Chapter 1: The Quiet Before
Chapter Text
Hawkins, Indiana smelled like wet leaves and old pavement.
Jules pressed her forehead to the cold window of the car, her breath fogging the glass as the town rolled past. Brown lawns, sagging mailboxes, the occasional skeleton still clinging to a porch railing from Halloween two weeks ago. The sky was all clouds and low light, like a lid pressing down.
Bob hummed something under his breath as he steered the car through the quiet streets—some forgotten melody Jules didn’t recognize. He’d been humming more lately, ever since they moved into his parents’ old house near Lovers Lake. Big, creaky, full of corners that smelled like the 1960s and carpet that didn’t match.
“You nervous?” Bob asked, glancing at her.
Jules didn’t answer right away. Her fingers were twisting a gold ring on her thumb, one of the few things of her mother’s she still wore. The knot in her stomach had been there since the day they left Chicago.
“I’m not nervous,” she said finally. “I’m just… new.”
Bob gave her that look—the soft one that said he knew she was lying but wouldn’t call her on it. “Well,” he said, “being new just means no one knows your embarrassing stories yet. That’s power.”
She snorted, and it felt like breathing again.
The school loomed into view, a blocky brick building surrounded by kids in denim jackets and big hair. Hawkins High wasn’t large, but it felt like it swallowed the whole street. Jules exhaled slowly.
“Alright,” Bob said, parking the car. “Go out there and pretend you like people.”
Jules gave him a mock salute and stepped out into the cold.
The halls of Hawkins High smelled like pencil shavings and floor wax.
Jules stood awkwardly outside the front office until the secretary pointed her toward her first class. She walked with her hands in the pockets of her thrifted army jacket, eyes scanning everything—lockers with peeling stickers, laughter echoing off tile, the way kids moved in little flocks.
She’d always hated first days. Everyone already had a place, and she was just static.
Her first class was U.S. History. The teacher—Mr. Langston—barely looked up when she walked in. She introduced herself in a half-mumble and took the only open seat, two rows behind a boy picking at the pages of his textbook like he’d rather be anywhere else. Nobody said hi.
By third period, she already missed Chicago. At least there, people knew her name.
The cafeteria buzzed with the chaos of lunch hour—metal chairs scraping against tile, soda cans hissing open, and a thousand voices crashing over one another like waves. Jules stood at the edge, her tray balanced on one hand, scanning for a place to land.
“Hey! Jules, right?”
She turned. Nancy Wheeler waved her over—pristine hair, tucked-in blouse, the kind of girl who never tripped in public or stammered when called on. She was the kind of girl whose life had been written in straight lines. Jules hesitated, then approached.
“This is Barbara,” Nancy said as Jules slid into the empty spot across from them. “We’re in English together.”
“Mr. Kaufman,” Jules said. “Yeah. The one who smells like he bathes in burnt coffee beans.”
Barbara snorted behind her milk carton. Nancy smiled, polite but measured.
Jules peeled open her pudding cup. “Thanks for letting me sit. Place is a jungle.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Barbara said kindly. “Where’d you move from again?”
“Chicago.”
Nancy perked up. “Big city.”
“Loud city,” Jules replied, eyes scanning the room. “People are quieter here. Not better, just… quieter.”
There was a pause. Nancy smoothed her napkin with precise fingers.
“You living with family?” Barbara asked.
“My uncle. Bob. He works at RadioShack.”
“Oh!” Nancy said. “I think my mom knows him. He’s sweet.”
“Yeah. He tries hard.”
The doors slammed open and in strolled Steve Harrington, sunglasses perched on his head even indoors, jacket half on, half slung over his shoulder. Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins flanked him like hyenas in varsity jackets.
Jules could practically feel the room shift. Girls glanced up. A group of freshmen giggled too loudly. Steve knew the effect he had and wore it like cologne.
He walked straight to their table and dropped his tray beside Nancy, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“Hey, Nance.”
“Hi, Steve.” Nancy’s voice softened. Barbara looked away.
Steve’s gaze drifted to Jules. “New girl?”
Jules nodded. “That’s me.”
He squinted. “Didn’t I see you with Coach Finley earlier?”
“Gymnastics,” Jules said.
“Damn,” Steve said. “You must be good.”
“She is,” Barbara said, and Jules blinked at the unexpected backup.
Tommy dropped into the seat beside Jules. “You one of those Olympic types?”
Jules shrugged. “Only if falling off the beam counts.”
Tommy laughed, clearly expecting a flirt in return. He didn’t get one.
Carol rolled her eyes. “She’s funny. That’s cute.”
Jules turned her pudding cup slowly in her hands. “Do you guys always come with background vocals, or is that just a Steve thing?”
Barbara coughed into her juice box. Nancy bit back a smile. Steve looked amused.
“Definitely a me thing,” he said with a grin, but his tone lacked the usual arrogance. It was more… intrigued.
Jules studied him for half a second too long. He was handsome, yeah, but also—he knew it. He moved like the world owed him a laugh and maybe a homecoming crown.
She looked back to Nancy, who was adjusting her bracelet, her posture perfect. Jules caught herself frowning. Nancy had a boyfriend. A home. A future. She probably ate breakfast with both parents every morning. No shadows. No lies.
Something bitter tugged at her.
“I’ve gotta meet with the coach,” Jules said, standing up. “Thanks for the seat.”
Steve gave a two-fingered salute. “Later, Chicago.”
Jules paused just long enough to glance back. “It’s Jules.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
*******
The gym echoed with the rhythmic thud of feet hitting mats, the distant whir of a balance beam fan, and the occasional sharp clap of a coach’s cue. Jules adjusted her wrist guards, the familiar scent of chalk dust and sweat wrapping around her like armor.
She didn’t mind the noise. If anything, it was comforting. Predictable. Controlled. Coach Finley stood off to the side near a stack of clipboards, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. He was younger than she expected—mid-thirties maybe—with a shaved head and a quiet voice that didn’t need volume to carry weight.
“Ambrose,” he called, eyes locked on her with pinpoint precision. “Let’s see what you’ve got. Beam. Full run.”
Jules nodded. No warmup. No easing in. Just… prove it.
She stepped up to the beam and mounted in one clean motion, arms slicing through the air with practiced grace. The beam steadied under her feet as her breath slowed. Round-off. Back handspring. Switch leap. Her rhythm came back instantly, like muscle memory dragging her down a familiar track. No wobble, no hesitation—just clarity. She stuck the dismount. Not flashy. Just sharp.
There was a noticeable shift in the room, a pause in other routines. Coach Finley raised his brows as he jotted something down. “Well,” he said after a beat. “You weren’t oversold.”
Jules blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I got a call from your club coach,” he said, tapping his pen on the edge of the clipboard. “Guy sounded like he was trying to sell me a Ferrari. Turns out he might’ve been underselling.”
She gave a small laugh under her breath. “He’s dramatic.” “
You’re clean,” Finley said, no fluff. “You know how rare that is? Especially after a move, a new school. You haven’t missed a beat.”
“I try not to.”
He gave a small nod. “We’ll push difficulty next week. You’ve got the bones for an anchor spot—if you want it.”
“I do.”
Behind her, one of the other girls whistled low.
“Damn, new girl,” Marcy said, crossing the mat to meet her.
“You came to play.” Marcy was tall, lean, her dark brown hair tied in a perfect French braid. She was clearly one of the team’s powerhouses—her muscles cut and her confidence obvious—but her grin wasn’t mean. More like… impressed.
Jules offered a small shrug. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Marcy bumped her shoulder lightly. “Chicago, right?”
Jules nodded.
“Well, if you keep landing like that, Finley’s gonna start looking at the rest of us like we’re underachievers.”
“I’d be happy to share the pressure.” Marcy grinned.
“Nope, you’re on the hook now. Welcome to Hawkins.”
It was the first time that word hadn’t felt like a threat. Practice picked back up with a shout from the vault, and the noise returned—muffled music from a boombox in the corner, sneakers squeaking against polished floors, the hum of a fan overhead.
Jules let herself exhale, just once, and then moved to grab her water bottle.
*******
The hallway outside the band room was quieter than the rest of the school—less chaos, more awkward tuning and occasional clanging from brass instruments. Jules wiped her face with a towel, the tail end of gymnastics practice still clinging to her limbs. Her curls had puffed up at the edges, and she smelled like chalk and floor polish.
She wasn’t in band, but Coach Finley had told her to swing by the front office to finalize enrollment forms, and the shortcut past the band room saved a good five minutes.
She pushed the door open—just to cut through—and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden, deep honking squawk from a brass instrument.
“Jesus,” she muttered, hand flying to her chest.
“Sorry! That was supposed to be a B-flat,” said a voice from behind a music stand. “Instead, you got… an unholy noise that probably summoned the dead.”
A girl leaned around the stand, holding a battered French horn in her lap. She had short, choppy brown hair tucked behind one ear, eyeliner slightly smudged from either rebellion or poor application. Her eyes were sharp, but her expression wasn’t unfriendly—more like amused by the world and mildly judging it.
“You’re not in band,” she said, scanning Jules quickly. “No music binder. No dead-eyed expression of defeat. You’re clearly too well-adjusted.”
“Just cutting through,” Jules said, already recovering from the horn blast. “Trying to get to the office without navigating the gauntlet that is the freshman hallway.”
The girl nodded solemnly. “Wise. Freshman hallway is a death trap. I once saw a kid take a clarinet to the knee.”
Jules blinked. “…Seriously?”
“No,” she said, deadpan. “But the image lives in my head rent-free.”
Jules cracked a smile. “You always this weird, or did I just catch you on a good day?”
“Depends. Are you new?”
“Two weeks fresh. Chicago.”
“Ah. Big city girl.” She pointed at Jules’ frizzed curls. “Yeah, Hawkins humidity’s a bitch. You’ll need product. And patience.”
“And you’re giving out unsolicited hair tips now?”
“Only to people I like.” She held out a hand. “Robin Buckley. French horn player, musical menace, and Hawkins High’s reigning champion of social invisibility.”
Jules took her hand, the grin still tugging at her lips. “Jules Ambrose. Gymnastics transfer, expert vault flipper, and proud escapee of Catholic school.”
Robin let out a low whistle. “That explains the posture. And the thousand-yard stare.”
“Guilty.”
“Coach Finley’s been singing your praises, by the way,” Robin said as she adjusted the mouthpiece of her French horn. “Says you’re the real deal. Like Nadia Comăneci levels of impressive. Which is, frankly, insane.”
Jules shrugged. “It’s just gymnastics.”
Robin tilted her head, unconvinced. “Yeah, and Mozart was just playing piano.”
They grinned at each other, and it settled into something comfortable. Jules hadn’t been planning to stop, but now she wasn’t in a rush to leave.
Robin nudged a chair with her foot. “Wanna sit? I’ve got another ten minutes of pretending to practice.”
Jules sat down, sliding her bag off her shoulder. “You always hang out alone in here?”
“Pretty much. Band’s where all the misfits go. Which is fine. Better than the swim team. Less spandex, more sarcasm.”
“Fair.”
Robin glanced sideways at her. “Do you like movies?”
“I live for movies.”
“Good answer. I host a weekly movie night. Terrible horror flicks, musical fever dreams, the occasional experimental French noir. You’re invited.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”
“I like to think of myself as a patron of the arts… and sarcasm.”
They were still laughing when the final bell rang.
Robin started packing up her French horn, then glanced at Jules again. “You know, you don’t seem like a Hawkins kind of girl.”
“Thanks?” Jules said uncertainly.
“It’s a compliment. Trust me.”
As they walked out together, Robin added casually, “Oh, heads-up—if you see a guy with hair bigger than God’s ego, that’s Steve Harrington. Walk around him, not through. His gravitational pull’s a bitch.”
Jules raised a brow. “I’ll take my chances.”
Robin snorted. “Your funeral.”
They disappeared down the hallway, two girls orbiting the same kind of strangeness neither had words for—yet.
*******
The garage door creaked open with its usual whine, and Jules kicked off her shoes without bothering to unlace them. Her backpack hit the floor with a dull thud, landing beside the heap of her gym clothes.
“Back from the battlefield,” she called toward the house.
A muffled voice floated up from the basement. “Survivor status?”
“Barely. Nancy Wheeler gave me a guided tour with the energy of a motivational speaker. I think she smiled at me six separate times.”
Bob’s head popped up from the top of the basement stairs, curls slightly frizzed from the humidity. “Six? You sure it wasn’t gas?”
Jules cracked a smile. “No. Pretty sure it was social competence.”
“Well, that’s terrifying.” He disappeared again, voice echoing. “Come down. I found something weird in a box labeled ‘MISC – Do Not Open Unless You Have Absolutely Nothing Better To Do.’”
Jules padded down the stairs two at a time, the familiar coolness of the basement wrapping around her like a blanket. Their old TV sat in the corner, next to a lopsided shelf of comics and VHS tapes. Bob had converted the basement into a makeshift den-slash-lab-slash-safe haven years ago, and it still smelled faintly like soldering iron and popcorn.
Bob was hunched over an open cardboard box, flipping through a stack of tangled cassette tapes and frayed cables.
“Okay,” he said, holding up a long-dead Walkman like it was a holy relic. “Get this—your mom’s old tech. Some of this might still work.”
Jules sat on the edge of the couch, pulling her knees up. “You think she used that?”
“I know she did. I gave it to her. Christmas ‘75. She almost broke it trying to record over a Bee Gees album.”
That made Jules laugh softly. “Of course she did.”
Bob glanced over at her. “How was practice?”
“Coach Finley practically started levitating when I did my warm-ups. I think I scared the underclassmen.”
“Proud of you,” he said automatically, like it was just a natural reflex. “You eating enough?”
“Yes, Dad.” The word slipped out with teasing mockery—but also a quiet weight.
Bob didn’t react with surprise, just smiled and kept fiddling with the tape player. “Good. Can’t have you passing out mid-cartwheel.”
She watched him for a beat. His steady, simple presence was the only constant she’d known since her mom disappeared. There was never any pressure from him to talk about it, never any fake optimism. Just Bob—making pancakes, tinkering with dead gadgets, and always, always showing up.
“So,” she said, tossing him a coil of headphones. “Did you build anything weird while I was gone?”
Bob brightened. “Actually, yes. You wanna see the prototype for my automatic comic sorter-slash-book flipper?”
“Absolutely.”
He led her over to the corner table where he’d rigged a rotating clamp and a set of rubber fingertips that gently flipped the pages of a comic book under a magnifier. Jules watched it run, amused.
“I give it… four minutes before it tears something in half,” she said.
“That’s generous,” he replied.
They sat in silence for a moment, the whir of the motor filling the room. Outside, cicadas buzzed and a lawnmower started somewhere down the street.
Bob leaned back in his chair. “You doing okay?”
Jules hesitated. “Yeah. Just… new school stuff. Everyone knows everyone. And I’m just… floating.”
“You’ll find your orbit. You always do.”
She nodded, trying to believe it.
Bob didn’t press. He never did. He just handed her a soda and rewound a VHS tape without asking if she wanted to watch something.
A moment later, the title card for Singin’ in the Rain flickered across the screen.
Jules sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re the actual best, you know that?”
Bob smiled softly, not looking away from the screen. “Takes one to know one, kiddo.”
The light over Lovers Lake was soft and dying, gold sinking into blue. The kind of light that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.
Jules sat on her bed, hair still damp from a shower, one leg tucked under the other. Her room smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and the lemon-sugar candle Bob always pretended not to notice she lit. A half-finished comic rested on her nightstand, and the radio on low crackled between channels — undecided.
She wasn’t really paying attention. Just watching the woods through the screen of her window, the way the shadows stretched and settled. Her eyes drifted, half-lidded, until something caught her attention.
Movement.
Two doors down, through the overgrown hedges and past the weedy slope that led to Reefer Rick’s cabin, a figure was crossing the side yard — tall, wiry, hair a mess of curls and volume, like he’d just rolled out of sleep or maybe never slept at all.
He carried a milk crate of something and a portable boombox tucked under one arm, the hem of his worn leather jacket flapping as he walked. He set everything down on a rusted metal chair on the back patio of Rick’s place — which, according to Bob, had been technically “uninhabited” since late ’81.
Jules leaned forward slightly.
Who the hell was that?
The guy popped a tape into the boombox, hit play, and Iron Maiden bled into the dusk. Not loud, but enough that she could feel it in the bones of the fading light. He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wrist — practiced, careless — and leaned back in the chair like he’d done it a hundred times before.
Not a sound from the house. No lights inside. Just the stereo, the smoke curling, and the boy with a presence loud enough to make up for both.
Jules didn’t know him. But something in the back of her mind stirred. Not quite recognition — curiosity, maybe. Like her instincts were squinting at a signal just barely out of range.
Then, as if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up.
Not at her exactly — just toward the house, like sensing a ripple in the quiet. His expression didn’t change. He exhaled smoke, brushed hair out of his face, and stood, vanishing back into the shadows of Rick’s cabin like mist rolling off the lake.
Gone.
Jules blinked.
“Movie night,” Bob called from downstairs. “If you stall, I’m picking The Sound of Music again!”
She smiled faintly but didn’t move. Her fingers lingered on the windowsill.
She didn’t know his name.
But she’d find out.
Chapter 2: Watch and Learn
Chapter Text
The sound of a distant lawnmower buzzed like a sleepy wasp against the window screen as pale morning light trickled into Julienne’s bedroom. She lay on her side, blanket tangled around one leg, her blonde curls a soft halo on the pillow. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but she was already awake.
She didn’t dream last night. Or maybe she did and had already forgotten.
Outside, birds chirped in the trees along Lovers Lake, too cheerful for a Tuesday. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment before finally sitting up and stretching, cracking her neck with a soft grimace. Her muscles ached slightly from yesterday’s gymnastics warm-ups. Not in a bad way. It was more like her body was reminding her: you haven’t done this in a while.
Her room was still in limbo — half-unpacked boxes, a stack of comic books, a small corkboard leaning against the wall without purpose yet. One of Bob’s many Polaroids was taped to her mirror: her first day at Hawkins High, forced smile, awkward thumbs-up. He’d given it to her with a grin like it was a proud father’s ritual. Maybe it was.
She pulled on a sweatshirt and padded barefoot into the hallway, following the smell of cinnamon and coffee.
Bob was already in the kitchen, humming softly to himself over a skillet. He wore pajama pants with Star Wars ships on them and a Hawkins AV Club sweatshirt that had definitely seen better days.
“Hey, morning, sunshine,” he said, flipping a pancake with a practiced flick. “You’re up early.”
“Didn’t sleep much,” Jules muttered, rubbing her eyes as she slid into the chair at the kitchen table.
Bob poured her a mug of coffee and pushed it across the table like a peace offering. “Rough night?”
She shrugged, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. “Just thinking.”
Bob smiled gently, plating the pancakes and setting them in front of her with a flourish. “Thinking is dangerous business before 9 a.m.”
She snorted softly. “Tell that to my brain.”
They ate in companionable silence for a minute. The lake shimmered through the back windows, still and silver-blue in the morning haze. It was almost too quiet here sometimes — the kind of quiet that pressed in around your thoughts and refused to let you escape them.
“You nervous about practice today?” Bob asked eventually, nodding toward the calendar stuck to the fridge.
“Little,” she admitted. “Coach Finley’s apparently obsessed. Like, borderline intense.”
“She’s been calling here since the transfer paperwork went through,” Bob said, chuckling. “I told her to keep the vault of trophies warm.”
Jules rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a small smile.
Bob reached into the drawer and pulled out another Polaroid. “Also—” He slid it across the table. “Yesterday’s photo. Day one, survived.”
It showed her in the school parking lot, standing near a row of yellow buses, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, looking up at something out of frame. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look miserable either. Mostly just… watching. Present.
She stared at it for a moment. “You take these of everyone, or am I just the lucky one?”
“Only the greats,” Bob said, grinning.
Jules pocketed the photo. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Takes one to know one.”
They shared a small laugh before silence settled again — the comfortable kind.
When Jules stood, grabbing her backpack off the floor, Bob paused by the coffee pot. “Hey. You know, if today sucks… we’ve got movie night backups. Singin’ in the Rain is queued up and ready.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, pausing by the door. “You’re really sticking with that one, huh?”
He nodded solemnly. “Can’t argue with Gene Kelly.”
She turned toward the door again, hand on the knob, but he added gently, “Claudia and Dustin are coming over for dinner tonight, by the way. Try not to vanish the second practice ends.”
Jules glanced back at him, mock grimacing. “Ugh. Family time.”
“Be brave,” he said with a wink. “Claudia’s making pasta. The kind you used to help her roll out when we had to hand-crank the machine.”
That earned him a surprised laugh — soft and real. “That thing was a menace.”
“Still is,” Bob said proudly. “But she insists it’s the only way.”
Jules hesitated, then offered a real smile — quiet, but warm.
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer. Just walked out the door.
As she stepped onto the porch, the lake light glittering through the trees, Jules caught a quick flash of memory — standing on a wobbly step stool in Claudia’s old kitchen, her hands dusted in flour as they rolled pasta dough side by side. Dustin had made some stupid joke about worms, and Bob had been filming the whole thing like it was a Spielberg short.
Her smile lingered longer this time, tucked behind a sigh.
Family dinner wouldn’t be the worst thing.
*******
The walk to Hawkins High took fifteen minutes if she didn’t stop to dawdle. Jules usually did.
It was early still, the kind of blue-gray morning where the world felt like it hadn’t made up its mind about being awake. She walked with her hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, dodging cracks in the sidewalk with a half-aware rhythm. A squirrel darted up a power pole. Somewhere across the street, a dog barked and then immediately seemed to regret the effort.
By the time the school came into view — all low-bricked sprawl and freshly mowed soccer fields — more students had started to cluster at the entrances and loiter in the parking lot. Jules kept her head down, eyes flicking up only when she heard voices raised ahead.
Not angry exactly. Just loud in that look-at-me kind of way.
Near the back row of cars, a familiar hunched figure moved quickly, clutching a stack of books like a shield. Jonathan Byers. She recognized him from the day before, when he’d snapped her ID photo and muttered a shy hello. Now, though, he was the unwilling center of attention.
Steve Harrington stood in his path, broad-shouldered and smirking, flanked by Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins — both practically vibrating with the kind of performative energy that only came from an audience. A few students laughed from the sidelines, but most just pretended not to see anything.
“Oh, c’mon, Byers,” Steve said, mock-offended. “You can’t just scurry past us like we’re invisible. That’s rude.”
Jonathan mumbled something Jules couldn’t hear. He tried to move around them, but Tommy stepped into his path, grinning.
“What’s in the stack, huh?” Tommy asked, tapping the books with the back of his hand. “Creep shots? Secrets? Oh! A love letter to your camera?”
Jules slowed, crossing into the edge of the lot now. She kept her distance but didn’t look away.
Jonathan shifted his weight. “Just—let me through, man.”
“Oof. ‘Let me through.’ He’s assertive now,” Carol quipped with a giggle that didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe he does have a spine after all.”
Steve tilted his head like he was examining a strange bug. “Hey, Nancy, your little lab partner’s mouthing off.”
Nancy Wheeler stood about ten feet away, arms crossed, lips pressed into a neutral line. But her eyes flicked toward Jonathan with something unreadable. She didn’t step forward, didn’t speak — but her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
Jules caught it. That pause. That tiny reaction — like Nancy wanted to intervene and didn’t. Or maybe didn’t know how.
Tommy, still needing attention, slapped the bottom of Jonathan’s books. They scattered across the pavement with a flutter of papers and the dull thud of spines hitting asphalt.
A few more laughs. No one helped.
Except Jules.
She didn’t think about it. Her feet just moved. As Jonathan bent down to scoop up his things, she crouched beside him, gathering a worn notebook and a calculus textbook with frayed edges.
Jonathan looked up, startled.
“Hey,” Jules said simply, holding out the notebook. “They’re assholes.”
He blinked at her. His eyes were a little wide behind his fringe of dark hair, like he hadn’t quite expected anyone to see him, much less help.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, voice rough.
Jules shrugged, offering a small smile. “Anytime.”
Behind them, Steve and his crew were already drifting away, like the whole thing had never happened. Nancy lingered for a beat longer, then looked away and followed after them — jaw tight, shoulders rigid, gaze low.
Jules stood, brushing gravel from her palm, and handed Jonathan the last book. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Used to it.”
She frowned but didn’t push. “Still sucks.”
For a second, it seemed like he wanted to say more. But then the bell rang in the distance and whatever moment had opened between them snapped shut.
Jules shoved her hands back into her sleeves. “See you around, Byers.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice steadier this time. “See you, Jules.”
She didn’t look back as she headed for the school doors, but she could feel his eyes on her — not in a creepy way. Just… surprised. Like maybe she’d done something out of the ordinary.
Maybe she had.
*******
The art room smelled like old clay and acrylic paint. Jules ducked into the classroom just before the bell rang, her hoodie sleeves shoved up past her elbows, a mechanical pencil still tucked behind her ear from geometry.
She slid into the last open seat at a four-person table. Across from her sat a guy in a faded Iron Maiden tee with a mess of curly brown hair. He glanced up from his sketchbook, gave a polite nod, then went right back to shading.
Jules pulled out her spiral and started doodling in the margins. Mostly stars. She always drew stars when she didn’t want to think too hard.
“Yours look better than mine,” the guy muttered after a beat, peeking at her page. “I’ve been trying to get the five-point ones even for, like, twelve years. Still end up with mutant asterisks.”
She cracked a smile. “It’s an art. Secret is starting from the bottom.”
He raised his brows like she’d just told him the cheat code to life. “Mind blown.”
“Julienne,” she offered, holding out a hand.
“Gareth,” he said, shaking it with paint-stained fingers. “New, right?”
“Yeah. Just moved.”
“Cool,” he said, then made a face. “Well. You know. As cool as Indiana can be.”
“High bar,” she agreed.
They lapsed into an easy silence as Mr. Latham gave instructions for the assignment — blind contour drawings, partner work. Jules groaned under her breath.
“You’re with me,” Gareth said, flipping to a clean page. “I promise not to judge if you give me six chins.”
“No promises,” she said, smirking.
They spent the next ten minutes drawing each other without looking at their pages, which resulted in some truly grotesque masterpieces. Jules couldn’t stop laughing at Gareth’s sketch of her — she looked like a melted Picasso.
“That’s haunting,” she said, holding it up.
“Put it on a T-shirt,” Gareth replied proudly. “We’ll make millions.”
“Only if we sell them exclusively at truck stops.”
They grinned at each other, and for a moment, the weight of her transfer, the awkward stares in the hallway, the unease of being “new,” all faded.
“You play music?” he asked casually, sketching a lazy swirl in the corner of the page.
“Some piano,” she said. “Used to, anyway. My mom made me take lessons.”
“That counts,” he said. “I play drums. Got a band with some friends. Mostly metal stuff, but we’re not terrible.”
“Impressive,” she said, and meant it.
He shrugged. “It’s loud. Helps shut the brain off sometimes.”
She nodded. “I get that.”
The bell rang before she could say more. Students scrambled to pack up, and Gareth glanced at her over the rim of his binder.
“You eating lunch in the cafeteria?”
“Yeah, probably.”
He gave a small smile. “Cool. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She nodded, tucking her pencil behind her ear again. “Thanks for not judging my freaky art hands.”
He saluted. “Anytime, star queen.”
********
The hallway was already buzzing by the time Jules stepped out of art. Lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, the usual tide of students crashing through the corridors like it was the last five minutes of a prison sentence.
She moved with the crowd, her sketch still folded and tucked beneath her notebook — charcoal smudges on her fingers.
Up ahead, she spotted Robin Buckley leaning against a locker, one foot up on the metal, half-laughing through a conversation with a boy carrying a trumpet case. Her hands moved when she talked, expressive and quick, and her voice cut through the noise with a dry, melodic sarcasm.
“No, Kyle, if we put a fog machine in the auditorium again and trigger the fire alarm again, I will personally get banned from every school function until I die.”
The boy groaned dramatically. “But it’s art, Robin.”
She rolled her eyes, then noticed Jules walking by.
Robin perked up instantly. “Hey! Gymnast girl.”
Jules paused, blinking at the nickname. “That’s not gonna stick, right?”
Robin shrugged, falling into step beside her. “We’ll see. You looked like you wanted to punch that one girl in your art class. Total respect.”
Jules raised a brow. “The one who said punk is just ‘messy disco’?”
“God, yes. Her. We’re clearly dealing with a tragedy of public education.”
Jules snorted. “She also thought Metallica was a clothing brand.”
Robin mock-gasped. “That’s it. Expel her.”
They reached the end of the hall, where the stream of students began to split between stairwells and side corridors.
Robin leaned against the water fountain and looked at her curiously. “You heading to lunch?”
“Yeah. Was gonna try the bleachers today, if they’re not melting in the sun.”
Robin tilted her head. “Bleachers are good. Might run into a few decent humans out there.”
Jules smirked. “You mean besides you?”
“Oh, I’m the best human you’ll meet in this entire building,” Robin said, mock-haughty. “But yeah. Some of the others are tolerable. I’ll find you later?”
Jules nodded, already easing away. “You know where to look.”
Robin shot her a two-fingered salute. “Later, gym rat.”
Jules just shook her head, smiling faintly as she disappeared into the crowd.
********
The cafeteria was a sensory assault — all plastic trays clattering and teenage voices yelling over one another like a broken radio stuck between stations. Jules lasted maybe thirty seconds before grabbing a tray of sad-looking spaghetti, chocolate milk, and an untouched orange, and slipping out the side door by the gym.
Outside, the air was crisp and dry, hinting faintly of pine and freshly cut grass. She crossed the edge of the track and climbed halfway up the bleachers, settling into a middle row where the sun warmed the metal under her legs. The tray balanced on her knees, ignored.
Down on the field, a gym class was mid-dodgeball. Someone took a hit to the face and crumpled like a ragdoll. Whistles shrieked, someone cheered. Jules leaned back against the bleacher rail and let herself fade out of focus.
Her eyes drifted across the open lawn to the woods beyond the baseball field — thick trees lining the back edge of the property like a forgotten wall. Just past the edge of the grass, she saw a figure break from the building and head toward the trees.
It wasn’t a teacher.
The person moved with purpose, head down, hands in their pockets. Tall, maybe lanky. A jacket flared slightly behind them with each step. They didn’t glance around, didn’t hesitate. Just disappeared between the trees like they’d done it a hundred times.
Jules sat forward slightly, brows knitting.
What the hell?
The woods weren’t off-limits technically, but they weren’t exactly open either — not unless you were on the cross-country team or sneaking a smoke. The figure was already gone by the time she blinked. Nothing left but the wind stirring the leaves.
She waited a beat, listening.
Nothing.
Her attention drifted back to her lunch. The spaghetti had morphed into one solid clump, and the breadstick had gone cold. She tore off a corner absently, chewing with little interest.
Down by the gym, a group of cheerleaders laughed as they strutted past a row of benches. Barb Holland sat alone at a far table with a textbook cracked open beside her tray, and a half-listening Nancy Wheeler nodded along to whatever the other girls were saying.
Everything felt like a set piece — like Jules was watching it through glass.
She picked up her chocolate milk carton and rolled it between her hands, eyes flicking once more toward the trees.
Just a kid skipping class, probably. Still… she didn’t like not knowing.
*******
The sun hung low and hot over Hawkins High’s cracked blacktop, turning the world just a little too bright. Coach Finley’s whistle cut through the chatter like a knife.
“Pair up! Shuttle sprints. One runs, one times. Move it!”
Jules stood near the painted start line, hands on her hips, scanning for a partner. Most of the girls had already grouped off, quick to claim their friends. She didn’t blame them — she was still a name no one quite remembered.
“You’re Jules, right?”
She turned. Chrissy Cunningham — Hawkins’ golden girl — stood beside her in a Hawkins cheer hoodie, soft ponytail swaying, fingers fidgeting with the zipper pull.
“Wanna pair up?”
Jules blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”
Chrissy smiled, warm and a little cautious. “Cool. I’ll time first?”
“Deal.”
Jules stepped up to the line. When Finley’s whistle blew, she launched forward — smooth, sharp, fast. Her shoes slapped the pavement in a rhythmic beat as she sprinted the length, pivoted, and raced back like she’d done it a hundred times.
Chrissy’s brows raised as Jules skidded to a stop. “That was… intense.”
Jules shrugged, breath catching slightly. “Old gymnastics habits. Muscle memory.”
Chrissy nodded, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. “You’ve got control. I mean — like, not just speed. It’s precise.”
There was something in the way she said control — like it meant more to her. Jules didn’t press.
“Your turn,” she said, offering the stopwatch.
Chrissy took the line, flashing a tight smile.
When she ran, it wasn’t fast, but it was deliberate. Like she was working to make her body obey. Jules noted the tension in her shoulders, the way she avoided eye contact afterward.
“I haven’t done anything like this since tryouts,” Chrissy said, wiping her hands on her hoodie. “I’m not really… sporty.”
“You’re a cheerleader.”
Chrissy gave a soft, almost guilty laugh. “Yeah. That’s different.”
They finished a few more rounds, rotating between running and timing. Afterward, they walked slowly toward the water fountain, the sun catching on the delicate gold chain around Chrissy’s neck.
“I usually skip lunch,” Chrissy said out of nowhere, fiddling with the cap of her water bottle. “But I think I’ll grab something after class today. I forgot how much this stuff wipes you out.”
Jules glanced at her — the slight hollowness under her eyes, the way her sweatshirt hung just a bit loose. She nodded without judgment.
“Try the vending machine near the back lot. They restock on Thursdays. The pretzels don’t taste like chalk.”
Chrissy smiled at that, genuinely.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Then, almost shyly: “If you ever wanna hang out… there’s this bakery downtown that does strawberry muffins. It’s kind of my thing. I mean — not all the time, just…”
“I like muffins,” Jules said quickly, sensing the vulnerability beneath Chrissy’s words. “Especially strawberry.”
Chrissy’s smile softened into something real. “Cool.”
From across the field, Coach Finley barked a dismissal. Jules turned toward the locker rooms, something lighter in her chest than when class started.
Chrissy Cunningham wasn’t what she expected. Not perfect. Not shallow.
Just someone trying really hard to hold it all together.
*******
Jules tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her wrists as she stepped off the sidewalk and onto the cracked edge of Lovers Lake Road. The sun was lower now, slanting gold across the tree line, painting the world in soft, forgiving light.
Her gym bag bounced against her hip. Her legs ached pleasantly from drills. Coach Finley had barked the whole class, but his eyes had lingered on her during sprints. Not with judgment. Just… curiosity.
Across the field, a few jocks laughed too loud as they peeled off in different directions. Chrissy was among them, waving goodbye and then walking alone toward the parking lot.
Jules paused, watching her for a beat too long. She could still hear her laugh from earlier—light, genuine, unguarded in a way that surprised her. Chrissy had that kind of smile that made you forget she was popular. Or maybe that’s what made her popular to begin with.
You okay? Chrissy had asked.
And Jules had said yes.
But she wasn’t sure she’d meant it.
She turned back toward the lake and started walking again. The breeze off the water was cool now, rustling through the trees like a whisper. Somewhere in the distance, a lawnmower buzzed. Her neighborhood was close — just past the bend.
She didn’t notice the shadow that moved near the woods behind the school again. Not yet.
But she’d remember the feeling later — the faintest chill, like something waiting just out of sight.
*******
The scent of simmering garlic and tomatoes greeted Jules as she stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind her. It was warm in the house, the kind of warmth that settled into your bones—not just from the food, but from the laughter drifting in from the kitchen.
She dropped her bag by the stairs and called out, “Something smells illegal in the best way.”
“It better not be,” Claudia called back. “I used the good basil.”
Jules smiled and walked into the kitchen. Claudia stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring a pot of red sauce with practiced ease. Her dark curls were pinned back in a loose twist, and there was a smudge of flour near her temple.
At the table, Dustin sat with his chin in his hand, watching the garlic bread like it might grow legs and escape. He perked up when he saw Jules.
“You’re late. That means I get your slice of garlic bread.”
“Nice try,” Jules said, ruffling his curls as she passed. “I will fight you for it.”
“You’ll lose.”
“Children,” Claudia warned, not unkindly, raising her spoon. “There’s plenty. And no bloodshed at the table. That’s the rule.”
Bob appeared with a stack of napkins and a grin. “She’s serious. I lost a pinky knuckle in a spaghetti incident once.”
Jules rolled her eyes. “He cried over a paper cut and claims battle scars.”
“Hey, that sauce was boiling.”
They settled in as Claudia began dishing out plates, gently steering conversation the way only a seasoned mom could—softly, but with direction.
“How was the first day?” she asked, setting a generous portion in front of Jules.
Jules shrugged. “Fine. Weird.”
“That’s not a real answer,” Claudia said, wiping her hands and taking her seat. “Weird how?”
Dustin jumped in. “You mean the ‘Hawkins High is built on top of an ancient burial ground’ kind of weird, or like, regular weird?”
“Definitely the first one,” Bob added with mock solemnity. “I swear the third-floor lockers whisper.”
Jules laughed. “It’s not haunted. Just… different.”
Claudia studied her for a moment, her gaze gentle but knowing. “Different doesn’t mean bad.”
“I know.”
They ate in easy rhythm—Bob quietly stealing olives from Jules’ plate, Dustin telling a half-true story about someone throwing a dodgeball directly into the principal’s coffee, Claudia shooting him the occasional look that somehow conveyed “I know that didn’t happen but continue”.
Every so often, Jules would glance around the table and feel it—the strange ache of belonging. It wasn’t her mother’s kitchen. It wasn’t her mother’s cooking.
But it was safe. It was hers, too.
When the plates were empty and the breadbasket down to crumbs, Claudia leaned back with a sigh. “You still haven’t unpacked your second box, have you?”
“Not relevant to this conversation,” Jules replied, grabbing a napkin.
Bob chuckled. “Translation: definitely not.”
