Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

November, 1997 — Indianapolis

Rain poured endlessly over Indianapolis, drenching the city in silver and smoke-colored haze while the streets below glimmered beneath neon storefront signs and blurred headlights. Wind rattled weakly against the apartment windows, carrying with it the distant sounds of honking traffic, muffled laughter from somewhere down the block, and the steady hum of nightlife moving through downtown like blood through veins.

Inside Kalyna’s apartment, warmth clung to every corner.

The place looked less like an actual living space and more like an art project that had somehow gained electricity. Paint-stained canvases leaned against exposed brick walls, photography prints were clipped haphazardly across a clothesline near the kitchen, and books towered dangerously beside stacks of vinyl records that looked one wrong movement away from collapsing. A dim amber lamp glowed beside the couch while an old cassette player crooned soft rock beneath layers of static.

Will Byers sat curled comfortably into the corner cushions with a steaming mug balanced carefully between his hands. His dark curls still looked slightly damp from the rain outside, and exhaustion lingered faintly beneath his eyes after spending most of the afternoon unpacking boxes in his new apartment across town. Still, despite the fatigue, there was something calmer about him tonight — lighter somehow.

Kalyna wandered out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of popcorn nearly large enough to feed a family before dropping dramatically into the armchair across from him.

“You know,” she began while tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth carelessly, “I saw the single most horrifying thing imaginable on the bus this morning, and honestly, I don’t think I’m emotionally recovering from it anytime soon.” Her face twisted with exaggerated disgust while she tucked one leg beneath herself dramatically, already fully invested in the story before Will had even responded.

Will raised an eyebrow slowly over the rim of his coffee. “That sentence could mean literally anything in this city.” A small smile tugged lazily at the corner of his mouth while he shifted deeper into the couch cushions, clearly preparing himself for whatever nonsense she was about to unleash.

Kalyna pointed at him immediately, tilting her head in amusement. “Okay, first of all, don’t interrupt my trauma.” She sat forward slightly now, lowering her voice like she was about to reveal classified information. “This man — fully grown, by the way — was clipping his fingernails on public transportation.” She paused for dramatic effect, staring at him in disbelief while clutching the popcorn bowl against her chest like emotional support. “Not quietly either. Loud. Aggressive. Like he was punishing the fucking nails personally.”

Will stared at her for exactly two seconds before laughing so suddenly he nearly spilled coffee onto himself.

“No,” he said through a grin, shaking his head slowly while setting the mug down onto the table before disaster struck. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” Kalyna replied instantly, her expression filled with genuine outrage. “And nobody stopped him. Everybody just sat there pretending this man wasn’t launching tiny human weapons across the bus like some kind of feral raccoon.”

Will laughed harder now, rubbing tiredly at his forehead while the sound escaped him easier than he expected.

“Indianapolis is honestly insane,” he admitted between laughs, his voice softer now while he leaned back comfortably against the couch cushions. “I saw a guy downtown yesterday arguing with a parking meter for like… five straight minutes.”

Kalyna gasped dramatically. “See? That’s exactly the energy I’m talking about.” She waved a handful of popcorn through the air passionately, nearly throwing several pieces onto the floor in the process. “This city feels like everybody’s simultaneously one paycheck away from greatness and one inconvenience away from becoming a supervillain.”

“Shit… That’s weirdly accurate.”

“I know.” She pointed proudly at herself before tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth triumphantly. “That’s why I should write movie dialogue for producers and directors.”

Will snorted quietly. “Nobody in real life talks the way you talk.”

“That’s because I’m an interesting fucking person, thank you.”

“You compared a man to a raccoon like thirty seconds ago.”

“And yet, here you are, understanding me completely.” Kalyna smirked victoriously while stretching farther into the chair, looking entirely too proud of herself.

Rain continued sliding against the apartment windows while warm yellow light spilled lazily across the room. Outside, the city moved endlessly through puddles and neon reflections, but inside, everything felt suspended in this comfortable little pocket of time.

Will glanced around the apartment quietly for a moment before shaking his head with a faint smile.

“I still can’t believe you convinced your landlord to let you paint directly onto the walls,” he admitted, eyeing the massive abstract mural stretching across the hallway entrance. His voice carried quiet amusement while his fingers traced absentmindedly around the ceramic coffee mug again.

Kalyna looked offended immediately.

“Excuse you,” she replied dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. “That mural represents artistic freedom.”

“That mural represents at least three violated lease agreements.”

“It represents passion.” She narrowed her eyes suspiciously before adding, “And honestly, if a landlord can’t appreciate art, maybe they shouldn’t own property.”

Will laughed softly again, though the sound faded into something more thoughtful afterward.

For a brief second, he simply sat there listening to the rain.

Indianapolis still felt unfamiliar in so many ways. Bigger. Faster. Louder. But nights like this on a Saturday — sitting in overcrowded apartments with coffee growing cold in his hands while somebody argued passionately about public transportation crimes — somehow made the city feel less intimidating.

Kalyna suddenly squinted at him from across the room.

“You’re doing the nervous thing again.”

Will blinked once. “What nervous thing?”

“The staring into space thing.” She gestured vaguely toward his entire body while leaning forward slightly in the chair. “You always do that before something important happens.”

“I’m literally sitting here.”

“You’re aggressively sitting here.”

He opened his mouth to argue before immediately closing it again.

Kalyna’s grin widened triumphantly.

“There it is,” she said proudly.

Will sighed quietly before dragging a hand through his curls. “Tuesday next week just feels…” He hesitated briefly, searching for the right word while his eyes drifted toward the rain-soaked windows again. “Big, I guess.”

Kalyna’s expression softened almost instantly now.

Tuesday would officially be his first day working at Vanta Creative — one of Indianapolis’s rapidly growing design and marketing companies responsible for massive advertising campaigns, digital branding, magazine spreads, and commercial artwork all across the Midwest.

And despite graduating art school with praise from nearly every professor he’d had, Will still looked mildly terrified every time he talked about it.

“I still don’t understand why you’re acting like this is some kind of Make-A-Wish situation,” Kalyna said finally, her tone gentler now while she tucked loose curls behind her ear. “They hired you because you’re talented.”

Will let out a quiet laugh through his nose before looking down at his hands. “Or they accidentally mixed up my portfolio with somebody else’s.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned dramatically, throwing her head back against the chair. “You are insufferable, Will.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re paranoid.” She pointed firmly at him again. “Will, companies like Vanta do not hire people out of pity. Especially not for campaign design.”

