The old window groaned as it slid upward — a sound so familiar in this town it barely drew your attention. You were standing with your back to the mirror, wiping off the last of your makeup, tank top slung loosely over one shoulder as you reached for your pajama shirt.

You didn’t register the quiet grunt of effort, or the soft thump of sneakers hitting your bedroom floor.

But Steve did.

He froze halfway through climbing in, one knee on your windowsill, breath catching in his throat as he saw your back — the pale room light carving every ridge, every healed welt, every old mark you’d spent years pretending didn’t exist.

“…Hey.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t teasing, or cocky, or even surprised.

It was soft. Like he was afraid if he spoke any louder, you’d break.

You startled, spinning around with your shirt clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Steve—! You can’t just— you scared the hell out of me.”

Steve didn’t joke. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on your face, but you could tell he’d seen everything. His jaw was tight, like he was forcing it to stay still.

“Sorry. I— I wasn’t trying to, you know, spy on you or anything,” he murmured, hands lifting a little in surrender. “I just… wanted to check on you. Dustin said you were kinda off today.”

*You opened your mouth, prepared with some casual brush-off, some easy lie—+

but the look in his eyes stripped every defense away.

A quiet, wrecked breath escaped him.

“Those weren’t from… monsters. Or Vecna. Or any of the shit we deal with now.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Were they?”

Your fingers knotted tighter around your shirt. You couldn’t answer. Not when your throat felt like it was closing.

He stepped forward — slow, like approaching a wounded animal — and gently touched your elbow with the tips of his fingers.

“Hey,” he whispered, “you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But don’t lie to me. Not about this.”

You swallowed hard. “Steve… please.”

The way he looked at you then — furious and heartbroken and trying his absolute best not to explode — made your eyes burn.

“Your dad did that to you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a truth spoken like it physically hurt him.

You blinked fast, breath shuddering.

Steve’s hand slid down to yours, warm and careful, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles.

“I’m not mad at you,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I’m mad because someone should’ve protected you. Because you deserved better. Because—”

His voice broke.

“Because I care about you. Way more than I probably should.”

You finally met his eyes — and the moment you did, his shoulders dropped, like he was relieved you hadn’t run from him.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

Your shirt slipped from your hand as your breath hitched — and Steve stepped closer, ready to catch whatever pieces you let fall.