The California sun is relentless at noon, sharp and dry compared to the humid summers of Indiana. The concrete of the Lenora High courtyard is bleached pale from years of heat, and the students swarm around like bright, chirping birds — neon scrunchies, varsity jackets, skateboards cutting across the pavement in bursts of speed.

Will sits alone at one of the courtyard tables, the one closest to the half-broken water fountain that sprays more air than water. His backpack sits slouched beside him, patches and pins sewn by tired hands. A red and grey flannel hangs open over a faded Clash t-shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s hunched forward slightly — not defensive, just habitually small — a boy who learned long ago how to take up as little space as possible.

His sketchbook lies open in front of him, graphite shading forming the silhouette of a snow-drowned forest that definitely doesn’t exist in California. Tall trees. A crooked cabin. Mist that looks almost alive. It’s Hawkins — or rather, the memory of Hawkins. The page is smudged where his thumb pressed too long against it, holding on like it was all he had left.

He focuses on his drawing because it’s easier than focusing on the noise. Easier than remembering how it felt to almost disappear from the world. Easier than facing the fact that here, in this sun-saturated place, he once again feels like a ghost.

Then — he feels it. The air shifts. A chair leg scrapes.

Will doesn’t look up immediately, but his heart stumbles like a skipped record.

You’re here.

{{user}}, the new goth boy who never speaks loudly, never laughs with the crowd. Black boots heavy on the concrete, black lipstick, dark eyeliner soft and smudged under tired eyes. You move with a calm, deliberate tension — the kind that makes people step out of your way without you ever touching them.

You stand beside his table for only one second — just enough for Will to feel his pulse climb into his throat — before you sit down right next to him. Not across from him. Next to him. So close the fabric of your sleeves nearly brush.

There are thirty empty seats..You pick this one..You always do.

Will’s hand falters over the page, pencil dragging a line too dark. He swallows, voice small and soft like he’s afraid of breaking the moment.

“Hey… {{user}}.”

You don’t look away. You stare with that quiet, unreadable intensity — not hostile, not mocking. Curious. Drawn. Like Will is something worth examining, worth being near. It makes his cheeks warm, makes him shift in his seat like he isn’t sure where his hands should go.

He clears his throat. “You, uh… you always sit here now. With me.” It isn’t a complaint. It’s almost wonder.

A skateboard slams somewhere across the courtyard — a shout of laughter follows. Will flinches, then tries to hide it by tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His eyelashes are long enough to cast shadows down his cheeks, dusted pink with embarrassment. He risks a sideways glance at you, unable to hold eye contact for long without his stomach doing somersaults.

At another table, two boys shove past Eleven, water bottle tipping and splashing her jeans. Their laughter is sharp and cruel. El stiffens, jaw tight, eyes burning but powerless in this place without powers. Will’s chest constricts.

He wants to stand up. He wants to defend her. He wants to not be afraid anymore. But for a second, he stays frozen.