He shrugged weakly. “I don’t know. Everybody there just seems so… polished.”

Kalyna barked out a laugh immediately.

“Polished?” she repeated incredulously while sitting upright again. “Please. Half those corporate art people survive entirely on caffeine and emotional repression.”

Will smiled faintly despite himself.

“You make things people actually feel,” Kalyna continued more quietly now. “That matters. Most designers can make something look pretty. You make people stop and stare.” She tilted her head slightly while studying him carefully. “That’s why they hired you, Will. Appreciate your talent.”

Will had no choice but to nod and agree because she is right. His talent and passion brought him where he needed to be. He should never second guess or doubt himself.

Kalyna tossed another piece of popcorn into her mouth before narrowing her eyes thoughtfully at Will from across the room.

“So,” she began casually while curling deeper into the armchair, “how’s the apartment situation coming along? Have you finally evolved beyond living in a maze of cardboard boxes, or are you still one emotional breakdown away from becoming part of the furniture?” She lifted an eyebrow expectantly while balancing the popcorn bowl against her knees, looking far too entertained by the question already.

Will groaned instantly, letting his head fall backward against the couch cushion with exhausted dramatics.

“It’s coming along,” he muttered tiredly while dragging both hands over his face slowly, his voice muffled beneath his palms for a second. “I spent six straight hours unpacking yesterday, and somehow the apartment still looks like I got robbed halfway through moving in.” He sat upright again with a sigh, reaching for his coffee while faint frustration lingered across his expression. “I swear every box I open just creates three more problems.”

Kalyna snorted loudly.

“That’s because moving is evil,” she replied confidently while pointing at him with a piece of popcorn like she was delivering a scientific fact. “There’s no logical reason a single human being should own that many random cables.” She squinted suspiciously now. “Why do you even have six extension cords?”

Will frowned defensively. “I don’t know which ones work.”

“That is deeply concerning.”

“You literally own two broken lamps because you said they had emotional value.”

“They do,” Kalyna shot back immediately, clutching the popcorn dramatically against her chest while pretending to look offended. “One of them survived sophomore year critique week with me. We’ve been through things together.”

Will laughed quietly, shaking his head while warmth spread faintly across his tired face.

“But honestly,” he continued after a moment, “I think the hardest part is figuring out what I actually need anymore.” His voice softened slightly now while he glanced absentmindedly toward the rain-soaked windows. “I keep finding old sketchbooks, old clothes, stupid little things I forgot I even had.” He exhaled quietly through his nose. “Some of it feels impossible to throw away.”

Kalyna’s expression softened for a brief moment before she leaned forward suddenly, excitement flashing across her face like a light turning on.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “We should throw you a housewarming party.”

Will blinked once.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kalyna—”

“This is perfect.” She was already spiraling into ideas now, sitting upright while gesturing wildly with both hands. “Your apartment has that exposed brick wall thing happening, right? And the weird giant windows? That’s very artistically tortured. People love that.”

Will stared at her cautiously. “You saying ‘people love that’ already sounds dangerous.”

“We could invite people from school!” she continued, completely ignoring him now. “Not everybody obviously, because some of those people were emotionally exhausting, but like… the cool ones.” She started counting dramatically on her fingers. “Maya, definitely. Theo maybe. Absolutely not Derek because he still thinks smoking indoors makes him mysterious.”

“He nearly set a curtain on fire.”

“Exactly.” Kalyna pointed at him triumphantly. “See? Growth.”

Will laughed despite himself while she continued rambling excitedly.

“And we could get cheap wine that tastes vaguely like battery acid,” she added passionately. “And somebody’ll bring one acoustic guitar for absolutely no reason, and then by midnight everybody’s gonna start debating whether abstract art is dead—”

“Kalyna.”

“—which inevitably turns into somebody crying in the kitchen while Radiohead plays quietly in the background—”

“Kalyna.”

“—and honestly?” She placed a hand dramatically against her chest now. “That’s the kind of authentic artistic environment people dream about.”

Will finally burst out laughing, nearly choking on his coffee while shaking his head at her.

“You are insane,” he said through a grin, his voice full of exhausted amusement while Kalyna looked entirely too proud of herself from across the room.

“No,” she corrected confidently. “I’m visionary.”

“You’re chaotic.”

“That too.”

Will rubbed his forehead, still smiling despite himself while the rain continued tapping softly against the windows around them.

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “A party feels like… a lot.”

Kalyna narrowed her eyes immediately.

“Oh, please.” She waved dismissively at him before tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth. “You’re acting like I suggested ritual combat.”

“I barely even have furniture yet.”

“That’s what folding chairs are for.”

“My kitchen table is literally still in pieces.”

“That’s ambiance.”

Will stared at her flatly.

“You hear yourself, right?”

Kalyna grinned unapologetically. “I hear brilliance.”

He laughed again, softer this time, before leaning deeper into the couch cushions.

Honestly, he should’ve known this would happen.

Kalyna possessed an almost supernatural ability to convince people into things they originally wanted absolutely nothing to do with. It was honestly impressive in a mildly terrifying way.

“You’re not letting this go, are you?” he asked knowingly while eyeing her over the rim of his mug.

“Absolutely not.”

Will groaned dramatically.

“I already regret bringing it up.”

“And yet,” Kalyna replied smugly while pointing at him victoriously, “you’re still considering it.”

He hated that she was right.

That was the worst part.

Will shook his head with quiet disbelief while a reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth again.

“You are unbelievably irritating,” he informed her calmly.

Kalyna beamed proudly. “And yet deeply lovable.”

Unfortunately, that was also true.

                                                                                                         *━━━━~꩜~━━━━*

March 1995 — Suburban Hawkins, Indiana

The air outside Hawthorne & Associates Marketing shimmered above the pavement in distorted waves, as if reality itself was slightly melting at the edges. Cars rolled slowly through the sleepy suburban streets, their engines groaning under the humidity, while cicadas screamed from the trees in an unbroken, chaotic chorus. Inside the office building, however, the air conditioning fought bravely against the heat, humming like a tired machine trying to keep the world in order.