“I’m working on it!” Jules protested. “Besides, half of it is just old notebooks and, like, four separate flashlights.”
“Sounds like a Jules box,” Dustin muttered.
Claudia reached out and smoothed Jules’ curls back from her forehead without comment. The gesture was simple, automatic. Familiar.
Jules leaned into it just a little before she stood to help clear the table.
Later, when the house was quiet and the dishes were done, Jules lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Full stomach. Full heart.
Still, she couldn’t shake the echo of a voice she didn’t recognize, whispering through her sleep like static:
“Eli—run.”
Chapter Text
The last few minutes of history always stretched. A lazy clock ticked above the whiteboard while sunlight poured through the blinds in long, dusty stripes. Most of the class had already checked out—half-heartedly filling in worksheet blanks or pretending to read the chapter on post-war reconstruction.
Jules sat near the window, one leg folded under her in that way teachers hated, sketching lines across the margin of her paper. Not doodles—just sharp, geometric patterns. Something to keep her hands busy while the teacher droned on about the Marshall Plan.
She was used to the peripheral space—part of the room but rarely the center of it. People still looked at her like she was an exchange student who missed the memo on how things worked here. Not mean. Just… not curious.
Which was why it surprised her when, after the bell rang and everyone started gathering their things, she caught someone standing near her desk.
Jonathan Byers shifted awkwardly, his camera slung over one shoulder, hair falling into his face. He looked like he hadn’t quite decided if he was actually going to say anything—or just turn around and walk out.
Jules squinted up at him.
“You need the homework or something?”
He shook his head, pushing the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.
“Uh. No. I was actually gonna ask if I could talk to you. For a minute.”
She blinked. “Okay…”
Jonathan scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m doing a piece for the paper. On students who kind of… I don’t know. Stand out. Not like, popularity contest stuff. Just people who do interesting things.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “And you think I’m interesting?”
“I saw you in the gym the other day,” he said, a little faster now, like he needed to get it out before he lost his nerve. “That beam routine. You’ve got insane balance. I’ve never seen anyone move like that.”
She blinked again. Not flattered, exactly—more like caught off guard.
“I didn’t realize I had an audience.”
“I wasn’t spying or anything,” Jonathan said quickly, then winced at his own wording. “Sorry, that sounded weird.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Little bit.”
He offered a small, sheepish grin. “Anyway, it’d just be a short thing. Like a feature. You’re new, you’re on the team, and… people might want to know who you are.”
She tilted her head, considering. “No glamour shots. No fake quotes. And if anyone calls me ‘graceful as a gazelle,’ I’m walking.”
Jonathan gave a low chuckle. “No clichés. Promise.”
They stood there for a moment in the soft, post-bell hush. The hall outside had already erupted into chaos, sneakers and lockers and laughter echoing off tile. But inside, it was still.
Jules finally nodded. “Alright, Byers. I’ll bite.”
“I could ask a few questions after school?”
“Sure,” she said, gathering her things. “I’ve got time. And I’m curious what you’ll ask.”
He nodded again, backing toward the door like he wasn’t sure if the conversation was really over.
Jules watched him go, something unreadable flickering behind her green eyes.
For a moment, she wondered what else he noticed—what other things he saw in the background that most people missed.
*******
The metal bleachers radiated heat from the midday sun, warm enough that Jules had to roll up her sleeves as she sat cross-legged near the top row. A breeze stirred the loose strands of hair around her face as she flipped through her notebook, not really writing—just doodling treble clefs in the margins.
She heard the clatter of boots before she saw her.
Robin Buckley landed beside her with all the grace of someone who didn’t care about grace.
“Tell me you’re not eating lunch up here because you love solitude,” Robin said, breathless. “Or worse—because you forgot your lunch.”
“Both,” Jules said with a shrug. “Also I hate the smell of mystery meat when I’m trying to think.”
Robin gave her a theatrical shudder. “Ugh. I swear the cafeteria has started recycling Tuesday’s meatballs into Thursday’s Salisbury steak.”
“That feels right,” Jules muttered, smirking.
Robin leaned back on her elbows, looking out at the track. “So what’s in rotation lately? Please don’t say Tiffany.”
Jules snorted. “Try Siouxsie and the Banshees.”
Robin sat up a little straighter, her expression sharp with approval. “Hell yes. You’ve got B-side energy.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Oh, absolutely. All the best stuff’s on the B-side.”
They spiraled into a ten-minute back-and-forth about bands, albums, cover art. Robin’s dad worked at a secondhand music shop downtown and let her borrow tapes and vinyls from the back room “as long as I swear not to sell them to burnouts behind 7-Eleven.”
“You ever find anything actually rare?” Jules asked.
Robin grinned. “First press of The Slits debut. Hidden behind a Kenny Rogers.”
Jules gasped. “You’re lying.”
“I never lie about punk history.”
The wind picked up slightly, tugging at their hair. For a minute, neither of them spoke. It wasn’t awkward. Just… full. Like the space between songs on a great mixtape.
“You ever notice,” Robin said, breaking the quiet, “how music makes you feel more like yourself and more like nobody all at once?”
Jules glanced at her. “All the time.”
Robin looked back at her then, as if she saw something in Jules that other people didn’t—something maybe even Jules didn’t quite know how to name yet.
Then the bell rang.
Robin stood and stretched, groaning. “Time to go conjugate Spanish verbs and die a little inside.”
Jules smirked. “¡Hasta la muerte!”
Robin turned and grinned. “See? You’re already fluent.”
She bounded down the steps, whistling something off-key but weirdly catchy, leaving Jules smiling after her.
*******
The hallway buzzed with the usual post-lunch chaos—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and conversations darting through the noise. Jules walked beside Nancy and Barb, the three of them weaving through clusters of students as they headed toward their next class.
“So, I figured we could work on the project after school,” Nancy said, juggling her notebook and textbook as she walked. “At my place? Maybe order a pizza or something?”
Barb glanced at Jules with a quiet smile. “I can drive us.”
“That sounds perfect,” Jules said. “But I might be a little late—I promised Jonathan Byers I’d meet with him. He wants to do a write-up on me joining the gymnastics team.”
Nancy perked up. “Oh, that’s cool. He’s not very talkative, but he’s a good writer.”
“Yeah,” Barb added gently. “Jonathan’s… sweet. A little awkward, but he’s harmless.”
Just then, Steve, Tommy, and Carol came around the corner—loud and loose with energy. Steve draped an arm around Nancy’s shoulder as he passed, while Tommy clocked Jules mid-sentence.
“Wait—did I hear right?” Tommy grinned. “You’re doing an interview with Jonathan ‘Creepshow’ Byers?”
Jules blinked. “He’s just doing his job. It’s for the paper.”
Carol rolled her eyes. “That guy’s always creeping around with his camera. Kinda weird, don’t you think?”
“He was literally taking pictures of the vending machine last week,” Tommy said with a laugh. “Like it was art or something.”
“Maybe he just likes vending machines,” Jules muttered, dry.
Nancy shot Jules a quick grin, but Steve cut in, eyebrows raised. “Just saying—he’s not exactly subtle. He’s always hovering, like… lurking.”
Barb shifted beside Jules, quiet but clearly uncomfortable.
Nancy stepped in smoothly. “It’s a school paper interview, not a séance, Steve.”
He gave a half-smile, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “Just looking out for you, babe.”
Jules didn’t bother hiding her eye roll.
As the crowd thinned out near the stairs, Tommy and Carol peeled off. Steve gave Nancy a wink before heading in the opposite direction. Barb lingered as Jules adjusted the strap of her backpack.
“I meant it—I can give you a ride to Nancy’s after,” Barb offered. “If you want.”
Jules smiled. “Thanks, Barb. I appreciate it but I don’t want to hold you up.”
Barb nodded, eyes soft behind her glasses, then hurried to catch up with Nancy.
Jules adjusted the strap of her backpack and started down the hall, the echo of their laughter still trailing behind her. Between the teasing and the weird tension, this school felt like a maze some days—but at least now, she knew where she was going.
*******
Jules found Jonathan near the side entrance by the photography lab, leaning against the wall with his camera slung low across his chest. His notebook was tucked under one arm, frayed at the edges. He looked up when she approached, brushing hair from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“You actually showed,” he said. Not surprised—just quietly relieved.
“I said I would,” she replied, dropping her bag onto the concrete beside the bench. “Besides, it was this or listen to Bob explain the exact temperature thresholds for perfect popcorn again. He’s in his cinematic snack phase.”
“Who’s that?” He questioned.
“Oh, just my Uncle.”
Jonathan’s mouth quirked into something resembling a smile. “He sounds intense.”
“He’s passionate,” she said with a grin. “And weirdly persuasive.”
They sat side by side, not touching, space between them like an open page. A breeze carried the scent of cut grass from the soccer field. The building had mostly emptied out; their voices felt safe here, caught between echoes and afternoon sun.
Jonathan opened his notebook, flipping past a few old pages. His handwriting was small, careful.
“So,” he said, pen poised. “Gymnastics. Finley says you’re a ‘beast on the beam.’ His words.”
Jules snorted. “Well, at least it’s not ‘demon cat’ this time.”
Jonathan raised a brow.
“Long story,” she waved it off. “He once said I ‘land like a cat possessed by a demon.’ I think it was a compliment. Or a cry for help.”
Jonathan chuckled softly as he started scribbling.
She leaned back, stretching her legs out. “But yeah. I’ve been doing it since I could walk, practically. My mom signed me up when I was three. Said I had too much energy and a dangerous relationship with furniture.”
He glanced at her, curiosity behind his glasses. “And you stuck with it.”
She nodded. “It’s… the one place my brain shuts up. You’re mid-air and you’re not thinking about anything except where you’re going to land. You have to trust yourself. Trust that you’ve done it a hundred times before and this time won’t be different.”
“That sounds like photography,” Jonathan murmured. “Timing, instinct. Sometimes you miss it, sometimes you catch something no one else saw.”
Jules turned to look at him. “Is that why you like it?”
He shrugged, a little sheepish. “It’s quiet. The world moves slower when you’re looking through a lens.”
“Sounds peaceful,” she said.
Jonathan scribbled something again, then hesitated. “Why Hawkins?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re good,” he said. “Probably could’ve gone anywhere. So… why here?”
Jules hesitated. “It’s complicated,” she said eventually. “Needed a reset. New gym, new town. New name, sort of.”
He looked at her, but didn’t press.
She softened. “You know when you hit rewind too hard on a tape and it jams?”
Jonathan nodded slowly.
“That was my life last year,” she said. “This is the part where I hit play again.”
He didn’t write that down. Just nodded, as if he understood more than he said.
They sat quietly for another beat. Then Jonathan gestured toward her, almost shy. “Mind if I take your picture?”
Jules blinked. “Right now?”
He nodded. “You don’t have to pose. Just… as you are.”
She studied him, his steady hands, the calm behind his awkwardness. “Go ahead. But if I look like I just escaped a cave, you’re deleting it.”
Jonathan raised the camera. “Scout’s honor.”
The shutter clicked—once, then again—soft and sure.
When he lowered the camera, she was still looking at him.
“Do you do this with all your interviews?” she asked, teasing.
“Only the ones who don’t make fun of my lunch.”
She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes.
******
The Wheeler kitchen smelled faintly of pencil shavings, spaghetti sauce, and whatever air freshener Karen Wheeler had spritzed near the curtains. The table was a chaotic spread of open science textbooks, index cards, and a lopsided poster board in progress. Construction paper leaves were half-glued to it, with the word “PHOTOSYNTHESIS” outlined in glitter glue that hadn’t dried yet.
Jules sat cross-legged in one of the kitchen chairs, twirling a pen between her fingers. Across from her, Nancy Wheeler was deep in a stack of neatly written flashcards, organizing them with methodical precision. Barb sat beside her, carefully sketching a plant cell diagram in green marker.
“So let me get this straight,” Jules said, eyeing the poster, “plants breathe through their skin, drink through their feet, and somehow don’t die from living off sun juice.”
Barb looked up with a soft smile. “Pretty much.”
Nancy didn’t look up. “It’s more efficient than it sounds.”
“Sure,” Jules said, smirking. “Until they unionize and stop making oxygen.”
That earned a quiet laugh from Barb, who pushed her glasses up her nose. There was a gentle kind of reserve to her, like she was still getting used to Jules being here—but it was clear she didn’t mind.
“You’re brave,” Barb said after a moment. “Jumping into a group project this fast. I’d have waited until semester two. Or, like, graduation.”
Jules shrugged. “It was either this or hang out in the library. And the librarian’s been giving me murder eyes since Monday.”
“She doesn’t like anyone,” Nancy said flatly.
The front door slammed open.
“Mike!” came a voice from the hall—Dustin’s. “Do you have my dice box? I think I left it here on Friday—”
Then came the footsteps, fast and loud across the hardwood. Dustin skidded into the room mid-sentence, halting when he caught sight of Jules.
“Jules?”
Jules blinked, then grinned. “Dustin?”
“I didn’t know you were here!” He rushed forward, backpack still half-open. “What are you doing at Mike’s?”
“She’s in our science group,” Nancy said, setting her pen down with a small smile. “We’re finishing a project.”
“I told you about her,” Dustin said, turning to the trio of boys trailing in behind him—Mike, Lucas, and Will. “This is Jules. From Chicago. We used to—well—she’s like family.”
Jules gave them a friendly wave. “Hi.”
Lucas looked her up and down, eyebrow raised. “This is the Jules?”
“Capital T, capital J,” she said.
Will smiled. “Dustin talks about you a lot. The trapdoor fort? The time you snuck him into Return of the Jedi?”
“Guilty,” Jules said. “But in my defense, it was his idea.”
Mike looked vaguely suspicious. “He also said you helped him build a rocket in the sixth grade that singed his eyebrows off.”
“Also true,” she said. “But again—his idea.”
Barb leaned over to Nancy and whispered, “She’s cool.”
Jules shot her a wink, and Dustin puffed out his chest a little. “See? I told you she was real.”
“You did,” Lucas said. “But we thought maybe you dreamed her up.”
“Rude,” Jules deadpanned.
Will shrugged. “To be fair, you did once say she saved you from a sewer clown.”
“I never said that,” Dustin protested, but Jules was already laughing.
Nancy stood, motioning toward the kitchen. “Anyone want lemonade?”
He nudged Jules with his elbow as they followed Nancy out. “This is awesome.”
She bumped him back, smiling. “Yeah, it kind of is.”
*******
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the old box fan turning in the corner of the den. Jules lay curled sideways on the couch, a bowl of half-eaten popcorn tucked against her ribs and the remote balanced loosely in her hand. She flipped through channels, bored of every sitcom and game show she landed on. Most of the time, they just served as background noise while she let her thoughts drift.
A sharp flicker cut across the screen—blink-and-you-miss-it fast.
She paused.
The channel scrambled for a split second before dissolving into pure, hissing static. No image. No explanation. Just white noise.
Jules frowned, pressing the remote again. Nothing. The channel wouldn’t change.
She sat up and hit the power button. Still nothing.
Then the static grew louder. Not blaring, but… insistent, like the volume was creeping up notch by notch all on its own.
She was about to call out to Bob when she heard it.
Faint.
Almost imagined.
A voice—buried deep in the static like it had to claw its way out.
“Jules.”
Her whole body went still. She stared at the screen. Her pulse thudded in her ears.
Again, the voice, a little clearer this time, like it knew her. Not angry. Not kind. Just… knowing.
“Jules.”
Then the screen flashed white, then black—like a dying breath—and clicked off by itself.
The room returned to silence. The fan buzzed softly. The remote worked again when she tried it. She switched the TV back on, and everything was normal.
Bob appeared in the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old towel. “You okay in here?”
Jules glanced up, summoning a crooked grin. “Yeah. Your TV’s haunted, though. Might want to check that out.”
He chuckled and walked off toward the kitchen. “I’ll add it to the list.”
But as she leaned back, letting herself settle again, she caught her reflection in the darkened screen—just a flash.
Her face.
Then not her face.
Just for a breath of a second, the features didn’t look quite right. Like her smile didn’t belong to her. Like someone else was wearing her skin.
She blinked. It was gone.
The popcorn had gone cold in her lap.
Notes:
Hey guys, you've caught me while I'm on a role right now. I hope you're liking Jules' story so far! If you're lucky I might post a few more chapters with he way I'm heading. Anyways, please shoot me a kudos or a comment if you like it. Thanks! -M
Chapter Text
It had been a few weeks since Jules landed in Hawkins, and by now, the dust had more or less settled. The boxes were unpacked, the school hallways familiar, and her name no longer earned double takes in every classroom. Weekends were slower now—quiet in a way that felt more like breathing than boredom.
She and Robin sat across from each other in a red vinyl booth at the diner, two milkshakes between them and a plate of fries gone lukewarm. Outside, the trees were starting to shift from gold to rust, and the sunlight cut through the blinds in hazy, golden bars. A Tom Petty song hummed low from the jukebox.
“You’re seriously telling me Return of the Jedi was the best one?” Jules asked, one eyebrow arched like she was preparing to duel over it.
Robin leaned in like she was about to confess to a felony. “Yes. And I will die on this hill. Leia in the bounty hunter outfit? The speeder bike chase? Ewoks? Iconic.”
Jules made a dramatic gagging noise. “Ewoks were made to sell toys. Empire was better. Way better. Darker. Realer.”
Robin rolled her eyes and stole a fry. “Of course you like the one where everything goes to hell. You probably root for the villain.”
“Only if the villain has good hair and a tragic backstory,” Jules said, smirking.
“Okay, fair,” Robin muttered.
They sipped their milkshakes in sync, metal spoons clinking against the glass. Jules leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “What about music? Please don’t tell me you’re a Journey fan.”
Robin looked like she’d been personally offended. “I am not a Journey fan.”
Jules pointed a suspicious fry at her. “You hesitated.”
“I considered,” Robin corrected. “There’s a difference. I’m more Talking Heads. Blondie. Early Siouxsie. Music with bite.”
“Now we’re talking,” Jules said, nodding. “You ever try to explain to someone here why Debbie Harry is a goddess and they look at you like you farted in church?”
Robin snorted. “That’s Hawkins. Conservative hair, conservative ears.”
Jules tilted her head. “Think they’d throw me out if I dropped a Bowie cassette in the jukebox?”
“They’d probably burn you at the stake,” Robin said. “I’d bring the marshmallows.”
Jules grinned. “At least you’d make my execution festive.”
They let the moment stretch out, easy and warm, broken only by the soft clink of utensils and the hum of the old neon sign.
Then Robin nudged her foot under the table. “Movie night?”
“Only if I get first pick,” Jules replied.
“You’re not gonna make me watch something depressing, are you?”
“No promises,” Jules said, already grinning.
*******
The front door creaked open just as a gust of lake breeze drifted in, smelling of pine and damp leaves. Jules led the way up the gravel drive, backpack slung over one shoulder, Robin right behind her.
She swung open the front door and called, “Hey Bobby! Robin’s crashing tonight, cool?”
Bob’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “Of course! Just saved the last two pudding cups.”
Robin perked up. “He gets me.”
Bob appeared in the doorway, holding a spoon. “Boys are out back working on a secret project. It involves tarps, rope, and way too much ambition.”
Jules narrowed her eyes. “Is it floating or launching?”
“Hard to say,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Lucas brought a helmet, so I assume both.”
Jules grabbed a blanket off the couch and handed one to Robin. “Come on, let’s supervise whatever questionable physics experiment this is.”
*******
The back door creaked open with the lazy groan of a house well-lived in. Jules stepped onto the porch, Robin trailing behind with a bottle of orange soda in one hand.
“You weren’t kidding,” Robin said, squinting toward the lake as voices echoed across the water. “They really built a raft?”
“‘Raft’ is a generous term,” Jules said. “It’s mostly plywood and misplaced confidence.”
Down by the shoreline, Dustin stood triumphantly atop a lopsided float being paddled in shaky circles by Lucas and Will. Perched at the back was Mike, gripping what looked like a pool net as his makeshift oar.
“Behold!” Dustin called out, arms wide. “The maiden voyage of the Sea Wiggler!”
Robin blinked. “That’s not real.”
“It’s very real,” Jules muttered. “And very stupid.”
“Hey!” Dustin shouted. “We spent hours building this!”
“You duct-taped a lawn chair to a door,” Mike called over his shoulder.
“Visionaries always get mocked,” Dustin declared. “I bet the Wright brothers caught flak too.”
“Yeah, but their plane could fly,” Lucas shot back.
Jules and Robin dropped down onto an old blanket spread across the dock. The lake glinted in the fading light, the sky shifting from dusty pink to deep blue. A breeze moved over the surface, rippling the water and tugging strands of Jules’ hair across her face.
“Your hometown was this chaotic too?” Robin asked, leaning back on her elbows.
“In a different way,” Jules replied. “Louder. Messier. Nobody had a lake.”
Robin hummed in response, gaze drifting to the boys spinning in circles.
Will gave a small shout as the raft listed to one side, and Mike scrambled to adjust the balance.
“You think they’ll actually sink?” Robin asked.
“I think they’ll insist they didn’t,” Jules said.
The raft gave a sharp wobble. Lucas and Mike shouted in unison, “Dustin, sit down!”
Jules laughed, a quiet sound under the chorus of arguing boys. The sky above them deepened, stars beginning to prick through the dark.
“You ever look at the lake and feel like it’s looking back?” Jules asked absently, eyes scanning the glassy surface.
Robin raised an eyebrow. “Is that a poet thing or a sleep-deprived thing?”
Jules smirked. “Fifty-fifty.”
“I think it’s kinda cool,” Mike called over. He’d hopped off the raft and was standing ankle-deep in the water, squinting up at the sky. “Sometimes I pretend the stars are windows. Like we’re the ones being watched.”
Lucas groaned. “Dude, what is wrong with you?”
“It’s just imagination,” Will said gently.
Robin shook her head with a grin. “Bunch of weirdos.”
The raft finally drifted back to shore with much splashing and loud proclamations of success. Dustin beamed, soaked but unbothered, while Mike tried to wring out the hem of his shirt.
“I give it two more voyages before it sinks for good,” Jules said.
“Three if we reinforce it with bubble wrap,” Dustin argued.
The sky continued to darken as they lingered on the dock and shore, voices softening. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. Fireflies blinked to life in the tall grass.
Jules tipped her head back again, tracing invisible lines between the stars with one finger.
“Making constellations?” Robin asked.
“Always,” she murmured. “They’re like stories, just scattered around. You just have to look for the shape.”
They sat like that a while longer, the quiet stretching comfortably. In that strange stillness, with the lake hushed and the stars blinking steady above them, it almost felt like the world was holding its breath.
********
Robin’s legs dangled off the end of Jules’ bed, socks mismatched—one green, one purple. The tape deck hummed in the corner, warbling something from The Bangles as the girls passed a battered comic book back and forth, arguing in low voices.
“She would absolutely fold Batman like a lawn chair,” Robin said, pointing at Storm mid-lightning blast. “I don’t care how many gadgets he has.”
“You’re insane,” Jules replied, grinning as she flipped to the next page. “He’s literally trained in every combat style known to man.”
“Yeah, but he’s also broody and emotionally constipated. You can’t win a fight if you’re too busy monologuing about your dead parents.”
Jules snorted. “Cold.”
They let the comic settle between them, silence spinning out. The light from Jules’ lava lamp pulsed slow and soft, casting long shadows across the posters on her wall.
Robin turned her head, voice quieter now. “Do you ever miss her?”
Jules didn’t answer right away. Her thumb smoothed the edge of the page.
Sometimes she felt like there were only fragments left of Isla—her mother’s handwriting in the margins of cookbooks, the lingering scent of lavender on an old cardigan, the quiet hum she used to sing when doing the dishes.
She nodded once.
Robin didn’t push. She just rested her head against Jules’ shoulder for a minute, then reached over to rewind the tape.
The Bangles started again.
********
In the kitchen, Bob rinsed out the last mug and turned off the faucet. The house had finally gone quiet—no more splashing, no more arguing about boat names, no more laughter bouncing through the halls.
He dried his hands slowly on a dishtowel, then leaned against the counter and listened.
From down the hall: faint giggles. The scrape of bed springs. The muffled crush of music through closed doors.
Bob smiled.
His eyes wandered to the edge of the fridge, where a faded photo clung to the side with a souvenir magnet. Isla—smiling and windblown—held baby Jules on her hip, a lake behind them.
His fingers brushed the photo’s corner. “She’s doing okay,” he murmured.
As he turned off the kitchen light, something flickered. Just for a second—the overhead bulb stuttered.
Bob frowned. Tapped the switch again.
Nothing. Just the old house creaking as it settled.
Still, as he moved down the hall, he cast one more look over his shoulder toward the attic door above the stairs. A long pause. Then shook his head and kept walking.
*******
Jules was back in the lake.
The water shimmered under the amber glow of sunset, the sky stretched wide and soft above. Laughter carried from the dock—Dustin, Will, Lucas, Mike—all taking turns jumping in, arguing about form and splash size. Robin floated nearby, sunglasses askew, singing off-key to whatever was stuck in her head.
It was calm. Familiar. Safe.
Jules dipped below the surface, blinking against the filtered gold light. Everything slowed underwater—the way sound dulled, the way thoughts felt far away. She let herself drift.
Then something brushed her calf.
She turned. Nothing.
Then—again. A tug.
From the lakebed below, something reached. Not a hand this time, but vines, thin and sinewy, unraveling like nerves from the dark. They moved with impossible patience, swaying, then striking—one curling around her ankle, tightening with cold precision.
She kicked hard, but her legs barely moved. The water thickened. Her arms flailed. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
The surface was still there—just barely—but everything in her screamed that it was already too late.
And then—
Gone.
The vine. The pull. The lakebed.
Jules jolted awake, lungs heaving, her chest damp with sweat. She was tangled in her sheets, the room steeped in shadow.
Across the floor, Robin muttered something in her sleep and rolled over, hair sticking out in every direction.
Jules stared up at the ceiling, her breath slowly evening out.
She didn’t remember falling asleep. Didn’t remember the dream fading.
Only the way it felt—still clinging to her like water she couldn’t quite shake off.
Notes:
So we are getting closer to cannon events. I also just want to forewarn everyone that the is a slow burn with Eddie. We won't really see their relationship form until we get into the second season, but I think it'll be worth the wait. Let me know what ya'll think! I have up to chapter 7 written so far, and quickly working on chapter 8. So don't be surprised if I just start releasing randomly and at will.
-M
Chapter 5: Jeepers
Chapter Text
The front door slammed open in a flurry of plastic bags, wind, and exhausted laughter.
“I swear,” Robin groaned, dragging in behind Jules, “if I have to hear Monster Mash one more time in a corner store, I’m going to strangle the animatronic witch with her own tinsel.”
“You like Halloween,” Jules reminded her, kicking off her shoes and hauling two bags onto the coat rack like it was a coat check. “You said that exact sentence in Holcomb’s General Store.”
“Yeah, and now I hate Halloween. I’m evolving.”
Bob leaned out from the kitchen, holding a mixing bowl in one hand and a spatula in the other. He was already dressed for trick-or-treating duty—flannel shirt, denim overalls, and a floppy scarecrow hat that made him look like he belonged in a third grade play. A smudge of brown makeup dotted each cheek.
“Did you two leave anything for the other kids in town?” he asked, eyeing the pile of bags slumped against the wall like they’d just run a marathon.
“We were efficient,” Jules said. “Three stores, two candy detours, and one argument about tights versus socks.”
“I lost,” Robin muttered, toeing off her boots.
“You surrendered,” Jules corrected, grinning.
Bob raised a brow. “So what’s the final look?”
Jules held up a hand. “Give us two minutes.”
They disappeared down the hall, and a few minutes later, returned in full costume.
Jules stepped out first, a dead ringer for Daphne Blake—or at least, the slightly chaotic, small-town Halloween version. She wore a short purple dress with a lime green scarf tied around her neck and matching lavender tights. A sleek red wig framed her face in soft waves, the plastic-y shine tamed just enough to pass under dim porch lights. The contrast with her freckles and green eyes actually kind of worked, in a comic book sort of way.
Robin trailed behind her, adjusting the hem of her burnt-orange skirt and glaring through oversized plastic glasses that kept slipping down her nose. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“You look perfect,” Jules said. “You’re the heart of the mystery gang.”
Robin rolled her eyes. “I’m the cautionary tale for sock burns.”
Bob beamed. “Well, don’t you two look like Saturday morning stepped off the screen.”
Robin gave him finger guns. “We solve mysteries and bring snacks.”
Jules snagged an apple from the counter. “Okay, we should probably grab Dustin before he calls again and sends out a search party.”
“He already called,” Bob said. “Said, and I quote, ‘If they’re not here in five minutes, I’m walking to the corn maze by myself and telling everyone they abandoned me.’”
Robin snorted. “He’s so dramatic.”
“Takes one to know one,” Jules teased, tugging on her boots.
Bob waved them off. “Be safe. Don’t trust any scarecrows that wink.”
“Noted,” Robin said.
“Save me a caramel apple,” Jules added.
“You get one if you’re back before midnight.”
The door clicked shut behind them as they headed out into the golden-purple dusk, costumes rustling and laughter trailing behind like the start of a very strange mystery.
*******
Headlights swept across the gravel lot as Bob Newby’s beige station wagon rattled to a stop. Jules threw it into park with a sigh of relief—barely missing a row of hay bales and a jack-o’-lantern display.
From the passenger seat, Robin glanced at her. “You know, for someone in a Daphne wig, you drive like Fred chasing a mystery.”
Jules smirked, adjusting the bright red wig slightly askew on her curls. “I got us here alive, didn’t I?”
Dustin popped his head between the front seats from the back, grinning beneath his cowboy hat. “Barely.”
Robin turned around, eyeing his plastic badge and bandana. “You really went full spaghetti western, huh?”
“I’m a respectable sheriff, thank you,” Dustin corrected, puffing his chest.
They all piled out into the crisp October air, scents of kettle corn, funnel cake, and wood smoke mixing in the breeze. Lights twinkled across the fairgrounds where hayrides trundled past scarecrows and the entrance to the haunted corn maze glowed with fake fog.
A makeshift sign read: HAUNTED HARVEST – One Night Only!
Robin adjusted her Velma glasses and linked arms with Jules. “Alright, Scoobies. Let’s go find the others and publicly humiliate Steve for being scared of plastic skeletons.”
Dustin took the lead, bouncing as he walked. “Mike said they’re near the bonfire. Barb, Nancy, Steve, Tommy, Carol—maybe Lucas and Will too.”
As they wound their way toward the glow of the fire pit, Jules caught sight of a familiar figure near the edge of the path. Gareth Emerson was fiddling with a skeleton mask, pulling it down around his neck as he chatted with a couple kids in white face paint.
He caught her gaze and lit up.
“Hey! Jules!”
She broke into a grin. “Hey, Gareth. You’re, uh… festive.”
He lifted the skeleton mask. “What can I say? Subtlety’s overrated.”
Robin and Dustin slowed just ahead, giving her a little space.
Jules glanced past Gareth—just beyond him, near the tree line, there was a group of older teens dressed in Clockwork Orange costumes, white pants and shirts, with suspenders and bowler hats. One of them stood apart. Tall, broad-shouldered. Leather jacket over his costume. Hair tied back.
He watched the crowd, quiet. Unbothered. Familiar.
Jules tilted her head slightly. She’d seen him before—late at night, loitering near Reefer Rick’s. Sometimes laughing with a group of older guys. Sometimes just… there. A presence. This is the closest she’d been.
Gareth followed her line of sight. “Oh, that’s Eddie. He’s cool—just looks intense.”
“Eddie?” she repeated.
“Eddie Munson,” Gareth said with a shrug. “Kinda does his own thing.”
Before she could say anything else, one of the Clockwork guys yelled back, “Emerson! You comin’ or what?”
Gareth flashed her an apologetic smile. “Guess I’m being summoned.”
“No worries,” she said, stepping back to rejoin Robin and Dustin. “I’ll see you around.”
He gave her a wave and jogged off, disappearing into the shadows with the rest of the group.
Robin glanced sideways at Jules. “Friend of yours?”
“Just a guy from art class,” she said, brushing a strand of red wig out of her face.
“And the guy behind him?” Robin asked, popping a piece of candy corn into her mouth. “He looked at you like you were a quiz he couldn’t solve.”
Jules shrugged, though her eyes lingered where Eddie had been. “Just… someone I’ve seen around.”
The moment stretched just a beat too long before Robin bumped Jules with her elbow. “Alright, Mystery Inc. Let’s go find your Hawkins High social committee.”
“I didn’t know we had one,” Jules muttered, but she followed as Dustin bounded ahead.
They weaved through clusters of families and high schoolers, the fairgrounds alive with laughter and flickering orange lights. The air was cool, tinged with wood smoke and kettle corn, and the glow of the bonfire grew stronger as they approach.
Near the fire pit, a loose group was already gathered.
Barb and Nancy stood off to the side, heads tilted toward each other. Barb was in some kind of homemade witch costume, her tall frame silhouetted by the firelight. Nancy, dressed as a black cat, crossed her arms as she watched the maze entrance. Steve Harrington, in a leather jacket and jeans—some half-hearted greaser look—tossed pebbles into the fire. A few feet away, Tommy and Carol leaned against a hay bale, whispering and laughing at something only they found funny.
Dustin slowed as they got close, glancing back at Jules and Robin.
“There they are,” he said, waving toward the others.
Carol looked up, eyes skimming over them before they landed on Dustin. She raised a brow. “Didn’t realize this was daycare now.”
Jules’s jaw tightened slightly, but Dustin just grinned. “Yeah, well, we came with snacks and good vibes.”
“Guess you’re staying, then,” Tommy muttered, clearly unimpressed.
Robin, ever unbothered, offered a little two-fingered wave and leaned closer to Jules. “Charming crowd.”
Jules just gave a quiet shrug, her gaze briefly drifted back toward the trees.
No Eddie. No Gareth. The group of Clockwork guys must’ve moved on.
Steve glanced over, taking in the costumes. “You guys come from a cartoon set or something?”
“Something like that,” Robin said coolly, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Barb offered a polite nod, and Nancy gave a soft smile. “Cute costumes.”
“Thanks,” Jules said, unsure how to stand. She folded her arms to keep from fidgeting.
“I think the kids are heading toward the cider stand,” Nancy added, nodding past them. “Mike and Lucas were just there.”
Dustin brightened. “Awesome.”
He peeled off toward the cider barrels, disappearing into the crowd.
Robin watched him go. “You think he’ll survive unsupervised?”
“If he doesn’t,” Jules said quietly, “he’ll be proud of how he went.”
Robin huffed a soft laugh, and for a moment, Jules relaxed beside her.
Behind them, the fog machine near the maze hissed to life. Chains clank. Distant screams echo across the cornfield.
“They’re letting people in,” Barb said, brushing her hands together.
Nancy straightened. “Should we…?”
Steve shrugged. “May as well.”
Tommy and Carol were already drifting toward the maze entrance. Barb followed after, then Nancy.
Robin looked at Jules. “You in?”
Jules hesitated, glancing once more over her shoulder. The tree line’s empty now. Whoever that guy was—Eddie—he’s gone.
She turned back. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Together, they followed the others into the mouth of the haunted maze, swallowed by fog and flickering lights.
*******
The maze twisted tighter the deeper they went. Cornstalks toweed on either side, some with fake blood splattered across them, others stuffed with limbs from discount Halloween mannequins. Fog creeped along the dirt path, catching the glow of orange string lights and casting everything in a muted, flickering haze.
The main group is just ahead—Steve lead the pack with Nancy close to his side, their fingers loosely linked. He’s grinned like this whole thing was his idea.
“If you get scared, Nance, I’ll be your hero,” he said, clearly hoping she clung to him.
Nancy just raised an eyebrow. “You scream first and I’m leaving you.”
Behind them, Tommy and Carol walked like they’ve already decided this was lame. Carol kept checking her watch; Tommy kept checking out the vampire girl two rows over.
Jules noticed Carol noticing.
“Charming,” Robin muttered beside her. “They always like that?”
“Unfortunately,” Jules said, brushing her wig back into place.
Barb trailed behind, not far, but somehow outside the rhythm of the group. Her shoulders were a little hunched, like she was trying not to be noticed, or maybe trying to decide if she regreted coming at all.
Jules fell back a few paces, glancing over.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
Barb gave a small smile. “Yeah. Just… not really my thing.”
Before Jules could answer, there was a rustle to their left.
Then a second.
Robin spun toward it just as something burst through the stalks—an actor in a grotesque pig mask, dragging a fake cleaver.
“Jesus!” Robin shrieked and, without hesitation, launched herself into Jules’s arms.
Jules stumbled back, catching her by reflex. “What the hell—”
“Don’t let it take me,” Robin gasped, clutching Jules like a fainting Victorian heroine. “I still owe twenty bucks in Blockbuster late fees.”
The pig-masked actor pauseed, clearly delighted by the chaos he’s caused, then lumbered back into the corn with a satisfied grunt.
Steve turned around, eyebrows up. “Seriously?”
Robin straightened with faux dignity, still hanging onto Jules’s sleeve. “Shut up, Harrington. You were just about to jump behind Nancy.”
“I was not.”
“You flinched.”
“I twitched. That’s different.”
Nancy rolled her eyes and kept walking. “Come on, Sheriff Henderson’s yelling again.”
Jules adjusted her grip on Robin’s sleeve with a smirk. “You good? Or should I carry you through the rest of this?”
Robin huffed, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. “If another pig-faced psychopath shows up, I’m climbing onto your back like a koala.”
Jules was about to make a smart remark when Carol’s voice cut through the dark.
“Oh my God, are we done yet?” she groaned, heels crunching against the gravel. “This isn’t scary. It’s just damp corn and bad costumes.”
Tommy snorted, distracted. “Not as bad as that vampire chick’s costume—did you see the bite marks? Totally fake.”
