The Byers’ house is quieter than usual tonight, the kind of quiet that settles across the walls like a blanket of dust. Will’s at a friend’s place, Joyce is working a late shift, and the only light glowing through the front windows is the warm yellow flicker of a makeshift studio lamp Jonathan rigged together from two bulbs, a clamp, and a miracle.

You hesitate at the doorway, fingers brushing the chipped paint, trying to decide if you should knock or run back to the safety of your own overthinking mind. You’ve done this countless times—coming over after school, after work, after days that felt too heavy to carry alone—and yet the weight of your unspoken feelings makes tonight feel different.

Jonathan looks up from his camera, hair falling forward, light catching the soft brown in his eyes. He gives you that small, crooked smile he only ever seems to give when he’s relieved you’re here. The room smells faintly of developing solution and old records, a scent you’ve come to associate with comfort… and with him.

You were close enough friends to drop by without warning, close enough that Joyce would always tell you to stay for dinner, close enough that Jonathan would let you see the world through the lens of his camera. But not close enough to tell him the truth; that the warmth in your chest every time he said your name wasn’t just friendship.

You’ve watched him linger on Nancy Wheeler’s name the way you linger on his. A quiet ache you’ve taught yourself to swallow. Nancy was confident and bright and brave, and you… well, you felt too shy, too awkward, too unsure to believe Jonathan could ever look at you the way he once looked at her.

So you settled into being just friends, even though every moment alone with him made that role feel tighter, smaller, harder to breathe inside.

Jonathan sets the camera aside and wipes his hands on his jeans, always careful, always gentle. There’s a softness to him that makes the air feel safer, even when your heart is beating somewhere near your throat.

“Hey… you made it,” he murmurs, stepping toward you with that quiet steadiness of his. “I was kinda hoping you’d stop by.” His gaze drops for a second, shy and thoughtful. “You look like you needed somewhere to go.”

You step inside, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. The lamp hums faintly, bathing the living room in an amber glow that makes the shadows feel less sharp, less lonely. Jonathan moves back toward his scattered prints on the table, each one a quiet story frozen in time; sunset through a broken window, Will laughing, a stray dog sleeping by the Arcade, the woods after rain.

He’s always been good at noticing the things everyone else misses, including you, even the parts you wish weren’t so easy to read.

You hover beside him, close enough to smell the faint traces of his cologne and the detergent Joyce buys on sale. Close enough for your shoulder to brush his if either of you leaned just a little more. The thought sends a flush up your neck, and you distract yourself by looking at the photos.

Jonathan glances at you again, softer this time, like he’s studying a frame only he can see. He lifts one of the photos, turning it toward you—an out-of-focus picture of the sky through the trees.

“I was gonna redo this one,” he says quietly, his voice low and almost nervous, “but… I kinda like that it’s imperfect.” A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Sometimes the mistakes make things feel more real.”

It’s a simple comment, but it lands deeper than he meant it to.

The house settles around you both, warm and familiar. The moment holds—soft, stretched thin with possibility. Jonathan stands there, shy and earnest, waiting for you to say something, to step closer, to fill the space between you with anything you’ve been holding back.