Steve Harrington, sat in a stiff leather chair across from his boss, Richard Hawthorne himself — mid-fifties, silver-haired, permanently overdressed, and somehow always carrying the expression of a man mildly confused by modern technology, with his posture controlled but not entirely steady. 

His hands were loosely clasped together on his lap, fingers occasionally tightening and loosening as if they couldn’t quite agree on whether to stay calm or fidget. The office smelled faintly of polished wood, stale coffee, and printer ink—an oddly sterile combination that made everything feel more final than it should have.

Richard leaned back behind his desk, his expression slowly shifting from confusion to disbelief, as if Steve had just announced he planned to move to another planet instead of another city.

“I’m sorry,” Richard began slowly, lifting his glasses slightly as though the adjustment might help him process the sentence more clearly, “you’re telling me that you’re actually leaving this company? Steve, you’re one of the strongest account managers we have here. One of the few people I can actually trust with high-value clients without worrying I’ll get a call at midnight.”

Steve inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled with careful patience, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his voice steady but worn at the edges.

“I understand that,” he replied, nodding once while his eyes flicked briefly toward the window behind his boss, where sunlight cut through the blinds in harsh golden stripes. “And I’m not ignoring what this place has given me. I know I’ve done well here. But… I think that’s part of the problem.”

Richard’s eyebrows pulled together.

“Part of the problem?” he repeated, sitting forward in his chair now, folding his hands on the desk with growing confusion. “You’re talking like this is some kind of crisis. You’ve got stability here. A career people would kill for. So help me understand why you’d throw that away.”

Steve hesitated for a moment, rolling his shoulders back slightly as if grounding himself before speaking again. His voice softened, becoming more personal now, less rehearsed.

“Because I feel like I’m disappearing in it,” he admitted quietly, his fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling. “Every day feels the same. I wake up, I come here, spend ten fucking hours day, fixing problems that aren’t mine, I sell ideas I don’t really believe in, and by the time I get home… I don’t feel like I’m actually living anything that belongs to me.” He swallowed once, jaw tightening faintly. “It’s like I’m watching my own life from a distance.”

The room went quiet in a way that felt heavier than words.

“I’m twenty-eight, feeling like I’m fifty, and honestly, that’s pretty fucking scary. I kept telling myself this was temporary,” he explained while leaning back slightly in the chair, his voice steadier now despite the vulnerability creeping into it. “Good job. Good paycheck. Stable future.” He says as he’s counting off with his fingers. “That’s what everybody says you’re supposed to want.” A humorless smile flickered briefly across his face. “But I don’t think I’ve actually been happy here in a really long time.”

Richard blinked slowly, absorbing that, his expression losing some of its earlier sharpness.

“And what exactly are you planning to do instead of this?” he asked more carefully now, leaning back slightly, fingers steepled as his gaze studied Steve with new curiosity rather than dismissal.

Steve shifted in his seat, and for the first time, something warmer flickered behind his eyes despite the uncertainty still lingering there.

“I’ve been looking at places in Indianapolis,” he said, voice steadier now, as though saying it out loud made it more real. “There’s this area downtown—older buildings, a kind of revived arts district. I found a small storefront there.” He paused briefly, then added with a faint, almost surprised smile, “I want to open a coffee shop.”

Richard stared at him for a long moment, as if waiting for a punchline that never came.

“A coffee shop,” he repeated slowly, almost tasting the absurdity of it.

Steve nodded once, a small shrug accompanying it.

“Yeah,” he replied, a quiet exhale escaping him as he leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand sliding over the back of his neck. “Nothing fancy. Just a place that feels… slower. Vinyl records, books, local art. Somewhere people can actually sit down and breathe for a while.”

Richard let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, one hand briefly rubbing his forehead.

“You know,” he said, gesturing faintly toward Steve with a half-amused expression, “I’ve spent years watching you negotiate contracts and manage clients like a machine. And now you’re telling me your grand life plan involves espresso machines and background music.”

Steve let out a soft laugh of his own, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at the desk for a moment.

“Honestly?” he admitted, pushing a hand through his hair, “I don’t really recognize myself in this job anymore. So yeah… I’d rather build something I do recognize.”

That landed differently.

Richard exhaled slowly, the humor fading into something more thoughtful. He sat still for a long moment, then stood from behind his desk, rounding it with slower steps than before.

“Well,” he said finally, stopping in front of Steve and offering a hand, “I still think you’re making a financially irresponsible decision.”

Steve stood as well, shaking his hand firmly while offering a faint smile.

“I’ve heard worse reviews,” Steve replied, letting out a small breath as he released the handshake.

Richard held onto his shoulder for a brief moment after, squeezing it once in a gesture that was less boss and more reluctant respect.

“But I understand it,” he added, voice lower now. “And I mean that. Not many people actually have the nerve to walk away from something comfortable.” He stepped back, nodding once. “I wish you luck, Harrington. You’re going to need it.”

Steve nodded in return, rolling his shoulders back as if releasing something he didn’t realize he had been carrying.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, “probably.”

Later that afternoon, the office felt emptier than it should have.

Steve stood alone inside his workspace, cardboard boxes stacked near his desk like quiet monuments to endings. Papers rustled as he folded them carefully, the sound unusually loud in the otherwise silent room. The framed awards that once lined his shelves were already gone, leaving faint outlines on the wall where they had once hung.

He taped another box shut with firm, deliberate pressure, pressing the tape down slowly as if sealing off more than just cardboard.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

A familiar voice followed almost immediately.

“Please tell me I walked into the wrong office and you’re just reorganizing for fun.”

Steve looked up, turning slightly to see Daniel Mercer leaning casually against the doorway, holding two cups of coffee and wearing his usual crooked grin. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up, expression half amused, half suspicious.

Steve let out a small breath through his nose, setting the tape dispenser down.

“Afraid not,” he replied simply, brushing his hands together before stepping back from the desk.

Daniel walked in slowly, scanning the room with growing realization. His eyes flicked to the boxes, the cleared shelves, the missing clutter that usually defined Steve’s space.

“You’re actually doing it,” Daniel said, his voice lowering slightly as he extended one of the coffees toward Steve.

Steve accepted it with a quiet nod, wrapping his fingers around the warm cup.

“Yeah,” he answered, taking a small sip before exhaling softly.

Daniel leaned against the edge of the desk, shaking his head as if trying to physically dislodge the idea.