Carol’s head snapped toward him. “Maybe try looking at your girlfriend instead of her boobs next time.”
Tommy blinked like he didn’t get it. “What? I was just saying—”
“Save it,” Carol muttered, brushing past him.
Jules watched the exchange from a few feet back, eyebrows raised. The tension was sharp enough to cut through the fog, and Barb definitely noticed too. She hesitated—half a beat—then veered left, ducking between Jules and Robin like she’d rather disappear than be dragged into another one of Carol and Tommy’s public squabbles.
Robin leaned closer to Jules. “So, is this like… their version of flirting?”
Jules shook her head. “More like toxic foreplay.”
Barb glanceed over. “You’re not wrong.”
The path narrows again, and the group fell quiet as the maze pressed in tighter. Lights flicked. Fog thickened. Somewhere up ahead, Dustin’s voice called out—too far to make out the words, but loud enough to stir a fresh round of screams from the kids in front of him.
Jules scaned the corn, slower now. The actors weren’t jumping out as often—it was that in-between stretch, where the quiet got under your skin.
She rounded a bend, turning slightly to make sure Robin was still beside her, when—
A figure stood ahead in the fog.
Not an actor.
No costume. No movement.
Just… there.
Motionless. Half-silhouetted by the string lights behind them, tall and wrong somehow. Like a smudge on the world. Her breath caught.
Then, sudden and sharp—
—nnzt—
A pulse of static cracked in her ears, brief but electric. Not loud, exactly, but inside her head. Like a radio trying to tune itself behind her eyes.
She flinched; one hand darted up toward her temple.
Robin bumped her shoulder. “Whoa—what?”
But when Jules blinked, the figure was gone.
She squinted—only fog and cornstalks. No footprints. No movement. Nothing out of place.
“Did you… see that?” Jules asked, her voice lower now.
Robin glanced ahead. “See what?”
Jules hesitated. Her heart was pounding, the silence somehow louder than before. She forced a shrug.
“Nothing. Must’ve been another actor.”
Robin didn’t press. She was already turned to Barb, launching into a story about getting banned from Spirit Halloween for sword-fighting with a plastic reaper.
Jules tried to laugh. Tried to walk normally. Tried to chalk it up to nerves, shadows, fog.
But her palms were sweating.
And the static still buzzed faintly in her left ear, fading like an echo that didn’t belong.
The path curved again, drawing them toward a clearing where the maze flattend out. String lights swayed overhead, casting a dull orange glow over a wooden bridge spanning a shallow dip in the earth—probably just part of the field’s natural slope, but dressed up with fake skeletons and caution tape to sell the theme.
Steve was already halfway across, arm stretched back to help Nancy in a showy, gallant way. Carol sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.
“This is so dumb,” she muttered. “We could be at Jimmy’s party right now.”
Tommy didn’t respond. He was too busy staring at the vampire girl again, who was now pretending not to notice.
Robin leaned closer to Jules. “Is it bad that I hope she dumps fake blood on him?”
“Only if it’s warm,” Jules murmured, though her voice still felt weird in her throat—like she hadn’t used it in hours.
The buzzing in her ear was gone now. Almost. It left a kind of pressure behind, like her brain was still waiting for the next spike.
They reached the bridge. The boards creaked underfoot. Barb hesitated at the edge, eyeing the dip beneath.
Steve looked over his shoulder. “It’s a two-foot drop, not a canyon.”
Robin smirked. “Could be. Corn dragon lives under there.”
Jules followed them across, steps careful. She glanceed back once, just to be sure.
Nothing behind them. Just fog. The flicker of lights.
Still, she ruubbed at the side of her head, right where the pulse of static hit.
Just in case.
They stepped off the far side of the bridge and into the last leg of the maze—less twisted now, the path widening, the actors fewer and farther between. Laughter drifted ahead from kids who’ve already made it out. The smell of kettle corn and smoke grew stronger again.
Jules exhaled, forcing her shoulders to drop. The air felt a little clearer here, though her ears still buzz faintly, like the world hadn’t quite stopped humming.
Beside her, Robin stretched her arms overhead with an exaggerated groan. “Freedom at last. I feel like I just survived a very dramatic metaphor for adolescence.”
Barb chuckled softly. “You didn’t even scream this time.”
“Personal growth,” Robin said solemnly, then grinned. “Also, nothing jumped out again. So. You know. Low bar.”
They rounded the final bend, and the corn parted to reveal the fairgrounds again—glowing lights, soft music from the hayride speakers, a kid tripped over his cape near the cider stand.
The bonfire still burned at the center of it all, flames flickered high and warm against the night.
Steve and Nancy were already walking ahead, their fingers laced again like they never stopped. Carol followed a few paces behind, arms crossed, clearly over the whole evening. Tommy trailed after, muttering something that makes Carol snap her head around.
Barb sighed but says nothing.
Robin leaned closer to Jules. “So… what’s the verdict?”
“On the maze?”
“On whatever that look was back there,” she said, more gently now. “You zoned out for a sec.”
Jules shrugged, eyes on the firelight. “Just weird shadows. Long day.”
Robin studied her a beat longer, but didn’t push. “Okay.”
They stepped back into the open, feet crunching gravel as the fairground crowds fold around them again. Jules felt the buzz finally fade from her head, like a switch clicked off. But not forgotten.
At the bonfire, Dustin was already returning with a caramel apple and a face full of sugar. He waved them over with sticky fingers.
“Hey! Did you see the guy in the werewolf suit? He tried to scare me and I booped him on the nose.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “You booped him.”
Dustin shrugged. “He flinched.”
Robin beamed. “Legend.”
As the group settled around the fire, Jules stood just outside the ring of light, brushing her wig back again. Her gaze drifted—automatically—toward the trees.
Still empty.
Still fine.
Still… normal.
She joined the others, hands tucked in her jacket sleeves, and tried to laugh when Robin starts making fun of Steve’s hair.
But deep in her left ear, where the hum once was, it’s quiet now. And too quiet somehow.
Like something waited to start again.
Chapter 6: Echos
Chapter Text
The world swam in and out of focus.
Jules blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. Her room was gray with early light, a thin beam from the window cutting across the posters on her wall. Her heart was racing. Her ears were ringing again—
no, not ringing.
That same brittle static, fizzing low and sharp like a frayed wire behind her eyes.
She pressed the heel of her hand against her temple. It didn’t help.
Then she felt it—warm and wet, trailing down her lip.
She sat up fast, swinging her legs over the bed and snatching the sleeve of her hoodie to swipe at her nose.
Blood.
Not gushing, just enough to make her breath catch.
She muttered a quiet, “Shit,” pinching the bridge of her nose and stumbling toward the bathroom.
She didn’t notice Bob at first—not until she nearly bumped into him in the hallway.
“Whoa—hey, hey.” His hands came up gently, steadying her. He was already dressed for work, a coffee mug in one hand, concern blooming across his face. “Jules? You okay?”
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—just a nosebleed.”
Bob frowned, eyeing the smear on her sleeve. “That happen a lot?”
“Not really,” she replied, ducking past him toward the sink. “Dry air, I guess.”
He followed, not crowding her but hovering with that quiet, Bob-shaped worry. She saw it in the mirror as she tilted her head forward and pinched her nose again. Her reflection looked pale. Off. Like she was watching herself from somewhere else.
Bob cleared his throat softly. “I can pick up a humidifier if it’s a dryness thing. Or maybe we should have the doctor take a look.”
“I’m fine.” She rinsed her face and forced a breath. “Seriously, it’s no big deal.”
But the hum was still there. Quieter now, but present. Buzzing faint and low like it was inside her.
Bob nodded, not convinced. “Okay. Just… keep an eye on it, alright? And let me know if it happens again.”
Jules nodded and grabbed a clean washcloth. Her thoughts were still fogged. She wanted to tell him about the dreams—the voice, the static—but the words got stuck. Too weird. Too much.
Bob didn’t press.
He just stepped out and left the bathroom door open behind him. A small, unspoken offer of space.
When Jules finally lifted her head again, her nose had stopped bleeding.
But the static still rang.
*******
The halls buzzed with the usual Monday morning shuffle—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, conversations half-mumbled under the hum of flickering fluorescents.
Jules slipped through the front doors with her hood half-up, headphones around her neck but not playing anything. The idea of music made her stomach turn. Too much noise already—most of it internal.
The static hadn’t fully stopped since the nosebleed. Just softened. Like a low, persistent drone nested deep in her skull. Almost ignorable. Almost.
She moved on muscle memory, dodging a sophomore’s backpack and skirting past a couple making out beside the trophy case. The lights overhead blinked as she passed beneath them—two quick pulses like a stutter. She didn’t look up.
At her locker, she fumbled with the dial, hands slower than usual. Something about the air felt off. Too dry. Or maybe too charged.
Down the hall, Nancy Wheeler stood stiff-backed beside Barb Holland, clutching a folder to her chest while Barb said something that clearly wasn’t landing. Jules didn’t catch the words, just the friction.
A few feet closer, Carol brushed past with Tommy H. in tow, both of them trailing their usual cloud of cheap cologne and sharper arrogance. Carol’s eyes flicked over Jules, lingering just long enough to be annoying.
“Cute bloodstain, Ambrose,” she said, nodding at Jules’s sleeve.
Jules didn’t flinch. “Just figured I’d accessorize. Thought you of all people would get it.” she muttered, voice low enough to get away with it.
Carol kept walking, laughing like she’d won something.
The sound grated.
Robin appeared a beat later, plopping her books onto the locker beside Jules’s like she was trying to break it. She had a pencil between her teeth and a scarf wrapped halfway up her face.
“Tell me again why school exists?” Robin asked, muffled by wool and indignation. “Because I’m pretty sure I left my will to live in bed.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even in homeroom yet.”
“Exactly.” Robin leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You look like death. Cool death. But still.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Jules cracked a half-smile and didn’t answer.
Robin didn’t push. Just offered a crumbly mini-muffin from her coat pocket, like that might fix whatever weird was hanging in the air.
Jules took it. It helped more than she’d admit.
*******
The final bell rang out like a gunshot, and the halls exploded with movement. Backpacks thumped against lockers, sneakers slapped tile, and voices overlapped into a single chaotic roar.
Jules moved against the tide, weaving past knots of students with her hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up and her sketchpad clutched under one arm. Her head ached. The lights buzzed overhead—too loud. Too sharp. The static had crept back in during fourth period and hadn’t let up since.
Instead of heading straight for the front doors, she ducked into the east hallway and slipped through the door of the nearest girls’ bathroom.
It was empty. Still. A hum from the overhead light, and the faint sound of water dripping somewhere in the far stall.
She turned on the faucet and splashed cool water on her hands, trying to ground herself.
Then looked up.
Her reflection stared back.
Same hoodie. Same flushed face. But something—something—was off.
Jules tilted her head slowly to the right.
The reflection didn’t move.
Not at first.
Then, in a sudden, twitching jolt, it snapped to match her. A beat too late.
She stumbled back from the sink, breath catching in her throat. The mirror showed only her now. Normal. Still. Her own face blinking back in confusion.
What the hell was that?
She braced her palms against the cold porcelain, knuckles whitening. Heart pounding. In the silence, the static buzzed faint and sharp again, like a low signal buried behind her eyes.
She forced herself to breathe. In. Out.
Behind her, the bathroom door creaked open.
Jules jerked upright—but it was only Robin, pausing in the doorway, brow raised. “Dramatic handwashing crisis?”
Jules managed a weak laugh, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Just needed a sec.”
Robin didn’t ask. She just offered a crooked smile and fell into step beside her as they made their way outside, blending back into the thinning crowd.
“You want a ride, or…?”
“I’m good,” Jules said quickly. “Bob’s picking me up.”
Robin hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Alright. But if you start bleeding from your eyes or float off the ground, call me. I want front row seats.”
Jules gave a half-hearted grin. “Noted.”
They parted at the edge of the lot. Robin jogged off towards the lot, leaving Jules by the front steps, alone.
She waited until the crowd thinned further, then moved to the side of the building, where the brick cast a long shadow across the grass. She slid down to sit, arms wrapped around her knees, and rested her forehead against them.
She wasn’t ready to go home yet.
Not with the static still crawling just under her skin. Not with the echo of her reflection hesitating in her mind.
So, she stayed there for a while.
Alone, but not quite alone.
Listening.
*******
The smell of something buttery and half-burnt wafted in from the kitchen, but Jules didn’t move from the couch. Her feet were curled under her, eyes fixed on the flickering TV screen—some rerun she wasn’t really watching. The static in her skull had mostly faded, but her head still felt thick, like she’d slept too long or not enough.
In the kitchen, Bob’s voice carried softly—muffled through the wall, but tense enough to make her glance that way.
“No, no, of course. I know. I just—listen, let me know if you hear anything else, alright? And tell Dustin to stay put. Please.”
A pause.
Then: “Yeah. I’ll keep an eye on Jules. You do the same with him.”
Click.
Bob emerged a second later, tucking the phone back onto the wall cradle. He spotted Jules still camped on the couch and gave her a quiet, weighted look. No smile this time.
“That was Claudia.”
Jules straightened a little. “Everything okay?”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Will Byers didn’t come home last night. Joyce has the cops out looking for him. Hopper, mostly.”
Jules blinked. “Shit.”
“Language,” Bob muttered out of habit, then sighed. “Yeah. Claudia’s worried sick. Said Dustin wanted to go out and help look for him.”
“Of course he did,” Jules muttered. She was already on her feet.
Bob narrowed his eyes. “You know something?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I mean—not really. Just… I know Dustin. If he thinks his best friend’s in trouble, he’s not gonna sit around waiting.”
Bob hesitated, searching her face. “Jules…”
She was already heading for the stairs. “I just want to make sure he doesn’t do anything too stupid, okay?”
“Jules—”
“I’m just going to my room!” she called over her shoulder, halfway up already.
She shut the door behind her and crossed straight to her desk, yanking open the bottom drawer. Beneath old notebooks and a couple of dog-eared comics, she found it.
The radio.
Gray plastic, boxy, with a crack in the antenna casing. Bob had given it to her and Dustin two Christmases ago—one for each of them. A walkie set, souped up from the store-bought versions, modded to work longer range. “For emergencies,” Bob had said, in that corny, cheerful way of his. “Or if you ever need to coordinate a comic book heist.”
She hadn’t used it in months. But the battery pack lit up when she flipped the switch.
Jules pressed the button and lifted it to her mouth.
“Sheriff,” she said dryly. “This is Outlaw Jules. I want in.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, a crackle.
“You’re late, Outlaw.”
Jules grinned despite herself, sinking onto the edge of her bed.
“Yeah, well. Had to shake the fuzz. I’m in now.”
Another pause.
Then: “Good. We might have a lead.”
The smile faded from her lips.
She didn’t know where this was going. Didn’t know why the static kept coming back, or why her reflection lagged, or why she couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong—not just with Will, but with her.
But Dustin was going to do something reckless. And she’d be damned if she wasn’t there to stop him from getting himself killed.
She tightened her grip on the walkie.
“Tell me where to meet.”
Chapter 7: The Space Between
Chapter Text
It was fully dark by the time Jules coasted her bike up to the edge of Mirkwood, tires crunching over wet gravel.
Clouds had rolled in fast—low, swollen, and angry—swallowing the last threads of twilight. A steady rain had started, whispering through the trees. Not enough to soak through yet, but enough to slick her jacket and bead cold against her lashes.
She spotted them near the treeline—three flashlights bobbing in the gloom. Mike. Lucas. Dustin.
Jules kicked down her stand and jogged up, boots skidding a little on the slick path.
Lucas spotted her first. His expression fell immediately. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“She’s with me,” Dustin said, stepping between them.
Lucas crossed his arms. “This was supposed to be party business, not a bring-your-sister field trip.”
“She’s not—” Dustin hesitated. “She’s not tagging along. She’s here because she wants to help.”
Jules offered a dry half-smile. “Didn’t realize you needed a membership card to search for a missing kid.”
Mike didn’t bother weighing in. He jerked his chin toward the woods. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”
They moved out together, leaving their bikes in the brush. The woods swallowed them quickly—branches clawing overhead, the trail squelching underfoot, smells of damp pine and something faintly metallic on the air.
Jules fell into step near the back. Lucas stalked ahead, flashlight beam tight and fast. Mike led with grim focus. Dustin hovered close beside her, quieter than usual.
The deeper they went, the heavier everything felt.
Then the static came back.
Just a flicker. Like a radio tuning into a station she couldn’t hear. Low and metallic, vibrating behind her eyes.
She clenched her jaw, breathing slow, trying not to let it show.
Beside her, Dustin’s flashlight beam jittered. His hands were trembling.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You okay?”
“I don’t know,” Dustin admitted. “This is starting to feel… bad. Like something’s wrong.”
Jules slowed, glancing ahead to where Mike was already several yards forward. “You want to head back?”
He hesitated, the unspoken guilt thick between them.
Mike turned around. “We’re not quitting. We haven’t even hit the river trail.”
Dustin looked to Jules.
She exhaled, the rain soaking into her sleeves now. “Ten more minutes,” she said. “Then we call it.”
Lucas groaned. “Fine.”
They kept moving, slower now. The rain picked up—soft at first, then harder, steady drumming against their hoods and shoulders.
The trail grew slick and uneven. Mud sucked at their shoes. No one spoke.
Then—
Movement.
Just ahead. A flash of pale in the dark.
“Wait.” Jules stopped cold. “Did you see that?”
Three flashlights snapped forward, carving the darkness.
And then they stepped out of the trees.
Not Will.
A girl.
Barefoot. Shaking. Rain-slicked skin and an oversized yellow Benny’s Burgers shirt hanging off her like a dress. Her head was shaved close. Her eyes were huge, dark, and fixed on them like they were the only thing holding her up.
Nobody moved.
Jules stepped forward, heart hammering. “Hey,” she said softly. “Are you okay?”
The girl didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away, either.
Her gaze locked onto Jules—intense, unblinking.
And then it hit.
The static.
Not a hum this time—a shriek. Bright and sharp and alive, punching through Jules’ skull like a lightning strike.
She gasped, staggering back a step and grabbing the side of her head.
At the same instant, the girl flinched—just barely. Her expression flickered.
Like she felt it too.
The two of them stared at each other.
Rain thundered overhead. The sky cracked open with a low roll of thunder. Water poured down in sheets, soaking through clothes, hair, skin.
But Jules didn’t move.
Because she wasn’t cold.
She wasn’t wet.
She was staring at something that shouldn’t exist.
And somehow, it was staring back.
*******
The basement door shut with a soft thud.
Damp and shivering, the four of them huddled near the table where Mike had wrapped the strange girl — not Will, definitely not Will — in a dry blanket. A pair of oversized sweatpants and a hoodie swallowed her thin frame. She sat on the floor, tucked into herself, eyes darting like a cornered animal.
Lucas was pacing. Angry footsteps, arms crossed tight.
“This is insane,” he hissed. “We’re supposed to be looking for Will, not picking up weirdos in the woods.”
“She’s not a weirdo,” Dustin snapped.
“You don’t know that. None of us know who she is or what she is. And now she’s in Mike’s basement?”
Jules sat on the stairs, wringing out the sleeves of her jacket. “She looked terrified. That shirt—did you see it? It was from Benny’s. She’s been out there a while.”
Lucas turned on her. “And you suddenly care? You’re not even supposed to be here, and now you’re defending—what, some random feral kid who doesn’t talk?”
Jules narrowed her eyes. “I’m not going to apologize for giving a shit.”
Mike stood between them, voice low but firm. “She stays here tonight. I’ll come up with a plan in the morning.”
Lucas scoffed. “And when your mom finds her?”
“I’ll have her knock on the front door,” Mike said, quickly. “Like she’s lost or something. Karen’ll go full mom mode and bring her in. We can say she wandered off from a group home or whatever.”
“That’s stupid,” Lucas said.
“It’s the best shot we have. We need to keep her safe.”
Dustin nodded, chewing his lip. “Yeah. I mean, what if she knows something about Will? Maybe she saw him. Maybe she was with him.”
The girl’s eyes flicked to Dustin when he said Will’s name, then back to the ground.
Lucas kept pacing. “I don’t like it. Any of it. And what, we just skip school tomorrow?”
Mike shook his head. “No. We go. We meet up after.”
“I thought we were supposed to be looking for Will—”
“We are,” Mike snapped. “But we can’t do anything if we get caught. We’ll meet here after school, then we go back into the woods.”
Lucas didn’t respond, just stalked off toward the far end of the basement and turned his back.
Jules exchanged a look with Dustin. He looked exhausted. So was she.
One by one, they filed out. Dustin gave the girl a soft little wave. Jules didn’t say anything, but she lingered for a second. Just long enough to see her watching them, like she was memorizing their faces.
*******
The inside of Hawkins High smelled like pencil shavings and floor wax.
Jules stepped through the front doors, flinching as the first bell shrieked overhead. She hadn’t slept — not really. Maybe twenty minutes here or there, curled up by her bedroom window, listening to the walkie crackle on and off like it had something to say.
She moved in a daze, one arm wrapped around her books, the other fidgeting with the fraying sleeve of her jacket. The fluorescent lights made everything look sharper and too bright, like her brain hadn’t caught up to being awake yet.
Kids brushed past her in the hall, talking about normal things — quizzes, rides home, what was on MTV. No one stopped her. No one asked why her eyes looked hollow or why she kept glancing over her shoulder like something might follow her in.
The world just kept going.
******
She was at her locker, barely registering the combination, when Robin’s voice cut through.
“Jesus, you look like a haunted Victorian child.”
Jules blinked, then turned. Robin was holding two granola bars — one already half-eaten, the other extended like a peace offering.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jules said, trying to smile.
Robin handed her the bar. “Eat. You’re fading into the cinder blocks.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Robin leaned against the next locker. “You do that thing when something’s wrong — your sarcasm gets too dry and your eyes go all Bambi-in-a-house-fire.”
Jules unwrapped the bar slowly. Her stomach wasn’t interested, but she took a bite anyway.
Robin studied her. “What happened?”
Jules hesitated. The image of the girl flashed through her mind — shivering, silent, swallowing the hoodie Mike gave her like it might make her invisible.
There was so much she wanted to say. But it wasn’t hers to share.
“I’m just tired,” Jules said.
Robin wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t push. “Well… if you end up needing to scream into a void later, I’ve got a fresh one behind the band room.”
Jules gave her a soft laugh. “Noted.”
******
The bell rang again, and the flow of bodies around them shifted.
Jules found her way into second period — U.S. History — and slid into her seat two rows behind Nancy Wheeler.
Nancy looked immaculate as ever, pen moving in smooth, tidy loops across her notebook. Barb sat beside her, arms crossed, gaze flicking around the room like she was waiting for a pop quiz or a fire alarm.
Mr. Caddell started lecturing about the Constitution, voice monotone, chalk tapping the board.
Jules couldn’t focus. She kept hearing static.
In her head. In her bones.
Behind her, two kids whispered:
“Did you hear about Will Byers?”
“My brother said they found his bike in the woods.”
“Creepy.”
No one told them to shut up.
Nancy didn’t flinch at the name. Just kept writing.
Jules watched her for a moment longer, then dropped her gaze to the half-blank worksheet in front of her.
*******
By third period, the halls were buzzing.
Rumors about Will floated in and out of earshot — a search party, something about Castle Byers, something about the woods. Someone said he ran away. Someone else swore he was kidnapped.
No one had facts. Just noise.
Jules drifted through the corridor like a ghost, barely hearing the locker slams and locker gossip.
By the time lunch rolled around, she was starving and sick to her stomach at the same time. She grabbed a tray but didn’t really look at what landed on it. She headed outside, needing air, noise, space.
*******
Robin plopped down next to her on the concrete steps and immediately launched into a tirade.
“…and I’m not saying geometry is a scam, but if I ever meet a guy named Pythagoras, I’m punching him directly in the theorem.”
Jules smiled, barely.
Robin squinted at her. “Okay. Still haunted. But now with a granola bar and slightly more blood flow.”
“I’m fine.”
“You said that this morning. Which is suspiciously close to a lie.”
Jules peeled a slice of apple from her tray and stared at it like it might offer answers.
“I can’t talk about it,” she said finally.
Robin fell silent for a beat.
Then: “Not even a tiny cryptic hint that I could misinterpret wildly?”
Jules shook her head. “Not this time.”
Robin didn’t push. Just leaned back on her elbows, watching clouds crawl across the sky.
“You’ve got mystery energy,” she murmured. “And not, like, the fun Agatha Christie kind. More like… tragic-backstory-waiting-to-happen.”
Jules let out a quiet snort.
They sat there in silence for a while. It was the closest Jules came to feeling okay all day.
*******
The final bell rang like it was trying to wake her up.
Jules slung her bag over her shoulder and moved toward the bike rack in no particular rush. Most of the parking lot was still full — cars idling, voices laughing too loud, the kind of Wednesday chaos that felt weirdly normal given everything else.
She spotted them before they spotted her.
Steve Harrington, leaning against his car like a movie poster come to life. Tommy Hagan was snorting at something Carol said, and Nancy—
Nancy was standing beside Steve, laughing.
Not polite or awkward laughter either. Genuine.
Jules slowed without meaning to. She wasn’t angry — not exactly. But something twisted a little in her gut.
She thought of the whispers in the hallway. The bike in the woods. The girl in Mike’s basement.
And then Nancy, tucking her hair behind her ear while Steve said something smug and stupid.
Maybe Jules had been wrong about her.
Or maybe people just picked their realities and stuck with them until they cracked.
*******
The house was too quiet.
Jules sat at the kitchen table, hunched over a half-eaten bowl of cereal that had long gone soggy. Her foot tapped restlessly against the linoleum floor. The walkie sat beside her spoon, a silent brick surrounded by crumbs and static.
She picked it up for the fifth time in ten minutes and pressed the button.
“Ready, you copy?” she said, voice low.
Nothing.
She let go. A soft hiss of static answered, then faded into nothing.
In the living room, Bob was crouched in front of the VCR, muttering to himself. Something about a tape jam. She heard a soft clunk — then another. Always the same gentle rhythm, like he was trying not to hurt it.
“You wanna do a movie night?” he called. “I found that weird old The Thing from Another World tape. It’s got that creepy carrot-man you liked.”
Jules didn’t look up. “Maybe later.”
Bob leaned around the doorway, smiling in that way that wasn’t pushy — just there. Present. “You sure? We’ve got popcorn. Or there’s leftover lasagna if you’re just looking to carb-load and sulk.”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m good. Just tired.”
Bob watched her for a second longer. His smile stayed, but his eyes shifted — like he saw more than she meant to show.
“Okay, well, if ‘good’ turns into ‘not good,’ I’ll be in the living room — emotionally available and mildly snackable.”
She huffed a quiet laugh. “Thanks, Bob.”
He disappeared again, and she was alone with the walkie.
She picked it up.
Pressed it.
Let go.
Static.
Her fingers curled around the plastic until her knuckles whitened. Her stomach twisted — not just with worry, but with that same gnawing, crawling feeling she’d had ever since the night before. Since the girl in the woods. Since the flicker in the lights. Since—
The overhead bulb blinked. Once. A flutter.
Jules looked up sharply.
Nothing. Still. Just the hum of the fridge and Bob humming something soft from the living room.
The walkie remained silent.
But something was happening.
And whatever it was, it was getting closer.
*******
The sun had already dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows across the Newby kitchen. Jules had moved to the back steps, elbows on her knees, eyes on the horizon. The air smelled like dry leaves and cold coming in early.
The walkie crackled beside her.
She grabbed it like it had spoken. “Ready, you copy?”
Silence.
Then: crackle.
“—hold on—can you not—Dustin, give it—”
She pressed again. “Guys?”
A pause.
Then Dustin’s voice came through, lower than usual. “Jules?”
She exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day. “Finally. What the hell is going on?”
More crackling. A shuffle. She could hear someone—maybe Mike—arguing in the background.
“Dustin.”
“Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s—complicated. We’ve been kinda busy.”
“Busy doing what?” Her voice had that edge now, the one she usually saved for gymnastic judges and adults who talked down to her. “You said we’d meet after school. I waited.”
“I know, I know,” Dustin said. “Plans changed.”
“Clearly.”
Another shuffle. He was covering the mic, but she could still hear him whispering something—then a thump.
“Look,” he said. “Can you come over? Mike’s house. It’s easier to explain if you just… see it.”
“See what?”
Another beat.
Dustin didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
“I’ll be there in ten.”
She stood, already moving toward the door.
Inside, Bob looked up from the couch, half-asleep with a book balanced on his stomach. “Heading out?”
“Yeah,” Jules said, grabbing the keys from the bowl by the door. “Claudia asked if I could pick Dustin up. She’s stuck late at work.”
Bob blinked, sitting up a little. “You good to drive?”
Jules flashed him a small, reassuring smile. “I’ve got it. I’ll be back soon.”
He nodded, already relaxing again. “Tell Dusty I want my Empire Strikes Back tape back.”
“Assuming it’s not coated in Dorito dust? Sure.”
The door clicked shut behind her — and she was gone.
*******
Jules knocked once before letting herself into the Wheelers’ front door. Karen answered from the kitchen, a little startled but polite, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Oh—Jules. Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Jules said, her voice casual but her eyes already scanning past Karen toward the basement door. “Claudia asked if I could drop off some medicine for Dustin. He forgot it at home and she’s working late.”
Karen gave a tight smile—grateful, but a little wary. “They’re still down in the basement. ”
“Got it,” Jules said, already moving.
She took the basement stairs two at a time, careful but quick. Her heart had been thudding since the walkie call. Something in Dustin’s voice—guarded, urgent—had lit her nerves like a fuse.
Voices floated up before she reached the bottom.
“They were never in the woods,” Mike was saying. “She’s trying to tell us that Will is hiding… like, in another world.”
Jules slowed as she reached the last step, staying half-shadowed on the stairs.
She saw them: Dustin and Lucas near the table, Mike kneeling beside a girl in an oversized hoodie. The girl was arranging the D&D figures with eerie precision. One figure stood upright on the game board.
“That’s our world,” Mike said.
The girl turned the board slowly—deliberately—and the upright figure tumbled off the side, landing on the carpet with a dull thud.
“This is where he is,” she whispered. Her voice was raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a while. “The Upside Down.”
No one spoke.
Jules didn’t move.
She hadn’t known what to expect—but it wasn’t this. Not strange girls flipping game boards like dimensional diagrams. Not the chill crawling down her spine like static.
She cleared her throat.
Everyone jumped.
“Hey,” she said quietly, lifting a hand. “It’s just me.”
Dustin spun around. “Jules—”
“Yeah,” she said. “Ten minutes, remember?”
Dustin winced. “Right. Sorry. We were gonna come get you, but—”
“Plans changed,” she echoed, stepping fully into the basement. Her eyes flicked to the girl, studying her. Small. Tense. Watching them all like she was ready to run.
Jules looked back at Dustin. “You gonna tell me what this is?”
Lucas looked like he still wanted to lie. Mike didn’t even try.
“She knows something,” Mike said. “About Will. We think. She’s… different.”
Jules looked at the girl again. At the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Just waited, like she already knew what they’d decide.
*******
Jules sat on the arm of the couch now, arms crossed, looking between them.
“So while I was sitting by the walkie waiting for someone to call, you guys were what - having a little Q and A? ”
“Sort of,” Mike said sheepishly. “We were trying to figure out what she knows. She pointed to a picture of Will and said she’s seen him.”
“Jesus.”
Lucas leaned back in his chair. “That’s when Mike decided she’s telling the truth.”
“She is,” Mike said quickly. “She called it something—‘The Upside Down.’ Like a mirror version of here.”
Jules let out a slow breath, trying to wrap her head around it. “So he’s… alive, but stuck in some nightmare version of Hawkins?”
They all nodded.
“And nobody thought to tell me this before I walked into the basement?”
“We were gonna,” Dustin said. “Then you showed up early.”
“I was ten minutes late.”
“Time’s weird right now,” he muttered.
Jules ran her hands through her curls. “Okay. This just keeps getting weirder.”
No one disagreed.
For a beat, the only sound was the hum of the basement’s old fluorescent light and the distant whir of the furnace. El was curled into herself on the floor now, knees hugged to her chest, eyes locked on nothing. Her whole body seemed to vibrate with something unsaid.
Jules studied her, unease crawling up the back of her neck. There was something about the girl—not just her silence, or her powers, but the way she looked at the world like she’d already seen it broken.
She didn’t know what the Upside Down was. Not really. But she knew danger when it circled close.
Above them, the house creaked softly. Pipes clicked. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once—then stopped short.
Jules didn’t know it yet, but on the other side of town, a girl named Barbara Holland was screaming.
Chapter Text
The world was wet.
Jules stood at the edge of a pool, but she wasn’t herself.
Everything felt wrong — cold air on bare skin, a hollow ache in her gut. Her breath came out shaky. Water dripped behind her, echoing into the dark.
The trees surrounding the pool seemed to loom too close. The stars above looked smudged, like someone had dragged their fingers through the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a low mechanical hum pulsed — a streetlight? A filter?
She hugged her arms around herself. Her fingers weren’t quite right. Too long. Too pale.
“—nncy?” she tried to say, but the name came out warped. Muffled. Not hers.
She turned toward the sound of a creak — shoes crunching wet leaves — but no one was there. Just the empty lawn chairs and the dark shimmer of the water, still and thick like oil.
She stumbled backward as something shifted — not in the air, but in her bones.
The trees bent the wrong way. The pool drained without moving. And then—
A shriek. Wet. Guttural.
She ran. Grass slipped under her feet. Her lungs burned. The ladder was too far, and her fingers—her real fingers—couldn’t grip the edge.
She tried to scream, but it stuck in her throat.
Then—hands. Not hers. Not human.
A pull. A snap of heat.
Darkness.
*******
Jules shot upright in bed, her chest heaving.
It was still early — sun barely creeping through the curtains — but she was soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to her back. The sheets were a tangle at her feet.
She sat there for a second, trying to remember what she’d seen. What she’d been.
A pool? Trees? That sound…
The memory slipped like water through her hands.
She rubbed the back of her neck with a wince — sharp, like a sting. Probably slept weird, she told herself. Or one of those tension headaches. Whatever.
Downstairs, she heard Bob humming, maybe making coffee. Normal sounds. A safe house.
Jules pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders and tried not to think about the girl in her dream.
*******
The halls of Hawkins High buzzed with the usual noise—slamming lockers, squeaky sneakers, someone arguing about test scores near the vending machine. Jules moved on autopilot, stuffing a book into her bag as the morning droned along. Her eyes burned from restless sleep. That dream still clung to her in flashes. Cold air. Darkness. A girl’s voice—hoarse, panicked—calling out for someone.
A name. Muffled. Slipping through her fingers before she could hold onto it.
“Jules.”
She turned and found Nancy Wheeler standing a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over her books, looking… unsettled. Not the usual porcelain-perfect version of herself. This version looked like she hadn’t slept either.
“Hey,” Jules said, trying to shake off the leftover haze. “Everything okay?”
Nancy stepped in closer, dropping her voice. “Have you seen Barb today?”
Jules blinked. “No. Was she supposed to meet you or something?”
“She wasn’t in class,” Nancy said, shifting her books. “She should’ve been.”
That feeling again—something heavy curling in Jules’ gut.
“She sick?”
Nancy shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her. I just assumed…”
She trailed off, clearly trying not to look as thrown as she sounded.
Jules narrowed her eyes a little. “Where’d you guys end up last night?”
Nancy hesitated, then quietly: “Steve’s.”
Jules lifted an eyebrow. “Ah.”
Nancy gave her a sharp look. “It wasn’t like that. She didn’t want me to stay, but I… I told her to go home.”
“You’re sure she left?”
Nancy nodded once, almost too quickly. “Yeah. I watched her walk off.”
For a second, neither of them spoke. The bell echoed down the corridor, but neither moved.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jules said, even though she wasn’t. Not really. “Maybe she’s just laying low today.”
“Maybe,” Nancy murmured, but she didn’t sound convinced.
As Nancy turned to head to her next class, Jules lingered.
That ache again—right at the base of her neck. A dull, focused pressure like a pulled muscle or a pinched nerve. She reached up and rubbed it, fingertips brushing the tender skin near the nape.
Still sore.
Still humming with something she couldn’t name.
********
Study hall felt heavier than usual.
Jules sat tucked near the back of the library, behind a shelf of outdated science manuals, pretending to review notes for a biology quiz. But her attention kept slipping to the same spot.
Jonathan Byers.
He sat alone at a corner table, hunched over a stack of textbooks he clearly wasn’t reading. One earbud dangled from his collar; the other was in, though Jules doubted there was music playing. It felt more like a shield than a soundtrack.
She hadn’t talked to him since Will went missing. Not really. Just a few awkward glances in the hallway. A half-hearted wave that he didn’t see. She didn’t know what to say.
But he was alone. And he looked like he might shatter if someone didn’t remind him he existed.
She stood before she could talk herself out of it.
“Hey,” she said softly when she reached his table. “Mind if I sit?”
Jonathan looked up slowly, blinking like he’d been somewhere far away. His eyes were glassy, rimmed with fatigue and something rawer.
Jules shifted her weight. “You don’t have to talk or anything. I just thought maybe you shouldn’t have to sit alone.”
He gave a quiet nod. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either.
She slid into the chair across from him, careful not to make too much noise. For a minute or so, neither of them spoke.
“I’ve been meaning to check on you,” she said finally. “Just… didn’t know how.”
Jonathan’s fingers twitched against the edge of his notebook. “Most people don’t bother.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m not most people.”
That earned her the ghost of a smile—barely there, but real.
“I didn’t even know Will that well,” she continued. “But this whole week’s been—off. Like everyone’s pretending school matters and it doesn’t. Not when someone’s just… gone.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his half-written notes. “It’s like the world moved on and forgot to tell me.”
“I didn’t forget.”
They sat in silence for a while longer.
