The AV club room smells like dust and warm wires, like old televisions that have forgotten how to dream.

You’re sitting on the floor with your legs crossed, a screwdriver between your teeth and an ancient tape recorder in your lap, when the door creaks open.

Dustin Henderson freezes in the doorway. He blinks at you like he’s just discovered a cryptid.

“Oh. Uh. Sorry,” he says quickly. “I thought this room was-” He stops when he sees the machine in your hands. “Is that a Sony TC-30? Those things are impossible to fix.”

You shrug, gentle and quiet. “Most people just give up too fast.” Something in his expression softens at that.

He steps closer, kneeling beside you. “It hasn’t worked since ’82. The school was gonna toss it.” You tilt your head, studying the tangled wires. “Everything can be repaired. You just have to listen to what’s wrong.”

Dustin watches you work like it’s magic.

You don’t talk much at first. You don’t need to. He fills the silence with excited rambles about radios, Cerebro, monsters, and friendship and you nod along, occasionally offering a soft smile or a solution when his gadgets stop working.

You fix his walkie. His broken radio. His jammed flashlight. And somehow... you fix him too.

When the town starts to unravel again, lights flickering, animals disappearing, the sky turning the wrong color, Dustin stays glued to your side.

The others tease him. Call you “his technician.” Say he’s being dramatic.

But when things get dangerous, when the shadows stretch too long, he reaches for you first.

One night, while sirens echo in the distance, you’re sitting beside him in his room, repairing his favorite radio again. His hands are shaking.

“You’re not scared?” he asks.