“Man,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, “you’re really about to disappear on us, huh?” He let out a short laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I mean, we all joked about you quitting one day, but I didn’t actually think you’d go through with it.”

Steve gave a faint, tired smile, continuing to pack a few loose papers into a folder as he spoke.

“I didn’t wake up one day and decide this on a whim,” he said, placing the folder into a box and pressing it down carefully. “It’s been building for a while. I just… stopped ignoring it.”

Daniel watched him for a moment, then shook his head again, stepping closer to the desk.

“You realize you’re giving up a really good life here, right?” he said, gesturing vaguely around the office. “People respect you here. You’ve got seniority. You’ve got stability. That’s not nothing.”

Steve paused briefly, then closed the lid of another box with a quiet thud.

“I know,” he replied, running a hand along the edge of the desk as if saying goodbye to it physically. “But I think I want something that feels like mine, not just something I’m good at.”

Daniel exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly as he studied him more closely now.

“Well, since you’re leaving, how about meeting me and everyone else at O’Malleys tonight? We’re gonna watch the game, drink a couple of beers and-”

“Sorry man. Can’t tonight. I have a lot planned.”

“You know, Harrington,” he says as he looks at him, studying him. “I keep waiting for you to laugh and say you’re messing with everyone, but you’re actually doing this. Then you don’t want  to hang out with us tonight. That’s always been our thing.” He set one of the coffees down beside Steve like a habit they’d built over years. “This place is starting to not feel the same without you, already.”

“That’s dramatic,” he replied lightly, taking a small sip before resting his forearms against the desk. “I’m still here.”

“For now,” Daniel shot back immediately, pointing at him with the other coffee cup like it was evidence in a case. Then his tone shifted, softening just slightly as he looked around the room again. “You know what I keep thinking about? You used to be the guy who made everything in this place less miserable.”

Steve glanced at him, brow faintly furrowing.

Daniel continued, leaning more casually against the desk now, his voice carrying a nostalgic edge that didn’t quite match his usual sarcasm.

“When you first started here, you were impossible to ignore,” he said, gesturing loosely with one hand as if painting the memory in the air. “You were always talking people into going out after work, dragging half the office to bars on Fridays, convincing people that bowling nights were somehow life-changing experiences.” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You were like… I don’t know… the official heartbeat of this place.”

Steve exhaled quietly, leaning back slightly as he listened, his expression softening in recognition.

“I remember,” he admitted, almost reflexively. “I guess I was… pretty fucking different then.”

“You weren’t just different,” Daniel corrected, straightening slightly now, his tone becoming more animated as he remembered. “You were untouchable in that way people are when they still think life is just supposed to be fun. Like nothing could actually weigh you down.” He smiled faintly, almost fondly. “You used to laugh at everything. Everything, man. Even the worst clients. Especially the worst clients.”

Steve let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down into his coffee.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I guess I did.”

Daniel tilted his head slightly, watching him more carefully now.

“What happened to that guy?” he asked, not accusatory—just genuinely curious. “Because somewhere along the way, you turned into someone who looks like he’s been carrying the weight of the entire company on his back without telling anyone.”

That question lingered in the air longer than either of them expected.

Steve didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he set the coffee down on the edge of the desk, fingers resting briefly on the rim as if grounding himself. His gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight sliced through the blinds in long, fractured beams.

“I think…” Steve began slowly, then paused, choosing his words with care. “I think I just started doing what I thought I was supposed to do.”

Daniel frowned slightly. “That sounds like a very corporate answer for a guy who used to skip meetings to go get pancakes at two in the afternoon.”

Steve laughed under his breath, but it faded quickly into something quieter.

“Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s kind of the point.”

He leaned forward slightly now, elbows resting on his knees as his voice lowered into something more honest.

“At some point, it stopped being about what I wanted,” he said, fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling. “It became about what made sense. What looked right on paper. What people expected.” He exhaled slowly, staring at the floor for a moment. “And I guess I just… stayed there longer than I should’ve.”

Daniel watched him closely, the sarcasm gone now.

“So this is you correcting that?” he asked quietly.

Steve nodded once, slowly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice steadier now. “I think so.”

A pause settled between them, filled only by the distant hum of office machines and the muffled sound of someone laughing far down the hall.

Daniel leaned back against the desk again, crossing his arms loosely.

“You know what scares me about this?” he said after a moment, his tone lighter again but still thoughtful. “It’s not that you’re leaving. It’s that you sound… sure.” He glanced at Steve briefly. “Like you actually know what you’re doing for once.”

Steve gave a small, almost reluctant smile.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted honestly. “Not really.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Comforting.”

“But,” Steve continued, leaning back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose as if something had finally settled inside him, “for the first time in a long time, I know what I don’t want anymore.”

That landed differently.

The room felt quieter after that.

Steve continued, voice softer but more grounded now.

“I don’t want to wake up at thirty-five and realize I spent my whole life being good at something I never cared about,” he said, hands loosely clasped again as he looked down at them. “I don’t want to keep doing things just because they’re expected. I’ve been doing that already, and I can feel it catching up to me.”

Daniel studied him for a long moment, then exhaled slowly through his nose, like he was reluctantly accepting something he didn’t want to.

“You really thought this through,” he said quietly.

Steve nodded once.

“I had to.”

Another pause.

Then Daniel straightened slightly, rubbing the back of his neck before letting out a small, resigned laugh.

“You’re going to be impossible to replace, you know that, right?” he said, gesturing toward the emptying desk. “People are going to pretend they can, but they can’t.”

Steve smiled faintly, standing now as he closed another box with slow, deliberate pressure.

“They’ll be fine,” he said gently. “They just won’t have me.”

Daniel shook his head, a half-smile returning despite himself.

“That sounds way too calm for someone who just quit a stable life,” he muttered.

Steve picked up the box, adjusting it under his arm.

“Maybe I’m just tired of being scared of change,” he replied simply, glancing toward the office one last time before continuing. “Or maybe I finally stopped confusing comfort with happiness.”

Daniel watched him for a moment longer, then stepped forward and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder again—less disbelief this time, more respect.

“Alright,” he said quietly, exhaling. “Then don’t screw it up.”

Steve let out a small laugh.

“No promises.”

Suddenly, Daniel stopped midway.

“Hey,” he started carefully, leaning against the edge of a nearby cabinet. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something… and you can tell me to mind my business if you want.”