“I heard you’ve been taking photos,” Jules said quietly.
Jonathan stiffened a little. “Yeah. Habit, I guess.”
“Find anything weird?”
His eyes flicked up to meet hers, searching.
“No,” he said. “Just… shadows.”
She didn’t press.
Instead, she offered, “If you ever need help with something—or just someone to not say anything at all—I’m around.”
He blinked. Took a second longer to respond. “Thanks.”
The bell rang, breaking the moment. Chairs scraped back. Voices swelled.
Jules stood, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “Hang in there, Byers.”
He didn’t say anything, but this time, he watched her go.
*******
The air outside is thick with leftover heat, buzzing faintly with cicadas. Behind the school, students scatter in pairs or small groups, sketchbooks in hand. Jules and Gareth veer toward the edge of the athletic field, where the grass gives way to broken pavement and the occasional weed clawing through the cracks.
Gareth squints up at the sun. “Feels like the kind of day someone passes out and Cartwright doesn’t notice until their body starts attracting flies.”
“Then maybe he’ll give us something interesting to draw,” Jules says, brushing a curly strand out of her face. “A little chiaroscuro, a little decay.”
He snorts. “Very metal of you.”
They stop near the rusted bleachers, half-sunk into the earth. Jules crouches near a stubborn weed that’s splitting the concrete apart.
“This one’s got character,” she mutters.
Gareth flops onto the grass beside her. “I’m drawing that vending machine that hasn’t worked since ’81. I think it’s trying to communicate.”
“Let me guess. You’ll title it ‘Unfulfilled Promise.’”
He lifts a finger. “‘Unrequited Snack.’ But yeah. You get me.”
They both start sketching. For a while, there’s only the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional breeze tugging at the corners of their pages.
Then Jules speaks up, casual but not quite. “That guy at the corn maze. Eddie. He’s your friend?”
Gareth pauses, tapping his eraser against his knee. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just… noticed him, that’s all. He kind of looks like someone who got kicked out of a biker gang for being too philosophical.”
Gareth grins. “Oh, you have no idea. One time he made a ten-minute speech about how Ozzy Osbourne is the spiritual cousin of Shakespeare. I think he was sober, too.”
“That explains the eyeliner and the rants.”
Gareth shrugs. “He’s… different. But not in a bad way. Just, like—if the rest of us are coloring inside the lines, Eddie’s drawing on the table.”
Jules glances sideways at him. “That’s actually kind of poetic.”
He looks surprised. “Oh. Uh. Thanks?”
She smiles, but doesn’t answer. Instead, she shades in the jagged edges of the weed between the pavement cracks. There’s something grounding about the moment—just enough quiet, just enough distraction.
Behind them, a distant clang rings out, echoing off the back of the gym. She tenses slightly, turns toward it—but it’s just a door slamming shut. A janitor, maybe.
Still, it sticks in her chest.
Mr. Cartwright’s voice cuts across the field: “Alright, pack it in!”
Gareth groans and pushes up from the grass. “Time to go pretend we didn’t spend most of that doing nothing.”
“You didn’t,” Jules points out, holding up her half-finished page.
He dusts off his jeans. “I was generating ideas. You can’t rush genius.”
“Pretty sure you can’t find it either.”
“Rude,” he says, but it’s light.
She stands, bumping her shoulder against his. “Race you.”
“Oh god, I haven’t run since gym class freshman year.”
“So you’ll die with dignity.”
He laughs and follows her across the field, trailing just behind.
******
The final bell had rung, and Hawkins High spilled open like a shaken soda can—students buzzing across the lot, laughter and sneakers slapping pavement, the sharp chirp of a coach’s whistle in the distance.
Jules adjusted the strap of her patch-covered backpack and threaded through the crowd toward the bike rack. She was headed to the power lines close to Mike’s house—time to regroup with the boys and El, figure out the plan for tonight’s search.
She was halfway there when she heard it:
“Byers!”
Steve Harrington’s voice—sharp, already heated.
Jules paused, head snapping toward the sound.
Jonathan Byers stood a few yards ahead, gripping a stack of photographs to his chest. His camera hung at his side. Steve was storming toward him, Tommy Hagan and Carol flanking him like attack dogs. Trailing awkwardly was Jenny from art class, clearly regretting tagging along.
“You some kind of perv now, Byers?” Steve spat, snatching the photos from Jonathan’s hands.
Jonathan flinched. “I—I wasn’t—”
“Oh my God,” Carol said, already leafing through them. “Is this Nancy?”
Tommy laughed. “Dude took pictures of all of us at the pool. Creepy little rat.”
Jules stepped closer, weaving around a parked car to get a better look. Her stomach turned when she caught a glimpse—Nancy, undressing through a bedroom window. Steve’s window.
“Jesus, Byers,” Steve snapped. “You’re actually disgusting.”
Nancy had just come outside, the payphone still swinging behind her where she’d hung it up. She froze as she caught sight of the group.
Steve noticed her immediately and held one of the photos up high—her photo.
Nancy didn’t move at first.
“Is this what you do, stalk people with that freaky camera?” Steve said, his voice rising.
He tore the photo in half. Then another. And another. The scraps fluttered to the pavement.
Jonathan’s face had gone paper-white. “Stop,” he said quietly. “Please.”
But Steve wasn’t finished. He stepped forward—and before anyone could react, he ripped the camera from Jonathan’s shoulder and hurled it onto the asphalt.
The sick crack of glass on concrete made Jules wince.
Steve leaned in close to Jonathan, his voice low and venomous. “You ever come near her again, I’ll break more than your camera.”
With that, he stalked off, Tommy and Carol trailing behind.
“Nance,” Tommy called mockingly. “Hope he got your good side!”
Nancy didn’t answer. She knelt instead, picking through the pile of torn photos. Her hand paused on one—Barb, sitting alone on the diving board. A quiet moment, not lewd or staged. Just… sad.
Jonathan, still in shock, crouched beside her, but said nothing.
Jules moved in beside Jonathan, crouching low to help gather the scraps. Her fingers brushed the edge of one photograph—a quiet shot of Barb on the diving board—but she paused when Nancy stepped forward and knelt.
Nancy gently picked it up, her brows knitting as she studied it. The image was torn, but Barb’s expression was clear: alone, unaware, waiting for something that would never come.
Before she could say anything, Steve called from across the lot.
“Nance!”
Nancy blinked, startled. She straightened slowly, still holding the photo. Her eyes flicked from Jonathan to Jules—then down again to the image in her hand.
She didn’t speak.
She just turned and walked toward Steve, the photo of Barb still clutched in her fingers.
Jonathan watched her go, jaw tight, lips pressed in a flat line.
Jules glanced at him, then at the busted camera lying a few feet away. Its lens was cracked, body scuffed—Steve had thrown it hard. Jonathan reached for it, but hesitated, like touching it might make things worse.
He finally grabbed it, checking the damage with shaky hands.
Jules bent down and picked up a dislodged knob from the camera’s body.
“I wasn’t spying,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I swear—I was just looking for Will. I thought maybe someone… saw something that night. That’s all.”
Jules met his eyes.
“I believe you,” she said simply. “And you don’t strike me as the voyeur type.”
He gave a breath of a laugh, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Jules held out the loose piece of the camera and added, “This might be fixable. My uncle Bob’s kind of a wizard with stuff like this—he runs the Radio Shack on Main. Bring it by, tell him Jules sent you. He’ll help.”
Jonathan blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. He’ll probably try to teach you how to solder something while you’re at it, but—worth it.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. He nodded. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” Jules said, standing and brushing the gravel from her jeans. “Also… talk to Nancy. Eventually. When she doesn’t look like she’s gonna throw something at you.”
Jonathan didn’t answer, but the advice seemed to land.
Jules gave him a small nod, then turned to go—no rush this time, just thoughtful steps. She paused at the edge of the lot, looking back once at Jonathan crouched beside the wreckage of his camera.
Then she walked on, fading into the after-school sprawl.
*******
Gravel crackled beneath Jules’ tires as she coasted down the hill toward the power lines, one hand steadying the handlebars, the other gripping a half-zipped windbreaker flapping at her side. The sun hung low behind the lattice tower, painting long shadows over the dirt.
She spotted them ahead—Mike, Lucas, and Dustin walking their bikes along the wooded path. El trailed slightly ahead, barefoot and strangely composed, like the woods belonged to her.
Jules rolled up beside them and kicked down her kickstand.
“Hope you weren’t planning on finding Will without me,” she said, brushing a few stray curls from her face.
“You’re late,” Lucas muttered.
“Ran into some drama,” she added, breath catching. “What’d I miss?”
Dustin gestured to El. “She says Will’s close. Like, here-close.”
Jules raised an eyebrow, glancing at El. The girl’s face was unreadable, but her focus was razor-sharp—eyes forward, feet silent against twigs and leaves.
“And we’re just following her now?” Jules asked, half to Dustin, half to no one.
“She knows something,” Mike insisted.
They kept walking. The air grew stiller the deeper they went, birds quiet, the woods listening. Jules adjusted her grip on her handlebars, glancing around as if the trees might shift or whisper.
She caught sight of El brushing her fingers against the edge of a branch, like she was feeling for something invisible.
They broke through the trees, and the familiar silhouette of a single-story house came into view—shaggy lawn, sagging porch.
Jules stopped walking.
“That’s…” Dustin started.
“Will’s house,” she said, her voice low.
The boys looked at El.
“This is it?” Mike asked.
El nodded. “Hiding.”
Lucas let out a sharp breath and scoffed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. This is literally his house. If he was here, don’t you think his mom would’ve said something?”
“Maybe she doesn’t know,” Mike offered, glancing back at El.
“Maybe she’s lying too,” Lucas shot back.
Jules stepped between them, voice calm but edged. “Okay, can we not? Not here.”
The wind shifted. A low rumble cut through the trees—distant engines, sirens, tires on gravel.
Dustin’s head snapped toward the noise. “Guys—look!”
They all turned as a blur of police cars sped down the road beyond the trees, lights flashing blue and red against the trunks.
No one said a word.
Jules’s hand found her bike seat like instinct. She looked at El—who hadn’t moved, but her jaw had tensed.
Then they all ran.
Pedals kicked. Tires lifted from the dirt. Gravel spat behind them as they tore off into the woods, chasing the sirens.
The image of Barb face, the one that Nancy took with her—flickered in Jules’s mind. That frozen moment on the diving board. A shadow behind her.
Jules didn’t know if they were about to find Will or something else. But either way, something was coming undone.
*******
The wind kicked up dust and pine needles as the kids coasted to a stop near the gravel turnoff, tires crunching against the uneven ground. Sirens were already fading into silence, swallowed by the hills and trees behind them.
Jules flung her kickstand down, heart hammering harder than it should’ve been. Maybe it was the way the air felt—too still, too quiet. Like something had already happened.
“Why would they be at the quarry?” Lucas muttered.
No one answered.
They hiked the rest of the way up on foot, bikes abandoned behind. Stones shifted under their sneakers. Jules kept her eyes ahead, trying to make out what was happening—who was here. A line of police cars marked the ridge, red and blue lights slicing across the rock face. A few uniforms moved between them, slow and deliberate. Quiet.
And then there was the van.
Boxy. White. Parked a little too neatly off to the side.
A man stood near it, tall and broad-shouldered, with a worn badge catching the last of the sun. Jules didn’t know him, but something about the way he moved made her gut twist — like the world had suddenly gotten a little more serious.
The van doors opened.
She didn’t realize she’d moved forward until her foot slipped a little on the gravel. Dustin reached for her elbow, but she didn’t stop.
The gurney came out.
Sheet-covered. Still.
Jules blinked hard, trying not to see what she already knew was there.
The sheet pulled back. Just enough.
Pale face. Closed eyes. Dark hair damp at the temples.
Will.
Mike’s breath caught sharp in his throat. Dustin let out a noise between a gasp and a swallow. Lucas took a step back like the earth had shifted beneath him.
Jules didn’t say anything.
Will wasn’t a best friend. But he’d been over to Dustin’s house a hundred times. Shared a bowl of popcorn during movie nights. Played D&D from the floor while Jules mocked the rules from the couch. Gave her a nervous smile every time she caught him looking her way.
That was enough.
“You said he was alive,” Mike said suddenly.
Jules turned just in time to see him facing El, his voice rising fast.
“You said he was okay,” he said again. “You said he was alive!”
El didn’t answer. Her head dropped, shoulders hunched. A flicker of something crossed her face—but it was gone too fast to name.
“Mike,” Jules said, reaching for him, but he stepped away.
Down by the van, the man in the tan coat was speaking to someone, low and clipped. The other officers moved like they were used to following him. Authority rolled off him without trying. Jules watched, distant and disoriented, like the moment was folding in on itself.
She didn’t know how any of this could be happening.
And Will Byers was still lying there.
The sheet covered Will again.
Mike didn’t wait. His voice caught somewhere between a breath and a sob, and then he turned—shoving past Jules, past El, down the gravel path at full tilt.
“Mike—!” Dustin called, half a step forward.
“I got him,” Jules said, already moving.
But Lucas held her back, barely a hand to her arm. “Let him go.”
She hesitated—just for a second—and then nodded. Mike needed space. Maybe even deserved it.
Behind them, El stood frozen. Her face pale. Blank. Like she didn’t quite understand what had gone wrong, but she knew it had. Lucas stepped up beside her without a word. He didn’t touch her, just started walking slowly down the trail.
She followed.
Jules looked after them both for a beat. Then she turned to Dustin.
He hadn’t moved. His eyes were still locked on the spot where Will had been.
“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
Dustin didn’t argue. He didn’t say anything at all.
They walked back to the bikes in silence. The woods were darker now, the last edge of daylight burning off behind the trees. Gravel crunched underfoot, sirens long gone.
Jules didn’t ask if he was okay. He wasn’t. Neither was she.
She just kept pace beside him, one hand lightly on his shoulder.
*******
The porch light was still on. Jules didn’t bother slowing down—just wheeled her bike up the familiar steps, keys already in hand. Dustin trailed behind, silent and pale, sneakers scraping across the concrete.
She unlocked the door and pushed it open without knocking. Warm light spilled into the front hallway.
“Dustin?” Claudia’s voice called from somewhere deeper in the house—sharper than usual. “Is that you?”
She appeared a second later, robe pulled tight around her and slippers scuffing the floor. Her relief was instant but short-lived, shifting into narrowed eyes and furrowed brows.
“It’s almost midnight. What on earth—” She cut herself off as she caught sight of Jules’ face. Then Dustin’s. Her tone softened, but the undercurrent of worry stayed. “What happened?”
Dustin dropped his bag in the hallway, didn’t answer. He went straight for the living room couch and sat down hard, staring at nothing.
Jules hesitated, glancing from Claudia to Dustin.
“They found Will,” she said quietly. “At the quarry.”
Claudia froze, just for a breath. “What?”
Jules didn’t repeat it. She didn’t have to.
Claudia moved like someone holding back a tidal wave—deliberate, fragile steps across the room. She sat beside Dustin, reached out to touch his shoulder. “Honey…”
Still no response.
Jules turned away and went into the kitchen. The cabinets were the same as they’d been when she visited from Chicago—sun-bleached wood with peeling paint. She found the cocoa mix in the second one from the left, next to the instant oatmeal and stale graham crackers. The mugs clinked softly as she pulled them down, the same chipped sunflower one waiting in the back.
She poured milk into the saucepan and turned on the burner, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and Claudia’s murmurs from the next room. When the cocoa was ready, she carried the mugs back carefully.
Dustin was still curled up, the crocheted blanket bunched in his lap. Claudia was sitting beside him, one arm around his back, the other resting protectively on his knee.
Jules handed one mug to Claudia, then knelt in front of Dustin and held out the second.
“Here. Drink,” she said gently. “It’s not the gross powder kind. I put the good marshmallows in.”
He took it without a word.
She gave him a faint smile. “That’s my Dust Bunny.”
Claudia glanced over at Jules with soft eyes, then tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I should call Bob. Let him know you’re here and safe.”
Jules nodded. “Yeah… good idea.”
Claudia didn’t move yet. She kept her hand on Dustin’s back, rubbing slow, steady circles. “I don’t know what I’d do if either of you didn’t come through that door.”
Jules looked away, sipping from her mug. The warmth helped, but only a little.
None of this felt real. The night, the quarry, that moment when they saw Will’s body—Dustin’s gasp, Mike running like he could outrun the truth. And El’s voice cutting through the fog:
He’s not gone.
Jules hadn’t forgotten that.
But for now, she sat beside her honorary aunt and her almost-little-brother, wrapped in the low hum of the house and the weight of a world that felt like it was beginning to tilt.
None of this made sense.
And something in her gut told her it was about to get worse.
Notes:
Hey everyone, so I've just been pulling these chapter out nonstop the last couple days. Up to chapter 12 now and might just post all of them if I finish making some last minute edits. Hope you're enjoying Jules' journey so far and would love to hear how y'all feel about it. I'm itching to finish the first season so we can get into some Eddie action. Thanks again for reading!
Chapter 9: The Cold Truth
Chapter Text
The house was still when Jules woke — the kind of stillness that followed after grief had wrung someone out.
Dustin was curled up, facing the wall, his comforter pulled up over his shoulder like a shield. His face was blotchy, his pillow damp. Jules sat up slowly on the floor next to his bed, legs stiff from where she’d dozed off criss-crossed, propped against the baseboard.
She watched him for a moment, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Her heart tugged with a quiet ache. She’d seen Dustin cry before — when he scraped his knee on a bike ride, or when his turtle died in third grade — but never like this. This wasn’t a scraped knee kind of grief. This was the kind that hollowed people out.
She reached out, gently tugged the blanket up a little higher over his shoulder, then slipped out of the room.
Down the hall, the scent of coffee and burnt toast greeted her — Claudia’s unmistakable breakfast signature.
Claudia glanced up from the toaster as Jules padded into the kitchen, her hair a mess, socks mismatched.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she said softly, voice rough with sleep and worry.
Jules rubbed at one eye. “You’re burning things again.”
“It’s a talent,” Claudia said, flipping the blackened toast onto a plate with a shrug. She moved to the counter and filled a second mug, steam curling upward. “Coffee?”
“Yeah,” Jules said, surprising even herself. “Thanks.”
She normally only drank it around Bob, and even then, she drowned it in sugar. But today… it felt right. She needed something strong.
Claudia handed it over without comment. “He sleep?”
“Some. Not enough.”
Claudia leaned back against the counter, sipping her own cup. “I called Bob last night. Let him know you were here. He was relieved.”
Jules nodded slowly. “I should’ve told him.”
“He understood. You were doing the right thing.”
That sat in the quiet between them. Claudia didn’t have to say more — she had known Jules since she was a kid. Had held her hand when she found out her mom had died in a car crash. Had shown up for every birthday. She knew the difference between when Jules was pushing boundaries and when she was protecting someone.
Jules blew on her coffee, then took a sip — bitter, warm, grounding.
“I’m gonna head home,” she said. “Grab a change of clothes, then maybe go to school.”
Claudia raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t have to go if you’re not up for it.”
“I think I need to.” Jules stared into her mug.
Claudia came around the counter and rested a hand gently on Jules’ cheek. “Alright. Just… be careful today, okay? Everything feels a little upside down right now.”
Jules gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Claudia pulled her into a brief hug, the kind that said I love you, now go.
Jules let it linger a second longer than usual before grabbing her jacket and heading out into the cool morning air.
*******
The gravel crunched under Jules’ boots as she stepped up onto the porch of the house by Lovers Lake — her house. Morning sunlight spilled through the trees, catching the dew on the railings and making everything look quieter than it felt.
She slipped her key into the lock and eased the door open.
Bob was already in the kitchen, dressed in his crisp red RadioShack polo and tan slacks, prepping a thermos of coffee with one hand while flipping pancakes with the other. A soft hum of Daydream Believer drifted from the little counter radio. He moved with quiet precision, like he was building a buffer of routine between himself and the world.
He didn’t turn when she walked in.
“Figured you’d swing by this morning.”
Jules dropped her bag by the door and hovered in the archway, suddenly sheepish.
“Claudia burnt the toast again. So I figured I’d risk yours.”
That earned the tiniest smile from him — tired, but real.
“She called me last night. Said you were staying over. Said you were okay.”
“I was,” Jules said, toeing off her boots. “Am. I just didn’t want to leave Dustin alone.”
Bob turned to face her then, thermos in one hand, spatula in the other. He didn’t look mad. Just worn — like a man who’d spent the night pacing through every worst-case scenario and was still trying to shake the echo of them.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “But next time, a phone call wouldn’t kill you.”
“I know,” she said, her voice soft. “I just… didn’t want to make it real. Saying it out loud.”
Bob nodded, finally plating a pancake and setting it on the table with a fork.
“I get it. Just promise me you won’t shut me out, okay? Especially not now.”
“I promise.”
She sank into the chair and stared at the pancake like it might have answers hidden in the syrup.
“He thinks Will’s dead,” she said after a long pause.
“I know.”
“I don’t know if he’s wrong.”
Bob sat across from her and didn’t try to argue. He just waited, letting her say what she needed.
“There’s this part of me that keeps saying it’s not over. Like… I’d feel it if he were really gone.”
Bob gave her a small, thoughtful nod.
“You’ve got good instincts. You always have.”
She met his eyes, grateful for the steadiness in them.
“You still heading in?”
“Yeah. I told Mr. Pendleton I’d cover the open shift,” he said, tipping his head toward the khaki windbreaker slung over the back of the kitchen chair. “Place won’t sell overpriced cassette decks without me.”
Jules gave a quiet laugh, then stood and wrapped her arms around him in a brief, fierce hug.
“Thanks, Bob.”
“For what?”
“For not freaking out. For just being here.”
He hugged her back with a steady hand on her back.
“Always.”
She stepped back, grabbing the pancake with her fingers and taking a bite on the way to the hallway.
“I’m changing, then heading to school,” she said around the mouthful.
“Helmet.”
“Nope.”
“Still had to try.”
********
The moment Jules stepped into the hallway of Hawkins High, she felt it: the way grief clung to the air like humidity.
It wasn’t quiet — quite the opposite. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Voices swirled, too loud, too casual for what had happened.
“Did you see the news?”
“They found his body in the quarry.”
“No one survives that fall.”
Her stomach turned. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her backpack.
Jules had barely convinced herself to show up. It felt wrong — to be here, to walk these halls like everything hadn’t just shattered.
She kept her head down, pushing past the clusters of students trading theories like gossip. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as she turned into the nearest bathroom.
The door swung shut behind her with a hollow clack, muffling the hallway noise.
She leaned over the sink, gripped the edges, and breathed.
It wasn’t Will. She felt that in her gut. But what could she even do with a feeling like that?
The stall behind her creaked open.
Nancy Wheeler stepped out, and froze when she spotted Jules.
Her face was pale. Not makeup-pale — drained. Her eyes were rimmed in red, mascara smudged just slightly, like she’d cried and then tried very hard not to look like she had.
“Hey,” Jules said softly.
Nancy nodded. “Hey.”
A pause stretched between them.
“I… didn’t expect you here,” Nancy said. “I thought maybe you were out with—Dustin, I mean.”
“Yeah. I was.” Jules hesitated. “But he needed space.”
Nancy nodded again, slower this time. She seemed distracted — her mind chewing through something else entirely.
“I heard about Barb,” Jules said carefully. “I’m sorry.”
That got Nancy’s full attention. Her eyebrows knit, guarded. “Did someone say something?”
“No,” Jules admitted. “Just… you asked me the other day if I’d seen her. So. I kind of put it together.”
Nancy looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you believe something happened?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t not say it either,” Nancy replied, arms crossing over her chest.
“I just think,” Jules said, choosing her words, “people don’t just vanish.”
Nancy looked at her like she was trying to decide if Jules was messing with her or not.
“No one else believes me,” she said after a beat. “They think she ran away. Or that I’m just… freaking out over nothing.”
“Are you?”
Nancy flinched a little at the question.
Jules added gently, “I mean — if you are, that’s fair. But if you’re not… maybe don’t stop asking questions.”
For a second, it felt like Nancy might cry again. But instead she blinked hard and gave the smallest nod.
Jules let the silence hang between them, then nodded back and turned to leave.
Right before she reached the door, Nancy called softly, “She was scared. Before she left. I didn’t notice.”
Jules paused, hand on the door. “It’s never obvious until you’re looking back.”
Then she slipped out into the hallway — where the whispers started up again, louder now.
Will Byers is dead.
They found him.
It’s over.
But something deep in Jules’ chest clenched.
It didn’t feel over.
Not even close.
********
Jules didn’t make it far from the bathroom before someone shouted her name—way too loud for a hallway filled with mourning whispers.
“Ambrose!”
Robin came weaving through the crowd like she was late for a punk rock gig, long limbs flying, hair in partial chaos.
“Oh thank God,” Robin said dramatically as she skidded to a stop in front of her. “I’ve been talking to myself for days. Do you have any idea how annoying I am?”
Jules blinked. “Debatable.”
Robin gasped, clutching her heart. “And now I’m wounded. Might never recover.”
Jules cracked a smile. “Morning, Buckley.”
“Don’t try to charm your way out of this. You’ve been here all week and haven’t said two words to me. I was starting to think I hallucinated you.”
“I’ve been around,” Jules said, adjusting her bag. “Just… preoccupied.”
“Right.” Robin nodded knowingly. “The Henderson Gremlin Emergency.”
Jules nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been going over after school. Hanging around the house. Trying not to hover too much.”
Robin’s usual sarcasm dulled at the edges. “How’s he doing?”
“Like he just lost his best friend,” Jules said softly. “Everything’s quiet with him. It’s almost worse than if he cried.”
Robin glanced down the hall at nothing in particular. “People are talking,” she said. “Like it’s a soap opera. Half the school’s suddenly an expert on Will Byers, and none of them even know his brother, let alone him.”
“I know,” Jules muttered. “He was just the quiet kid. Nobody cared until he ended up in the news.”
Robin gave a dry huff. “High school. Where tragedy gets you attention.”
That got a real, if tired, laugh out of Jules.
“There she is,” Robin said, nudging her. “I knew you were still in there.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
Jules rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. Her chest still felt tight from the bathroom—Nancy’s haunted face, the way her words had turned Jules’s stomach. She wasn’t ready to process it, not with the walls closing in.
Robin bumped her gently again. “So. Wanna skip a class?”
Jules blinked. “What?”
“Just one,” Robin said, eyes gleaming like she was handing over a golden ticket. “We hit the music wing. I’ve been testing out a theory that if you hum in the northeast corner, you sound like Whitney Houston. I need a second opinion.”
Jules hesitated. She never skipped class. Not really. But something about the idea—about disappearing for just a little while with someone who didn’t expect anything from her—was dangerously appealing.
“I don’t know,” she said, but it was less refusal and more weighing.
“Come on,” Robin urged. “You look like you need it. We’ll make it back before anyone notices. Or if they do, I’ll take the fall. I’m already on thin ice with three of my teachers and my GPA is a war zone.”
Jules laughed again—easier this time. “You are such a bad influence.”
Robin grinned, triumphant. “I try.”
They walked together, not toward the music wing yet, but maybe not toward class either. Just a detour. Just a moment of quiet in a building too full of noise.
Jules didn’t bring up Nancy. Didn’t talk about the ache in her chest or the flicker of unease still twisting in her gut.
And Robin, bless her, didn’t ask.
********
The scratch of pencil tips and the hum of the overhead lights made the classroom feel heavier than usual. A quiet weight hung over the students, like everyone had agreed—without saying a word—not to be too loud, not today.
Jules sat near the window, her workbook open in front of her but untouched. She tapped the back of her pencil against the edge of her desk, her eyes drifting toward the cloudy sky outside. The wind pushed the trees, bending them like they were bowing to something no one could see. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting under the surface—beneath the world everyone else was trying to pretend was still normal.
A kid two rows up whispered something to his desk partner and got a sharp elbow in return. Jules didn’t bother trying to hear what they were saying. She already knew. There was only one thing anyone was talking about, even if most of them weren’t brave enough to say it outright anymore.
Will Byers.
She glanced across the room, eyes landing on Nancy, who sat a few rows away, her spine rigid and her pencil still. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. Her face was a mask of composure, but Jules had been in the bathroom with her not long ago — seen the raw edge in her voice, the haunted look in her eyes.
Nancy hadn’t told her everything. Not yet. But Jules didn’t need the full story to know something wasn’t adding up.
The door creaked open with a long groan, and every head in the room turned.
Principal Coleman stepped in with his usual forced smile, though it faded the moment his eyes landed on Nancy Wheeler. “Ms. Wheeler,” he said gently, voice calm but firm. “Can I see you for a moment?”
Nancy looked up slowly, blinking as if she’d just been snapped out of something deep. She nodded, her movements quiet and deliberate as she began gathering her books. For a second, it seemed like she might keep her head down, avoid meeting anyone’s eyes—but then her gaze swept the room and caught Jules’.
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There were no gasps or knowing glances exchanged. But the look Nancy gave her was layered — wary, sad, maybe a little afraid. Not of Jules. Of everything.
Jules met it, steady. Just a small tilt of her head. I see you.
Nancy gave the faintest nod before slipping out the door. It clicked shut behind her, soft as a breath, but it echoed in Jules’ chest.
Mr. Thompson cleared his throat at the front of the room. “Let’s stay focused, please. Finish up the last three questions before the bell.”
But Jules barely heard him. She stared at the doorway long after Nancy was gone, heart knocking a little too hard against her ribs.
Something wasn’t right. And whatever Nancy knew — whatever she wasn’t ready to say — it was starting to show.
She turned back to her worksheet, pretending to read. But her mind wasn’t on fractions or history or anything normal.
It was on missing girls. Hollow eyes. Cracks in the sky.
And the way the wind had shifted, like something was waking up.
********
The air inside Hawkins Gym was thick with chalk and echoes. The rhythmic thud of sneakers, the soft slap of hands on mats, the creak of the beam—usually, it all calmed Jules. Here, she could move without thinking. Here, she could breathe.
But not today.
She missed the landing again, barely catching herself before her foot slid off the beam entirely. She stumbled forward, hands grazing the beam as she steadied herself with a quiet curse under her breath.
Across the gym, Coach Finley raised his voice—not yelling, but cutting through the room like a blade.
“Ambrose. Off the beam.”
She hesitated. She wanted to finish the routine. Prove something—to him, to herself. But her body wasn’t listening the way it used to.
Jules hopped down, jaw clenched.
Finley crossed the floor toward her, his clipboard tucked under one arm. “That’s the third time this week.”
“I know,” she said, wiping chalk on her thighs.
He studied her for a beat—his brow drawn, but not harsh. Coach Finley wasn’t soft, but he wasn’t cruel either. “You’re off, Jules. Not just a little. What’s going on?”
“I’m just—tired,” she said quickly. “It’s been…a week.”
“That’s not tired,” he said simply. “That’s something else.”
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not when she felt like she might shatter if someone looked too closely.
“I just need more reps,” she insisted. “I can push through.”
Finley gave a short sigh, then tilted his head toward the bench. “Go sit. Watch. Breathe.”
She didn’t move.
“Jules.”
She looked up, and there was something in his face that pulled her up short. Not frustration. Not disappointment. Just concern. Quiet and steady.
She nodded, swallowing the knot in her throat.
“Okay.”
She crossed to the edge of the mat and sat, drawing her knees to her chest. The others were still working—clean landings, fluid motion, easy balance. Her fingers twitched in her lap. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore.
Something was wrong. With her coordination. With her rhythm. With her.
Coach Finley didn’t press her. Just walked back across the gym, already calling out notes to another girl mid-tumble.
Jules sat there, chalk still on her palms, and tried not to shake.
********
The wind pushed at her jacket as she walked her bike along the wooded trail just off the main road, Walkman clipped to her jeans, music thumping quietly through her headphones. It wasn’t a long way home—fifteen minutes if she didn’t rush—but Jules didn’t mind dragging it out.
She was trying to wear herself out. Muscle by muscle. Thought by thought.
Gym hadn’t helped. She still felt too full—of nerves, of grief, of something sharp and awful she couldn’t name.
Her tires clicked softly against the gravel, leaves crunching underfoot as the path wound between tall oaks. The air was cooling down, shadows stretching longer. Normally she liked this time of day. That golden hour glow, that breath-before-dinner quiet.
But tonight, it felt wrong.
She paused, slowly pulling one earcup off.
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The hollow kind.
Her eyes flicked to the trees. Nothing moved—but the hairs on her arms stood straight up. Something cold unspooled in her gut.
She glanced back the way she came. Empty.
Then ahead.
Still empty.
Still—something was watching her. She knew that feeling. Everyone did. It was ancient. Primal.
Jules swung her leg over her bike and started pedaling.
Fast.
The chain snapped against the gears as she picked up speed, wind biting at her cheeks. She didn’t care if it looked crazy. She didn’t care if she was overreacting. Her instincts were screaming.
Go. Now.
She rounded the last bend before the street—
CRACK.
Something snapped behind her. Closer than it should have been.
She didn’t dare look back.
Then a searing slash tore across the back of her neck.
She gasped—nearly lost control—blood already hot and wet down her collar. She reached up, fingers coming away slick. The world blurred. Her hood had been up—something had gone under it.
She didn’t stop.
She tore across the street, jumped the curb, and skidded into the driveway.
The front door burst open before she could even drop the bike.
“Jules?!”
Bob.
She ran up the porch, blood still seeping down her spine, heart hammering. She slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against it, chest heaving.
Bob was already crossing to her, his eyes wide in horror. “What happened?!”
“I’m okay,” she lied quickly, holding up a hand. “I—I was pedaling fast, and I clipped a branch or something—”
Bob didn’t buy it, but his priority was the blood. “Let me see—”
“It’s not that bad,” she said, deflecting again, pulling the hood down as carefully as she could without grimacing. She felt light-headed. “It just scared me, that’s all.”
“Come on,” he said, gently steering her toward the kitchen. “We’re cleaning that. No arguments.”
She nodded, letting him guide her, her hands still shaking as she peeled off the jacket and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. Bob sat her down carefully, wet a paper towel, and knelt beside her to inspect the back of her neck.
“Doesn’t look too deep,” he murmured, voice steady but tight. “Just… a lot of blood. You’ll be okay.”
Jules exhaled sharply, like her lungs had been clenched for miles.
But then—
Something pulsed under her skin.
Not from the wound. Deeper. Almost like a pressure valve suddenly releasing in her chest, her spine, her limbs. A flicker of heat unfurled in her fingers, tingling at the tips like they’d fallen asleep and were waking up all at once. Her vision sharpened, the lines of the kitchen tile snapping into focus too crisp, too vivid. The sound of the fridge humming hit her ears like a scream.
“Whoa,” she mumbled, grabbing the edge of the table.
Bob glanced up. “You okay?”
She nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… adrenaline, I think. I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. Not really.
The pounding in her ears didn’t feel like fear anymore. It felt like static—like something was crackling inside her, just beneath the surface. The scrape on her neck stung, sure, but it wasn’t the injury that unsettled her. It was the shift.
Something had… changed.
She clenched and unclenched her hand under the table. The buzzing didn’t stop.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, Jules,” Bob said softly. “Then we’ll talk about the whole racing-a-branch thing, okay?”
She forced a smile and followed him to the bathroom, not daring to glance back at the hoodie on the counter. A tiny, near-invisible object had already slipped from its place inside the fabric—lodged in the folds of the hood like a discarded tooth.
Unnoticed. For now.
*******
The warmth of the living room lights felt like a balm after the cold spike of panic earlier. Jules curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket draped over her legs, the faint hum of the end credits rolling over the TV speakers. Bob was still sitting beside her, one hand loosely around a mug of decaf tea he hadn’t touched in a while.
He kept glancing at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
“I’m fine,” she said softly, not for the first time that night.
He didn’t answer, just nodded and gave her a small, closed-lip smile like he was trying not to press. But he hadn’t left her side since they got back. Even through dinner—grilled cheese, soup—he was unusually quiet, hovering, waiting for her hands to stop shaking, waiting for her to snap.
She didn’t.
Mostly because she felt like she couldn’t.
Now, she just wanted to go upstairs and pretend the day hadn’t happened.
“I think I’m gonna head up,” she said, folding the blanket neatly. “You can finish the next episode without me.”
Bob looked up like he might argue, then deflated. “Alright. But holler if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I know.” She paused at the stairs, adding a softer, “Thanks, Bob.”
He offered a tired smile in return, something that made her chest twist with guilt. She didn’t like making him worry. But what else could she do?
*******
Her room welcomed her like an old sweater—quiet, still, untouched. She kicked off her shoes, peeled off her socks, and moved straight for her bed. But as she passed her desk, she caught sight of the hoodie she’d tossed over the back of the chair earlier.
Her stomach turned.
The fabric was dark with dried blood. The hood sagged with invisible weight. The sight of it made her whole body tense, like if she touched it she might fall right back into that moment—pedaling like hell, something behind her, the scrape of claws, the certainty that she’d been hunted.
She grabbed it.
Without thinking, she shoved it into the back of her closet, burying it under an old backpack and some worn-out leotards from last year’s meets. She didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to remember.
Just pretend the day hadn’t happened. Simple.
But the second she closed the closet door, her body buzzed—hard.
A sudden heat flared up her spine, down her arms. Her fingertips lit up with a faint, golden glow—brief but bright, like fireflies blinking under her skin.
“Shit—” she hissed, stumbling back.
The room was dim except for that light. A flicker that flashed in her hands, then pulsed again, stronger this time—bright enough to cast shadows.
Her breath caught.
Then, just as fast as it came—it vanished.
Darkness returned.
She stood there, heart pounding in the silence, staring at her empty palms. They looked the same. Normal. No burns, no glow. But they didn’t feel normal.
They felt like something was waiting.
She backed toward her bed, slow and careful like her hands might detonate if she moved too fast. Slipped under the covers, body stiff and cold with nerves, and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The silence stretched. No more flickers. No heat. Just the sound of her own breath.
