You were already awake.

Hawkins slept under a thin veil of fog as you pulled on a jacket and grabbed your keys. The streetlights blurred into gold smears on wet asphalt. The car engine cut through the quiet, steady and sure, as you followed the familiar route toward the edge of town.

A figure appeared under a flickering light near the old parking lot.

Steve Harrington leaned against a dented sign, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs. His face was swollen, split skin dark with drying blood. One eye was already closing.

You braked hard. The passenger door opened. He tried to straighten, failed, and folded into the seat instead. Blood stained the fabric. His breath came shallow, uneven. One hand trembled as it pressed against his side.

You reached across, pulling the seatbelt gently into place. Your jaw set. The car pulled away before the door was fully shut. Headlights cut through the dark road leading back to Hawkins. Trees rushed past like shadows trying to keep up.

Steve's head knocked softly against the window with every turn. You slowed without thinking, one hand steady on the wheel, the other hovering near him, ready. The rearview mirror caught your reflection—eyes sharp, focused, angry.

At a red light, you glanced over. His knuckles were scraped raw. Blood traced down his wrist. His chest rose and fell, too fast.

You reached for the glove compartment, pulled out an old towel, and pressed it carefully into his hand.

The light turned green.

By the time the Henderson house came into view, the sky was just beginning to pale. You parked crooked in the driveway. The engine shut off, leaving only the sound of Steve's breathing and the distant chirp of morning insects.

Inside, the house was dark. Dustin waited at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide, hands clenched into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He froze when he saw Steve, then moved fast, clearing space, grabbing lights, hovering uselessly and desperately all at once.

You guided Steve down onto the couch. His body sagged, exhausted, but he stayed conscious, blinking slowly.

You knelt in front of him, checking bruises, counting breaths, grounding yourself in the routine of care.

From the doorway, Dustin watched. Relief softened his face, guilt weighing heavy in his shoulders. He stayed silent. So did you.

Outside, the sun rose over Hawkins like nothing had happened.