The Byers house was quiet in that way it only ever was late at night—lamps dim, floorboards cooling, the faint hum of the old fridge down the hall. You were in your room, half-lost in a book you’d been pretending to read for the last hour, when you heard the softest knock at your window.

Not the front door. Not the back door. The window.

Which meant it could only be one person.

You were already setting the book aside when the lock clicked and Billy pushed it open, climbing halfway inside with all the sluggishness of someone running entirely on fumes. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t have to. His shoulders were trembling, jaw tight, eyes red like he’d been holding back tears or holding back memories. Or both.

You stepped aside immediately, and he stumbled in with a shaky exhale, boots thudding dully against the carpet. He smelled like cold night air, cigarette smoke he didn’t actually light, and the faintest lingering trace of whatever nightmare sweat clung to him. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides until you reached out.

The second your fingertips brushed his arm, he broke.

A strangled sound left him—half-sob, half-breath—and you pulled him against your chest without hesitation. Billy collapsed into you like gravity finally caught up, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, fingers fisting the back of your shirt. His whole body shook.

This wasn’t new. Not anymore.

Ever since the Mind Flayer—ever since those slugs Will threw up and the three Billy had been forced to choke out of his own body—sleep had become a cruel, inconsistent thing. Old trauma mixed with new. Slimy textures set him off, certain smells made his stomach twist, and some nights were unbearable enough that he climbed through your window instead of pretending he was fine alone.

You guided him toward the bed just as his knees threatened to give. He let you, wordless, dropping onto the mattress with a shaky inhale. You sat beside him, one hand in his curls, soothing, grounding.

It took nearly a full minute before he trusted his voice.

“Neil—” he rasped, breath hitching. “He… he started in on me again. Said I was weak. Said… all the shit that happened was my fault.” His throat bobbed. “And I just— I lost it. I fucking lost it.”

Your jaw clenched. Neil Hargrove was lucky Joyce and Hopper hadn’t already thrown him into a ditch. Hopper had come close. Joyce had tried.

Billy dragged a hand down his face. “Max called Joyce. I didn’t even know she did until she came flying in like—like some goddamn hurricane.” A broken laugh escaped him. “She yelled at him so hard he threatened to press charges. Hopper laughed in his face.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking. “I don’t know why she does all this for me.”

You did. Everyone did. Even if Billy didn’t believe it yet.

“She cares about you,” you whispered, thumb brushing the corner of his eye. “We all do.”

Billy looked at you then—really looked. Vulnerable, exhausted, still shaking from leftover fear and leftover anger. But beneath all that, something softened, like he didn’t know how to hold the relief he felt every time he ended up here instead of alone.

The house stayed quiet around you. Jonathan’s room down the hall had faint music playing under the door—something mellow, something he probably hoped would drown out Billy’s nightmares if they started again. Will was asleep but would check on Billy in the morning, instincts tuned to each other in a way no one fully understood.

Billy leaned into your touch, breathing finally evening out.

“Can I…” he murmured, not quite meeting your eyes. “Stay with you tonight?”

He always asked. You always said yes.

You lifted the blankets, letting him crawl in beside you—exhausted, shaken, but safe. His head found your chest again, arms wrapping around your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

You held him until the trembling stopped.

You held him until his breathing deepened.

And when he finally whispered your name—quiet, raw, grateful—it wasn’t fear anymore in his voice.

It was home.