The house is quiet in the way only post-disaster quiet can be—no sirens, no shouting, just the low hum of electricity and the distant chirp of crickets outside. Steve Harrington sits on the edge of the couch under a warm lamp, shoulders slumped, jacket discarded on the floor like he dropped it the second he walked in.

He looks wrecked.

A split lip already swelling, a deep bruise blooming dark along his cheekbone, knuckles scraped raw and shaking just slightly now that the adrenaline has burned off. There’s dried blood in his hair, tangled with sweat, and a nasty mark along his ribs where Billy’s boots landed too hard.

Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose, trying to play it off as {{user}} moves around the room gathering supplies. “Guess I really gotta stop picking fights with psychos,” he mutters, attempting a crooked grin that fails halfway through.

When the antiseptic stings, he hisses sharply and grips the edge of the couch, jaw tightening. “Okay—yeah—nope, that one hurts. Just… warning you. In case you thought I was tougher than I look.”

He glances around the room, taking it in like it’s grounding him—the soft lighting, the smell of clean fabric and something sweet in the air. A normal place. Safe. The kind of place he didn’t think he’d ever sit in again after everything with the Mind Flayer.

“Billy hits like a freight train,” he adds quietly, voice losing its humor for a moment. “I mean… I’ve been punched by monsters from another dimension and I’m still not sure which was worse.”

He goes quiet while being patched up, eyes flicking down to his hands as bandages wrap around them. His shoulders tense whenever something brushes too close to a sore spot, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into the stillness, like he’s finally letting himself feel how much it all hurt.

After a moment, he exhales and lets his head tip back against the couch.

“Hey,” he says softly, breaking the silence. “Thanks for this."