And even when her eyes finally closed, sleep stayed just out of reach—hovering like whatever had been chasing her… hadn’t stopped.
Chapter 10: No More Hiding
Chapter Text
The morning light bled through her curtains, pale and cold. It washed the edges of her room in soft gray, casting long shadows across the floor and making everything feel quieter than it should’ve.
Still, Jules didn’t move.
She lay curled on her side, one hand absently resting on the back of her neck, fingertips brushing over the edge of the bandage there. Her heart beat slow and strange, like it wasn’t sure what rhythm to follow.
Eventually, she sat up.
The air was too still. The kind of quiet that came after a storm—and Jules wasn’t sure if she was before it or after.
She swung her legs off the bed, bare feet pressing to the floor. Her body ached in a way she couldn’t explain—like her bones had been rewired overnight and hadn’t quite settled into place. Every movement felt just half a second behind, like some part of her was lagging out of sync.
She reached for the edge of the bandage again. It had started to itch beneath the gauze, and she figured she should check it—see if it needed changing. The memory of the gash made her stomach turn. Her fingers hesitated.
Then she peeled it off.
The adhesive gave way with a soft tug.
She stood and turned toward the mirror on her dresser, twisting her head to get a look at the wound.
But there wasn’t one.
No scab. No bruising. Not even the faintest trace of redness.
Just smooth, untouched skin.
“Bullshit,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
She remembered it—claws, blood, that searing white-hot pain. She remembered how her knees had buckled. How Bob had helped her out of the woods. That hadn’t been a dream. It couldn’t have been.
And yet—
Her skin was perfect.
Then came the pulsing.
Not pain—but pressure. A slow thrum under her ribs, like something had been jarred loose and was trying to settle again. It moved through her chest, into her arms, and pooled warm in her palms.
Her fingers twitched.
She stared down at them like they belonged to someone else. No glow. No static. But it was there—something coiled and waiting, like her body was holding a breath it didn’t know how to exhale.
She curled her fingers into fists. The feeling dimmed, but didn’t disappear.
Not completely.
Still humming.
She turned from the mirror and moved to her closet. Mechanically, her fingers brushed past dresses, skirts, jackets—until she landed on a plain black dress. She pulled it out and laid it across her bed.
Then crossed the room to her jewelry box.
Jules paused.
Her fingers hovered for a second before she reached into the back corner, careful, deliberate. She found the small velvet pouch and slid it open.
Her mother’s necklace. Gold, delicate, with a pale green stone at the center.
She couldn’t remember the last time she wore it.
Jules fastened it around her neck.
The weight of it was familiar. Comforting. Like a hand at her back.
She sat on the edge of the bed again and stared at her hands.
The buzz beneath her skin was still there. Soft. Steady.
Last night had happened.
The wound had been real.
And whatever this was now…
It was real too.
Awake.
And it wasn’t going back to sleep.
********
The smell of coffee greeted her at the bottom of the stairs—warm, familiar, and too normal for a day like this.
Jules stepped into the kitchen dressed in black, her hair still damp but styled down around her shoulders, soft and loose. A fresh bandage sat beneath it, hidden well enough by the waves of blonde.
Bob looked up from the coffeemaker. His eyes softened the moment he saw her.
“You look nice, kiddo.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, heading toward the mugs.
As she passed, something caught his eye—just a glint at her collarbone.
He blinked.
“…Is that Isla’s?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Jules touched the necklace out of reflex, fingers brushing the small green pendant.
“Yeah.”
Bob’s gaze lingered on it.
“I remember picking that out,” he said, voice quieter now. “The green reminded her of your eyes.”
Jules didn’t say anything. She just pressed the stone flat against her skin.
“She wore it a lot when she had to be away from you,” Bob added after a beat. “Said it helped her feel close.”
A pause.
Jules’ throat bobbed. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t,” he said, instantly. “Not even a little.”
His hand found her arm, gave it a soft squeeze.
“You sleep okay?”
She nodded, though not convincingly. “More or less.”
He stepped closer, thumb hooked on his belt loop. “You want me to check your bandage before we go?”
“I already changed it,” she said quickly. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
She didn’t turn. “I promise.”
He studied her for a beat, then nodded. “Alright.”
He didn’t press. Never did.
“Car’s warmed up,” he said. “You’ve got time if you want something to eat.”
She shook her head. “I’d just end up regretting it.”
“Fair. Got mints in the glovebox if you change your mind.”
Jules gave a faint smile, her hands wrapped around the coffee mug like it might anchor her.
Bob watched her a moment longer, then reached out and gently squeezed her arm.
“You okay?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“That’s alright,” he said softly. “You don’t have to be.”
She looked up at him, eyes shadowed but steady.
“Let’s get through the morning,” he added. “Then maybe we hit that diner on the way home. The one with the sad jukebox.”
Jules huffed quietly. “Where every song is about heartbreak and stray dogs.”
“And pie,” he added, smiling. “Don’t forget the pie.”
A real smile flickered across her face, just for a second.
Then she nodded. “Okay.”
*******
The cemetery was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It felt… off.
Jules stood near the back, boots pressed into soft earth as the preacher’s voice drifted over the gathered mourners. Overhead, the sky hung low and colorless, casting everything in washed-out gray.
The world looked different today.
Sharper.
The edges of people. The sway of the trees. The way shadows moved. Every detail stood out like it had been dialed up—too crisp, too alive for a funeral.
And the buzz was back.
It wasn’t sound exactly. More like pressure—like static crackling behind her eyes, low and constant, riding just beneath the surface of everything.
Every time someone shifted or whispered nearby, the energy jumped in her skin like a live wire.
She shifted her weight, fingers stuffed deep into the pockets of her coat. The bandage on the back of her neck pulled slightly as she moved, a dull reminder of everything that had changed.
The casket sat at the center of it all, too small and too wrong. Jules stared at it, her stomach twisting. There was something about it that didn’t sit right—an emptiness she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t grief, not really. More like a ripple in the air. A tension humming through her chest like a storm building in the bones.
She glanced toward the front of the crowd.
Mike, Lucas, and Dustin were huddled together a few rows ahead, whispering. They weren’t crying. They didn’t even look particularly sad. Just… wired. Glancing around like they were waiting for something.
Dustin looked back once, caught her eye, and gave a small wave. It wasn’t cheerful—almost apologetic. Then Mike nudged him, and they both turned away.
Weird.
She made a mental note to check in with Dustin, but the pressure at the base of her skull flared again, pulling her attention inward.
It surged, hot and flickering, like the air before lightning.
A pulse of warmth radiated down her spine, through her shoulders, like a slow fuse.
Breathe normal. Stand still. Don’t draw attention.
She locked her jaw, trying to keep her focus steady as the preacher spoke about grief, about love, about the Lord calling His children home. The words slid past her ears like water off glass.
Jules’ gaze wandered. A woman two rows over was dabbing at her eyes. Her husband’s hand rubbed her back in slow, practiced circles. Jules focused on that—on the rhythm of it. The way energy moved between them.
She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. Like heat without fire. Sound without noise.
She swallowed hard and pressed her shoulders back.
It wasn’t just grief twisting through her—it was knowing something wasn’t right. Deep in her bones, something was shifting.
And whatever it was, it wanted out.
She didn’t even realize the service had ended until Bob’s hand gently touched her arm.
She blinked up at him.
“We’re heading over,” he said softly, nodding toward the casket.
They moved with the others, slower now, quieter.
Each scoop of dirt hitting the lid made her wince. It sounded wrong. Empty. Her stomach churned.
That wasn’t him.
She didn’t know where the thought came from, but it stuck, cold and certain.
When the crowd finally began to scatter, she turned to look for Dustin—but he and the other boys were already disappearing behind the rows of headstones. She caught a glimpse of the back of his curls, then nothing.
Dodging her? Maybe. But she couldn’t deal with that right now.
She scanned the rest of the crowd.
She spotted Jonathan standing alone near the tree line, his shoulders hunched, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Jules took a step toward him, meaning to offer something—comfort, maybe, or just presence. But then, from the other side of the crowd, Nancy approached.
She moved slowly, hesitantly. Her hands were clasped in front of her like she didn’t quite know what to do with them. Jonathan looked up as she came near. Their eyes met. And in the space between them, something shifted.
There was no dramatic moment. No tears or apologies. Just a quiet exchange—simple words, a faint smile, the kind of connection that didn’t need to be explained out loud.
Jules paused.
And then, she stopped entirely.
Whatever they were saying, whatever had been broken between them—it wasn’t her place to stand in the middle of it.
She watched them for a second longer, and a small smile curved at the corner of her mouth.
Looks like he listened.
She turned away, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. Not from relief exactly, but something close.
It didn’t take long to spot Bob. He was off to the side, chatting with a familiar figure—tall, tweedy, glasses perpetually slipping down his nose even here, among the gravestones.
Scott Clarke.
Jules made her way over.
Bob glanced up when she approached, his expression softening.
“Hey,” he said. “You remember Scott?”
Jules gave him a tired smile. “You still doing those backyard telescope nights?”
“Only when the weather cooperates,” Scott grinned. “We’ve got a new reflector scope. Huge thing. You’d swear Venus was breathing down your neck.”
Jules raised a brow. “Tempting. Sounds like a hazard.”
“Come by sometime,” he said. “We’ll risk it.”
Bob chuckled. “She might hold you to that.”
“Good. She should.”
Jules let herself smile again, small but real.
Bob tilted his head toward the lot. “You ready to head out?”
“Yeah,” she said.
No big goodbye. No lingering.
Just one more chapter closed in a town that was slowly unraveling.
As they turned to leave, Jules looked back once—at the grave, the trees, the shadows moving between headstones.
The buzz was still there. Low. Waiting.
But she’d managed to hold it back—for now.
Something was shifting. She could feel it.
But for now, she just followed Bob back to the car.
********
The diner was quiet, caught in that in-between lull after lunch and before the dinner rush. Vinyl booths, laminated menus, and the soft hiss of a coffee pot made it feel like a pocket of time sealed off from the rest of the day. The air smelled like waffle batter and hot grease, and something familiar in it settled in Jules’ chest like a weighted blanket.
She sat across from Bob in a corner booth, fingers wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream and topped with two bright red cherries—an old-school order she hadn’t touched in years.
Bob had gone straight for the patty melt and fries, already halfway through, dabbing ketchup off his chin with a crumpled napkin. He looked tired, but lighter than he had that morning. Maybe it was the familiar setting. Or maybe it was just having something to chew on that didn’t come with emotional whiplash.
“You know,” he said between bites, “your mom and I went to a place just like this back in Chicago. First time I ever saw her after a double shift.”
Jules glanced up, amused. “Was she charming and radiant?”
“She looked like a raccoon who lost a fight in an alley,” Bob said fondly. “Had her hair tied up with a pen, scrubs covered in something fluorescent, and I’m pretty sure she hadn’t slept in two days.”
“Romantic.”
“I thought so.” He grinned. “I’d just finished rewiring a Commodore 64 at the shop across the street. Took her there thinking she might actually sit through a full meal.”
“Did she?”
“She passed out on the pancakes.”
Jules snorted.
“When she woke up,” he went on, “she said the lights were too bright, the music was too happy, and the coffee tasted like melted crayons. But she still came back the next week.”
Jules smiled, soft and quiet. “She always said you wore her down.”
“Yep,” Bob said. “Persistence, baby.”
For a few minutes, the booth was filled only with clinks of silverware and the low hum of the jukebox in the corner. The song was halfway between country and heartbreak—something twangy and deeply unearned.
Bob launched into another memory—something about Isla threatening to break up with him if he used the phrase “quantum entanglement” in a love letter again. Jules laughed, letting the sound fill the air.
He reached across the table and plucked one of the cherries from her drink without asking.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Thief.”
“Survival tax,” he said, chewing with satisfaction.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet here we are.”
Outside the window, Hawkins sat dull and gray and unchanged. But in here, the booth was warm. The food was good enough. And for the first time all day, Jules felt something that almost resembled peace.
Not okay. Not really.
But something close enough.
********
The lake shimmered beneath a gray afternoon sky, the surface disturbed only by the occasional ripple of wind or the distant splash of a fish breaking water. Jules sat cross-legged at the edge of the dock, arms loosely wrapped around her knees, watching the reflections shift and shatter across the lake’s skin. The boards beneath her still held the last of the morning’s warmth. Her curls were still tousled from the diner, strands twisting in the breeze.
She heard the gravel crunch before she heard him—quick, stumbling steps down the path. Dustin.
He slowed as he stepped onto the dock, his usual energy strangely muted. She glanced back and offered a soft smile, already sensing something wasn’t right.
“You good?” she asked, patting the spot beside her.
Dustin hesitated for only a second before plopping down with a heavy exhale, legs dangling over the edge.
“Define good,” he muttered, pulling his cap off and running a hand through his hair.
Jules bumped her shoulder against his. “That bad, huh?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stared out at the lake like it might offer some kind of answer. “Lucas and Mike are fighting. Like, really fighting. Mike’s being a jerk, and Lucas is being…Lucas. And El—she threw Lucas into a pile of junk with her mind. Knocked him out cold.”
Jules turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. “Wait—what?”
He nodded, but his face didn’t light up the way it usually did after something that cool. “She freaked out. Ran into the woods. Lucas stormed off. Mike’s a wreck. And I’m just…”
He sighed again, his voice catching. “I feel like I’m watching everything break apart, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
Jules let the silence sit between them for a moment before speaking.
“Dustin…I’m sorry.”
He blinked quickly, nodding. “I know they’re scared. I mean—I’m scared. Will’s out there somewhere, and we don’t know how to get to him, and now El’s gone, and what if she doesn’t come back? What if we’re not enough without her?”
His voice cracked, just barely. Jules reached over and took his hand, grounding him.
“I don’t want to lose my friends,” he said quietly.
“You’re not,” she said, voice gentle. “You’re holding them together, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Dustin glanced down at their joined hands, then back at her. “We heard Will. Through the walkie. El did something—she found him. He’s alive, Jules.”
Her breath caught.
He went on, the words tumbling now. “Mr. Clarke explained this thing to us—about how there could be other dimensions, parallel to ours. He said it’s like an acrobat walking a tightrope. And the flea? The flea can walk underneath the rope—on the underside. That’s what El opened. A portal. A way to the other side.”
Jules sat back a little, absorbing it. “So there’s…a version of our world. But darker.”
“Exactly. And Will’s trapped there.”
“And El found him using the walkie?”
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s real. I heard his voice, Jules.”
She didn’t doubt him. Not for a second. Something inside her shifted—something electric and uncertain. She thought about El. About the crack of air when she flung Lucas. About the fear in Dustin’s voice. About the way her own body felt like it was waking up into something unexplainable.
She was scared. But more than that—she was curious. Drawn.
Jules looked out at the still water, something shifting behind her eyes. A thought. A decision.
Then Jules rose, slow and steady, brushing flecks of sand and dry grass from her jeans. The sun had shifted west, casting long golden shadows across the dock, and for a moment she just stood there, the breeze pulling at her curls.
“Hey,” she said, nudging Dustin with the toe of her sneaker. “Bob’s in the basement fiddling with some old radio junk. Said he needed backup from someone with a brain the size of a watermelon.” She gave him a sly smile. “Sounded like a very specific gig.”
Dustin sat up straighter, eyes lighting up. “Wait—seriously?”
“Swear on my last waffle.”
He scrambled for his backpack, already halfway to his feet. “If he’s messing with shortwave arrays again, I’m so in. I’ve got a theory about dual-channel interference I’ve been dying to try.”
She grinned as he took off running, curly hair bouncing, excitement practically launching him up the hill. “Nerd,” she muttered, fondly.
But as soon as he vanished from sight, her smile dropped.
Silence rushed back in—thick and expectant. The trees swayed, whispering something ancient and patient.
Jules turned slowly toward the forest’s edge.
Where El had run. Where something was still waiting.
She reached up, fingers brushing the nape of her neck—an old habit, now weighted with something heavier. A pulse beneath the skin. A shift she didn’t understand.
El had powers. Real powers. And Will—he was alive. Trapped somewhere terrible. Somewhere cold.
And Jules—whatever was happening to her wasn’t just stress or grief or imagination. It was real. It was inside her. And it wasn’t going away.
Maybe it was time to stop running from it.
Maybe it was time to face whatever this was.
She cast one last glance toward the house. Then, without a word, she stepped off the dock—quiet, steady, alone—and vanished into the trees.
Chapter 11: What Follows
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The forest swallowed her.
Branches brushed her shoulders as she slipped between them, the dying light threading through the canopy in golden streaks. Behind her, the last bits of civilization faded: the hum of porch lights, the distant rattle of a car engine on gravel. Ahead, nothing but the quiet hush of wind in pine needles and the whisper of her own breath.
Jules kept walking.
The deeper she went, the more her body seemed to respond—like the woods were tuning forks and something inside her vibrated in answer. Her fingertips tingled, her skin felt oversensitive to air and cold, and somewhere in her chest, a pressure simmered—low and electric. It had been building all day, hiding beneath each breath, clinging to the edges of her thoughts like static.
This was why she’d come out here.
Not to find anything. Not to chase monsters or answers. Just to let it out—whatever it was—before it overwhelmed her.
She found a clearing bordered by tall pines and crooked undergrowth. The light here had turned to deep blue shadows, the earth soft beneath her boots. She exhaled and looked at her hands. Flexed them. Waited.
The sensation that something was off didn’t vanish—but it did shift. Settle. Like her body recognized this place. Like the forest didn’t just allow her presence—it expected it.
Jules took another step forward. Then another.
And let herself begin.
She started with her breath.
In through her nose, out through her mouth—steady, focused. She’d seen El do it. She remembered how Eleven’s whole body would shift: jaw clenched, hands raised, the air around her humming like a held breath. Jules mimicked the posture now, arms slightly out, fingers spread, but it felt awkward, unnatural—like she was playing pretend.
Nothing happened.
Jules sighed, dropping her hands. “Figures.”
But that pressure in her chest was still there. Tight and pulsing, like it was waiting.
She glanced around the clearing again, made sure she was still alone, and tried something different. No posture. No focus. Just letting herself feel it.
The moment she stopped resisting, the sensation expanded.
It started in her palms—heat. Not surface warmth, but something thrumming beneath the skin, like her blood was too bright. It crawled up her arms, across her shoulders, until it wrapped around her spine like a current. She gasped, staggering a step backward as sparks flared through her fingertips—tiny, flickering threads of light, like electricity without wires.
Her breath caught.
“Oh shit,” she whispered.
She held out her hand again, palm open. A faint glow pulsed in her palm, fading just as quickly. It wasn’t fire. Not quite electricity. It was energy. Raw and flickering and alive.
She concentrated—just a little—and it grew brighter. Her body hummed in response, like something ancient inside her had finally recognized itself.
Then it spiked.
A violent pulse shot from her hands, blasting through the clearing with a crack. A gust of wind ripped the leaves from nearby branches, and a tree about ten feet away shuddered, its trunk scorched where the energy struck. Birds exploded from the trees in a burst of wings and panic.
Jules stumbled backward, heart pounding. Her boots slipped in the dirt. “Shit!”
The pressure had vanished—but in its place was a cold weight of realization. That was her. She’d done that.
And if she hadn’t aimed…
What if Dustin had been there?
What if someone else had?
The panic crawled up her throat.
That’s why she needed to be out here—away. Until she could figure it out. Control it. Contain it.
She didn’t hear the footsteps at first. Not over the pounding in her ears.
But a voice cut through the trees. “Did you hear that?”
“Jules?” a voice called, wary but familiar. Nancy.
Jules turned toward the light, one hand instinctively bracing at her side. “Yeah,” she called back, voice steady. “It’s just me.”
Branches parted, and Nancy stepped into view, her flashlight trembling slightly in her hand. Jonathan followed close behind, carrying a baseball bat, scanning the trees like he half-expected something to lunge at them.
Nancy’s eyes were wide, her brow furrowed as she looked around the clearing. “We heard something—like a loud snap or… a crack. Thought maybe…”
“That was probably me,” Jules muttered, brushing a curl off her damp cheek.
Jonathan stopped a few feet away, squinting. “You made that sound?”
“Not on purpose,” she said. Her voice was low, cautious. She quickly shifted the conversation. “Something attacked me out here yesterday. I don’t know what it was. Not a coyote. Not a person. And it definitely wasn’t just in my head. I came back to make sure I didn’t imagine it—or maybe find proof that I didn’t.”
Nancy’s grip on her flashlight tightened. She didn’t look shocked. She looked like she understood. “You didn’t imagine it. Trust me.”
That caught Jules off guard. Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Okay. Then what the hell was it?”
Nancy glanced at Jonathan again. He gave a slight nod, as if to say: might as well.
Nancy stepped forward, lowering her voice. “We’re looking for Barb. She disappeared and we think it’s connected to Will.”
Jules blinked. “Really?”
Jonathan spoke this time, his voice low and gravelly. “I was in the woods that night. Taking pictures. I caught something in the background. It didn’t look human.”
Nancy nodded, stepping closer. “And Jonathan’s mom—Joyce—she’s been… seeing things. Hearing Will’s voice through the walls. Lights turning on and off. She swears he’s still alive and trying to reach her.”
Jules didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes. Something in her face shifted—like she’d been waiting for someone else to say something crazy first. “Weird seems to be contagious lately,” she said, more to herself than to them.
Jonathan studied her, his expression unreadable. “You said something attacked you. Did you actually see it?”
Jules hesitated, her fingers curling around the edge of her coat. “Not clearly. It was fast. Way too strong. And it brought this… cold with it. Not like wind—like it sucked all the heat out of the world.”
Nancy’s eyes widened, and Jonathan inhaled through his nose, slowly. They exchanged a silent glance.
“We might be looking for the same thing,” Nancy said quietly.
Jules shifted uncomfortably, toeing a wet root with her boot. “Look, I didn’t come out here to join some Scooby-Doo expedition.”
Jonathan cracked a small, crooked grin. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Nancy offered a smile too—tired, but genuine. “We’re not asking for much. But if this thing is out here, if it’s real… better in a pack than alone, right?”
Jules glanced over her shoulder at the looming dark beyond the treeline. Her jaw worked slightly, and for a beat, she said nothing.
Then she exhaled sharply through her nose. “Fine,” she muttered. Nancy’s shoulders relaxed and Jonathan’s grin softened. “But if I get eaten by a tree monster, I’m haunting both of you.”
Jonathan grinned wider. “Deal.”
********
The trees pressed in close around them, skeletal branches clawing at the slate sky as Jules, Jonathan, and Nancy moved quietly through the forest. The flashlight beam jittered over roots and underbrush, their breath clouding in the crisp night air. Their footfalls crunched over fallen leaves, the silence between them laced with tension.
Jules walked a few paces behind, her boots sinking into the damp soil. She kept her eyes sharp, scanning every shadow, every twitch in the underbrush. Her shoulders were tight, breath shallow. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching. Worse—her powers buzzed just beneath her skin like a swarm of angry wasps, aching to react. She clenched her fists inside her jacket pockets to keep steady.
Ahead, Nancy gripped the revolver they’d taken from Jonathan’s father. The glint of it under the flashlight made Jules stiffen. She hadn’t seen the weapon until now. Jonathan carried a baseball bat, his jaw set and eyes scanning the dark like a camera lens, recording. They were prepared. Jules, in comparison, had nothing but her instincts—and something she wasn’t ready to explain.
They walked in uneasy silence, their tension thick as fog. Then—
A low, agonized groan echoed through the woods.
Jules froze. The others did too. The sound came again, softer this time, like an animal in pain. They moved toward it cautiously until the flashlight beam caught a crumpled form near the path.
A deer.
Its legs twitched feebly, flanks rising and falling in shallow breaths. Blood glistened on the forest floor, dark and syrupy. One of its eyes rolled toward them, full of primal terror.
“Oh my God,” Nancy whispered, stepping forward. “We have to help it.”
Jonathan moved beside her, jaw clenched. “It’s dying. We need to put it out of its misery.”
Jules stood still, her heart thudding in her ears. Something was off. The air felt charged—like it had just been hit by lightning. Her breath came faster. She wanted to run.
“Don’t get too close,” she warned, voice tight.
Nancy glanced back at her, hesitation flickering in her eyes.
Then, with a sickening, wet SNAP, the deer vanished.
Yanked violently into the darkness.
All three screamed. Jonathan raised the bat, Jules stepped backward, stumbling into a root. Her body thrummed with instinctual terror—and her power flared for the briefest second. A shimmer of energy cracked through her arms, like heat lightning beneath her skin. She shut it down instantly, sucking in a breath, praying no one saw.
“What the hell was that?” Jonathan hissed.
Jules didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Then Nancy pointed. “There—look!”
Between two trees, slick with mucus and veined with pulsing red light, a tear shimmered. An open wound in reality itself.
Jules stared, her stomach dropping. The gate vibrated with wrongness.
Nancy crept closer, drawn like a moth. “Do you hear that?”
“Nancy, wait—” Jonathan started.
But Nancy was already slipping through.
“Nancy!”
Jules hesitated—her body screaming not to go, her heart screaming she couldn’t let Nancy go alone. She threw Jonathan a glance.
“I’m going after her,” she said, low and urgent.
Before he could stop her, Jules lunged forward and pushed through the gate.
The air changed instantly—humid, suffocating, thick with rot and static. Her boots landed on ground that crunched like glass and mold. She looked around wildly.
“Nancy!” she shouted.
A faint answer echoed somewhere ahead.
The forest was still here, but wrong—twisted and dead, covered in the ashen grime of the Upside Down. Spores floated lazily through the air like dying snowflakes. The trees were skeletal, blackened.
Jules pressed forward, chest tight with dread. Every nerve in her body felt exposed. Her powers itched like fire in her veins, reacting to this broken place.
Then she found her.
Nancy stood trembling, eyes wide with horror. She pointed ahead. The Demogorgon.
It loomed—barely visible, distorted by the shifting haze. Jules grabbed Nancy’s wrist. “We have to go. Now.”
A roar sounded behind them, and the forest shuddered.
Jules yanked Nancy back toward the gate—but the path had changed. She spotted a new glow to their right.
“There!” she gasped, and pulled Nancy with her.
Nancy dove through first, crying out as she collapsed on the forest floor.
Jules followed, but something yanked at her—like the Upside Down didn’t want to let her go. The tendrils around the gate pulled tight, dragging at her boots.
With a burst of terrified strength—and a crackle of energy she couldn’t suppress—Jules shoved through. Her hand burned against the gate’s slick flesh, and the portal sizzled where she touched it.
She landed hard on the other side, coughing, heart thundering.
The moment Jules hit the forest floor, it was like being slammed into reality.
The sticky, putrid heat of the Upside Down vanished in an instant, replaced by damp moss and cold air. She coughed hard, lungs trying to remember how to breathe properly again, and scrambled up onto her hands and knees, mud streaking her palms.
Nancy was already upright, panting, her eyes wild. Her sweater was torn at the shoulder, and her face was pale with adrenaline and horror.
“Are you okay?” Jules rasped, her voice hoarse.
Nancy nodded too quickly. “I think so. Are you?”
Before Jules could answer, branches snapped nearby, and Jonathan crashed through the brush, flashlight beam bouncing wildly until it landed on them. “Nancy!” he shouted, breathless. “Jules! Are you—what the hell happened?!”
He dropped to his knees beside them, grabbing Nancy’s shoulders, eyes darting between their faces.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “You went in—you were in there—”
Jules sat back, trying to process the spin of the world, the ringing in her ears, the leftover thrum of power still coiled in her chest like a viper. She clenched her fists. It couldn’t leak out now.
“We—we went through,” Nancy stammered. “That portal, in the tree—“
Jules gave a short nod, throat too tight for words. Her heart was still slamming against her ribs.
“It was—God, it was like another world,” Nancy whispered, standing shakily. “Dark. Cold. It smelled like rot. And there was something there. Watching.”
Jonathan stared at the hollow tree trunk in disbelief. “I thought I lost you.”
“You almost did,” Jules muttered, finally rising to her feet. Her knees were trembling. She tried to brush the muck off her jeans, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “We barely made it out.”
Jonathan reached toward her instinctively, like he might steady her, but Jules stepped back and turned away, jaw tight.
“Did you see it?” he asked.
Nancy nodded. “Just a glimpse. But it was real. It took the deer. It’s out there, and it’s hunting.”
Jules didn’t speak. She was staring into the trees again, eyes tracking shadows, neck tense like a wire pulled too tight. In the distance, an owl called—sharp and sudden—and she jumped.
Jonathan noticed. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Jules snapped, then winced. “Sorry. I just… we shouldn’t stay here.”
Nancy looked between them, grounding herself. “We need to get out of the woods. Now. And we need a plan.”
Jules finally turned back, her green eyes catching the moonlight, fierce despite the unease radiating off her. “Yeah. A plan.”
They started walking—fast and quiet, sticks cracking beneath their feet, none of them saying the thing they were all thinking.
What if next time, they didn’t make it out?
*******
They broke through the last of the trees, the forest thinning just enough to reveal the distant glow of streetlights ahead.
Jules squinted, blinking against the sudden artificial light. Her boots dragged in the pine needles as she stumbled to a stop, chest still heaving from adrenaline. Every part of her felt scraped raw — skin, nerves, soul. She needed air. Space. A moment to not feel like she was seconds away from unraveling.
Behind her, Jonathan was pacing, running a shaky hand through his hair, mumbling something about his mom and what to tell her. Nancy followed in his wake, quiet, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together.
Jules didn’t move toward them.
Instead, she turned slightly, staring down the street like it could offer a way out. A breath. A normal night.
But nothing about tonight was normal. Not anymore.
Nancy noticed first. “Hey… you okay?”
Jules nodded but didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to break.
Nancy approached slowly, her features softened, stripped of their usual edges. She looked impossibly young in the orange cast of the streetlamp — hair mussed, knees dirtied, lips bitten raw.
“You don’t have to talk,” she said quietly, stopping just beside Jules. “But… thank you. For going in after me. You didn’t have to.”
Jules huffed out something like a laugh. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun, Wheeler.”
Nancy glanced down, smiling faintly. “Wasn’t much fun in there.”
“No,” Jules said. “It really wasn’t.”
For a beat, they just stood there, silence stretching between them.
Then Nancy’s voice softened. “You saw it, too. Didn’t you? Not just the place—the… thing.”
Jules didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the pavement ahead, but her jaw tightened.
“I don’t know what I saw,” she said finally. “But it was looking at me. Like it knew I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
Nancy turned to face her fully. “It wanted you.”
Jules met her gaze then — and for the first time, didn’t look away.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “I think it did.”
The wind kicked up, rustling the leaves behind them. Nancy crossed her arms tighter. Jules didn’t move.
“You’re not okay,” Nancy said gently.
Jules gave a weak shake of her head. “Are you?”
Nancy’s mouth parted like she might answer, but instead she gave a small, bitter smile. “No.”
Jules shifted her weight, digging her fingernails into her palm until the sting pulled her back into her body. “I think I’m gonna head home. I need… I need to think.”
Nancy frowned. “Jonathan said we should stick together tonight—figure out what to do next.”
“You should,” Jules said. “You and Jonathan. You’ve got… something good.”
Nancy blinked. “What do you mean?”
Jules hesitated, then gave a tired shrug. “Just that you have someone who’d go through hell for you.”
“You did, too.”
That caught Jules off guard.
Nancy didn’t flinch. “You went in after me. That matters.”
A lump rose in Jules’ throat that she didn’t have the energy to swallow.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, voice low. “We’ll figure it out. But not tonight.”
Nancy hesitated, then reached forward and gave Jules’ hand a quick, firm squeeze. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but the gesture was solid. Real.
“Be careful,” she said.
Jules nodded, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as she stepped back, away from the glow of the streetlight. “You too, Wheeler.”
She turned and started walking. The darkness swallowed her quickly.
Nancy watched until she was gone.
********
The Newby house on Lovers Lake glowed with golden lamplight, warm and alive. Inside, the sharp scent of soldered wire and melting plastic hung in the air, mingling with popcorn and the faint hum of a cassette spinning in Bob’s old stereo.
The living room was chaos in progress.
Circuit boards, wires, and half-disassembled gadgets cluttered the coffee table. A lava lamp cast slow, jellyfish-like globs of color across the ceiling, and Bob was kneeling by the entertainment center, coaxing life back into a busted radio receiver.
Across from him, Dustin was perched cross-legged on the floor, screwdriver clenched between his teeth as he wrestled with the casing of a Speak & Spell.
“She’s gonna freak when she sees we cracked this,” Dustin mumbled around the tool.
Bob glanced up, brow furrowed behind his glasses. “We’re not cracking it—we’re enhancing it. There’s a difference.”
Dustin pulled the screwdriver free. “Pretty sure Jules said no enhancements after what happened to her toaster.”
Bob winced. “Okay, but that toaster wasn’t exactly rated for plasma discharge readings.”
Dustin snorted. “You put a Geiger counter in it.”
“It worked,” Bob said defensively. “Until it didn’t.”
The door creaked.
Both of them paused.
Jules stepped inside, hair wind-tossed and eyes shadowed. She looked pale, dirt smudged into the sleeves of her jacket and under her fingernails. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there in the threshold like the air inside was heavier than the woods she’d just left.
Dustin was the first to react.
“Dude. Where the hell have you been?”
Bob straightened up slowly, blinking at the sight of her. “Jules…?”
Her eyes found them. Flicked between the two. She let the door swing shut behind her.
“I’m okay,” she said, though her voice cracked halfway through. “Just tired.”
Bob’s face softened immediately. He moved toward her, cautious, like she might break.
“I just… needed some air.” she said, too quickly. “Thought I’d clear my head, ended up getting turned around in the woods.” She forced a laugh. “Tripped down a hill like an idiot.”
Something unreadable passed between Bob and Dustin. Jules didn’t elaborate.
Instead, she slipped off her jacket and dropped it on the back of the couch. Her movements were careful—too careful. Like she wasn’t sure where her body ended or the room began.
Bob tried to keep his voice light. “We were working on something for you. Little surprise.”
Jules glanced at the table, where wires glinted under the lamp.
“Looks like a bomb,” she said flatly.
Dustin grinned. “That’s how you know it’s cool.”
She gave a weak smile but didn’t sit down.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she murmured. “I just… need to rinse off the woods.”
Bob nodded, but his eyes followed her as she moved through the room, quiet and off-balance.
She paused at the hallway’s edge, fingers grazing the wall like she needed help staying grounded. Her breath caught—and the lamp flickered.
Only for a second.
But it was enough.
Bob turned, glancing at the bulb.
Dustin looked up from his circuit board. “Did you see—?”
The lava lamp sputtered once. Then returned to normal.
Jules didn’t seem to notice. She just kept walking, her silhouette vanishing down the hallway.
In the bathroom, the door clicked shut.
And the hallway light buzzed, briefly, before going out.
*******
Steam curled around the edges of the bathroom mirror. The shower hissed behind the curtain, drowning out the soft sound of her breath.
Jules stood in front of the mirror, towel around her shoulders, skin flushed from the hot water—but goosebumps prickled along her arms.
The mirror was fogged, except for a single, clear handprint.
She stared at it.
Raised her own hand.
It didn’t line up.
She stepped closer. Her fingertips hovered near the glass—and then the bathroom light flickered, a sharp buzz sparking from the socket overhead.
Jules flinched. And for half a second, she wasn’t looking at herself.
The reflection stared back, wide-eyed and shaking—but her irises were too bright. Green too sharp. Glowing, almost.
She blinked. The mirror cleared. Her eyes were just eyes.
The bulb stopped flickering.
But inside her chest, something buzzed like a live wire.
She braced both hands on the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain.
Her heart thudded—too loud. Too fast.
The hum hadn’t started in the bathroom. It had started out there, in the woods, when the veil between worlds thinned and swallowed her whole. And maybe—maybe something had come back with her.
She exhaled slowly.
And the lightbulb burst, raining glass like static across the floor.
Glass crunched under her bare feet as she stepped back. Jules winced, lifting one heel and plucking out a sharp sliver that had wedged near her ankle.
“Shit,” she whispered, more breath than voice.
She crouched carefully, towel slipping from her shoulders as she gathered the jagged pieces with shaking fingers. The silence buzzed louder than the bulb ever had—like the air itself was charged. Watching.
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.
She dumped the shards into the bathroom trash, then rinsed her hands in the sink. One fingertip was nicked—just enough to bloom red, just enough to feel like proof. Her powers were changing. Growing. Or slipping.
She pulled open the cabinet under the sink. Bob always kept extras, always prepared. Sure enough, a box of light bulbs was tucked behind a stack of toilet paper and a dusty bottle of mouthwash. She twisted one free, careful not to cut herself again, and climbed onto the counter.
The new bulb clicked into place. For a moment, the light hesitated—flickering once, like it wasn’t sure either.
Then it steadied.
So did Jules.
She wiped the counter. Smoothed the mirror. Pulled her hoodie over her still-damp hair and backed out of the room like she hadn’t been there at all.
By the time she reached her bedroom, her heartbeat had slowed—but that hum still echoed faintly under her skin.
Like something alive had woken up.
And it wasn’t going back to sleep.
********
Her room was dark, save for the soft orange glow from the desk lamp in the corner. Familiar shadows stretched across the walls—her books stacked neatly, the posters taped slightly crooked, the Polaroids strung across the windowsill like a timeline of someone else’s easier life.
Jules shut the door gently behind her. Locked it.
The hoodie still clung damp to her arms, but she didn’t move to change. Just stood there, eyes scanning the room like she was waiting for it to look different. Like maybe she was different now.
Her gaze landed on the photo of her and Bob—him grinning like a doofus, her mid-eye-roll, both of them wearing plastic alien antennae. It made her chest ache.
She crossed the room and collapsed onto the bed, limbs heavy. The mattress gave a soft sigh beneath her weight.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream.
