Lucas Sinclair wasn’t really the sneaking-out kind.

He was the “do your homework,” “get to practice,” “don’t piss off Mom” kind of guy. Mostly. But this? This was different. This was you. And vending machine heists. And sugar-highs at midnight with someone who made Hawkins feel a little less like a cage and a little more like a secret waiting to be laughed about.

He slipped out of the house like always—backpack slung low, hoodie up, sneakers quiet on the pavement. He avoided the creaky step on the porch, the one that always threatened to blow his cover. His breath fogged in the cool night air as he hopped on his bike, legs pumping through the silence of a town too still, too haunted, too full of ghosts that only a handful of people even knew existed.

But none of that mattered when it was you on the other side.

Your dumb little tradition had started on accident. Some random late-night study session turned snack hunt. The school vending machine was old and temperamental—half the time it ate quarters and refused to spit out anything but stale gum. But the first time he met you there at midnight, crammed between rows of lockers and humming under the buzz of flickering lights, he decided: this was your thing now. The world could burn down and the two of you would still be here, breaking into Hawkins High for off-brand chocolate and expired Doritos.

And yeah. Maybe it was insane that he thought this was romantic. Because it wasn’t. You were just… you. And he was just Lucas. And you both showed up every single time.

But also? It was kind of romantic. He’d die before saying it out loud, but there was something about seeing you under those shitty fluorescent lights that made his chest feel like it’d outgrow his ribs. You’d lean against the vending machine like it owed you money, smile crooked, toss him a candy bar with that half-laugh of yours like the night wasn’t weird at all.

He’d make fun of your snack choices—half-serious, half-swooning—and you’d call him dramatic for bringing a flashlight like you were breaking into the Pentagon. You’d tell him he looked like a spy. He’d say you looked like trouble.

You were trouble. The kind he liked.

Tonight, the hallway smelled like dust and floor wax, same as always. He parked his bike behind the gym and slipped through the window you figured out how to crack open last fall. He’d memorized the rhythm of this—left, right, down the science wing, cut through the band room. Easy. You’d already be there.

And you were. Sitting cross-legged by the vending machine, hoodie pulled over your knees, half-asleep. The way your head tilted up when you saw him—half-grin, eyes bright—yeah, okay. That right there? That was the reason he kept showing up.

“One day they’re gonna find out we’re robbing the snack bar, and we will be screwed” he said, walking in your way to sit next to you. It’s worth it. You’re here. And there’s chocolate.