Steve paused mid-tape, looking up at him with mild suspicion but not defensiveness.

“Depends on the question,” he replied, sitting back in his chair, forearms resting loosely on his knees as he sat the box on the table.

Daniel exhaled through his nose, choosing his words with unusual care.

“How are you holding up with… everything,” he said vaguely at first, then clarified with a quieter tone. “With the divorce from Kristin?”

Kristen.

The name landed differently in the room—like something fragile that still existed even after it was gone. More like a bomb.

Steve went still for a moment, the tape hanging loosely between his fingers before he slowly set it down on the box.

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he leaned back against the desk, eyes drifting toward the window where sunlight pressed through the blinds in thin, broken lines.

“Kristin…” he repeated softly, almost like he was testing the weight of the name in his mouth. A faint, distant expression crossed his face—not pain exactly, but memory. “Yeah. That’s… still a strange one to talk about out loud sometimes.”

Daniel nodded once, staying quiet, letting him continue without pressure.

Steve exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before speaking again, more grounded this time.

“It was hard,” he admitted honestly, voice lower now, stripped of any professional tone. “Not in the dramatic way people expect. There wasn’t a huge blowout or anything like that.” He paused briefly, fingers tapping once against the edge of the desk. “It was more like… we just slowly stopped being in the same room even when we were standing next to each other.”

Daniel frowned slightly but didn’t interrupt.

Steve continued, leaning forward a bit, elbows resting on his knees.

“We both worked too much,” he said quietly. “Different schedules, different priorities. I’d come home late, she’d already be asleep or leaving early the next morning. Weekends started feeling like catch-up conversations instead of time together.” A faint, almost sad smile crossed his face. “At some point, it didn’t feel like we were building a life together anymore. It felt like we were maintaining one out of habit.”

Daniel shifted slightly, his expression softening.

“You thought she was the one though,” he said carefully.

Steve let out a quiet breath, nodding once without hesitation.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I really did.”

He looked down for a moment, then back toward the half-packed boxes around him, as if the physical act of leaving things behind made the memory easier to talk about.

“I think that’s what made it so difficult at first,” he continued, voice steadier now. “Not because it ended badly… because it didn’t. There wasn’t anything to fight against. It was just… reality catching up to us.”

Daniel leaned back slightly, crossing his arms loosely as he listened.

Steve shifted his weight on the desk, exhaling through his nose.

“When we finally talked about it properly,” he said, “we both kind of already knew. We’d just been avoiding saying it out loud.” A faint, tired smile flickered across his face. “It wasn’t angry. It was… sad, but honest. We agreed it was time.”

He paused, fingers briefly pressing against the edge of the desk as if grounding himself in the memory.

“We didn’t hate each other,” Steve added quietly. “We just… stopped fitting. And pretending otherwise would’ve made it worse.”

Daniel nodded slowly, processing that.

Steve straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back as his tone shifted just a little—more reflective now, less heavy.

“It took a while to come to terms with it,” he admitted. “I kept thinking maybe I could fix it by working less, or being home more, or changing something small enough that it would all click back into place.” He shook his head faintly. “But eventually I realized… some things don’t break suddenly. They just drift apart.”

Daniel exhaled softly, looking down at the floor for a moment.

“And you’re okay now?” he asked carefully.

Steve hesitated—but only briefly.

“I am,” he said finally, more certain than anything else he’d said so far. “Not at first. But I am now.”

He pushed himself up fully, picking the tape back up and sealing another box with slow, deliberate pressure.

“I think I stopped seeing it as something that was taken from me,” he continued, voice quieter but steadier. “It just… wasn’t the right version of my life anymore. For either of us.”

Daniel watched him for a moment longer, then nodded once, slowly.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That makes sense.”

Steve gave a small, almost grateful smile without looking up.

“Yeah,” he echoed gently. “Eventually, it did for me too.”

Daniel smirked faintly, stepping back toward the doorway.

“O’Malley’s tonight,” he said one last time, softer now. “Are you sure?”

Steve paused briefly, then shook his head.

“I see you're still trying.”

"Wouldn't hurt, you know."

"I understand. But i really can't. I've got to go."

Daniel nodded once, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know. Ima miss you, man.”

"I'll miss you guys, too. Have fun for me yeah?"

Daniel nod sadly, then left the office. He leaves Steve alone among cardboard boxes and fading sunlight—standing in the middle of a life he was finally, quietly, choosing to leave behind.

                                                                                                          *━━━━~꩜~━━━━*

May—1995

Indianapolis felt different from Hawkins in a way Steve couldn’t quite explain, like the city itself was still in motion while everything he had left behind had been stuck in amber.

After the long drive from Hawkins, the kind that stretched time until it felt elastic and unreal, Steve had finally settled into something resembling stability. He had used his savings, including what remained of his 401k, to secure a clean, modern apartment in a steadily developing part of the city—white walls, polished floors, large windows that let morning light spill in like liquid gold. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was intentional, and for the first time in years, Steve could stand in a space and feel like it belonged to him instead of the other way around.

The apartment was quiet in that unfamiliar way new places often are—no history in the walls yet, no ghosts of routine. Just possibility, waiting.

And today, that possibility had taken shape in a meeting.

Steve sat across from the building owner inside a small, well-lit office attached to the property he had been eyeing for weeks. The space itself wasn’t glamorous yet, but it had bones—tall windows, exposed brick softened by time, wooden floors that creaked faintly with every step like they were speaking in an old language.

Across from him sat Mr. Alden Pierce, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes, rolled-up sleeves, and the cautious patience of someone who had seen too many ambitious ideas collapse under reality.

Pierce leaned back in his chair, studying Steve with slow deliberation, fingers tapping once against a folder resting on the desk between them.

“So let me understand this clearly,” Pierce began, voice steady but skeptical, as he adjusted his glasses and folded his hands together. “You want to lease this space not for a franchise, not for a chain, but to build something entirely your own—a coffee shop that also functions as a vinyl store, a book lounge, and an art space.”

Steve nodded once, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his posture grounded but focused.

“Yes,” he replied calmly, voice steady with conviction. “Not just a coffee shop or a store. Something that blends all of it together in one environment.” He paused briefly, glancing toward the tall windows of the empty space beyond the office. “A place where people can slow down. Where music isn’t just background noise, it’s part of the experience. Where books are not just decorations but lived-in things. Where art doesn’t just hang, it just breathes.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow slightly, unimpressed but intrigued enough to continue listening.