She just lay there, listening to the faint hum of the desk fan. To the ticking of the clock. To the quiet throb in her fingertips that still hadn’t faded.
Her hands had always felt steady before—capable, certain. Gymnast’s hands. Builder’s hands. Now they felt like they didn’t belong to her.
She stared at the ceiling, fingers laced over her stomach.
What the hell was happening to her?
Outside, the wind picked up—leaves brushing against the windows like a whisper.
Jules didn’t move.
She just breathed.
One breath at a time.
Like if she stayed still enough, the world might, too.
Notes:
Alright, seems this might be my last chapter post for tonight. As much as I would love to just continuously feed you chapters, I have to get some sleep eventually. Hope y'all enjoy! Leave a kudos or a comment if you're up for it. -M
Chapter 12: The Hunt Is On
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The phone rang, sharp and sudden, slicing through the stillness of the morning like a blade.
Jules jumped.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, comic book spread across her lap, half a granola bar in hand. The cover was glossy, brightly colored — but she hadn’t really been reading it. Not since the sun had crept through her curtains and turned her room golden. Not since she’d woken up with her heart racing and the remnants of something heavy lingering behind her eyes.
She blinked at the phone on her desk.
The second ring buzzed through the floorboards.
She didn’t move right away — just stared, chest tight with something she couldn’t name. Nobody called this early. Not unless something was wrong.
She shoved the comic aside, heart thudding faster now, and slipped from the bed. Her oversized T-shirt hung low on her thighs, bare legs chilled in the morning air as her socks whispered against the wood floor.
By the time the third ring started, she’d crossed the room and curled her fingers around the receiver.
She pressed it to her ear. “Hello?”
A beat of static answered her. Then—
“Hey. It’s me.”
Jules stilled. Her brows furrowed.
“Nancy?”
She gripped the cord tightly, wrapping it once around her knuckles, then again. Her voice lowered instinctively. “Is everything okay?”
A pause.
Then, quiet and serious: “Not really.”
Something in Nancy’s tone made Jules straighten. That same tightness in her chest coiled again — not fear, not yet. But close.
“We’re doing something today,” Nancy continued, each word chosen carefully. “Something important.”
Jules glanced toward the window. The light outside was gentle, ordinary. The world looked normal.
But her gut said otherwise.
“What kind of something?” she asked, voice soft.
“Hunting.”
Jules blinked. “Hunting what?”
“You know what.”
There was another pause, this one heavier.
“We’re going to the Army surplus store. Me and Jonathan. Getting gear.”
Jules bit her lower lip and nodded before remembering Nancy couldn’t see her. Her hand flexed tighter around the phone cord.
“If you want in… meet us there,” Nancy said. “Soon.”
“Are you sure you’re—”
“I’m fine,” Nancy cut in. But her voice wavered. Just slightly.
“Don’t take too long, okay?”
And then the line went dead.
Jules didn’t move.
The dial tone buzzed softly in her ear. She lowered the receiver slowly, set it back into its cradle, then stood there in the quiet hum of the morning.
Outside, a breeze rustled the trees. The edge of her comic fluttered where it had fallen onto the floor, pages splayed open like wings.
She rubbed her thumb across the place where the phone cord had left an imprint on her skin.
The echo of Nancy’s voice lingered. The weight of the word hunting sat in her chest like a stone.
*******
By the time she came downstairs, the house smelled like toast and bacon grease.
Jules moved with intent — bootsteps soft against the hallway rug, jacket already zipped halfway, curls still damp around the edges from her earlier shower. She’d pulled her hair back into a low bun, loose strands tucked behind her ears, and the weight of her denim jacket settled firm across her shoulders like armor.
She wore her oldest jeans — the ones with the stretch in the knees and a tear near the back pocket — and scuffed black boots laced tight, soles solid. A dark henley clung to her frame beneath the jacket, sleeves shoved up to her elbows.
She looked like she was heading into the woods. Or a fight.
Maybe both.
In her pocket, the handle of a small folding knife pressed cool against her thigh. It wasn’t fancy — just one Bob had insisted she keep around back when they used to go camping. But it felt solid in her hand, and it made her feel a little less like a girl walking blind into something that might swallow her whole.
Before leaving her room, she’d stood for a long moment at her bookshelf, fingers ghosting over knickknacks and clutter until she found what she was looking for: a heavy hair tie, a flashlight, and a thin leather cord tied with a key and two beads. The necklace had belonged to her mom — something half-forgotten in a memory box. She slipped it over her head without thinking.
It sat cold against her collarbone.
Now, as she stepped into the kitchen, she tried to smooth the tension from her shoulders.
Bob stood at the stove, humming off-key, spatula in hand. Dustin was already at the table, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth like he was late to a tournament.
Jules took in the scene — the sunlight across the countertops, the faint sizzle of food, Dustin’s lopsided smile through a mouthful of toast — and for a split second, she wished she could sit down and let the morning stay like this.
But the knife in her pocket said otherwise.
Bob turned just enough to glance at her. “You look ready to wrestle a bear.”
“Something like that,” she said, brushing a hand over the back of her neck. The weight of the pocketknife in her jacket was small but grounding.
She reached for a piece of toast from the counter, fingers still warm from the shower. “Nancy called. Said she needed help with something in town.”
Dustin paused mid-chew, blinked at her. “Like… Nancy Nancy?”
“Unless you know another one,” Jules said dryly.
He swallowed hard, eyebrows furrowed. “What kind of help?”
“She didn’t say. Just asked if I could meet her and Jonathan near the hunt shop.”
“That code for something?” Dustin asked, eyes narrowing like he was suddenly a government agent.
Jules smirked. “No, but I love that you asked like you’d know.”
“I’m working on it,” he said, then waved his fork. “I’m actually heading out soon too. Gonna go fix things with Mike and Lucas. Operation Make-Up-And-Stop-Being-Weird. Might involve bribery.”
Bob chuckled, pouring coffee into a travel thermos. “Bribery always worked on me.”
“Chocolate pudding,” Dustin said gravely. “A weapon of diplomacy.”
Jules leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms. “They’ll come around. They’re just… boys.”
“Says the girl with a combat knife in her jacket,” Bob said lightly, handing her the thermos without asking.
She took it, thumb brushing the worn plastic handle. “It’s a precaution.”
“I’ll drive you,” he said, flicking off the burner and sliding into his sneakers without breaking stride.
“Thanks,” Jules said softly. She didn’t look at him, just adjusted her collar and headed for the door, Dustin already bounding ahead.
Outside, the late morning air was crisp and bright. Birdsong cut through the quiet hum of town waking up. Jules slid into the passenger seat, coffee warming her hands.
She didn’t say much during the ride.
But her foot tapped against the floor the whole way there.
********
Jules pushed open the door to the hunting shop, the bell above her jangling with a sharp metallic clink that cut through the quiet morning. The air inside was tinged with the scent of gun oil, sawdust, and something faintly metallic. Racks of rifles lined the far wall, while a glass counter displayed neatly arranged knives like surgical tools. Animal heads stared down from high wooden beams, glass eyes cold and unblinking.
Behind the register, the shopkeeper gave her a brief nod, his eyes dipping back to the newspaper in front of him.
No Nancy. No Jonathan.
Jules lingered for a beat longer than necessary, just in case. Then she turned, the bell above the door jingling again as she stepped back into the street.
The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows along the sidewalk. The heat was already rising off the pavement, shimmering faintly in the distance. The shop door clicked shut behind her as she scanned the sleepy stretch of storefronts. Not much was open yet—just a few early risers moving between cars and coffee shops. A sparrow chirped from the roof of the drugstore. Too quiet for Hawkins.
Then came a low rumble.
Jules turned, heart tightening.
A sheriff’s cruiser rolled down the street at a slow, deliberate pace. No sirens. No lights. Just the quiet growl of its engine and the glint of sunlight off the windshield. Through the passenger-side window, she caught a flash of movement. Two figures in the back seat—Jonathan and Nancy.
Both sat rigid, backs straight and hands folded in their laps. Nancy’s jaw was clenched tight, her eyes fixed out the opposite window like she couldn’t bear to look at anyone. Jonathan’s brows were drawn, a storm gathering behind his eyes. An officer sat beside them, gaze blank, like just another errand on the morning beat.
Behind them, Jonathan’s beat-up green sedan followed at a respectful distance—another cop at the wheel. That image struck Jules as especially wrong. Jonathan hated letting anyone else touch his car, let alone some uniformed stranger.
Her stomach knotted. Why the hell were they in the back of a cruiser? Nancy had said nothing on the phone—just that she needed help.
Jules stayed frozen on the curb, the world narrowing around the hum of engines and the burn of sunlight on her arms. Then, slowly, she turned her head.
Down the street and across the way, the old movie theater stood like a relic, its windows sun-bleached and dusty. But it wasn’t the building that caught her attention—it was the marquee.
Slashed across the white signboard in dripping red spray paint were words so vile they punched the air out of her lungs:
“NANCY THE SLUT”
— STARRING WHEELER
The letters bled crimson in the heat, jagged and angry. The kind of thing that would stain more than just the building. It would stain her—her reputation, her name, her silence.
Jules’ vision tunneled.
She was already crossing the street before she’d fully decided to move, steps picking up speed, jaw clenched tight. A few heads turned, but no one stopped her.
Closer to the theater, a ladder was propped against the marquee. A tall figure stood near the top, furiously scrubbing at the vandalism with a dripping rag and a bucket of water.
Steve Harrington.
His white T-shirt clung to his back with sweat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing bruised knuckles and faint cuts. His face still bore the aftermath of a beating—split lip, yellowing around the eyes, a swollen cheekbone.
He was attacking the sign like he could erase it with brute force alone, rag dragging across the surface in wide, panicked strokes. But the paint clung stubbornly to the board, leaving behind blurry red smears.
Jules slowed to a stop a few feet away, watching him in silence for a long moment.
“What the hell happened to your face?” she asked finally, arms folding across her chest.
Steve startled slightly and looked down, surprised to see her standing there. Sweat dripped from his brow, soaking into his collar.
“Great,” he muttered, wiping his forearm across his forehead. “You too.”
Jules cocked her head toward the marquee. “Really classy. Was that you or your shit friends?”
“Ex-friends,” Steve said flatly, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable. “Definitely not me.”
Jules arched a brow. “So what, you finally grew a conscience?”
He gave a humorless huff, stepping down the ladder with a slosh of water from the rag. “Maybe woke up.”
She didn’t smile. “Must’ve been one hell of an alarm clock.”
Steve gave her a sidelong glance. “More like a punch to the face.”
Jules didn’t ask who threw it. She had a good guess.
She eyed him for a beat longer, then asked, “So what happened with Nancy and Jonathan? Why were they getting hauled off like criminals?”
Steve’s jaw ticked. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing in the direction of the police station.
“It’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
He hesitated. “Jonathan… lost it on me.”
Jules didn’t look surprised. “Did you deserve it?”
“Probably.”
They stood in silence, the summer heat pressing down between them.
Steve wrung out the rag, the water running down his fingers, dripping onto the pavement in slow, uneven splashes. His shirt clung to him in damp patches. He looked tired. Not just from scrubbing—but from everything.
Jules watched him, her voice gentler now.
“I’m not here to pick sides. But if you want to stop being a jerk, start by not letting your friends humiliate someone in public.”
“They’re not my friends,” Steve muttered.
Jules tilted her head toward the sign, eyes narrowing at the smeared paint.
“Well,” she said, stepping aside, “you missed a spot.”
Steve exhaled—part weary, part something like gratitude—and climbed the ladder again to finish wiping the last of the paint off.
“You know,” she called up, “you’ve got blood all over your face and the finesse of a drunk orangutan.”
Steve muttered something under his breath and stepped down from the ledge, landing with a dull thud on the sidewalk. He wiped at the cut on his cheek with the back of his sleeve—smearing it more than cleaning it.
“Not exactly my most graceful day,” he said.
“No kidding,” Jules said, eyeing the dried blood on his temple and the puffy bruise forming under one eye. “You’re gonna give some poor kid nightmares walking around like that.”
He gave her a tired half-smile. “Yeah, well, I already scared a couple of Girl Scouts on my way here.”
Jules snorted. “Jesus. Alright, come on. Let’s fix that horror show before someone calls the cops thinking you’re an escaped patient.”
Steve squinted at her. “You offering to patch me up?”
“I mean, you’re clearly not gonna do it yourself. And if you pass out from blood loss, it’s gonna ruin your pretty floor.”
He gave a faint laugh and gestured toward his car. “Guess I can’t say no to that.”
********
The Harrington house looked like a furniture catalog and felt like a mausoleum.
Jules trailed behind Steve through the wide, echoing foyer, past a sweeping staircase and a spotless sitting room. There wasn’t a single photo on the walls—just abstract art in expensive frames. Everything was color-coordinated. Everything was cold.
“Is this a house or a showroom?” she muttered under her breath.
Steve didn’t respond. He kept the bloody towel pressed to his nose, posture stiff as he led her upstairs. The only sound was the quiet creak of the hardwood under her boots and the rhythmic drip of blood hitting the towel.
When they reached the bathroom, Jules paused just inside the door. It looked like a hotel spa—polished marble counters, gleaming fixtures, a glass shower so clean it practically glowed. The air smelled faintly like citrus and aftershave.
“Of course,” she said. “Because why wouldn’t the king of Hawkins High have a bathroom bigger than my bedroom?”
Steve dropped the towel onto the counter with a grunt and sat heavily on the closed toilet lid, exhaling like he was finally letting himself feel everything.
Jules moved to the cabinet and started rooting around, not waiting for an invitation. She found a white metal first-aid kit tucked between stacked monogrammed towels.
“Do your parents actually live here,” she asked, “or just send decorators and credit card bills?”
“They’re… busy.”
That was all he said. Jules didn’t press. She clicked open the kit and pulled out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a tube of antibiotic cream.
“Lucky for you I’ve watched Bob patch up enough stupid injuries to basically have a degree in idiot triage.”
Steve tilted his head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling. “Great. Can’t wait.”
Jules dampened a washcloth with warm water and knelt in front of him. He flinched when she touched his cheek.
“Hold still,” she said. “Or I’ll make it worse.”
“I think the peeping tom already handled that part.”
She arched a brow. “So it was Jonathan.”
His jaw tightened. A fresh smear of blood glistened on his upper lip. Jules swiped at it gently, the fabric dragging across his swollen skin. She watched his face—the twitch of his brow, the flicker of pain he tried to hide.
“Jesus, Harrington,” she muttered. “You’re lucky your brain’s still in your skull.”
“Doesn’t feel like it,” he mumbled.
She smirked despite herself and leaned in closer to clean the gash on his cheekbone. Her breath caught slightly—he smelled like sweat and cologne and iron. It wasn’t… unpleasant.
“You know,” she said, voice lower now, “for someone so into their hair, you sure like getting it punched off your head.”
“That’s the thing,” he said quietly. “I was being an asshole. I deserved it.”
Jules blinked, surprised by the honesty.
Steve shifted on the seat, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “I said some stuff. Did some stuff. I was wrong.”
She stared at him for a beat, cloth forgotten in her hand. Then, lightly: “So you do have a soul. Thought that was just a rumor.”
His lip twitched. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Jules sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on a towel. “Your fan club would riot.”
He laughed—soft and short, but real.
She stood, rolling her shoulders. “Alright. You’re disinfected, more or less. No stitches needed. You might look like hell for a few days, though.”
“Adds to my bad boy image,” he said, wincing as he stood.
Jules scoffed. “You wish.”
********
Downstairs, the Harrington kitchen was just as pristine as the rest of the house. Polished black marble countertops stretched across two islands, not a fingerprint or smudge in sight. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under cool recessed lighting, too sleek to feel like anything but showroom props. A ceramic bowl of apples sat perfectly centered on the counter—too glossy to be real, though Jules wouldn’t be surprised if they were just meticulously waxed.
It felt sterile. Expensive. Cold.
Steve popped open the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of Coke. The soft hiss of carbonation cut through the quiet as he tossed one to her.
She caught it—barely—fingers fumbling around the slick aluminum.
“Jesus, warn a girl,” she muttered, cracking the tab open. “I swear, this place is like… if a catalog had abandonment issues.”
Steve gave a faint snort, leaning against the counter. “It’s quiet.”
“Yeah. But quiet’s not always good.” She took a sip, then glanced around again. “My place is kind of the opposite. Messy. Loud. Wires everywhere. Half-finished gadgets. Bob’s weird-ass collection of retro tech. It looks like RadioShack exploded on our dining table.”
He chuckled, just once, under his breath.
“But at least it feels lived in,” she added more softly.
Steve was quiet for a beat, gaze fixed on the tab of his soda can. “Bob’s the guy who raised you, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Not my biological dad or anything, but… might as well be. He’s the one who stayed.”
He didn’t look at her, just kept his eyes on the metal rim of his can, turning it slowly. “He’s lucky.”
Jules blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I think I’m the lucky one.”
Something softened in his expression. He looked like he might say something else—but instead just nodded, eyes dropping again. The silence between them wasn’t heavy, but it wasn’t hollow either. Like something unsaid was quietly sitting between them, warming the air.
After a moment, Jules pushed off the counter and stretched a little. “I should probably get going.”
Steve looked up, brow ticking up. “You need a ride?”
“Yeah,” she said, walking over to snag her coat from the back of a barstool. “Unless you want me hiking through Hawkins at night.”
“I’ll take you.”
She paused, one arm in her sleeve, watching him. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” he said, waving a hand. “Just—give me a sec to not look like I got mauled by a werewolf.”
Jules smirked and headed for the door. “No rush. Your vanity needs at least five.”
********
The car rolled smoothly down the sunlit streets, shafts of golden light streaming through gaps in the trees and casting dancing shadows on the pavement. The hum of the engine filled the space between them, steady but heavy, like a breath held just a little too long.
Jules rested her forehead lightly against the cool glass of the window, watching leaves flutter in a lazy afternoon breeze. Her fingers drummed a slow, nervous rhythm against her thigh, restless and uncertain.
Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale beneath the bright glow of the sun. His jaw clenched briefly before he broke the silence, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.
“I probably fucked up. With Nancy. With Jonathan.”
Jules turned toward him, her eyes wide, catching the sunlight streaming through the windshield. Surprise softened into something gentler—like pity mixed with understanding.
Steve exhaled, a short, ragged sound as he ran a hand through his damp hair, still sticky with sweat or the remnants of his earlier scuffle. The car smelled faintly of leather and aftershave, but beneath it was the sharp bite of regret.
“I shouldn’t have flown off like that. Said those things… I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Jules’s lips curved into a tentative, reassuring smile. She folded her hands tightly in her lap, trying to steady the uneven beat of her own heart.
“You might still have a chance to make it right,” she said quietly, voice calm like a soft anchor.
Steve glanced at her, surprise flickering behind tired eyes, the hint of a weary hope.
“Start by apologizing,” Jules said gently. “Call a truce with Jonathan. Show Nancy you’re willing to listen. Not just fight.”
A shaky laugh escaped him, the tension around his eyes softening ever so slightly.
“Sounds easier said than done.”
Jules met his gaze steadily, unflinching. “It’s a start.”
The car slowed as they turned onto a quiet, tree-lined street, sunlight filtering through the leaves and dappling the pavement in warm patches. A gentle breeze rustled the branches overhead.
Steve’s voice dropped even lower, almost a confession.
“Thanks for that. I don’t always have someone willing to call me on my crap.”
Jules shrugged, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Well… somebody has to.”
They shared a small, genuine smile—fragile but honest—bridging the quiet between them.
Steve pulled the car to a stop beneath a large maple tree casting a cool shade over the sidewalk. His breath came out slow and steady, like he was trying to hold himself together.
“Here we are.”
Jules reached out to open the door but hesitated, her eyes briefly searching his.
“You think I’m totally screwed?” he asked, voice rough with vulnerability.
“Not yet,” she said, with a playful wink that made her heart beat a little faster.
Steve’s smile was soft, almost grateful. “Good. Because I’m not giving up on fixing things.”
Jules stepped out, the warm afternoon sun warming her flushed skin. Leaves rustled softly underfoot as she pulled her jacket tighter around her.
“See you around, Steve.”
“Yeah,” he said, watching her walk away, his grip loosening on the steering wheel for the first time in a while.
********
Jules hesitated with her hand on the doorknob of her house.
The plan had been to check inside, regroup, maybe wash the metaphorical blood off her hands. Steve hadn’t asked questions when he dropped her off—just gripped the wheel and stared ahead like he’d been rattled to the bones.
She’d watched him drive off, then stood there on the porch like she couldn’t quite cross the threshold. Something about the air felt too still. Her skin prickled with static—not from fear, not exactly. Closer to instinct.
Or something deeper.
A pulse thrummed in her chest, not her heartbeat but something behind it. Feral. Familiar.
It’s still here.
Or near, at least. That thing from the woods. The creature.
She closed her eyes, willing the feeling down like pushing a beach ball underwater. It resisted. Flickered. A soft heat built under her skin.
No. Not now. Not here.
She took a steadying breath and turned away from the door, heading down the porch steps.
She wasn’t doing this alone.
*********
The Byers’ house came into view after twenty minutes of steady walking, its bare, weatherworn siding catching the pale light of a hazy afternoon. The place sagged just slightly in its frame—the way houses did when they’d been through too much for too long.
Jonathan’s car sat out front. Good sign. But as Jules drew closer, she noticed the front door was wide open — and the jagged edge of a hole in the wall near the living room window, roughly boarded up from the inside. The kind of thing that didn’t happen because someone was bad at home repairs.
Her gut tensed, whispering she should turn back. Instead, she stepped onto the porch, boots creaking softly against the warped wood.
Inside, the living room was chaos. Tangled cords of Christmas lights — all stripped of their bulbs — hung limply from the walls, lifeless and forgotten. The coffee table lay in pieces, cushions scattered like debris after a storm, papers and old toys littering the floor. The air was thick with the faint scent of burnt plastic and dust.
She took a cautious step inside. “Hello? Anyone here?”
That strange sensation flared low behind her ribs. Heat. Static. Watchful. She pressed a palm to her chest, willing it back down.
Following murmured voices, she found herself outside the door to Will’s room. It was cracked open just enough to glimpse movement inside.
She rapped lightly on the doorframe and leaned into the doorway.
“You guys having a secret meeting, or just trashing Will’s room for fun?” she asked, voice casual despite the knot tightening in her stomach.
Four heads snapped around.
Nancy sat on the bed beside a thin, sharp-eyed woman Jules instantly recognized as Jonathan’s mom. Jonathan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while a tall man in a worn sheriff’s jacket paced with restless energy.
Jim Hopper.
Jules raised her hands halfway. “Easy. I come in peace.”
“Jules?” Jonathan blinked. “What are you—how did you—”
“You weren’t at the shop,” she said, stepping in. “Figured you were up to something weird. Turns out I was right.”
Her gaze flicked to the boarded-up hole in the wall. “Home improvement’s going great.”
Hopper took a deliberate step forward, eyes sharp and sizing her up. “Who the hell are you?”
“Julienne Ambrose,” she said, standing straighter. “Friends with Nancy. Occasionally keep Dustin from blowing up your town. I walked here because I didn’t feel like dying alone today, if that clears anything up.”
Joyce’s brow furrowed, worry creasing her face. “Wait… you’re Bob’s kid?”
“Guilty,” Jules said, a half-smile tugging at her lips.
Hopper gave her a long look like he was deciding whether to throw her out or not, but he stayed still.
Joyce’s voice was tight with worry. “We think the boys are hiding somewhere. And… they’ve got a girl with them.”
Jules blinked. “Short hair, kinda stares like she’s reading your soul?”
All eyes turned toward her.
She shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve seen her. Not exactly chatty.”
Nancy leaned forward, gripping the walkie tightly with both hands. “Mike? Can you hear me?”
Static crackled back — unbroken.
Jonathan shifted against the wall, voice low. “We’re not sure they’re listening. Or if they trust us.”
“They won’t,” Jules said, stepping further in. “Not you guys, anyway.” She held out a hand. “Dustin’ll answer me.”
Hopper studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his worn sheriff’s hat. The hard set of his jaw softened just a fraction, as if silently deciding whether to trust this girl who clearly knew her way around chaos.
Without a word, he finally handed her the walkie-talkie.
Jules caught the unspoken permission and pressed the button, leaning casually against the dresser like she wasn’t suddenly aware of the strange warmth humming beneath her ribs.
“Dustbin, if you can hear me, this is Jules. Come on, dude, don’t be an idiot. Say something.”
For a moment, only static answered. Then—
“…Jules?” Dustin’s voice crackled through, tense and urgent.
Her lips twitched into a relieved smile. “Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”
A burst of static rattled the line before Dustin’s voice came rushing, breathless and sharp. “We’re alive, but Jules—shit, it’s bad. We’re at the junkyard. They sent a helicopter after us. We had a car chase, and they almost ran us over, but El flipped the van over us so we could get away — and then—”
“Okay, okay. Breathe,” Jules said, fighting down the flicker of heat in her chest — that familiar, unwelcome flare she didn’t fully understand but had learned to tamp down. “Where exactly?”
“We’re hiding in the bus, but you gotta come. Fast,” Dustin said, voice cracking with urgency.
Jules closed her eyes for a second, pressing a hand to her chest to quell the strange, burning pulse. “Okay. I hear you. Stay put. We’re coming.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, all eyes on Jules.
Hopper’s voice cut through quietly but firmly. “Everyone stays here. I’m heading out to get the kids.”
Joyce nodded, worry tightening her face, but didn’t argue.
Jules felt the weight of the moment settle over her. This was no longer a search. This was a rescue.
And she wasn’t about to let them down.
********
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway jolted everyone upright. Jules barely had time to process before the door swung open and Jim Hopper stepped inside, flanked by a group of four exhausted kids.
Mike, Lucas, Dustin, and Eleven—worn out, dirt-smudged, but alive.
Jules didn’t hesitate. She was across the room in two strides, practically tackling Dustin in a tight hug. Her voice cracked slightly as she whispered, “You scared the hell out of me.”
Dustin stiffened for a moment, then melted into the embrace, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m fine. We’re all fine… mostly.”
She pulled back to look at his face—the dirt streaked across his cheeks, his wild curls damp with sweat, and those bright, worried eyes that had seen too much too soon.
“You okay, Dustbin?” she asked, her tone softer now but still edged with fierce protectiveness.
He managed a tired grin. “Would be if we weren’t being hunted like lab rats.”
Her fingers brushed a stray curl from his forehead. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Behind them, Nancy and Jonathan exchanged relieved glances, while Joyce let out a breath she’d been holding for too long.
The moment hung between them all—the fragile relief that they were still standing, still fighting.
The fragile relief lingered for only a heartbeat before urgency began creeping back into the room like a draft under the door. Mike shifted his weight, glancing toward Hopper as if waiting for permission to speak. When none came, he stepped forward, his voice steady but quick.
“It’s not just out there,” he said, jerking his chin vaguely toward the window, as if the night beyond could hear him. “The gate—it’s inside Hawkins Lab. That’s where it’s coming from.”
Lucas crossed his arms, his expression hard. “We’ve been saying it all along. That’s where the Upside Down connects to our world. It’s where they’ve been hiding it.”
Eleven’s gaze stayed low, but her small voice slipped into the space between their words. “Big… like a wound. Still open.”
A shiver passed through Jules before she could stop it, her mind snagging on that word—wound.
Across the room, Hopper’s jaw tightened. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice low, almost grudging. “I’ve seen it. Broke in there a couple nights ago. There’s a… a thing, in the basement. Looked like it was alive. Breathing.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “Then you know we’re right.”
Hopper’s gaze swept over the room, lingering briefly on Joyce, then back to the kids. “I know it’s real. And if that’s where Will is, then that’s where we’re going.”
The fragile relief was gone now, replaced by the electric hum of something bigger than fear—momentum.
The room buzzed faintly with the sound of breathing—shaky, uneven—as the group tried to collect themselves. Jules kept a steady hand on Dustin’s shoulder, unwilling to let go just yet.
Joyce’s eyes kept darting toward Eleven, as if the girl herself might hold the answer to everything. She stepped forward, voice low but urgent. “Can you… can you try again? To find him?” There was no need to clarify who—everyone knew she meant Will.
Nancy shifted beside her, pale but determined. “And Barb,” she added quickly, her fingers twisting around the strap of her bag. Her voice wavered for the briefest second before she steadied it. “Please. Just—see if she’s out there.”
Eleven’s gaze flickered between them, something unreadable in her expression. She looked impossibly small under the weight of their hope, her dirt-streaked face framed by her buzzed hair.
“I’ll try,” she said finally, her voice almost a whisper.
Jules felt Dustin tense beside her and instinctively squeezed his shoulder, a silent reassurance neither of them really believed. Around them, the others began to shift, as though the very air had thickened with the enormity of what they were asking.
The fragile relief of moments ago had already begun to fray.
Eleven lowered herself to the couch cushion, closing her eyes. The room went still except for the faint hiss of wind against the windows.
At first, nothing happened. Then her brow furrowed, lips parting as her breath quickened. A thin trickle of blood welled at her nose. She pushed harder—eyes darting under closed lids as though chasing something far away.
Everyone watched, holding their breath.
But after several long moments, her shoulders slumped. Her eyes opened, glassy with frustration. “I… I can’t,” she stammered, her voice breaking. “Sorry.”
Before anyone could speak, she stood abruptly and walked toward the bathroom, head bowed as if the apology itself had drained the last of her strength. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her.
A heavy silence lingered until Mike stepped forward, almost protectively. “She’s like a battery,” he said quietly, glancing from Joyce to Nancy. “She can’t just keep going forever. Every time she uses her powers, it… it takes something out of her.”
Jules met his eyes, understanding the edge of worry there. If Eleven really was running low, they couldn’t keep asking her to do the impossible—not without a way to help her recharge.
Mike’s words seemed to settle uneasily over the room.
Nancy crossed her arms, shifting her weight as she glanced toward the closed bathroom door. “Okay… so how long until she’s—what?—charged again?”
Mike’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice low. “Sometimes it’s a few hours. Sometimes it’s days.”
The bathroom door creaked open. Eleven stepped out, her face pale but her eyes sharper than before, fixed on Joyce. “I can find him,” she said, her voice steady.
Joyce blinked, hope flaring in her expression. “How?”
The group shifted uneasily in the living room, the air still heavy from the moment of relief. Eleven had drifted back toward them, her gaze distant, her voice quiet.
“I can find him… in the bath,” she said, like the words were strange on her tongue.
“A bath?” Nancy’s brows pulled together, confusion knitting her expression.
Eleven nodded once. “It’s… quiet. Dark. And I float.”
“Float?” Jules echoed, leaning forward slightly. She didn’t understand exactly what El meant, but there was something in the girl’s tone—certainty, and a flicker of hope—that made her want to believe.
Dustin’s eyes lit up, connecting dots in his head like sparks jumping between wires. “Wait. Float. Quiet. That’s… that’s a sensory deprivation tank!”
Lucas gave him a skeptical look. “A what now?”
“A tank! You know—big tub, tons of salt so you float, no sound, no light. They use it for all sorts of… brain stuff.” He waved his hands vaguely, as if that covered the science.
Nancy folded her arms. “Okay, and who here knows how to build one of those?”
The room fell quiet. Dustin frowned, then snapped his fingers. “Mr. Clarke. He’ll know.”
Jules smirked faintly. “Guess it’s time to open one of those ‘curiosity doors’ he’s always talking about.”
Dustin grabbed the phone from the wall and dialed. The others watched, listening to his half of the conversation.
“Mr. Clarke? It’s Dustin.” He started pacing, a note of excitement in his voice.
Lucas leaned toward Jules and muttered, “Here we go…” Jules smirked faintly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dustin said into the receiver. “It’s just I… I have a science question.”
Eleven tilted her head in curiosity. Mike gave her a small, reassuring glance.
“Do you know anything about sensory deprivation tanks? Specifically, how to build one?”
Joyce gave Hopper a questioning look. Hopper only shrugged.
“Fun,” Dustin said flatly, clearly not amused by whatever Mr. Clarke just said.
He straightened up. “You always say we should never stop being curious. To always open any curiosity door we find.”
A pause. Dustin frowned. “Why are you keeping this curiosity door locked?”
Jules chuckled under her breath.
“Uh huh. How much?” Dustin grabbed a pen from the counter and started scribbling notes.
“Yep. Alright. Alright, Mr. Clarke.”
Mike leaned over, trying to peek at Dustin’s paper, but Dustin shielded it.
“Yeah, I’ll see you Monday. I’ll see you Monday, Mr. Clarke. Bye.”
He hung up and turned toward the group, holding the paper like it was a treasure map. “Okay—here’s the list. We need something big enough for her to float in. Like… a pool. Joyce, you still have that kiddie pool we used for apple-bobbing?”
Joyce blinked, thinking. “Yeah, in the garage.”
“Perfect. And we need salt. Like… a lot of salt. Fifteen hundred pounds of it.”
“Where are we supposed to find that?” Lucas asked, incredulous.
From the corner, Hopper’s voice was steady, certain. “I know a place.”
*******
Hawkins Middle School loomed dark against the night sky, its brick walls swallowing the dim streetlight. The parking lot was empty but for their cluster of vehicles, engines ticking as they cooled.
The gym doors complained with a low groan when they pushed them open, the sound echoing into the hollow, still space. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting pale, flickering shadows across the floor.
“Alright,” Hopper said, his voice bouncing off the walls, “let’s move.”
Everyone peeled off into motion without needing to be told.
Mike and Nancy headed toward the equipment shed outside, their voices carrying faintly through the doors as metal scraped and a lock rattled. Jonathan followed Hopper back out to the truck to unload the first heavy sacks of salt, the bags slung over their shoulders and dropped in a growing pile near the gym’s center.
From the science lab, Jules caught sight of Joyce rummaging through a drawer, her movements sharp and focused until she came up with a pair of old goggles. She sat at one of the work tables, tearing strips of duct tape with brisk, precise motions, her jaw tight with restless energy.
Down on the gym floor, Lucas and Dustin were locked in a losing battle with the kiddie pool, the bright plastic slumping in on itself every time they thought they’d got it standing.
“You’re twisting it!” Lucas barked, his hands gripping one sagging wall.
“No, you’re twisting it!” Dustin shot back, shoving from his side.
Jules sat on the lowest bleacher beside Eleven, watching the disaster unfold. “If the world wasn’t ending,” she muttered, “I’d be recording this for blackmail.”
El didn’t answer. She was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze fixed on the pool. Then, without looking at Jules, she said quietly, “Your cage is gone.”
Jules frowned. “My… cage?”
El nodded, her chin dipping once. “It was… here.” She tapped her temple with one small finger. “Something… keeping you small. Quiet. It’s gone now.”
That low, simmering heat stirred again behind Jules’ ribs, curling like it had been waiting for someone else to notice. She swallowed hard, masking the jolt of unease with a faint, crooked smile. “You could tell? Just like that?”
El’s eyes lifted to meet hers—dark, steady, and too perceptive for someone her age. “I can feel it. You… feel different now. Bigger. Brighter.” She hesitated, then added in a whisper, “Louder.”
Jules let out a short, dry laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Yeah. I’ve been… noticing things, too. Stuff I can’t explain. Stuff that scares me a little.”
El’s brows drew together. “Dangerous stuff.”
The words landed heavier than Jules expected. She looked away, following the sound of Jonathan and Hopper coming back through the doors with more bags of salt. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But right now’s not about me. You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about whatever this is.”
For a long beat, El kept studying her, like she might keep pushing. Then she gave a small, slow nod, as if tucking the thought away for later.
By the time Mike and Nancy returned with the hose, Jonathan and Hopper had hauled in the last of the salt. The kiddie pool was upright at last—crooked, but standing.
“Finally,” Dustin declared, brushing his hands together. “Now we just fill it up, dump in the salt, and… instant psychic super-spa.”
“Let’s just get it done,” Hopper said, ripping open a bag. The coarse grains hissed softly against the plastic as they poured in, the sound mingling with the slap of the hose as Mike and Nancy unwound it across the floor.
Jonathan sliced open another bag with his pocketknife, tilting it into the pool. The water was only ankle-deep so far, but already the salt clung to their shoes and left a faint, briny tang in the air.
Joyce moved from person to person, checking little details—the hose angle, the seal on the goggles, whether the duct tape was tight enough. She kept her hands busy because if they stopped, Jules figured, she might start to think about what El was about to face.
Lucas ran the hose into the pool, its sputtering stream slowly turning into a steady rush. Dustin crouched near the rim, swirling the water with both hands like he could dissolve a hundred pounds of salt through sheer determination.
From her spot near the bleachers, Jules watched it all come together—the overlapping movements, the quiet exchanges, the occasional bark from Hopper to hurry it along. There was a rhythm to it, like everyone had fallen into an unspoken agreement to keep moving because stopping meant thinking.
El didn’t move much at all. She stood near the edge of the pool, goggles in hand, her bare feet pale against the scuffed gym floor. Jules kept glancing at her, noting the way she was breathing—deep, steady, like she was already bracing herself.
When the water finally reached the halfway point, Jonathan killed the hose. They poured in the last of the salt, the thick crystals sinking, swirling, and slowly vanishing. Jonathan pressed his palm flat against the surface, nodding at the lift that pushed back against him. “Should be enough.”
Joyce knelt in front of El, fastening the goggles carefully. “This’ll keep the water out of your eyes, okay?” Her voice was calm, but Jules could hear the thread of worry wound tight through it.
Mike stepped closer. “We’ll be right here. The whole time.”
El gave a single, small nod.
Jules moved in just behind them, her arms folded tight, as if she could somehow anchor El here just by watching.
With Hopper and Jonathan on either side, El stepped into the pool. The water caught her instantly, lifting her into a float that looked almost unnatural in how still she was. Her hands drifted just below the surface, fingers curling slightly.
