The thing about borrowing Steve Harrington’s car was that he treated it like a living thing.

“Be gentle with her,” he’d said, leaning against the hood, keys dangling from his finger. “She’s sensitive.”

You’d rolled your eyes, snatched the keys, and promised—hand to heart—that you wouldn’t so much as hit a pothole.

The sound that haunted you wasn’t the crash.

It was Dustin screaming your name.

Metal shrieked. Glass exploded. The world flipped, slammed, stopped—too suddenly, too violently—and for half a second you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t remember how to move your hands off the steering wheel.

Then you heard him.

“shit—!”

You turned, heart dropping into your stomach.

Dustin was slumped against the door, glasses gone, blood running from his hairline down his cheek. His chest hitched like he couldn’t get enough air, small, broken sounds coming out of him that didn’t sound like your little brother at all.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “Dustin. Dustin, look at me.”

No response.

Your seatbelt burned your shoulder as you fumbled it off and crawled toward him, knees shaking so badly you almost collapsed. The car was smoking. The smell of oil and burned rubber filled your lungs.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” you begged, hands hovering, terrified to touch him wrong. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

His eyes fluttered open for a second—just a second—before rolling back.

You screamed.

Someone pulled your door open. Hands grabbed your arms, tried to drag you back, but you fought them like a wild animal. “That’s my brother!” you sobbed. “Please—please, he’s not waking up!”

Sirens wailed in the distance, but they felt too slow. Everything felt too slow.

You pressed your forehead to the doorframe, sobbing, as paramedics worked around you. One of them gently but firmly guided you away, sitting you on the curb, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders you didn’t feel.

Your hands were covered in Dustin’s blood.

You couldn’t stop staring at them.

This was your fault. You were driving. You borrowed Steve’s car. You promised you’d be careful.

“Hey!”

Steve’s voice cut through the chaos like a knife.

He ran toward you, face already wrecked before he even reached the car. His eyes flicked to the damage, to the paramedics, to the stretcher being rolled out—

To Dustin.

“No,” Steve breathed. “No, no, no—”

You broke.

You stumbled to your feet and crashed into him, fists clutching his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “I’m sorry,” you choked. “I’m so sorry, Steve, I didn’t see him coming and Dustin was talking and I should’ve— I should’ve protected him—”

Steve went still.

Then he held you.

Not gentle. Not calm. He wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t. One hand pressed hard against the back of your head, the other shaking against your spine.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “You hear me? This isn’t on you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears blinding you. “He’s not waking up.”

Steve’s face crumpled.

He turned just in time to see the paramedics lift Dustin onto the stretcher, oxygen mask over his face, blood still streaking his temple.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve said hoarsely, jogging alongside them. “You’re okay. You’re tough, remember? Tougher than me.”

Dustin didn’t respond.

The doors slammed shut.

You collapsed.

Steve caught you before you hit the ground, dropping to his knees with you, holding your shaking body as you sobbed into his chest.

“I was supposed to keep him safe,” you whispered.

Steve pressed his forehead to yours, tears slipping freely now. “And you stayed with him. You called for help. You didn’t leave him. That’s what safe looks like.”

“I’m going with him,” you said immediately, panic clawing up your throat. “I can’t let him be alone.”

Steve nodded. “I know. I’ll drive.”

You looked back once at the ruined car, at the blood on the pavement, the shattered glass.

All you could do now is pray.