“And you believe you’re equipped to run something like that?” he asked slowly, leaning forward now, forearms resting on the desk. “Because I won’t lie to you, Mr. Harrington, this isn’t a just a leisure hobby. It’s inventory, staffing, maintenance, rent cycles, insurance, theft prevention, customer flow, and about a hundred other things that tend to crush people who think passion alone is enough.”

Steve didn’t flinch at the challenge.

Instead, he exhaled quietly, nodding as if he had expected the question long before it was asked.

“I understand that,” he said, voice calm but firm, hands loosely clasped together now as he spoke. “I don’t think passion alone is enough. I know it isn’t.” He paused briefly, then added with quiet certainty, “But I did study business. I went through formal training, and in my last position, I was directly involved in operational oversight and client management. I’ve seen what it looks like when things run smoothly—and I’ve seen what happens when they don’t.”

Pierce studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable.

Steve continued, leaning slightly forward again, his tone softening just a fraction but remaining steady.

“I’m not coming into this blind,” he said. “I know what it means to keep a place running. I know what it means to be responsible for something that doesn’t stop just because you’re tired.” A faint, almost self-aware smile flickered briefly across his face. “And I also know what it feels like to build something that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.”

That seemed to shift something in the room.

Pierce exhaled slowly through his nose, leaning back in his chair as he regarded Steve with a more thoughtful silence. His fingers tapped the folder once more before stopping entirely.

“Alright,” Pierce said finally, standing from his chair and grabbing a set of keys from the desk drawer. “I’ll show you the space.”

Steve stood immediately, adjusting his jacket as he followed.

The tour began as they walked through the building, footsteps echoing against unfinished flooring and bare walls. Pierce gestured as they moved, outlining sections of the property like a man describing a future that hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to exist.

“If I lease this to you,” Pierce said as they stopped in the main room, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space, “you’re responsible for everything inside these walls. Every sale, every inventory order, every repair, every safety concern. You are not just renting a space—you are taking custody of it.”

Steve nodded as he walked slowly through the open floor, his eyes already mapping where shelves might go, where seating could be arranged, where light would fall in the mornings and soften in the evenings.

“I understand,” Steve replied, his voice carrying slightly in the hollow room as he ran a hand lightly along one of the brick columns. “And I take that seriously. If I do this, I want it done right. I’m not in a rush. I know that perfection takes it’s time.”

Pierce stopped near the center of the room, turning to face him fully now.

“And security,” he added firmly, folding his arms. “This neighborhood is improving, but it is still a business district in transition. You will be responsible for making sure this place is protected—physically, financially, and operationally. That includes late hours, inventory protection, and making sure nothing slips through the cracks.”

Steve turned to face him as well, nodding without hesitation.

“I accept that responsibility,” he said, voice steady as the empty room seemed to listen. “If I’m building something here, then I want it to last.”

There was a long pause.

Then Pierce finally exhaled, the tension easing slightly from his posture.

“Alright then,” he said simply, pulling out the final set of papers. “Let’s talk about what you’re calling it.”

Steve stopped walking.

For a moment, the empty room around him seemed to sharpen into focus, like the idea had been waiting for this exact question to fully form.

He looked around slowly—the open space, the tall windows, the echo of potential still unfinished.

Then he spoke.

“Late Night Stereo,” he said clearly, the words settling into the air like they belonged there already.

Pierce repeated it once under his breath, testing it.

“Late Night Stereo,” he echoed, then gave a small nod. “Alright. Explain it to me. What has inspired you to name it that way.”

Steve took a slow breath, stepping back toward the center of the room as his voice grew more animated, more alive.

“It’s not just a name,” he began, hands moving slightly as he spoke, shaping the idea in the air like it already existed. “It’s the feeling of late evenings when the world finally gets quiet enough to think. Vinyl records playing softly in the background—everything from old jazz to alternative rock to records people thought they forgot they loved.” He gestured toward an imagined layout. “Walls lined with books—every genre you can think of. Fiction, philosophy, poetry, even the weird obscure stuff people pick up just because the cover looks interesting.”

He paused briefly, then continued, voice warming further.

“And coffee,” he added, a faint smile forming now. “Strong, simple, something that makes people stay longer than they planned to.” He looked around the empty space again, as if seeing it fully formed now. “And art—local pieces, rotating displays. It’s a place where people don’t just come in and leave, but actually exist for a while without feeling rushed.”

Pierce watched him closely now, no longer interrupting.

Steve’s voice softened slightly as he reached the heart of it.

“I want it to feel like a kind of quiet escape,” he said, slower now, almost reverent. “Just… steady and peaceful. A place where time doesn’t feel like it’s chasing people. Somewhere you can sit near a window, listen to music, read something you didn’t know you needed, and just exist without pressure.”

He let out a small breath, lowering his hands.

“Like a pause button for life. Everyone needs to put a pause on life once in a while.” he finished quietly.

The room fell silent after that.

Pierce studied him for a long moment, then finally nodded once, slower this time, as if something about the idea had settled into him too.

“Alright, Mr. Harrington,” he said at last, sliding the papers across the desk toward him. “Let’s see about getting paperwork done and making it official. Congratulations.”

For Steve, the years had moved faster than he expected, not in a chaotic blur, but in a steady, almost grounding way—like something finally clicking into place after years of everything feeling slightly off balance. What had started as an uncertain lease and a risky idea had grown, quietly and insistently, into something real.

Late Night Stereo had become part of the city’s routine without asking permission.

Mornings began with the soft shuffle of regulars who came in before work, coats still damp from early rain, ordering coffee with tired smiles and familiar nods. Afternoons stretched into a calm hum of pages turning, mugs clinking against wooden tables, and vinyl records spinning low enough that the music never demanded attention but always filled the silence in the right way. And by night, especially in October, the shop transformed entirely—warm light spilling onto the sidewalk like a promise, fogged windows glowing softly against the cold streets, the interior alive with quiet conversation and the steady comfort of people refusing to go home too early.

Steve had learned the rhythm of it all the same way one learns a language—not through instruction, but through repetition, mistakes, and time.

