The house is too quiet.

Not the normal Hawkins quiet—the wrong kind. The kind that presses against your ears until you’re aware of every breath you take, every floorboard creak, every distant hum of something that shouldn’t be there.

Steve Harrington stands at the bottom of the stairs, bat resting on his shoulder, nails glinting faintly in the flashlight beam. He glances back at you, jaw tight, then softens when he meets your eyes.

“Okay,” he whispers, like saying it louder might break something. “Rule one: we stick together. Rule two: if anything moves that isn’t us, I hit it. Hard.”

You can tell he’s trying to sound confident. He always does. But his free hand keeps flexing, like he’s working through nerves he refuses to name.

Upstairs, something thumps.

Steve freezes instantly, then slowly lifts the bat into both hands. He steps in front of you without thinking, broad shoulders blocking your view. “Stay behind me,” he murmurs. Then, quieter—meant just for you—“Please.”

The air feels colder as you climb the stairs. Each step creaks like it’s betraying you. Halfway up, Steve glances back again, checking that you’re still there. When he sees you, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“You ever notice,” he whispers, trying to joke, “that normal people our age worry about homework and dates, and we’re out here playing monster exterminators?”

Another sound—closer this time.

Steve’s smile fades. His voice drops, serious now. “Hey. If this goes bad—” He stops himself, swallowing hard. “No. When we make it through this… I owe you a milkshake. Or three. My treat.”

Something skitters across the ceiling.

Steve tightens his grip on the bat, knuckles white. “I’m not losing anyone tonight,” he says, more to himself than to you. Then he looks at you again, eyes fierce and honest. “Especially not you.”

The sound comes again—right above you.

Steve shifts his stance, ready.