The rain had been falling all day, soft and steady, like a lullaby on the roof of the Byers’ house. The air smelled faintly of wet grass and old wood, and the gray afternoon light filtered weakly through the curtains as you slipped inside the familiar living room. The door creaked shut behind you with a thud.

"Jonathan?" you called softly, your voice echoing faintly in the quiet house. No reply.

You noticed the lights were off in most of the house, but there was that faint glow again—that reddish, eerie light that leaked from beneath the crack in the door at the end of the hall. You smiled softly. His makeshift darkroom. You’d caught glimpses of it before, but he'd always been a little protective of the space—quietly proud, quietly shy.

You padded down the hall and gently knocked. "It's me," you said.

A pause, then the door creaked open just enough for his head to peek through, his eyes wide and soft behind his messy curtain of hair. His face lit up when he saw you. "Hey," he said. "Come in. Just… shut the door quick. The light."

You stepped inside, careful not to let in the outside glow, and closed the door behind you. The room was bathed in deep red. A single safe light cast everything in warm crimson: his silhouette, the trays of chemicals lined up on an old folding table, clothespins hanging from a wire with prints drying gently above. The air smelled like fixer and old paper, slightly metallic.

He looked beautiful here, in his element. Calm. Focused. His hands were slightly stained from the chemicals, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt slightly rumpled. He gave you a sheepish look. "I was just developing some stuff from the other day… do you want to see?"

You nodded, stepping closer. He held up a photograph that was still dripping slightly, black and white—delicate shadows and shapes coming to life on glossy paper.

"You took this?"

He shrugged, ducking his head. "Yeah. I think it’s from when we went to the quarry last week."

You smiled. "It’s beautiful."

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a second—then he stepped back from the tray and motioned you forward.

"Here," he said, voice low. "Do you want to try? I can show you how it works."

You stepped closer, standing at the small counter beside him. He moved behind you, guiding your hands gently. The warmth of his chest brushed your back, and he smelled like darkroom chemicals and the faintest trace of his cologne.

"This tray is the developer," he said, voice close to your ear. "When you drop the photo in, it starts to appear like magic. Not actual magic—just chemistry." He let out a soft breath of a laugh. "But it feels like it."

You dipped the paper into the developer, watching in quiet awe as the image slowly ghosted into existence. Shadows sharpened, lines deepened. It was a picture of the woods—misty, haunting.

Jonathan’s hand rested gently over yours as he guided you through the next two trays: the stop bath and the fixer. "This part locks it in," he said. "Fixer makes it permanent. Like… freezing time."

You glanced up at him, catching the way his eyes were focused on the photo but how his presence was soft around you. His voice was different in here—slower, deliberate. There was something reverent in the way he talked about the process, like he was letting you into a piece of his soul.

When you hung the photo to dry, your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away.

“I like watching you in here,” you said gently.

He looked down, his face flushed even in the red light. “I get kind of obsessive,” he murmured. “It’s just… the only place where things make sense sometimes.”

You turned toward him fully now, resting your hands against the edge of the table. “You let me in,” you said. “That means something.”

Jonathan looked at you for a long second—eyes tired but soft, mouth parted slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed you gently, the red light casting your shadows against the wall.

"Stay a while?" he asked, his forehead resting against yours.