He moved through the space now with an ease he didn’t have when it first opened, no longer thinking in terms of uncertainty but in maintenance, care, and subtle adjustments. He knew which shelves needed restocking before they were empty, which records always disappeared first on rainy days, which customers preferred their coffee darker than they admitted. He understood the building the way someone understands a living thing—by its moods, its patterns, its quiet demands.

The busiest seasons, during spring, autumn, and winter, had become something close to a seasonal heartbeat for the shop. Cold weather pressed people inward, and Late Night Stereo became a kind of refuge without ever advertising itself as one. Steam from freshly brewed coffee blurred the windows while inside, warmth gathered in layers—soft lighting, worn couches, the faint crackle of vinyl filling corners of the room like memory made audible.

Steve often found himself standing behind the counter during those rushes, sleeves rolled up, watching the flow of people with a kind of disbelief that never fully went away. He would pause sometimes while pouring coffee, just long enough to notice how naturally it all worked now—the system he once only imagined now functioning with quiet reliability around him.

There were moments, brief and unspoken, when he would lean against the counter after a long evening rush and simply take it in. The way conversations overlapped without becoming noise. The way strangers sat near each other without needing to speak. The way someone would discover a record they hadn’t thought about in years and smile to themselves like they had been handed something personal.

In those moments, Steve understood something he hadn’t fully been able to name before.

It wasn’t just that the business was successful. It was that it had become stable in a way that felt earned rather than accidental. The risk he had taken had not dissolved into regret or collapse, but instead settled into structure, into routine, into something that quietly held its own weight.

                                                                                                          *━━━━~꩜~━━━━*

Present — November 1997

Rain came down in steady sheets—like the sky had decided everyone on the ground deserved a long, damp lecture. Streets reflected headlights in trembling gold streaks, and sidewalks shimmered as umbrellas bloomed everywhere like dark, moving flowers. People hurried along with collars up, shoulders hunched, boots splashing through shallow puddles that looked like broken pieces of the city.

Will Byers walked briskly through it all, one hand holding a black umbrella slightly tilted against the wind, the other holding a small Nokia phone pressed close to his ear. His jacket was damp at the edges, his hair curling slightly from the humidity, and his steps were careful but quick—like he was trying to outrun the rain without actually running.

His voice lifted over the sound of traffic and rainfall as he spoke into the phone.

“Kalyna, I swear to god, if you say one more thing about my umbrella technique, I’m hanging up on you and never speaking to you again,” Will said, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular while dodging a particularly aggressive splash from a passing car. His tone was half serious, half already resigned to whatever nonsense was coming next.

On the other end of the line, Kalyna’s voice crackled through the receiver, loud and amused, completely unbothered by weather, distance, or Will’s emotional threats.

“Oh my god, Will. Relax,” she shot back instantly, laughing. “I’m just saying you hold that umbrella like you’re trying to interrogate the sky. It’s aggressive as hell. Like what did clouds ever do to you?”

Will let out a tired laugh, shaking his head as he stepped carefully around a puddle that looked deep enough to swallow his entire dignity.

“It’s raining sideways,” he replied, lifting his umbrella slightly as if to prove a point. “What do you want me to do, Kalyna? Hold it politely? Like I’m having tea with the fucking atmosphere?”

Kalyna snorted so loudly it crackled through the speaker.

“That actually sounds kind of iconic,” she said. “Tea with the atmosphere. Very ‘tortured artist’ of you.”

“I’m not a ‘tortured artist’,” Will muttered, adjusting his grip on the phone while glancing down the street. “I’m a guy trying not to drown on his way to work.”

“Same thing,” she replied immediately.

They walked in sync through the call for a moment, the sound of rain filling the gaps between their words.

Will shifted the phone closer to his ear as he turned a corner.

“Anyway,” he said, tone changing slightly as he spotted the familiar street ahead, “I’m about to grab coffee before I go in. There’s a shop right down the block from my apartment called ‘Late Night Stereo’ or something. I’m getting us both something there.”

Kalyna’s tone perked up instantly.

“Oh, wait,” she said, suddenly more interested. “Is that the place everyone keeps talking about? The one with the records and books and all that artsy shit?”

Will frowned slightly as he stepped under the awning of a small storefront, briefly escaping the rain as he adjusted his umbrella.

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied. “Why?”

There was a pause on the line, like Kalyna was grinning to herself.

“I heard the owner of that place is kind of insane,” she said casually, voice stretching with amusement. “Like annoyingly attractive. And apparently he has this ridiculous hair situation going on that people will not shut up about.”

Will blinked once, glancing through the coffee shop window where warm light spilled out onto the wet sidewalk.

“Okay?” he said slowly, unlocking the door with his shoulder as he balanced the phone and umbrella awkwardly. “And how would you even know that?”

Kalyna scoffed immediately.

“Excuse me,” she said, offended. “I have eyes. I walk past places. I observe the world like a normal human being.”

Will stepped inside the shop, shaking rain off his umbrella as warm air hit him instantly, fogging his glasses slightly.

“Uh-huh,” he said, setting the umbrella near the entrance while scanning the cozy interior filled with soft lighting, shelves of vinyl records, and quiet morning customers. “And yet you’ve never mentioned this mysterious hair guy to me before.”

“Oh, I tried,” she said defensively. “I asked for his number… once.”

Will paused mid-step.

“You asked for his number?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

There was a beat of silence, then Kalyna continued like she was telling a very disappointing story.

“He gave me the store number,” she said flatly. “Like I was supposed to just call and ask for ‘hot coffee man’ or something. Then he just went back to doing his thing like I wasn’t standing there trying to flirt with him.”

Will let out a laugh, shaking his head as he moved toward the counter.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he said, still amused. “Some people are just like that.”

Kalyna immediately latched onto his tone.

“Some people are like that?” she repeated. “No, Will. That man is either socially allergic or gay. There is no in-between.”

Will nearly choked on air.

“What?” he laughed, setting his phone briefly against his shoulder while ordering coffee from the barista. “No, come on. That’s a huge jump.”

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “Think about it. Cute, mysterious, runs a cozy aesthetic coffee shop with vinyls and books? Refuses to flirt back? Give out business numbers instead of personal ones? That’s not straight behavior, that’s emotional fortification.”

Will snorted, handing over cash while still listening.

“Or,” he said, grabbing his change and shifting the phone back to his ear, “maybe he’s just… I don’t know… normal? Maybe he just doesn’t feel like dealing with random people hitting on him while he’s trying to run a business.”

