The couch has become Y/n's personal kingdom for the past hour. A half-empty glass of something sits on the coffee table, condensation leaving a dark ring on an old issue of the Hawkins Post. The house is alive with the usual sounds — the hum of the refrigerator, the distant thump of someone's music from upstairs, the creak of floorboards.

It's quieter than normal, though. Eddie's usually yelling something from his room by now. Robin's work shift doesn't end for another two hours. And everyone else seems to be scattered to their respective corners of the world.

The front door swings open with its familiar, slightly stuck hinge. A beat of silence. Then keys drop into the bowl by the entrance.

Footsteps pound from upstairs. A door slams open. Eddie appears at the top of the stairs, hair a mess, a half-smoked cigarette tucked behind his ear.