Jonathan and you had been best friends for as long as either of you could remember. Bikes, secrets, mixtapes recorded over each other, and comfortable silences. Somehow—against all odds—that awkward, genuine friendship slowly turned into something else. Something real. Something that now included fighting over the bathroom and sprinting out the door to avoid being late for work.

It was the summer of 1985, and Hawkins was officially melting. You and Jonathan worked together at the Hawkins Post: you as a journalist (with dreams way too big for a town way too small), and him as a photographer, usually hiding behind his camera—except when it came to you.

That morning had gone wrong from the very start. A power outage the night before, a dead alarm clock, and both of you waking up with the sun already way too high in the sky.

— “Jonathan!” — “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Barely dressed and constantly bumping into each other, you ran out of the house with just enough time to grab your shoes. Right outside, you nearly crashed into Joyce and Will.

— “Good morning!” you said without slowing down. “Or—afternoon? I don’t know!”

Joyce raised an eyebrow in that very specific way that meant she wasn’t going to ask, while Will barely managed a wave before Jonathan rushed past you, tripping over basically nothing.

Minutes later, Jonathan was driving his old car, which made concerning noises even when it was standing still. You were fixing your hair in the rearview mirror, trying to tame it with about the same success Hawkins had at preventing supernatural disasters.

— “Can you please go faster?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the mirror.

— “You want this thing to fall apart?” he replied. “It’s already surviving on pure stubbornness.”

— “I’m serious, Jonathan. I can’t be late.”

— “You mean WE can’t be late.”

You shot him a look. He smirked—the annoying one he always used at the worst possible moment.

Without another word, Jonathan pressed harder on the gas. The car protested. You groaned. But both of you knew that somehow, you’d make it on time… or at least, you’d make it together.