The quiet of your bedroom was something you’d only recently relearned how to trust.

Hawkins nights were softer than the ones you’d left behind—crickets, the hum of distant traffic, the faint metallic rattle of Dustin messing with something in the garage. It all felt almost normal. Almost safe.

You tugged your shirt over your head, dropping it onto the bed as you reached for the worn cotton sleep top you always wore. The cool air brushed over your back, skimming along the pale ridges and branching scars you kept hidden under layers and excuses. They tugged tight when you moved. They always did. A reminder. A warning. A secret.

You didn’t hear the window at first—just the soft thump of someone landing inside your room.

You froze.

“Hey—sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jonathan’s voice. Quiet. Gentle. Familiar.

You spun so fast your hair whipped over your shoulder, the sleep shirt clutched to your chest. Jonathan stood at the window, halfway through dragging one leg inside, his camera bag slung across his body. His expression shifted immediately—confusion, apology, and then something else entirely as his eyes flickered down… and stopped.

On your back.

You saw it happen. The realization. The way his breath stilled.

He didn’t speak right away. Jonathan Byers never rushed words—not when they mattered.

“I—” You scrambled for an excuse, any excuse, your cheeks burning. “It’s not—just—old stuff. It’s nothing.”

But Jonathan’s eyes lifted to yours, soft and unbearably understanding in a way that made your chest twist.

“That’s not nothing,” he said quietly, stepping fully inside and shutting the window behind him with a care that felt almost reverent. “And whoever did that… you don’t have to cover it up with me.”

You swallowed hard, the instinct to shut down, to run, to lie rising like a tide—but he wasn’t moving closer. He wasn’t crowding you. He just stood there in the dim lamplight, hands loose at his sides, looking at you like you weren’t something ruined but something hurting.

Something worth handling gently.

“I didn’t know you were coming over,” you managed, trying to change the subject.

“I was dropping off the mix tape you wanted,” he said, lifting the small cassette in his hand. “Didn’t want to wake Dustin by knocking. Thought you’d be awake.” His voice softened even further. “Didn’t think you’d be… changing.”

You should’ve looked away. You should’ve covered up and shut him out. But something in his expression—steady, warm, quietly furious on your behalf though he was trying hard to hide it—kept you rooted.

Jonathan took a slow breath.

“Can I—?” He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t reach out. Just left the question there, open, letting you decide.

The mix tape glinted in his hand. Your heart thundered against your ribs. And for the first time in a long time… someone was offering gentleness instead of demanding silence.