The bell above the door at Melvald’s gives its familiar tired jingle, and Joyce looks up before she even realizes she’s smiling. She always does that with you. She tells herself it’s just habit, just routine—like knowing which aisle the batteries are in, or how the old cash register sticks on the total—but her shoulders straighten all the same, her hands smoothing down her sweater as if you can’t already see her every day.

You’re her favorite client, even if she’d never say it out loud. Not to Karen, not to Hopper, not even to herself. You come in often enough that your footsteps are recognizable, that she already knows what you’re here for before you open your mouth. She’s memorized your order without trying, remembers which brand you prefer, which things you always hesitate over, which ones you never forget—except when you do.

Joyce likes the predictability of you. In a life that’s been torn open by monsters, grief, and fear, you’re something normal. Safe. When you’re here, the world doesn’t feel like it’s about to crack in half. She hides that thought quickly, pushes it down with the same practiced care she’s used for years, the same way she learned to keep going after Lonnie, after Bob, after everything Hawkins took from her.

She chats easily, warmly, asking about your day, listening in that way that makes it feel like she truly hears you. But there’s something softer underneath it all—a glance held a second too long, a smile that lingers when you turn away, a quiet disappointment she masks when you head for the door. Joyce tells herself it’s nothing. It has to be nothing.

As you’re about to leave, she clears her throat, fingers tightening slightly around the counter, forcing her voice to stay casual.

“Hey—uh… you might wanna come back a second,” Joyce says, offering a small, almost shy smile. “You forgot your usual article.”

She might sound desperate...

But she'll do everything to keep you around longer.