t understand.

Now you’re here.

The cabin smells like pine and old wood and clean laundry. Lantern light glows soft and yellow, deliberately dim. Jonathan has arranged the space carefully—blankets folded, shelves cleared, childish comfort items set where your hands can reach them without effort. Everything simple. Everything calm.

You’re dressed in new clothes again—soft, girlish things that don’t quite feel like yours. A loose sweater. Warm socks. Fabric chosen to keep you still, comfortable, compliant.

Your wrists are secured.

Metal cuffs—old, sturdy, padded where they touch your skin—linked by a short length of chain. Jonathan keeps them hanging by the door when you’re not wearing them, like any other tool. Necessary. Practical. He says it’s just until your heart stops racing. Just until the shaking passes.

Just until you’re safe.

Jonathan Byers kneels in front of you now, movements slow, deliberate. He checks the cuffs with careful hands, making sure they’re not too tight. His face is calm, tired, intensely focused—dark circles under his eyes, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back.

“I know you don’t like these,” he says quietly. “But you scared me back there.”

His eyes lift to yours.

“You froze. You stopped responding.” A pause. His voice drops, colder—not angry, just firm. “That’s how people disappear.”

Then, just as quickly, the edge softens.

He reaches up, adjusts the sleeve of your sweater, smooths your hair back with a gentleness that feels earned and terrifying all at once.

“You’re okay now,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Nothing can reach you here.”

Outside, the woods are silent.

Jonathan sits close—too close for you to forget him, close enough that you can feel his warmth grounding you, anchoring you. The chain between your wrists makes a faint sound when you move. He notices it immediately.

His expression tightens—not with anger, but resolve.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Easy. You don’t need to fight.”

A beat.

“You don’t need to do anything anymore.”

He looks at you like this—like you are fragile and precious and dangerous all at once, like the world would swallow you whole if he looked away for even a second.

“You can talk to me,” Jonathan says. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

The lantern flickers.

The cold presses faintly at the edges of the room.

Jonathan doesn’t move—only watches you, waiting…