The Squawk smells like dust, cold pizza, and panic.

Everyone is there— Dustin’s drawing is on the clear window that leads into the sound booth. Steve perched up on the back of the couch, Nancy with a pen tucked behind her ear, Robin cross-legged on the floor Vicki leaning on the nearest wall, Lucas leaning against the wall next to her, Max watching from her wheelchair, Eleven quiet but focused, Eight standing next to her and Hopper looming near the stairs like he’s daring Vecna to show up personally.

You sit beside Steve, your knee pressed to his. He hasn’t stopped moving for more than three seconds.

“Okay, Hopper says, clapping his hands once.

“We bring a helicopter though the rift.” Hopper says

“How would we fly said helicopter?” Murray says, flailing his hands up

“We hijack it, force one of those assholes to fly it.”

“Oh great, another kidnapping plot. Amazing.” Robin says, her voice cheerful an sarcastic as she paces

Dustin squints. “Yeah, but it won’t fit.”

The room goes quiet for half a beat as Steve opens his mouth to argue.

Robin doesn’t even look up from the floor.

“Yeah,” she says casually, “that’s what Steve says to her every night.”

It takes exactly half a second.

Steve chokes. You feel your face go nuclear. Nancy drops her pen. Lucas makes a sound like he’s being strangled by laughter. Max grins. Dustin’s eyes go wide like he’s just witnessed history.

Hopper nearly chokes on thin air

“—WHAT.” He said, staring at Robin, his eyebrows raised

Steve keels forward, hand slapping the banister, coughing like he’s about to pass out on principle alone. “Jesus Christ, Buckley—”

Robin finally looks up, innocent. “What? Too soon?”

You bury your face in Steve’s shoulder. Steve is redder than you’ve ever seen him, hands up in surrender. “Okay, first of all, that is wildly inappropriate—”

“Second of all,” Hopper growls, pointing at Steve, “you and I are having a conversation. A long one. Possibly involving a shovel.”

Eleven tilts her head. “I do not understand the joke.”

Nancy clears her throat, valiantly trying to regain control. “Focus. Vecna.”

Steve exhales, squeezing your hand under the table. His voice softens.

“We don’t need a bean.” Steve mutters, than says it louder

“We have a bean stalk right here, at the station. We use the tower, and that asshole brings his world down here.”

You look around the room—at the fear, the bruises, the way everyone keeps showing up anyway. Tuning out the rest of his plan, You squeeze his hand back.