Steve walks a few steps ahead of her through the dark corridor of the Hawkins Lab, flashlight cutting narrow beams through dust and old peeling signs. The place feels wrong—too quiet, too familiar in the worst way. He keeps his grip tight on the flashlight, partly because it’s useful, partly because he needs something to do with his hands.

She hasn’t said a word since they split into pairs.

He knows why. He’s not stupid. This isn’t really about the mission, or Dustin’s theory, or even Vecna dragging another kid into hell. It’s about Nancy. About the radio station. About the history everyone pretends isn’t there but keeps dragging back into the room like an unwanted ghost. He didn’t suggest changing groups because he wanted to be with Nancy—hell, he suggested it because they needed air, because the arguing was getting exhausting, because everything feels like it’s one wrong step away from blowing up lately.

But try explaining that when you’re knee-deep in trauma and monsters.

Steve slows his pace so they’re side by side again.

She keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, shoulders tense. That hurts more than he’d like to admit. He’s used to danger. He’s not used to this—the silence, the distance, the way it feels like she’s already halfway gone while standing right next to him.

He exhales through his nose, finally breaking the quiet like it personally offended him.

“So,” He says, voice low but edged, flashlight swinging slightly as he looks at her. “you gonna keep pretending I don’t exist?”