Kalyna made a dramatic offensive noise.

“Boring answer,” she declared.

“It’s realistic,” Will shot back, leaning slightly against the counter as he waited for the drinks. “Not everyone is secretly part of some dramatic Rom-com subplot.”

Kalyna went quiet for half a second, then spoke again with absolute confidence.

“I still think he’s gay.”

Will rolled his eyes so hard it was audible in his voice.

“You don’t even know him,” he said, laughing again as he watched steam rise from behind the counter where coffee was being prepared. “You’re just guessing based on vibes and hair.”

“Vibes are never wrong,” she said proudly.

“That is the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Yet historically accurate.”

Will shook his head, smiling despite himself as he picked up the coffee order from the counter.

“Whatever,” he said, adjusting his umbrella again as he headed toward the door. “I’m bringing you coffee. That’s the only important part of this conversation.”

“Fine,” Kalyna replied, still amused. “But if that mysterious coffee guy turns out to be tragically unavailable, I want credit.”

Will stepped back out into the rain, pulling his hood up as droplets immediately started tapping against his shoulders again.

“You are insane,” he said, laughing under his breath as he started walking toward work.

“And yet,” Kalyna called back, voice fading slightly through the phone, “you still fucking love me, your dear best friend.”

“Unfortunately,” Will muttered, smiling as he stepped back into the rainy street, “yeah. I do.”

                                                                                                          *━━━━~꩜~━━━━*

Will stepped off the rain-slick sidewalk and into the warmth of the coffee shop just as the door swung shut behind him with a soft chime.

The bell above the entrance jingled gently—bright and almost comforting, like a small metal laugh breaking through the steady drum of the rain outside. Heat wrapped around him immediately, carrying the scent of roasted coffee beans, aged wood, and something faintly sweet—pastries or cinnamon or maybe just the atmosphere itself deciding to be welcoming.

A voice called out from somewhere deeper inside the shop, relaxed and almost theatrical, cutting through the low hum of music playing from a vinyl speaker somewhere behind the counter.

“Welcome to Late Night Stereo,” the voice said smoothly, “where the coffee is strong, the music is louder than your thoughts, and we strongly encourage you to pretend your problems don’t exist for at least fifteen minutes.”

Will blinked once, a small amused smile tugging at his face as he stepped further inside.

The shop opened up around him like a carefully curated memory—walls lined with vinyl records in worn sleeves, bookshelves stacked with all kinds of titles from poetry to fiction to thick philosophy books that looked like they had something to prove. Warm lamps glowed in soft amber tones, and scattered seating filled the space like little islands of quiet conversation. Somewhere near the back, a record played low and steady, its sound slightly crackling like it had lived through several lifetimes already.

It felt… intentional.

Like someone had built it to slow the world down.

Will adjusted his umbrella, letting it drip near the entrance, and glanced toward the counter.

Behind it, a man sat partially hidden behind a folded newspaper, legs crossed casually, posture relaxed in a way that suggested this wasn’t just a job but a rhythm he’d grown into. Only his hand occasionally shifted the paper, and the faint sound of a page turning broke the stillness between music and rain.

Will cleared his throat lightly, stepping forward with polite hesitation.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft but carrying easily through the quiet space. “This place looks really nice. I’m just kind of looking around for now, but I was hoping to grab some coffee too.”

From behind the newspaper, the man didn’t fully look up. Instead, he lowered it just slightly and gestured lazily toward the side of the counter with one hand, as if he’d answered this question a thousand times without needing to break his reading rhythm.

“Complimentary station’s over there,” the man said casually, voice calm and easy. “Coffee’s fresh, water’s cold, snacks are… edible. Barely. Help yourself, man.”

Will let out a quiet breath that might’ve been a laugh, nodding as he followed the direction. “Got it, thanks.”

He moved toward the station, taking in more of the shop as he passed—small details he didn’t notice at first glance. A stack of mismatched mugs near the counter. A chalkboard menu with handwritten notes that looked slightly imperfect in a way that made it feel more alive. A few patrons scattered around, some reading, some working, some just sitting with cups wrapped in both hands like they were holding onto warmth itself.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, along with Kalyna’s, the steam curling up into his face like a soft exhale from the drink itself, and grabbed a small snack before turning back toward the counter.

The man was still behind the newspaper when Will returned, only the top of his head and one relaxed elbow visible now as he shifted the paper slightly.

Will stepped up to the counter and gave a small nod.

“Just this, I guess,” he said, setting the cup down gently. “I’ll go ahead and pay for it.”

The man lowered the paper a little more, finally glancing toward him properly for the first time. His hand reached down toward the register, fingers already moving with practiced ease as he began to ring up the items.

“Yeah, no problem,” he said absently, still half-focused on the screen as the register beeped softly. “It’s just two coffees and a snack, so it’s—”

He stopped. Literally stopped like something had dagger-ed him in the chest.

The newspaper lowered slightly more in his hand as his eyes lifted fully, locking onto Will with sudden recognition that cut clean through the calm atmosphere of the shop.

There was a beat of silence so precise it felt like the entire room noticed it.

Then his expression shifted—surprise first, then disbelief, then something softer underneath it that didn’t quite have a name yet.

“Wait,” the man said, voice quieter now, almost uncertain. His brow furrowed slightly as if he was trying to make sure the past wasn’t playing tricks on him. “Will? As in… Will Byers?”

Will froze mid-motion, one hand still reaching toward his wallet in his back pocket.

Hearing his own name in a familiar tone landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Slowly, he looked up fully now, meeting the man’s eyes for the first time without distraction, without distance, without the noise of rain or coffee or conversation in between.

And something in his expression shifted too. Memory, rushing in all at once like a door being opened after years of being closed.

“…Steve?” Will said, almost breathless, like the name didn’t quite believe itself at first.

The shop around them didn’t move, but somehow everything felt quieter anyway.

The record continued to play somewhere in the background, soft and distant, like it suddenly understood it didn’t need to compete anymore.

The man behind the counter—Steve Harrington—stood there for a moment with the newspaper still half-lowered, his hand frozen near the register as if his body had forgotten what it was doing.

And Will Byers, still holding his wallet halfway out of his pocket, just stared back, caught somewhere between disbelief and something gentler that neither of them had words for yet.

The moment lingered there—like the entire shop had briefly stopped turning just to let moment exist.