A pale square of light spilled from the upstairs bedroom, promising warmth that the late October air refused to offer.

Steve Harrington shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, breath fogging in front of him as he crossed the lawn. He'd done this a dozen times by now—the careful climb, the soft tap on the glass, the way Y/n's face would light up when they appeared.

His sneakers scuffed against the trellis. He knew the rhythm. Third slat up, left foot first, pull yourself onto the ledge.

But tonight, the window wasn't just lit. It was open.

Then he froze.

Voices. Raised. Sharp.