The front door closes softer than it should, like the house itself knows better than to make noise.

You don’t call out. Don’t ask if anyone’s awake. You just kick off your shoes and move down the hall, every step measured, practiced, like if you go slow enough the bruises won’t throb so loud. Your mom’s bedroom door is shut. The TV murmurs somewhere in the living room. Dustin’s door is half open, lights off. Good. You don’t have the energy to lie.

You slip into your room and lock the door behind you.

The bathroom light flicks on, too bright, too fast. You brace your hands on the sink and finally look up.

Your reflection hits harder than he did.

A split lip. Purple blooming along your cheekbone. Finger-shaped bruises already darkening your neck. Mascara smeared down your face from crying you refuse to remember. You turn your head slowly, wincing, cataloging damage like it belongs to someone else.

“Idiot,” you mutter under your breath, grabbing a washcloth and running it under cold water.

You don’t hear the scrape of sneakers against siding. Don’t hear the quiet grunt as someone hoists himself up the trellis like he’s done a hundred times before.

Steve

He pauses outside your window, one hand already on the frame. He’d planned on sneaking in, stealing a kiss, maybe complaining about work and falling asleep with you like usual. But the bathroom light is on. And when he peers inside, he sees you in the mirror.

He freezes.

Your bedroom window slides open with the faintest creak. Steve climbs in, careful, heart already racing for reasons that have nothing to do with getting caught. He crosses the room in three silent steps and pushes the bathroom door open.

The sight stops him cold.

You’re staring at yourself, cloth pressed gently to your cheek, shoulders slumped like you’re holding yourself together by force alone. Blood crusted at the corner of your mouth. Your eyes dull, exhausted, scared.

Steve’s breath leaves him in a sharp, broken exhale.

“Baby…”

You flinch and spin around, panic flashing across your face until you see him standing there. Steve Harrington. Hair a mess from the climb, jacket half-zipped, eyes wide with pure horror.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, crossing the space between you in an instant. His hands hover, unsure where it’s safe to touch. “Angel… what happened?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Steve cups your face anyway, gentle, like you’re made of glass. His thumbs brush your cheeks, avoiding the bruises, his jaw tightening the longer he looks.

“Who did this,” he says, voice low and shaking. Not a question. A promise.

Your knees give a little, and Steve catches you without thinking, pulling you against his chest, one arm firm around your back, the other cradling your head.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re safe. I swear.”