The subway brakes screeched, a high-pitched, metal-on-metal violence that made your teeth hurt and echoed off the tiled walls of the station. It was a sound you’d grown used to since trading the quiet, cursed woods of Hawkins for the grimy, electric pulse of New York City, but the man standing next to you clearly hadn’t. Steve flinched. It was a small thing, barely a twitch of his jaw, but you caught it. He was gripping the overhead rail, his knuckles turning that stark, bone-white shade that usually only appeared when things were trying to kill you.

It was strange, seeing him here. Steve Harrington, the King of Hawkins High, the guy who practically lived in his BMW and those perfectly pressed polo shirts, now standing in a crowded, sweat-humid subway car in the early nineties, looking like a fish that had been thrown onto dry, dirty pavement. He was trying so hard to play it cool, wearing a leather jacket that was definitely too warm for the underground heat, probably because he thought it acted as some kind of armor against the city.

You watched his eyes dart around the car. He wasn't looking at the graffiti or the advertisements for divorce lawyers; he was scanning the exits, checking the perimeter. Old habits died hard. Even after Vecna, after the earthquakes, after you’d packed up your life to head to Brown and left him behind for a few years, that protective instinct was hardwired into him. Being Dustin’s older sister meant you were used to Steve’s hovering—he’d practically adopted your brother, after all—but this was different. Now, he was your boyfriend again, a title that felt heavy and miraculous all at once, considering the jagged timeline of breakups and dimensional monsters you’d both survived.

The train jolted to a stop at 14th Street, and the doors hissed open. "Come on," you nudged him, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. "We're here."

He didn't move immediately. He let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-groan, the kind of noise a man makes when he’s questioning every life choice that led him to this exact moment. You had to practically tow him onto the platform. The station was swarming with people—commuters, tourists, kids skipping school—and the sheer volume of humanity seemed to make Steve physically shrink. He stayed glued to your side, his shoulder bumping yours with every step, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

Walking up the stairs to the street level, the smell hit you—that distinct NYC perfume of roasting nuts, car exhaust, and garbage that’s been sitting in the sun a little too long. You took a deep breath, actually enjoying the chaos of it, the freedom of being anonymous in a city that didn't know your name or your trauma. But when you glanced back at Steve, he looked like he was about to gag. He was shielding his hair from a dripping AC unit hanging precariously from a window above.

You navigated through the sea of pedestrians, weaving past a guy selling knock-off watches and a woman screaming at a payphone. Steve was lagging, his head on a swivel. He looked absolutely exhausted, the shadows under his eyes stark against the harsh afternoon light. He’d driven the whole way up here in that Winnebago he insisted was "practical", just to visit you. Just to try and make this work again. But looking at him now, dodging a pigeon like it was a bat from the Upside Down, you wondered if you were torturing him.

He hated this. You knew he hated this. He belonged in a place with driveways and backyards, not skyscrapers that blocked out the sky and alleyways that smelled like regret.

You stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. A taxi blared its horn right next to you, a jarring, aggressive sound that made Steve jump almost a foot in the air. He stumbled into you, his hands instantly coming up to steady you, protective and frantic.

"Jesus H. Christ," Steve breathed out, his voice rough, sounding completely done with everything. He looked down at you, his eyes wide and frantic, frantically patting his chest as if checking for a heart attack.