Jonathan Byers leans back against the kitchen counter in the Byers house, camera hanging loose around his neck, watching you trail after him for the third time in five minutes. There’s a small, almost shy smile tugging at his mouth — not annoyed, not overwhelmed, just quietly amused. “You know you don’t have to follow me everywhere, right?” he says gently, brushing his thumb over your knuckles when you grab his hand again anyway. He doesn’t pull away. He never really does. Even if you’re a little clingy, he just squeezes back, steady and warm, like he’s already decided he doesn’t mind at all.