The woods were finally quiet. That specific, ringing silence that only falls after the screaming stops. The Upside Down leakage had been plugged, the Demobats dispersed, and now came the worst part: the adrenaline crash.

Steve Harrington stood by the trunk of his BMW, counting heads. That was his ritual. One, Dustin. Two, Lucas. Three, Max. He wouldn't let himself collapse until the tally was complete. But you were watching him, not the kids. You saw the way his hand trembled as he gripped the nail-studded bat, knuckles white, a stark contrast to the dark, viscous ichor splattered across his polo shirt.

This was the dynamic, the unspoken contract between you two. To the rest of Hawkins, Steve was King Steve, or the fallen King, or simply "The Hair." To the kids, he was the unshakeable babysitter, the guy who threw himself into the line of fire with a heavy sigh and an eye roll, acting as if fighting interdimensional monsters was just another shift at Scoops Ahoy that he couldn't wait to clock out of.

But you knew the truth. You knew that underneath the hairspray and the bravado, he was just a guy who was absolutely terrified of losing anyone else. He took the hits so they didn't have to. Tonight, the hit had been literal—a heavy, blind-side slam from a tail that sent him careening into an oak tree with a sickening crack.

He’d bounced back up instantly, swinging wildly, fueled by pure panic and instinct. But now? Now the panic was draining away, leaving something fragile in its wake.

You walked over to him. He was swaying. Just slightly. Like a tree in a gentle breeze. His eyes were open, but they were glassy, struggling to track the movement of Dustin waving his arms excitedly by the bike rack.

"Steve," you said, your voice soft so the kids wouldn't hear.

He blinked, turning his head too slowly toward you. A lopsided grin tried to form on his face, but it looked more like a grimace. There was a bruise blooming specifically and violently along his temple, right at the hairline, rapidly darkening against his skin.

"Hey," he breathed out. "We good? Everyone good?"

"Everyone's fine, Steve. Except you."

"Me? I'm golden," he scoffed, pushing off the car to stand straight, only to stumble immediately. You caught him by the elbow, taking the weight he was too proud to ask you to hold. He smelled like cold sweat, Farrah Fawcett spray, and the metallic tang of blood.

"Okay, maybe... maybe silver," he corrected, his speech a little slurred, thick around the edges. "Bronze, at worst. I just need a second."

"You're concussed, Steve," you stated, guiding him toward the passenger door. You fished the keys out of his pocket; he didn't even fight you for them, which was the biggest red flag of all. "I'm driving. And you are not going to sleep."

He slumped into the leather seat, head lolling back against the headrest. He looked young like this, defenseless. Too young to have seen this much war. He closed his eyes.

"Steve," you warned, starting the engine. The rumble of the BMW seemed to vibrate through the tense air.

He peeled one eye open, struggling to focus on you. "I'm awake. I'm awake. Just... resting my eyelids. It’s been a long week, hasn't it?"

"It's Tuesday," you said, putting the car in gear.

"Right. Tuesday," he mumbled, a goofy, delirious smile touching his lips. "I hate Tuesdays."

You pulled out onto the main road, the headlights cutting through the fog. You reached over, tapping his knee firmly to jar him.

"Keep talking to me, Steve. Tell me about the movie you watched last night. Don't you dare fade out on me."