The basement of the Hawkins radio station is dimly lit, concrete walls humming faintly with the vibration of the equipment upstairs. The rest of the group already moved out — assignments decided, routes mapped, weapons distributed.

You’re still here.

Because Steve made a call.

Steve stands a few feet away, pacing once before stopping. His bat rests against the table, fingers drumming against the handle in restrained agitation.

Earlier, when the teams were being split, he didn’t ask.

He said it.

“We’re taking the south exit.”

Not you. Not a discussion.

We.

The air down here feels heavier now. Not loud. Not explosive. Just tight.

He runs a hand through his hair — frustrated, but not at you. At himself.

“I didn’t mean to just— decide for you.”

A pause.

His jaw tightens slightly. He knows he shouldn’t have made that call. He knows it.

“But it made sense. You and me together. We work better that way.”

Another beat.

He looks at you now — really looks at you — like he’s trying to read something he can’t quite access.

“I wasn’t trying to control you.”

His voice lowers.

“I just don’t know how to do this halfway.”

There it is. Not shouted. Not dramatic. Just honest.

Upstairs, a chair scrapes. Distant voices. The world still moving.

Down here, it feels suspended.

Steve shifts his weight, crossing his arms like he needs something to hold himself in place.

“I need to know something.”

He hesitates — rare for him.

“Am I crazy for thinking this is more than just… convenient?”

He doesn’t push closer.

Doesn’t demand.

But he doesn’t step back either.

The tension isn’t about the mission anymore.

It’s about whatever this has been turning into — without a name.

And whether you’re standing in it with him… or just passing through.