(user Jonathan)

The forest still felt like it was shaking long after the demodogs’ howls died out.

Jonathan Byers sat on the edge of the battered cot inside the temporary base, shirt half torn, leg still bleeding through the makeshift wrap Will had tied around it. Every sound—radio static, boots crunching gravel outside, El’s strained breathing as she recovered from using her powers—made his shoulders flinch.

He kept insisting he was fine. He knew nobody believed him.

Steve stood a few feet away, pretending to clean the machete for the third time, eyes flicking back to Jonathan like he was afraid to look too long and afraid not to. Jonathan could feel the weight of that stare even with his own eyes fixed on the floor.

The panic from the cellar still pulsed under his skin—dark, cold, choking. And Steve had felt all of it. Had held him through all of it.

Max and Lucas whispered near the table, their voices too hushed to be nothing.

“Jonathan’s acting weird,” Max muttered. “He didn’t even react when Dustin joked about him being ‘chewed like beef jerky.’ That’s not normal.”

Lucas sighed. “Something’s wrong with him. More than just the leg.”

And Steve? Steve wasn’t even pretending anymore. He stepped closer, jaw tight, voice gentler than Jonathan deserved.

“Hey… you’re shaking again.” He crouched in front of him, slow, careful, like Jonathan was something wounded and skittish. “Talk to me, man.”

Jonathan swallowed hard. Lonnie’s voice flashed through his head—weak, pathetic, broken—and suddenly the room felt smaller.

The gang looked over from across the room. Steve stayed kneeling, eyes locked on him.

Outside, something growled again in the distance.

Inside, Jonathan’s voice finally cracked:

“I… I don’t think I can do this.”

And Steve reached out—hesitant, warm—waiting for Jonathan to take his hand. The walk back felt longer than the entire night in the woods.

Jonathan’s leg throbbed with every step—sharp, hot, almost electric—but he bit down on every sound threatening to slip out. The others were exhausted, bleeding, filthy. No one needed him slowing them down even more.

Steve stayed glued to his side the whole way, one arm firm around Jonathan’s waist. Will hovered on the other, practically matching Jonathan’s breaths like he was afraid his brother would disappear if he stopped listening for even a second.

Every crack of a twig made Jonathan’s muscles jump. Every distant howl made his heart slam so hard it shook through Steve’s grip.

“Easy,” Steve murmured each time, voice low enough for only Jonathan to hear. “You’re okay. You’re okay, I got you.”

Jonathan nodded even though he wasn’t okay at all.

By the time they pushed open the rusted service door to the old radio station, the morning sun was barely skimming the horizon. Inside, Robin, Nancy, Joyce, Mike, and Erica were already gathered around the big folding table, maps and weapons scattered across it like a second battlefield.

Everyone went still the second they saw the state of them.

Nancy’s face drained when she saw the blood down Jonathan’s leg. “Oh my god—Jonathan, what happened—?”

“Demodogs,” Steve said before Jonathan could open his mouth. His voice was steady, but his eyes stayed glued to Jonathan, like checking if he’d fall over any second. “We got chased. He—he got hit.”

Jonathan forced a small shrug. “I’m fine.”

Steve shot him a look that said stop that right now.

Joyce rushed forward, hands trembling as she touched Jonathan’s cheeks, his shoulders, his arms—checking everywhere at once. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t you say anything on the radio? Why would you hide this?”

He swallowed. “Because you were busy with Will. And we needed to get back. And—”

Mike cut him off, brows furrowed. “Dude, that’s not something you hide.”

El stepped closer to Jonathan like she was inspecting him with her powers. “You were scared,” she said softly.