“Alright, kid,” Hopper said, voice low but firm. “Find them.”
The moment her eyes closed, the air seemed to shift. Not louder, not quieter—just charged. Jules felt it almost immediately: that warm hum she’d noticed before, threading under her ribs and up into her chest. It pulsed, faint at first, then a little stronger, as though it were answering El’s focus without permission.
El’s face tightened, her breathing changing to something more deliberate. Then—soft, barely audible—“Barb.”
Nancy took a quick step forward, hope sparking in her voice. “You found her?”
“She’s… gone,” El whispered.
The words landed like a crack in the floor. Nancy’s face drained of color, her breath faltering. Jonathan moved toward her instinctively, but she shook her head, staring at El as though willing her to take the words back.
Joyce’s hand gripped the pool’s rim so tightly her knuckles went bone-white. Lucas looked down, his jaw set, while Dustin froze mid-motion, like even breathing too loudly might make the moment worse.
Jules’ own chest tightened, that restless heat under her ribs shifting into something colder, heavier. She wasn’t close to Barb, but she knew what losing someone like that felt like—and she knew Nancy was feeling it now in a way that would stick forever.
El’s head turned slightly, her brow furrowing. “Will.”
Joyce’s breath hitched, her voice breaking on the name. “You see him? Where is he?”
“Dark… crying,” El murmured. Her brow pinched tighter. “Cold. Scared.”
Jules’ hands clenched against her own arms, her skin prickling like the air itself was brushing over her.
For a few moments, El floated in silence, her jaw set like she was holding onto something fragile and heavy. Then her eyes snapped open, her voice clearer now. “I know where he is.”
The entire gym seemed to inhale at once. Jules let her arms fall to her sides, but the hum inside her hadn’t left—it lingered, restless and alive.
Joyce knelt beside El, rubbing her arms with the towel like she could bring her all the way back from wherever her mind had gone. “You did so good,” she murmured, though her voice was trembling. “You did so good, honey.”
Hopper’s gaze swept the group, landing briefly on Jules before moving on. “Alright, Joyce and I are going to the lab. We know where the gate is, we get in, we get Will out.”
Joyce rose quickly, still keeping one hand on El’s shoulder. “You three—” she looked at Nancy, Jonathan, and Jules “—stay here. Watch the kids. Keep them safe. No one leaves. Got it?”
Nancy gave a sharp nod. Jonathan echoed it. Jules… well, she nodded too, but it wasn’t exactly a promise she planned to keep.
Hopper’s eyes narrowed like he could sense the thought anyway, but he didn’t press. “Lock the doors. Don’t open them for anyone who’s not us.”
And then they were gone—Joyce and Hopper striding out into the night, their footsteps fading into the parking lot before the gym doors groaned shut behind them.
For a moment, the group just stood there in the echoing quiet, the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the space they’d left behind. Lucas was coiling the hose, Dustin wringing water out of his sleeves, and El sat quietly on the bleachers, goggles still in her lap.
Nancy was the first to break the silence. “We should go.”
Jonathan glanced at her, understanding flickering in his eyes. “Tonight?”
“We know how to draw it out,” she said, voice low. “We have everything we need—just not the time if we wait. We can do this.”
Jules leaned her weight onto one hip, arms crossed. “You’re talking about your little monster-hunting plan, aren’t you?”
Jonathan gave her a flat look. “It’s not little.”
“Then count me in,” Jules said. “Barb’s gone. Will’s still in there. That thing’s not stopping until we stop it. And I’m not sitting here playing babysitter while it’s out there breathing.”
Nancy glanced toward the doors, her voice dropping even lower. “Our stuff’s still at the police station.”
Jonathan nodded once. “Then that’s our first stop.”
Jules’ mouth tilted into a faint, wry smile. “Good. Then we head back to your place and give this thing a reason to show up.”
Nancy’s eyes hardened with resolve. “Exactly.”
Jonathan slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Let’s move before they come back.”
Jules followed without hesitation, the hum under her ribs sharpening into something closer to determination. If the Demogorgon came for them tonight, fine—she’d be ready.
Notes:
Whoo, I'm back everyone! Spent the last few days rushing through these next 2 chapters I'm posting, trying trying to make sense of making Jules cannon with the show. Hope I did it justice cause I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get into some Eddie action. So 10k words and 40 pages later, we have finished the first season. Enjoy! -M
Chapter 13: In From The Cold
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The parking lot was empty, the single security light above the door buzzing faintly as moths circled it. Inside, the station was even quieter—desks dark, phones silent, the kind of stillness that said everyone had gone home hours ago.
Jonathan eased the door open, moving like every creak of the hinges might set off an alarm. Nancy slipped in behind him, her sneakers whispering against the linoleum. Jules followed last, closing the door with careful fingers until the latch clicked into place.
“Alright,” Jonathan murmured, “evidence room’s this way.”
The building smelled faintly of stale coffee and paper. Their footsteps echoed in the narrow hall until Jonathan stopped at a locked door. A shadow of doubt crossed his face before he pulled a bobby pin from his pocket and knelt at the handle.
Jules leaned against the wall, arching a brow. “You pick locks often, Byers?”
Jonathan didn’t look up. “Only when I have to.” The lock gave with a soft click.
Inside, rows of shelves stretched wall to wall—labeled boxes, tagged bags, and the glint of confiscated items under the fluorescent light. Their gear sat on the middle shelf, sealed in a plastic bin with Property of Hawkins Police Department stamped on the side.
Nancy pried off the lid and started pulling out their supplies: ammo, rope, duct tape—and the heavy steel jaws of a bear trap. Jules reached in and carefully lifted it out, its weight solid in her hands.
Jonathan’s eyes flicked to it. “That’s the one.”
Jules crouched to grab a couple of spare flashlights from another bin, tossing one to each of them. “In case the lights go out,” she said. “Which, with our luck, they will.”
They slipped back out the way they came, the building swallowing their exit without a sound.
********
The Byers hallway reeked of kerosene. Jonathan knelt on the worn floorboards, sleeves pushed up, hammer striking hard enough to shake the trap beneath his hands. Each metallic clang rang sharp through the narrow space.
Nancy crouched close, holding the frame steady while he worked the nails into the floor. Their shoulders brushed in the cramped space, their breath fogging faintly in the cool air drifting through the cracked window. With a low grunt, Jonathan eased the spring into place, the jaws snapping open in a wide, toothy yawn.
A few steps back, Jules tipped the kerosene can, letting the liquid pool around the trap in a looping circle. The fumes rose in an acrid wave, prickling her nose and stinging the back of her throat. Her hand was steady, but under her skin, the now-familiar hum stirred—hot, insistent, like it wanted out. She pressed it down hard, swallowing against the heat climbing into her chest.
Jonathan gave the trap one last test and stood, brushing grit from his palms. “That’s ready.”
They left the hallway for the living room, where the single lamp’s light pooled in a small circle, leaving the edges of the room swallowed in shadow. The furniture had been shoved to the walls, leaving the center clear for their makeshift arsenal.
Jonathan set the bat on the table, scattering a small tin of rusted nails beside it. He began hammering them through the wood one by one, each strike a dull, rhythmic thunk that seemed to set the air vibrating.
Jules sat on the floor, cross-legged, wrapping the crowbar’s handle with strips of duct tape. Every tear of the tape was sharp enough to make the lamp’s light shiver in the glass.
Nancy checked the revolver, spinning the cylinder before snapping it shut. Her eyes flicked toward the hall. “We’ll need bait.”
Jonathan didn’t look up. “Blood.”
No hesitation. Jonathan flicked open his pocketknife and held it out to Nancy first. She dragged the blade across her palm, the skin parting with a sting and blooming red almost instantly. Jules followed, jaw tight, the heat in her chest flaring with the sharp pain. Jonathan finished the ritual, his own hand bleeding freely.
They rinsed quickly in the kitchen sink, the water swirling pink before vanishing down the drain. Nancy bound her hand in gauze, Jonathan knotted a bandanna around his, and Jules tore a strip from an old dish towel to wrap hers. She had just tied the knot when—
Thunk. A car door outside.
Nancy froze, then moved to the front window, parting the curtain just enough to see. A familiar BMW sat at the curb, chrome glinting under the porch light.
Jules leaned over, caught sight of it, and muttered under her breath, “Shit.”
Jonathan frowned. “What?”
Before she could answer, a knock rattled the door.
Nancy opened it only a sliver, blocking the view with her body. Steve Harrington stood there, hair mussed, breath clouding in the night air.
“Nancy” he said, surprise flickering across his face. “I came to talk to Jonathan. To apologize… for the fight.”
“Now’s not a good time,” Nancy said flatly.
Steve’s eyes dipped to her bandaged hand, and his brow furrowed. “What happened to your hand?” His tone sharpened, suspicion edging in. “Did he—?”
Before she could stop him, Steve pushed the door wider, his gaze landing on Jules with the crowbar, Jonathan with the nail-studded bat, and the faint reek of kerosene in the air.
“What the hell—”
“Steve, you need to leave,” Nancy snapped, stepping in front of him.
“I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s going on,” Steve said, voice rising. His eyes darted between them, alarm blooming into anger. “And put the gun down before you hurt someone.”
Nancy raised the revolver a little higher, her hands steady. “I said go.”
Above them, the Christmas lights flickered once.
Jonathan’s head snapped up. “Nancy.”
She didn’t look at him, still trying to drive Steve back.
The flicker stretched longer this time, shadows crawling up the walls like grasping fingers.
“Nancy,” Jonathan said again, harder this time.
Steve took a small step forward, lowering his voice like he was talking to someone on a ledge. “Just… put the gun down, okay? We can—”
The hum under Jules’ ribs surged, tingling down her arms. Her grip tightened on the crowbar, and she shouted, “Nancy!”
Finally, Nancy turned, catching sight of the lights trembling overhead. All three of them scanned the room, every muscle wound tight. Steve looked from face to face, his bravado cracking into raw confusion.
A low groan rolled through the ceiling, deep and wrong. Plaster dust drifted down in lazy spirals. The flicker became a strobe, the air thickening until every breath felt too loud.
Jonathan shifted his stance, both hands gripping the bat.
The ceiling split open—
—and the Demogorgon dropped through, its screech shattering the air.
“Go!” Jonathan barked, shoving Steve backwards toward the hall. Jules grabbed Steve’s jacket and yanked hard, dragging him toward Will’s room with Nancy on their heels. The four of them slammed the door shut and pressed their backs against it, breaths coming fast in the dark.
The trap sat waiting in the hall, its jaws gaping like a steel animal ready to bite.
No one spoke. The house had gone utterly still except for the sound of their breathing and the faint hiss of kerosene fumes drifting under the door.
Jules’ palms were slick against the crowbar’s handle. The hum in her chest was sharp now, restless, almost impatient. She kept her eyes on the strip of light under the door, waiting for the shadow of the thing to break it.
Seconds dragged. Nothing.
Jonathan edged toward the door, head tilted like he was listening for something only he could hear. Nancy’s knuckles whitened around the revolver.
Finally, Jonathan eased the door open just enough to peek into the hall. Jules leaned forward to see—
Emptiness. The trap sat undisturbed, jaws still wide.
Jonathan pulled the door open all the way. “It’s gone,” he said, his voice low, tense.
Nancy turned to Steve. “You need to leave.”
Steve’s eyes were still wide, his breathing fast. “You’re serious?”
“Yes,” Nancy said firmly. “Go home. Now.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t even look back. He just gave a quick, jerky nod and bolted, footsteps pounding down the hall. The porch door banged shut a moment later, followed by the sharp roar of his engine starting up outside.
Jonathan exhaled slowly, then jerked his head toward the living room. “Let’s move.”
They returned to the center of the house, the air still heavy with tension. Jonathan took his place with the bat, Nancy near the hallway with the gun, Jules pacing the perimeter with the crowbar gripped tight. Every shadow felt too deep, every flicker of light too quick.
The hum inside Jules rose again, hot and insistent, curling through her chest and down her arms until her fingers tingled.
A noise from the hall—low, dragging, wet.
Nancy’s eyes snapped toward it. Jonathan shifted his stance, both hands locked on the bat.
The thing exploded into the living room in a blur of pale limbs and teeth. Nancy fired first, the gunshot deafening, the bullet tearing into its shoulder. Jonathan swung hard, nails biting deep into its side, black blood spraying across the wall.
Jules didn’t think—she moved. The crowbar slammed into its ribs with bone-rattling force, the hum inside her flaring like an electric spark.
The Demogorgon reeled back, shrieking, and the fight truly began—
Nancy fired again, the revolver kicking in her hands while Jules snatched the lighter and flicked it to life before throwing it on the kerosine. The bullet slammed into its chest, staggering it just long enough for Jonathan to drive the bat into its side with a bone-crunching crack. Black blood splattered across the floor, hissing where it hit the burning kerosene.
It lashed out, one clawed arm sweeping wide. Jonathan caught the blow on the bat, but the impact rattled him to his teeth and sent him stumbling back.
Jules darted in low, crowbar raised, and smashed it into the back of the creature’s knee. The hum inside her surged hot and electric, spilling into her arms until every swing felt heavier than it should. The joint buckled under the hit, forcing the thing down onto one leg.
Nancy took the opening and fired again—click. Empty. She cursed under her breath and ducked behind the couch, fumbling for the box of bullets they’d stashed there.
Jonathan swung for its head, but the Demogorgon twisted with a wet, animal snarl, batting the weapon aside. It lunged at him, claws scraping deep into the floorboards where he’d been standing a heartbeat before.
“Jonathan!” Jules shouted. She stepped in, swinging the crowbar in a hard, arcing blow across its exposed ribs. The force sent a jolt up her arms, but the hum inside her steadied her footing. The metal sank deep, and the thing howled in pain, rearing back.
From the corner of her eye, Jules caught movement—Steve bursting back through the front door. His face was pale, eyes wide, but there was something else there now: resolve. Without a word, he snatched the bat from where Jonathan had dropped it and charged, swinging low. The nails bit deep into the monster’s calf, spraying them with foul, hot blood.
The Demogorgon spun on him, petals flaring open in a silent, furious scream. Steve scrambled back, swinging wildly just to keep it from closing the distance.
Jonathan recovered fast, grabbing a spare length of pipe from the floor and ramming it into the thing’s side. The impact drove it half a step toward the still-burning patch of kerosene, flames licking dangerously close to its legs.
“Push it in!” Nancy yelled, snapping the revolver shut with fresh rounds.
Jules didn’t hesitate. She and Jonathan moved in together, hitting high and low in rapid, punishing blows. Steve followed a heartbeat later, his bat connecting with a wet crunch that made the Demogorgon shriek and stumble straight into the wall of heat.
Flames caught at its skin, peeling it in blistered patches. It thrashed violently, knocking Steve hard into the coffee table, splintering wood under his weight. Jules shoved Jonathan aside just as one clawed arm swiped for him, the tips grazing her jacket sleeve and leaving a smoking tear.
The heat roared in her ears. Her skin prickled, the hum inside her chest now a blinding, white-hot pulse. For one dizzying second, it felt like she could shove that heat out through her arms, into the thing, burn it from the inside—
But the Demogorgon wrenched free with a final, enraged screech and hurled itself through the shattered front window. Glass exploded outward in a rain of jagged shards, the sound echoing into the cold night.
Silence fell in the living room, broken only by their ragged, gasping breaths and the pop of dying flames as Jonathan shot it with a fire extinguisher.
Jules stood in the center of the chaos, crowbar loose in her hands, her pulse still thrumming with that dangerous heat.
Steve sat up slowly from the wreckage of the coffee table, wincing, his hair full of glass dust. “What the hell was that thing?” he asked, voice shaking but still alive with adrenaline.
No one answered. They all knew it wasn’t over.
********
The Demogorgon vanished into the night, leaving the living room in ruin—broken glass crunching underfoot, scorch marks clawed across the floor, the smell of burnt kerosene thick in the air.
Jonathan stumbled to the window, bat still in hand, eyes scanning the yard for any sign of movement. Outside, the street looked empty, dark.
Then—light.
A faint flicker in the Christmas strands still strung along the walls, their bulbs dancing erratically. The patterns weren’t random; they swept from one wall to the next, pulsing in clusters, as though something were walking through the house.
Jules’ grip tightened on the crowbar, her pulse spiking again. “It’s back,” she whispered.
Nancy raised the revolver, eyes locked on the lights. “Get ready.”
Steve looked between them, wide-eyed, edging a half-step toward the hallway.
The flickers surged—moving from the far end of the hall toward Will’s room, then doubling back toward the living room, deliberate and steady. It felt like being hunted, each blink of the lights a step closer.
Jonathan didn’t move. His gaze tracked the pattern, lips parting slightly, the tension in his shoulders shifting from fear to something sharper.
“It’s not the Demogorgon,” he said quietly.
Nancy shot him a look. “How can you tell?”
“I just… know.” His voice was low, steady. “It’s my mom.”
No one argued.
They stood frozen, watching the lights pulse through the house as if following invisible footsteps. Each bulb lit in turn, tracing a slow path across the living room wall toward the window—then, all at once, they went still.
Silence.
The lights stayed dark, unmoving. Whoever—or whatever—had been there was gone. Somewhere else now.
Jules let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, lowering the crowbar a fraction. Steve rubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” under his breath.
Jonathan’s jaw was tight, but there was something unshakable in his eyes. “She’s out there,” he said, almost to himself.
*********
The smell of burnt kerosene still clung to the walls. Someone had shoved the shattered coffee table into a corner, the worst of the glass swept into a dull glittering pile by the door. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the sting of raw cuts and the throb of bruises blooming under skin.
Steve sat on the arm of the couch, pacing for a few seconds before sitting again, then popping back up like his body didn’t know what to do with itself. Nancy had finished explaining—everything—and now he just stared at the floor, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.
Jonathan was crouched at the dining table with Nancy, their voices low and clipped as they strategized. Words like “trap,” “ammo,” and “hallway” floated over in pieces.
Jules rooted through the first-aid kit, tossing aside an empty box of gauze until she found a fresh roll. She crossed the room and planted herself in Steve’s path before he could wear a hole in the rug.
“Sit,” she said, tipping her head toward the couch.
He gave her a bewildered look but dropped back into place. “You’re really gonna patch me up again?”
She smirked, settling on the coffee table in front of him. “Yeah. Didn’t think I’d be doing this twice in one day, but you’re lucky I’m a forgiving soul.”
“That’s debatable,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.
She pulled a clean rag from the kit and dampened it with antiseptic, leaning in to dab at the scrape along his temple. He flinched at the sting.
“Hold still,” she said. “I’m not chasing you around the room just to make you pretty again.”
His eyes finally met hers, something complicated flickering there—part disbelief, part something softer. “You didn’t think I’d come back, did you?”
Jules shook her head, focusing on winding the gauze around his hand where a deep cut was still oozing. “Honestly? No. Figured you’d get in your car and never look back. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”
He let out a short laugh with no humor in it. “Almost did. But…” He trailed off, looking past her toward Nancy and Jonathan. “Didn’t feel right. Leaving you guys here with that thing.”
Jules paused in her work, searching his face for the punchline, but there wasn’t one. “Well,” she said quietly, “for what it’s worth… I’m glad you didn’t.”
Something in his posture eased, the tightness in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “Don’t go telling people I’m getting sentimental,” he said.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Jules replied, tying off the bandage with a neat knot. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your whole cool-guy reputation.”
That earned her a real smile—tired, but genuine. “Cool guy? Please. I’m legendary,” he said, mock-offended, tilting his chin up like he was posing for a yearbook photo.
Jules snorted. “Right, right. Hawkins High will probably build a statue in your honor after this.”
“Finally,” Steve said with a smirk. “Something I can put on my college applications.”
Jonathan’s voice cut across the moment. “We’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”
Steve glanced over at him, then back at Jules. “Guess that means I’m staying.”
Jules smirked faintly. “Guess it does.”
Nancy was already loading the revolver, hands steady now, her eyes darting between the window and the hallway. Jonathan checked the nails in the bat one last time before laying out extra weapons within reach—crowbar, hammer, even the broken table leg from earlier. Steve reluctantly set aside the gauze roll and picked up the bat, giving it a slow test swing.
They all moved with a quiet efficiency, every clink of metal and rustle of fabric a reminder that the Demogorgon could come back at any moment. The air in the Byers’ house felt heavier now—warmer from the earlier fire, thick with anticipation.
Minutes passed. Nothing.
The old clock in the hall ticked, loud in the stillness.
Jules was pacing along the living room wall when a faint crackle broke the silence. Her head turned sharply toward Will’s room, where the Walkie lay abandoned on the bed.
She was moving before she realized it, boots silent against the worn floorboards.
The static built as she got closer, the sound almost frantic. Then—
“Jules?”
Her chest tightened. “Dustin? I’m here. What’s wrong?”
His voice came through in quick, shaky bursts, choked by sobs. “She’s gone, Jules—El’s gone! The Demogorgon—and those government guys—they came for us at the school—” His voice broke. “She—she killed it. She saved us. But she’s gone.”
Jules froze, the blood in her veins going cold. “Wait, slow down. You’re safe? Where are you?”
“At the school,” Dustin sniffed, his breathing ragged. “We’re all here but—she’s not. She’s not coming back.”
Jules’ jaw clenched, grief and urgency knotting tight in her chest. “We’re coming to you. Stay put.”
She was already halfway back to the living room. “It’s Dustin,” she said, grabbing her jacket. “The school—Demogorgon, government agents—they’re safe, but El’s gone.”
Nancy’s face paled. Jonathan grabbed the car keys without hesitation. “Let’s move.”
Steve glanced between them, already heading for the door. “Then what are we standing here for?”
They piled out into the night, boots hitting the porch hard, the broken window at their backs. The cold air bit at Jules’ cheeks as they sprinted for the car, engines turning over in the dark.
Whatever had happened at the school, whatever was waiting for them there—she wasn’t going to let Dustin face it alone.
********
The school loomed out of the dark, its brick walls catching the sweep of the headlights in pale, fleeting glances. Jonathan’s car screeched into the empty parking lot, tires spitting gravel, and rolled to a stop crooked in front of the main entrance.
The place was silent. Too silent.
Jules was out of the car before the engine fully cut, boots hitting the pavement hard. The wind funneled between the buildings, carrying with it the faint smell of something scorched and chemical. The front doors hung open, one twisted slightly on its hinges.
Inside, the air was cold and wrong. Fluorescent lights hummed faintly overhead, some flickering, others shattered, leaving pools of shadow that stretched down the hall. Spent bullet casings glittered on the tile. One wall bore a ragged hole punched clean through the plaster, streaked with black, tar-like blood.
Steve took it all in with wide eyes. “Jesus…”
Jules didn’t answer, just followed the trail of debris—overturned desks, a scorched backpack—until the faint sound of voices echoed from deeper in the building.
They turned a corner and found them.
Mike, Lucas, and Dustin sat huddled near the wall of the science classroom, backs pressed against overturned lab tables. Lucas clutched his slingshot in both hands like it was a lifeline. Mike’s arm was draped protectively around Dustin’s shoulders, but his own face was pale and drawn.
Dustin looked up at the sound of footsteps, and the moment his eyes found Jules, the tension in his shoulders broke. He scrambled up and crossed the room in a few quick steps, throwing his arms around her waist in a hug that was more of a crash.
She caught him easily, holding on tight. “You okay?” she asked, her voice low.
He nodded against her jacket, though his voice cracked when he said, “She’s really gone, Jules.”
Jules swallowed hard, glancing over his head at Mike, who was watching them with red-rimmed eyes.
Jonathan, Nancy, and Steve spread out quietly, scanning the room, taking in the mess: shattered glass, scorch marks, a trail of black blood leading toward the far wall where the fight had ended.
Nancy’s gaze lingered on the scorch mark, her brow furrowing. “She did this?”
Mike’s voice was small but certain. “She saved us.”
Jules tightened her arms around Dustin once more before letting him go. “Then we make sure it wasn’t for nothing.”
Jonathan’s jaw was set, the look in his eyes the same as it had been before the trap—focused, unshakable. “If the Demogorgon’s gone… what’s next?”
Steve glanced toward the hole in the wall. “I’m guessing it’s over.”
No one disagreed.
********
Red and blue lights washed over the cracked brick and scattered debris outside the school. The wail of sirens had faded, replaced by the lower hum of idling engines and the chatter of EMTs moving between clusters of people.
Jules sat on the open back bumper of an ambulance, Dustin beside her, both of them wrapped in identical gray wool blankets that smelled faintly of bleach. A paramedic dabbed at the shallow scratches on her arm, murmuring instructions she half-listened to. Across the lot, another EMT was checking the swelling above Steve’s eye while Jonathan stood off to the side, answering quiet, clipped questions from an officer.
Mike and Lucas were each being examined in turn, the beam of a penlight flashing across their pupils. Every so often, Jules caught one of them glancing toward the school, like they still expected the Demogorgon to come barreling back through the doors.
Then the murmurs started—an EMT jogging past, saying something to another tech about a boy brought in from the woods. “Found him in bad shape, but alive. Respiratory’s stabilizing. They’ve got him in treatment now.”
Jonathan’s head snapped up, eyes locking on the speaker. “Will?”
The tech nodded once, distracted, before disappearing into the back of the ambulance.
Jonathan didn’t wait for more. He was already moving toward the driver’s side of a nearby van, gesturing for Nancy to follow.
********
The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and clean, sharp-smelling corridors. Someone clipped a wristband onto Jules, ran through the standard checks—blood pressure, reflexes, “any dizziness?”—before letting her loose with the others in the waiting room.
Dustin had claimed the chair next to hers, his blanket pooled around his shoulders. He leaned against her without a word, head finding a comfortable spot, his breathing evening out as the adrenaline drained away.
Jules rested her hand lightly in his curls, combing through them absently, more to reassure herself than him. The weight of him there, alive and breathing, was enough to loosen the knot that had been sitting in her chest all night.
Across from them, Nancy sat with her arms crossed, eyes fixed on the double doors at the far end of the hall. Steve had claimed the corner chair, head tipped back, looking like he might finally crash.
The doors swung open and Jonathan stepped inside, a tired but genuine smile breaking across his face. “He’s up,” he said. “He’s asking for you.”
Dustin jerked upright instantly, blanket sliding to the floor. Mike and Lucas were already halfway to the doors before Jules could stand, the three of them darting down the hall in a rush of sneakers and whispered excitement.
Nancy and Jules stayed back, letting them go first.
“They’ve earned it,” Nancy said softly.
“Yeah,” Jules agreed. She started walking at an easy pace beside her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Surviving the Upside Down for a week? That’s some serious badass credentials. Kid’s gonna have bragging rights for the rest of his life.”
Nancy’s smile flickered wider for just a second, the first Jules had seen all night. “He’s lucky to have people like you watching his back.”
Jules didn’t answer right away—just kept walking toward the room, thinking that, for once, luck had nothing to do with it.
*********
The walk down the corridor felt longer than it should have, the hum of the hospital’s ventilation system a constant backdrop. Jules could hear the muffled voices of the boys ahead, their excitement barely contained as they crowded into Will’s room.
By the time she and Nancy reached the doorway, Mike was already at Will’s bedside, grinning ear to ear. Lucas was leaning against the foot of the bed, his relief clear in his posture, while Dustin was perched on the chair closest to Will, talking so fast Jules doubted the kid could even catch half of it.
Will looked pale and thinner than she remembered from his missing posters, but his eyes were bright—tired, but alive—and he was smiling.
Jules leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, letting the boys have their moment. “Guess the rumors are true,” she said finally, voice light but warm. “You really did spend a week in hell and make it out the other side. Pretty badass, Byers.”
Will gave a small, shy smile, shaking his head. “I just… didn’t want to give up.”
Dustin beamed like that was the best possible answer.
Before Jules could say more, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from down the hall. She turned just in time to see Bob jogging toward the room, hair slightly mussed, a worried crease between his brows.
“Jules!” His voice was tight with relief as he closed the distance, pulling her into a quick, fierce hug. “Are you okay? They said you were here—God, I’ve been calling the house all night—”
“I’m fine,” Jules said, muffled against his shoulder, though she hugged him back just as tightly. “Scratches, bruises… nothing serious.”
When they stepped apart, Bob’s gaze flicked past her—and landed on Joyce.
For a moment, everything else in the room seemed to fade. Joyce froze mid-step, recognition flashing in her eyes. Bob’s expression softened, something unspoken passing between them—surprise, familiarity, and the faintest trace of something warmer.
“Bob,” Joyce said, her voice quiet, almost tentative.
“Joyce,” he replied, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips.
Jonathan glanced between them, brows lifting slightly, but said nothing.
The moment broke when a nurse stepped in to check Will’s vitals, and the room shifted back into motion—Dustin rattling off more stories, Mike holding up the drawing Will had made, Lucas leaning in to hear the quieter parts of his explanation.
Jules stepped back beside Bob, watching the boys cluster around Will like they were afraid to let go. “He’s tougher than he looks,” she murmured.
Bob smiled faintly, eyes still flicking toward Joyce now and then. “Yeah,” he said, his tone soft but certain. “Looks like all of you are.”
*********
Eventually, the nurses began ushering everyone out, citing Will’s need for rest. The boys dragged their feet, making promises to be back tomorrow. Jules caught Dustin giving Will one last awkward side-hug before following her into the hall.
Bob fell into step beside her instantly, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
She smiled faintly. “If I say yes one more time, will you believe me?”
“Maybe,” he said, but his expression softened as they walked toward the exit. Joyce and Jonathan trailed behind, speaking quietly. Every so often, Bob glanced over his shoulder, catching Joyce’s eye for a second before looking away again.
Outside, the night air was cold enough to sting. Jules tugged her jacket tighter, Dustin shuffling along at her other side.
Bob unlocked the car, and as they slid in, Dustin yawned so wide it cracked his jaw. Jules smirked. “Don’t fall asleep yet, Dustbin. You’ll drool on my shoulder.”
“Not gonna—” he mumbled, but within minutes on the drive, his head had tipped against her and he was out cold. Jules kept one arm loosely around him the whole way home, running her fingers absentmindedly through his curls.
She glanced out at the quiet streets of Hawkins, feeling—for the first time in what felt like forever—that they might all make it through this.
********
One Month Later:
Snow flurried lazily in the pale afternoon light, frosting the bare branches along Lovers Lake. From inside the Newby residence, the air was warm and full of the rich smell of roasting turkey and spiced cider.
Jules was in the kitchen with Bob, pretending to help but mostly stealing olives from the counter when his back was turned. The front door banged open, letting in a burst of cold air and Dustin’s voice.
“We did it! We finally beat it!”
Claudia stepped in after him, cheeks pink from the cold, smiling at his enthusiasm. Dustin kicked off his boots mid-story, launching into a rapid-fire account about how they’d defeated the “Thessalhydra” in their latest D&D campaign. His hands flailed for emphasis, nearly smacking the doorframe on the way into the kitchen.
Jules leaned against the counter, grinning. “So you’re telling me you spent an entire month trying to kill a pretend monster?”
“It wasn’t pretend,” Dustin said, deadly serious. “It was epic.”
Dinner was a cheerful blur—Bob carving the turkey while Claudia passed around sides, Dustin recounting the game in ridiculous detail, and Jules laughing until her cheeks hurt. At one point, she caught herself leaning back in her chair, just watching the three of them.
It hit her quietly, without warning—this was the happiest she’d been since her mom died.
She tucked that thought away quickly, not wanting it to dim the moment. Because beneath the warmth and the laughter, there was still that other thing—her powers—coiled like a quiet shadow in her chest. She hadn’t told anyone. Not Bob. Not Claudia. Not even Dustin.
And she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it that way.
For now, though, she let it go. She let the smell of cinnamon and roasted turkey fill her lungs, let Dustin’s excited chatter wash over her, let Bob’s bad jokes make her laugh.
For tonight, she was just Jules.
*******
Dinner wrapped with the comfortable heaviness of full stomachs and the kind of laughter that leaves your cheeks sore. Bob was loading the dishwasher, Claudia was packing leftovers into neat containers, and Dustin was already elbow-deep in the pie tin.
Jules grabbed the kitchen trash bag, tying it off with a quick twist and a tug. “I’ll take this out,” she said, already heading for the back door.
The night air hit her like a cold slap, crisp and sharp in her lungs. Snow crunched softly under her boots as she crossed the porch, the trash bag swinging at her side. She dropped it into the bin with a hollow thud and brushed her hands off against her jeans.
That’s when it happened—the hum.
It had been quiet all evening, a shadow at the edge of her awareness, but now it stirred suddenly, heat blooming low in her chest and curling up through her ribs. She flexed her fingers, and for a brief second, she swore the air around her palms shimmered faintly, like heat mirage on blacktop.
Her heart gave a hard, quick thump.
Not now.
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, forcing her breathing to slow until the sensation ebbed.
The low growl of an engine made her glance toward the street. Headlights cut across the snow, illuminating a beat-up van rolling past.
She knew that face before her brain caught up—long, unruly curls spilling from under a worn leather jacket collar, the same guy Gareth had pointed out to her at the haunted corn maze weeks ago. Back then, it had been a fleeting glimpse in the crowd, nothing more than a name and a face in passing.
Eddie Munson.
As the van drew closer, his eyes found hers. The look lingered just a beat too long, his mouth tipping into the faintest smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.
Jules blinked, caught between returning the gesture or pretending she hadn’t noticed. By the time she decided, the van was already past her, tires hissing over the slush. The tail lights disappeared into the curve of the road, leaving only the quiet hum of the winter night.
She exhaled, tugged her jacket tighter, and headed back inside.
The warmth and chatter of the kitchen wrapped around her instantly, Dustin’s voice already spilling into a new story before she even sat back down.
Somehow, the house felt warmer than when she’d left it.
And later, when the night was quiet and the snow had stopped falling, she’d still catch herself thinking about that smirk.
Notes:
Gave y'all a little tease at the end. hehe -M
Chapter 14: The Quiet Between
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first day of summer came with the kind of sky that made you forget winter had ever happened—brilliant blue, sun spilling across Hawkins like it had been saving up for months.
The rest of the school year had passed in a blur for Jules. Classes, homework, and the occasional lunch with Nancy or Jonathan had filled the days, while movie nights with Bob grounded her at home.
Steve had slipped into her circle almost without her noticing, a steady presence with quick wit and an easy grin.
Robin had become her best friend by spring, the kind you could talk to for hours without realizing it.
And though Jules never said it out loud, the shadows of last fall still followed her—monsters, missing friends, the hum of power under her skin she was only beginning to understand.
Today, though, was for sunlight, water, and people she cared about.
The lake glittered at the edge of her backyard, catching the light in quicksilver ripples. Jules stood at the dock’s edge, curls pulled into a messy bun, toes curled over the wood. She dove in without hesitation, slicing under the surface before popping up several feet out with a grin.
“Water’s perfect!” she called, treading in place.
On the dock, Dustin squinted down at her. “Perfect for hypothermia.”
Jules rolled her eyes. “It’s June, Dusty. Get in the water before I drag you.”
“Yeah, right—” Robin shoved him square in the back, sending him flailing into the lake. He surfaced with a splutter, his cap floating away.
“My hat!” he gasped.
Jules swam over, snagged it, and jammed it back on his head backward. “You’re welcome.”
Before he could retort, a voice rang out: “Heads up!” Steve launched into a cannonball, splashing both Jules and Robin so thoroughly they choked on lake water.
“You’re dead, Harrington!” Jules shouted, wiping her face.
“Oh yeah?” Steve splashed back, grinning.
Robin paddled over to Jules’ side. “Truce?”
“Truce,” Jules agreed, and together they launched a coordinated counterattack. Steve flailed and sputtered, Dustin defecting to his side as the splash war escalated. Lucas and Mike dove in to join the chaos, while Will tried unsuccessfully to escape everyone’s aim.
Steve lasted another few minutes before throwing his hands up in surrender. “You’re all animals,” he said, climbing out of the lake. “I’m gonna help Bob before he burns lunch.”
“Translation: he’s losing,” Robin called after him.
Jules was still laughing when she glanced toward the blanket. Steve had dropped down beside Nancy, wrapping an arm around her as she leaned into him. He said something low against her ear that made her laugh, soft and genuine, before she tilted her head to rest against his shoulder.
It was domestic in a way Jules didn’t often see from either of them — Steve looking almost boyish, Nancy letting her guard down. For a moment, it made her smile.
But when she caught sight of Jonathan down on the dock, skipping a stone across the water and not looking their way, something in her chest tightened. She looked away quickly, dunking herself under just to shake it off.
The splash war wound down after that, everyone drifting toward the shore in pairs and small groups. Towels were wrapped tight, wet hair plastered to foreheads as bare feet padded up the dock. Bob’s voice carried from the grill, promising food in five minutes, and the smell of sizzling burgers made even Dustin stop complaining about the cold water.
By the time the tray hit the blanket, the lake was calm again, only the sound of cicadas and the occasional whoop from Mike or Lucas still down by the dock.
Everyone crowded onto the blanket, plates in hand. Lucas and Will laughed over an inside joke, Mike argued that Dustin had been targeted in the splash war (“Because you’re an easy target!” Jules chimed in), and Robin leaned across Jules to “accidentally” steal her chips.
Steve plopped down beside her, still towel-drying his hair. “For the record, I won.”
“In your dreams,” Jules said without looking at him.
The chatter stretched into the kind of easy rhythm they hadn’t felt in months, laughter mixing with the hum of cicadas in the trees.
When the food was gone, the group naturally splintered. Nancy and Steve wandered toward the water’s edge, Jonathan stayed back to help Bob with the grill clean-up, and the younger boys gravitated to the dock to skip stones. The air was thick with sun and the scent of lakewater, the kind of afternoon where time seemed to slow.
Robin and Dustin raided the cooler for the last two sodas, bickering over who deserved them more.
Jules and Steve took over clean-up duty, which mostly meant Steve rinsing plates while Jules handed him more than he could carry just to watch him complain.
“You’re terrible at this,” he said, juggling plates like they might explode.
“Good thing you’re here to pick up my slack,” Jules shot back.
Robin passed by and gave Steve a mock salute. “Don’t strain yourself, Harrington.”
“Oh, she’s your problem,” Steve said, jerking his head toward Jules.
Robin smirked. “She’s everybody’s problem.”
Jules just grinned, not bothering to argue.
Later, as the sun dipped lower, the laughter softened into a companionable quiet. From the porch, Jules watched the lake ripple in the breeze. For a second, she thought she felt something under her skin—a low, warm thrum in her chest, like the water was answering her.
She pressed her palms into her thighs until it passed.
*******
By the time the last of the towels were hung over the porch rail to dry and the cooler was empty, the sun had slipped low enough to paint the lake in gold. Steve and Nancy left together, Robin headed home on her bike, and the boys, along with Jonathan, trailed off in a noisy cluster toward the street.
Jules lingered on the porch with Bob, watching the water settle into its evening calm. The hum under her skin had faded to a whisper, but it hadn’t gone away. It never really did anymore.
When she finally went inside, the air-conditioning hit her like a wall. She showered, pulled on soft cotton pajamas, and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling long after the house went quiet. Somewhere between the streetlight shadows and the cicadas outside her window, she made up her mind.
If this power wasn’t going to leave her alone… maybe it was time she stopped ignoring it.
*******
The morning air was sharp with the smell of pine and damp earth as Jules stepped off the trail and deeper into the trees. Sunlight broke through the canopy in shifting patterns, dappling the forest floor.
She stopped in a small clearing, set her backpack down, and took a slow breath. The hum was there immediately, low and steady under her skin, like a pulse that didn’t belong to her.
Jules spread her hands, palms up, and focused.
Nothing at first. Just her own breathing and the rustle of leaves overhead. But the longer she held the thought — that pressure inside her chest, the heat pooling behind her ribs — the more it began to stir.
A faint shimmer flickered in the air around her fingers, the way heat waves warped asphalt in July.
She exhaled, letting it fade.
Again.
This time, the shimmer sharpened, curling into thin, golden threads that swirled between her hands. They pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. Jules’ lips twitched into a small, incredulous smile.
Jules turned her wrists slowly, watching the golden threads twist and braid together, then unravel again. They weren’t hot exactly — more like a warm vibration buzzing against her skin, the way holding a live wire might feel if it didn’t hurt.
She thought about the lake the day before. The cool rush of water, the way it seemed to hum back at her. The threads brightened, thickening until they were no longer threads but fluid, rippling currents flowing from palm to palm.
Her breath caught.
She tried pushing them outward, and the current flared — a sudden whip of energy snapping against the ground hard enough to send a puff of dust spiraling into the air. Leaves shivered in a twenty-foot radius, as though a wind had passed through.
Jules’ smile widened. “Okay… that’s new.”
She crouched and brushed her fingertips over a dead leaf. The current surged instinctively, the veins of the leaf lighting up for a split second before it crumbled to ash between her fingers. She jerked her hand back.
Too much.
Her chest tightened. The hum inside her had picked up speed, eager now, like it wanted to spill everywhere all at once. She shook her arms out, trying to bleed off some of the tension, but the air around her was already alive — dust motes hanging suspended, light bending faintly like heat haze.
And then, without meaning to, she reached farther.
The trees at the edge of the clearing swayed as though caught in a sudden gust. Small pebbles lifted an inch off the ground before dropping again. The hum roared in her ears, crowding out everything else.
“Stop,” she muttered to herself, closing her fists. The currents snapped and fizzled out, leaving her standing in the silence of the clearing, chest rising and falling too fast.
A twig cracked behind her.
Jules spun, adrenaline surging — and froze.
A girl stood just inside the treeline. Dark curls, pale skin, eyes sharp but wary. Her oversized flannel hung off one shoulder, the sleeves swallowing her hands.
Jules’ breath caught. “…Eleven?” Her voice came out thin, the disbelief so sharp it almost hurt.
El’s mouth twitched, just barely. “Hi, Jules.”
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Jules stepped forward like she had to convince herself El was real, her voice breaking into a disbelieving laugh. “I thought you were dead. Everyone thought you were dead.”
El shook her head. “Not dead. Hiding.” She glanced past Jules, like she was checking to see if anyone else had followed. “After school… the monster… I ran.”
Jules’ stomach tightened. “You were in the Upside Down.”
El nodded once. “Found a gate. Small. Got out. Woods.” Her voice stayed even, but her eyes held that deep, old fear Jules remembered from last fall. “Hunters came. People from lab. Hopper found me first.”
Jules blinked. “Hopper?”
“He brings food. Clothes. Made a place for me to stay. Safe.” She tilted her head toward the deeper part of the woods. “Cabin.”
The thought of El surviving all this time — alone, in the cold, with the lab still after her — hit Jules like a weight. She wanted to hug her, but something about El’s stillness made her hesitate. “You should’ve told me,” Jules said quietly.
El looked at her for a long moment. “Couldn’t. Dangerous.”
That single word landed heavy between them.
Jules swallowed hard, nodding. She got it — maybe more than anyone else could — but it didn’t make the ache in her chest go away. “You’re safe now?”
“Yes,” El said, then glanced toward the deeper trees. “I’m—”
“EL!”
The shout cracked through the clearing, rough and urgent. Both girls turned just as Hopper pushed through the undergrowth, eyes locked on El. He scanned her quickly for injuries before his attention shifted to Jules.
“Ambrose,” he said, recognition immediate. “What are you doing out here?”
Jules blinked at the sharpness in his tone. “Just walking,” she said carefully. Her gaze flicked to El. “I didn’t know she was here.”
Hopper’s mouth tightened. “Well, now you do. And now you know something you can’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your family. No one.”
“I wouldn’t—” Jules started.
“Doesn’t matter,” Hopper cut her off, his voice firm. “You can’t.”
The air felt heavier somehow, the silence between them broken only by the distant rustle of leaves. Jules nodded once. “Okay. I won’t.”
He seemed to study her a second longer before giving a short nod, like he’d decided she meant it.
But before he could send her away, El stepped forward, her voice small but sure. “She knows now. Let her come.”
Hopper looked down at her. “El—”
“She’s… like me,” El said. “She understands. It’s lonely.”
Something in Hopper’s expression shifted — not much, just a flicker in his eyes — but he still shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
Jules felt the urge to step in but stayed quiet, letting El press.
“She can help me,” El added. “And I want her to.”
Hopper exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like the argument was wearing him down already. “We’ll talk about it later,” he muttered finally, then jerked his chin toward the trail. “For now, Ambrose, you head home.”
Jules hesitated, catching El’s gaze. There was something solid there, an unspoken promise that this wasn’t the end of the conversation.
She turned toward the path, her heart pounding. Eleven was alive — and maybe, just maybe, she’d get to see her again.
The trail back felt longer than it should have. The late-morning sun pressed warm against Jules’ shoulders, but she barely noticed it. Her mind kept looping the same thought over and over: She’s alive.
The pine needles crunched softly under her sneakers, the smell of sap thick in the air. She replayed every flicker of expression on El’s face — the guarded smile, the steady look when she’d asked Hopper to let Jules visit.
She didn’t know if Hopper would agree. She didn’t know what she’d even say to El if she saw her again. But the certainty that El had survived, that she was safe… it settled into Jules’ chest like a small, bright ember.
By the time the trees thinned and her house came into view, she’d decided she wasn’t going to let that ember go out.
*******
The sun had barely set, the living room washed in the soft gold glow of the table lamp. Outside, crickets hummed, their rhythm steady and unbothered. Jules sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, flipping through a comic she’d already read twice.
From the kitchen, she heard the soft clink of a mug being set down and the faint creak of floorboards. Bob lingered in the doorway for a moment, one hand on the frame, like he was still deciding whether to come in.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said, his tone a shade too careful.
She lowered the comic, eyebrow lifting. “That’s your ‘serious talk’ voice.”
Bob chuckled under his breath, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. He came over, lowering himself onto the edge of the coffee table across from her. His knees brushed hers. “You’re… not wrong.”
“Okay,” Jules said slowly, sliding a bookmark between the pages and setting the comic aside. “What’s up?”
Bob rubbed his palms on his jeans like he was trying to wipe off invisible dust. “So… you know I’ve been spending some time with Joyce.”
“Yeah.” Jules tilted her head. “You’re friends.”
“Right,” Bob said, nodding, “but… lately, it’s been more than that. We’ve been… seeing each other.” He winced like the words might bounce back and hit him. “And I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. You’re—well, you’re my family, Jules. I care what you think.”
Jules blinked, trying to process. Her brain automatically summoned a reel of her mom — Isla’s smile, the way she’d hum absentmindedly when she cooked, the sound of her laugh when Jules told a bad joke. That space in her heart still belonged entirely to her mom, untouched and fiercely guarded.
And the thought of someone else stepping into that space — even someone like Joyce, who’d been nothing but kind — was… complicated.
“Bob…” she started, then trailed off, looking down at the loose thread on her hoodie sleeve. “You know she’s not Mom.”
“Of course,” Bob said immediately, his voice soft but steady. “No one could be. I’d never try to change that.”
Jules picked at the thread, her thoughts tangling up. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
His smile shifted, something almost sad tucked behind it. “That’s my line, kiddo.”
That pulled a small laugh out of her before she could stop it.
“I just…” Bob leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. “Joyce makes me happy. And I think — I hope — I make her happy too. But it matters to me that you’re okay with it. You matter to me.”
Jules swallowed, looking at the man who’d been there for every scraped knee, every science project, every sleepless night since her mom had been gone. She didn’t want to be the reason he didn’t take a chance on being happy.
“If she makes you happy… then yeah. It’s okay,” she said finally, the words coming out quieter than she meant.
Bob’s shoulders eased, relief softening his smile. “She does. And thank you, Jules. Really.”
He reached over and squeezed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in that steady, grounding way of his. For a few beats, they just sat there in the warm lamplight, not needing to say anything else.
Still, Jules knew this wasn’t something she’d figure out all at once. She could be happy for Bob and still miss her mom. Those feelings could live in the same place.
Over the weeks that followed, the conversation faded into the rhythm of summer — long, bright days that smelled of cut grass and lake water, nights filled with the chirp of crickets and the occasional hum of a far-off thunderstorm. And somewhere in the middle of all that, life in Hawkins kept turning, carrying her toward moments she never expected.
********
Jules was curled up on the couch, the soft gold lamplight spilling over the pages of her comic. She’d read this one before, but it was easier to focus on Spider-Man’s problems than on the muffled clatter coming from the kitchen.
Bob had been on edge all day — straightening throw pillows, sweeping the porch twice, even polishing the silverware they almost never used. The smell of garlic bread drifted in from the oven, warm and heavy in the air.
“Jules?” Bob called from the kitchen. “Can you give me a hand with the table?”
She sighed, tucking her bookmark into place. “On it!”
When she stepped into the dining room, Jonathan was already there, quietly lining up plates like he’d been drafted into service. He gave her a small nod, and she joined him, adding forks and knives to each setting. After a moment, she noticed him subtly nudging the ones she’d already placed so they were perfectly straight.
“You good?” she asked under her breath.
“Peachy,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the plates.
Will wandered in and plopped into a chair, swinging his legs. “Smells amazing.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Jonathan said, though his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
In the kitchen, Bob was giving Joyce a tour of his lasagna-making process, gesturing with a spatula like a game show host. Joyce was smiling, sleeves rolled up, clearly trying to follow along. “I’m starting to think you should be running Enzo’s,” she said.
Bob beamed like she’d just knighted him.
When they finally carried the food in, Bob set the lasagna down in the center of the table with a flourish, Joyce placing the salad with the care of a museum curator.
Dinner started politely enough. Bob asked Jonathan about photography — “Any projects coming up?” — only to get a clipped “Not really.” Joyce asked Jules about gymnastics, and Jules gave polite, short answers, resisting the urge to point out Joyce had been at her last meet.
Still, Bob kept refilling everyone’s drinks like it was his sworn duty, and Joyce kept praising the food between bites.
Halfway through the meal, Will leaned toward Jules, voice low. “This is nice. Nobody’s… staring at me.”
Jules smiled, some of the tightness in her chest easing. “Guess you’ve got us distracted.”
Jonathan caught her eye from across the table, his look saying this is weird, right? She smirked and mouthed back, You’ll survive.
Dessert was a store-bought pie Bob swore was “almost homemade.” By then, the sharp edges of the evening had dulled, the conversation finding an easier rhythm. When the Byers headed out, Bob stood in the doorway with Joyce, his hand brushing hers in a small, almost shy gesture.
Jules caught the flicker in Jonathan’s expression — not anger exactly, but wariness — and felt a pang of sympathy. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about Bob and Joyce, but watching Bob make Will laugh as they headed to the car made her think she could keep giving it a chance.
*******
About a week later, summer had settled into its own lazy rhythm.
Jules spent mornings at the lake, afternoons sprawled in Robin’s room with popcorn and bad VHS tapes, and the occasional evening on the porch listening to Bob talk about his plans for the store. Bob and Joyce were still orbiting each other, and while Jules hadn’t decided exactly how she felt, the sharp awkwardness of that first dinner had softened into something she could live with.
That afternoon, she found the note on the kitchen counter — folded in half, her name scrawled across the front in Hopper’s blunt handwriting:
You can stop by the cabin.
She didn’t need a second invitation.
By the time she reached the clearing, the air was thick with the smell of pine and damp earth. She rapped lightly on the cabin door, and Hopper’s voice called from inside, “It’s open.”
He was at the stove, stirring something in a dented pot. “Figured you’d make it over today,” he said without looking up.
“You did leave me a note,” Jules pointed out, closing the door behind her.
A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest. “Fair.” He nodded toward the table. “She’s been waiting on you.”
El was already there, a deck of cards spread in front of her. She looked up, and the faintest smile tugged at her mouth. “Go Fish?”
Jules slid into the chair opposite her. “Guess I’m the fish.”
They played in easy silence for a while, the cards slapping softly against the wood. Jules told her about the lake, Robin’s ongoing campaign to get her to watch Sixteen Candles, and the way Steve had nearly fallen off the dock last week. El listened, eyes flicking between Jules and her cards like she was storing every detail away.
After a few hands, El set her cards down for a moment. “Mike,” she said quietly, almost like testing the word.
Jules tilted her head. “You miss him?”
El nodded once. “He’s… okay?”
Jules’ smile softened. “Yeah. He’s fine. Still bossy. Still thinks he’s the smartest in the room. But… yeah, he’s okay. You don’t have to worry about him.”
That earned her the smallest flicker of relief in El’s eyes. She picked her cards back up without saying more, and they went back to the game.
The cabin door creaked, and Hopper stepped in from outside, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Dinner in twenty,” he said, looking between them. “And Jules—”
She met his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Don’t rile her up before bedtime.” His tone was half-serious, half the dry humor of someone who’d already decided she would.
Jules smirked. “No promises.”
El’s smile widened just enough to be noticeable. “Next time?” she asked quietly.
“Next time,” Jules said, meaning it.
*******
Jules had been spending more time in the woods — not for swimming or hiking, but for the quiet.
And for practicing.
She still didn’t understand exactly what she could do, but she was learning to feel it — the hum under her skin, the way the air seemed to bend when she focused. It was unpredictable. Sometimes she could hold it for a few seconds before it sputtered out; other times, it surged so hard she had to stop before it scared her.
She was out in the woods again today, but it was for a different reason.
When Jules reached the cabin, the air was already thick with the smell of pine and damp earth, the forest floor soft underfoot from a recent rain. She spotted El sitting on the porch steps, chin resting on her knees, watching the trees like she was waiting for something to appear.
“You look bored out of your mind,” Jules said as she came up the path.
El didn’t smile, but her eyes softened a little. “Not bored. Thinking.”
“About?” Jules asked, dropping onto the step beside her.
El hesitated, gaze drifting back toward the trees. “Everything.”
They sat in easy quiet for a bit, the only sound the occasional drip of water from the cabin roof. Then El tilted her head, studying Jules. “You practice?”
The question caught Jules mid-thought. “…What makes you say that?”
“Feel it,” El said, matter-of-fact, like she was stating the weather.
Jules let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought.”
El’s brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, Jules felt it too — that strange pressure in the air, not heavy but… aware, like the space between them had been charged with static.
“You push too hard,” El said after a beat. “Like—” She paused, searching for the right word. “Like trying to hold water in your hands. You press, it spills out.”
Jules frowned, rolling the thought around in her head. “So what, I just… chill and let it happen?”
El gave a tiny nod. “Not chill. Focus. But not… force.” She gestured vaguely, curling her fingers like she was shaping something unseen.
Jules smirked. “That’s it? No ancient wisdom, no ‘use the Force’ pep talk?”
El’s lips quirked — just barely. “Less talking. More feeling.”
They ended up playing cards inside after that, the deck already worn soft from repeated games. El wasn’t much for chatter, but she listened closely when Jules talked about Robin’s terrible movie recommendations or Steve’s latest near-miss with falling off the dock. Sometimes, El would ask about the boys — mostly Mike — but never in a way that made Jules feel like she had to give more than she could.
By the time Hopper came in, smelling faintly of smoke and pine, the sky outside had started to darken. “Dinner in ten,” he said, giving Jules a nod before disappearing into the kitchen.
On her way out later, Jules paused at the tree line, flexing her fingers. She closed her eyes, trying to follow El’s advice. The hum stirred under her skin — not wild, not burning, but steady.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like it was fighting her.
********
By late August, the air in Hawkins felt heavy enough to wring out. Even the cicadas seemed sluggish, their constant drone barely cutting through the thick heat. The lake was too warm to be refreshing anymore, but Jules still found herself there most days — it was the only place where the world felt big enough to hold her thoughts.
That afternoon, she sat cross-legged at the edge of the dock, a beat-up sketchbook balanced on her knees. She wasn’t drawing anything in particular — just loose, wandering lines that turned into swirls, shapes, the outline of a tree branch she could see in her periphery. The pencil moved without much thought, the kind of idle sketching that filled the empty spaces in her head.
She paused, tapping the eraser against the page, when she felt it — that faint shiver in the air.
It wasn’t the wind — not yet. Just that strange, charged stillness, like the lake itself was holding its breath.
She glanced up, scanning the horizon. The far shore blurred in a haze, the sky above it smeared in darker shades of gray.
Somewhere in her chest, the hum stirred.
She set the pencil across the open page and stood, the dock groaning softly under her weight. The clouds were closing in, heavy and low, the light turning the water a dull, flat silver. A distant roll of thunder crawled across the lake.
Instead of heading inside, she stayed put, drawn toward the restless energy building in the air. The wind picked up, teasing strands of hair into her eyes. She brushed them back and stretched her fingers out like she could touch the current hanging just beyond her reach.
The hum inside her matched the storm — tense, coiled, ready to break.
She closed her eyes. The smell of rain was sharp now, the air tasting faintly metallic on her tongue. Don’t force it, she reminded herself. El’s voice in her head: Less talking. More feeling. She let her shoulders loosen, her breath slow, and tried to listen — not with her ears, but with whatever part of herself could feel that buzz under her skin.
The thunder rolled again, closer this time. The hum swelled in answer, threading through her veins until her fingertips tingled.
And then—
Lightning tore open the sky across the far side of the lake. The crack of it was so sharp she flinched — and something inside her flinched with it, the hum bursting out in a rush that made the air around her pop and buzz like static before a storm.
Her breath hitched.
Another bolt split the clouds — and this time, the surge inside her didn’t just echo it, it met it, pulsing in perfect time. The energy shuddered through her body, almost enough to knock her off her feet.
She stumbled back, heart hammering, every muscle strung tight. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, “too much—”
But the hum resisted, stretching the moment out, daring her to hold it longer. She fought to pull it back, dragging it inward like hauling in a net heavy with water.
Finally, it ebbed, retreating to wherever it lived when she wasn’t touching it.
The sky broke open. Rain came in sheets, cold and heavy, plastering her hair to her face in seconds. She snatched up the sketchbook from where it sat open on the dock, clutching it to her chest as she ran for the house.
Even as she stepped inside, leaving wet footprints across the floor, the moment replayed in her mind — the lightning, the hum, the way they’d found each other like two ends of the same wire.
It scared her.
It also thrilled her.
********
The rain hadn’t let up all day, the storm rolling lazily over Hawkins in waves. By nightfall, the wind had calmed, but the steady patter against the windows made the whole house feel wrapped in a blanket.
Robin was sprawled across half of Jules’ bed like she owned the place, one leg dangling over the side, the other propped up on a pillow. In her hands was a VHS case she waved like it was a rare artifact.
“I’m telling you,” she declared, “this is the single greatest movie of all time.”
Jules raised an eyebrow, taking in the cover. “It’s literally a shark with a machine gun strapped to its back.”
Robin nodded gravely. “Exactly. Cinema peaked here.” She slid the tape into the player before Jules could protest.
Half an hour later, the plot had completely fallen apart, and they’d migrated to the floor with a pile of nail polish bottles between them. Robin had chosen a violently bright pink for Jules and was now concentrating way too hard on not smudging.
“Hold still,” Robin ordered, tongue peeking out in focus.
“I am still,” Jules argued, smirking. “You’re just bad at this.”
Robin glanced up, feigning outrage. “Excuse you, these are going to be a masterpiece. People will see your nails and weep.”
“Yeah, out of pity.”
They dissolved into laughter, and Robin promptly messed up a nail, earning another round of teasing from Jules. By the time they’d finished both sets, the living room smelled faintly of acetone, the movie had long since rolled credits, and they’d started going through the stack of records Robin had brought over.
Robin talked about each one like it had a personality — the moody jazz record was “brooding but misunderstood,” the punk album was “your chaotic best friend who gets you into trouble,” and the dusty old folk LP was “a soft cardigan in music form.”
It was after midnight by the time they finally killed the lights, both still talking in the dark until their words blurred into mumbles and sleep took over.
*******
The next morning smelled like coffee and toast. Bob had already left for work, so Jules and Robin had the house to themselves.
“You know,” Robin said through a mouthful of toast, “you need new jeans if we’re gonna survive junior year without being accused of being feral woodland creatures.”
“We?” Jules asked, grabbing her jacket.
“Yes. We’re a unit now. If one of us looks bad, we both look bad.”
Jules laughed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Didn’t you say Steve might meet us later?”
Robin nodded. “Yeah. He said something about catching a movie after we shop. Probably just here for the popcorn, but I’ll let him pretend it’s about us.”
By late morning they were weaving through the polished, echoing halls of West Valley Mall, a few towns over. First stop was the clothing store near the east entrance — racks of denim and summer clearance. Robin had Jules in a dressing room within minutes, tossing over pairs of ripped jeans and sarcastically rating each one when she stepped out.
“That pair says, ‘I listen to sad music but still turn in my homework,’” Robin commented on the third try.
Jules rolled her eyes. “And this is why you’re not my personal stylist.”
“Excuse you, I’m a visionary.”
A bag with two new pairs of jeans later, they hit the record store, where Robin hunted for “something loud enough to irritate the neighbors,” and a thrift shop where she tried on sequined sunglasses that made her look like a disco alien.
They were heading toward the pretzel stand when Jules heard her name called.
“Jules! Hey!”
Gareth was leaning against the railing outside the arcade, a bag of quarters in hand, grinning like he’d just won a bet.
“Hey yourself,” Jules said, walking over. “Haven’t seen you since we finished that mural project in art class.”
“Yeah, I’ve been busy,” Gareth said, rolling his eyes. “Band rehearsals, my uncle roping me into inventory shifts—”
“Sounds thrilling,” Jules teased.
“About as thrilling as—” Gareth started, but then his attention shifted slightly. “Oh, hey. Eddie, this is Jules. Jules, Eddie.”
Eddie Munson stepped up beside him, leaning one shoulder against the arcade’s doorway. His gaze lingered on her like he was sizing her up.
“Yeah,” Eddie said slowly, “I’ve seen you before. You live near a buddy of mine. Guess I didn’t realize you ran with the art crowd.”
“Small town,” Jules said, keeping her voice even. “Everyone knows everyone.”
Robin appeared at her side with two pretzels. “Not me. I plan to remain a mystery to this place forever.” She took a huge bite, talking around it.
Eddie’s gaze flicked to Robin, then back to Jules. “You’ll have to tell me if she pulls it off.”
Jules smirked faintly, about to answer — but a familiar voice cut in.
“There you are.”
Steve Harrington walked up, scanning Robin and Jules before his eyes landed on Eddie. The shift in his posture was subtle, but the temperature of the air seemed to drop a degree.
“Munson,” Steve said flatly.
“Harrington.” Eddie’s tone carried that lazy drawl, but the edge underneath was unmistakable. “Didn’t expect to see you slumming it at the mall.”
“Didn’t expect to see you anywhere near a mall,” Steve shot back. “Thought you only hung out in basements with the other metalheads.”
Robin made a noise like she’d just discovered a rare animal. “Wow. This is fun. Can we do this every time we go out?”
Steve didn’t take his eyes off Eddie. “We’re heading to a movie.”
Eddie’s smirk deepened. “Guess I’m not invited.”
“You guessed right,” Steve said, then looked at Jules. “You ready?”
Jules nodded, though she could still feel Eddie’s attention on her as she turned away.
“See you around,” Eddie said — slower this time, like he wasn’t just making conversation but making a promise. Or maybe a challenge.
When she glanced back, he was already leaning against the arcade doorway again, watching her with the kind of calm that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.
********
By mid-August, the air in Hawkins still clung thick with heat, but summer was over whether anyone liked it or not. Store windows traded beach towels for backpacks, and the grocery aisles filled with stacks of lined paper and pencil packs.
Jules sat cross-legged on her bed, a pile of half-folded laundry at her feet. Robin was sprawled in the armchair near the window, flipping through a record sleeve she’d dug out of Jules’ collection. Steve was stretched out at the foot of the bed, idly tossing a baseball in the air and catching it one-handed.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” Robin asked without looking up.
“I’m not nervous,” Jules said, folding a shirt and tossing it onto the stack. “I just… hate the idea of sitting in a classroom all day after spending the summer outside.”
Robin snorted. “Translation: nervous.”
Steve caught the baseball and pointed it at her. “She’s not wrong. You look like you’re gearing up for prison.”
Jules looked down at her black jeans and plain T-shirt. “Wow, thanks. Real confidence booster.”
“Hey, I’m just saying—” Steve gestured at her clothes, grinning. “First day back, you gotta make a statement. Let ‘em know you survived the summer. Strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.”
Robin smirked. “Which enemies?”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. Teachers. People who sit in your lunch spot. The jocks who smell like Axe body spray.”
Jules laughed, shaking her head. “Maybe I’ll just go in with my crowbar. Really set the tone.”
“Menace,” Steve muttered fondly, flopping back against the mattress.
Jules rolled her eyes but didn’t answer, glancing toward her desk. Her new notebooks and sharpened pencils sat neatly in a row, untouched — too perfect to belong to her yet. Outside, the cicadas droned like they’d been doing all summer, but the breeze coming through her window carried something else now, something sharper. Change.
She should’ve felt ready — her circle of friends was solid, her summer had been good. But there was still that hum under her ribs, the one she never talked about. Maybe it was the powers she hadn’t told anyone about. Maybe it was the strange moment at the mall. Or maybe it was just knowing this year wouldn’t be like the last.
Notes:
Just a little in between season montage moments. I felt it would be rather jarring to just throw us into season 2.
Chapter 15: Sharks In The Water
Chapter Text
Summer had left Hawkins High the same as ever—buzzing with chatter, lockers slamming, the faint smell of floor wax clinging to the air—but Jules felt different walking through its doors. Last year, she’d kept her head down, hiding in muted sweaters and jeans. Now, without even meaning to, she’d pulled on a lilac sweatshirt tucked loosely into a patterned skirt, gold hoops catching the light, and mismatched sneakers that made her smile when she looked down at them.
She hadn’t planned the change. It had just… happened. Maybe it was the summer, maybe it was the people she’d grown closer to, or maybe—if she were honest—it was something deeper. Since her powers had stirred awake, there was this quiet, electric charge under her skin. It didn’t make her loud or fearless, but it made her feel more like herself than she had in years.
That didn’t mean she was used to the attention. As she and Robin made their way down the hallway, Jules caught a few too many glances from guys leaning against lockers. One of the football players even gave her a grin that felt a little too long. She immediately pretended to study the paper in her hand.
Robin caught it, of course.
“Wow,” she said, smirking. “New year, new Jules.”
“Same me,” Jules muttered. “Just… different laundry choices.”
“Mhm.” Robin’s gaze flicked down at the skirt and back up again. “It’s not just the clothes. You’re… glowy. Like—annoyingly glowy. If you were in a teen movie, this is the part where the slow-motion music starts and the nerdy best friend realizes she’s been the hot one all along.”
Jules groaned. “Please stop before I throw myself into a locker.”
Robin grinned, unbothered. “I’m just saying, if you start getting love letters in your locker, I expect to read them first.”
They reached the end of the hall where the music and art wings split. Robin slowed, pointing a thumb toward the music room.
“This is me. Try not to cause a scene in art class without me there to narrate.”
“No promises,” Jules said, smirking.
Robin wiggled her fingers in a mock wave and slipped inside the music room, leaving Jules to head for art.
********
The familiar smell of graphite and acrylic hit her as she stepped into the art room, sunlight pooling across long tables and cluttered shelves.
Gareth was already there, leaning back on his stool with that lopsided grin he seemed born with. “Ambrose! Survived the summer?”
She laughed, weaving between stools to drop her bag on the table across from him. “Barely. You?”
“Had a run-in with the world’s worst sunburn,” he said, rolling his sleeve up to reveal a faint, guitar-pick-shaped mark.
Jules snorted, flipping open her sketchbook. “Rock star injury?”
“Battle scar,” Gareth corrected, grinning wider—
The door creaked open.
“Glad you decided to join us this year, Mr. Munson,” Mr. Cartwright said, his voice carrying that flat patience of a man used to late arrivals.
Jules glanced over without thinking—then blinked.
Eddie Munson stood framed in the doorway, a loose grin tugging at his mouth like he was in on a joke no one else knew. His denim vest looked worn soft at the edges, band patches stitched haphazardly across it. He didn’t rush, didn’t mumble an apology—just sauntered in as if he had all the time in the world.
Jules’s stomach gave a small, inexplicable flip. She hadn’t seen him this close since the mall. Back then, it was all quick glances and a slightly cocky “see you around.” Now, with the morning light catching the messy curls at the nape of his neck, she caught herself wondering if “around” might mean here.
She turned back to Gareth, pretending to flip open her sketchbook, but she was aware—too aware—of Eddie’s presence moving through the room. The air felt different, heavier in a way that made her shoulders tense.
Two stools scraped back. He didn’t take the empty one across the room. Instead, he stopped near their table, tossing his bag onto the counter with a thud and dropping into a seat only a few feet away.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gareth muttered under his breath, half-grinning.
“What?” Jules asked, keeping her eyes on the blank page in front of her.
“Nothing,” he said, but his smirk said otherwise.
Jules risked a glance sideways. Eddie had his elbows on the table, flipping open his own sketchpad. He wasn’t looking at her, exactly—but there was a faint curve to his mouth like he knew she’d look.
Jules tried to focus on the blank page in front of her, tucking a curl behind her ear. Her pencil hovered, motionless, as the quiet sounds of the room took over—the scrape of graphite, the shifting of stools, and Eddie’s low hum that barely carried over the murmur of Mr. Cartwright explaining the first project.
She finally drew the first few lines, but the weight of Gareth’s half-smirk and Eddie’s presence made it hard to think of anything but the fact that this year’s art class had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated.
The scratch of pencils and the low hum of conversation filled the room, broken only by Mr. Cartwright’s occasional reminder to “stay loose with your lines.” Jules managed a few quick sketches—half-focused shapes and shadows—before the period’s slow crawl toward the finish.
Across from her, Gareth caught her eye, smirk still firmly in place. It was the kind of look that said he was following along with some private joke she hadn’t been let in on.
When the bell finally rang, chairs scraped against the floor. Jules slipped her sketchbook into her bag, slinging the strap over her shoulder. Gareth was already halfway to the door, tossing her a knowing little salute as he passed.
“See you tomorrow, Ambrose,” he said, tone light but eyes still carrying that infuriating glint.
She was about to follow when a voice stopped her.
“You’ve changed your look.”
Jules turned. Eddie was still at his table, leaning back in his chair like he had nowhere else to be. His gaze flicked over her in that casual, unreadable way before meeting her eyes again. “Little more color. Stands out.”
“Guess I got bored,” she said with a shrug, though the comment made her suddenly aware of the patterned skirt she’d chosen that morning.
He smirked faintly. “Gareth talks about you a lot, y’know.”
That made her pause. “Does he?”
“Mm.” Eddie’s tone was deliberately vague, like he enjoyed leaving the meaning open-ended. “Says you’ve got more bite than you look like you’d have.”
Jules arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?”
“Guess you’ll find out,” he said, closing his sketchbook with a slow thump.
It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but it felt like one anyway. Jules gave him a faint, careful smile and headed for the door before he could say anything else.
Still, she felt the weight of his gaze trailing after her until she stepped into the hall.
********
The cafeteria was its usual storm of noise — trays clattering, chairs scraping, the air heavy with the smell of pizza and something suspiciously close to burnt popcorn.
Jules spotted Robin first, waving from a table already occupied by Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan.
Robin hooked an empty chair out with her foot. “Saved you a spot. You’re welcome.”
“Wow. What a friend,” Jules said, sliding into the seat. “Braving the high school lunch battlefield for me.”
“Exactly,” Robin said, snatching a tater tot from Jules’s tray before she’d even taken a bite. “Besides, someone’s gotta keep you away from the vultures at the jock table.”
Jules arched a brow. “What vultures?”
Robin tipped her head toward a group across the room, where two letterman jackets were very obviously glancing their way between loud bursts of laughter. “Those vultures. Look at them — circling.”
“They’re probably laughing at something else,” Jules said, though she found herself checking that her hair wasn’t sticking up weird.
Robin smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
Steve’s voice cut through their conversation. “—and then the guy just launches out of the car, right? Like full-on action hero.”
Nancy nodded along, adding without missing a beat, “And it turns out he’s the bad guy.”
Steve grinned. “Yes! Exactly.”
Jonathan kept eating, eyes on his tray, but Jules caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth — like he wanted to react but didn’t.
Robin leaned closer to Jules, dropping her voice. “It’s like watching a soap opera if no one in the soap knows they’re in a soap.”
Jules bit back a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re terrible.”
“What? I’m just narrating the drama for you.” Robin leaned back in her chair, clearly enjoying herself.
Steve kept talking, oblivious, his focus locked on making Nancy smile. And Nancy — polite as ever — kept returning the smiles, even if there was a slight tightness at the edges.
Jules picked at her pizza, listening with half an ear, wondering if anyone else at the table could feel the quiet ripple under the surface… or if she and Robin were the only ones tuned into it.
She was about to lean over and make some sarcastic comment when movement in her peripheral caught her attention.
A flash of green and white passed between the tables, the chatter of voices parting just enough for Chrissy Cunningham to appear, her cheer skirt swaying as she made her way over.
“Jules!” Chrissy’s voice was warm and light, carrying over the cafeteria noise like she was genuinely happy to see her.
Jules blinked, surprised for a half-second before smiling. “Hey, Chrissy.”
Chrissy pulled her into a quick hug, the scent of vanilla shampoo clinging to her. “It’s been forever. I feel like I haven’t seen you since… what, May?”
“Something like that,” Jules said, setting down her pizza slice. “Guess we both survived the summer.”
Chrissy laughed. “Barely. You should’ve seen our cheer camp—brutal. But anyway—” She glanced toward Robin, gave a friendly nod, then turned her focus back to Jules. “We’re having a little slumber party this Friday. Some of the girls from the squad, movies, junk food, gossip. You should come.”
Robin’s brows shot up like she’d just been handed an alien artifact.
“And you’re welcome too,” Chrissy added, looking at her.
“Me?” Robin pointed to herself, deadpan.
Chrissy grinned. “Why not?”
From across the table, Nancy said, “Sounds fun, but I’ve got dinner plans Friday.”
Robin hesitated, eyes flicking toward Jules.
“Oh, come on,” Jules said, bumping her shoulder. “Could be fun.”
Robin sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I end up wearing matching pajamas with a cheer squad, I’m holding you responsible.”
Chrissy laughed, already standing. “It’s settled, then. I’ll call you later.”
As Chrissy made her way back toward the cheerleader table, Jules’s eyes wandered briefly—just enough to catch sight of Eddie across the room. He was leaned back in his chair at a table near the windows, one boot hooked over the leg of the seat, listening to something Gareth was saying. His gaze drifted lazily over the cafeteria, pausing for the barest fraction of a second when it landed on her. A quirk of a smile—small, almost imperceptible—before he looked away again.
Robin leaned in, voice low. “Slumber party with cheerleaders. This is how horror movies start, you know.”
Jules laughed, shaking her head. “Guess we’ll find out Friday.”
********
By midweek, the hum of school days had settled into a rhythm, but Jules felt sharper somehow — as if her senses had been tuned a fraction tighter. The quiet hum under her skin had been there all summer, but now she was starting to test it.
The gym smelled faintly of chalk and varnish, sunlight pooling across the mats. Jules rubbed chalk into her palms, feeling the grit stick to her skin, and stepped up onto the beam. The muscles in her legs thrummed with familiar tension — but underneath, there was something else, something she could push into if she wanted.
So she did.
It wasn’t much — just a slow, careful push, like pouring water from a cup without spilling it. That hum inside her bled into her muscles, making each takeoff lighter, each landing softer. Her turns were cleaner, her balance sharper, as if the beam had widened under her feet.
“Eyes up, Ambrose! Yes, just like that,” Coach Finley called, the edge of satisfaction in his voice catching her off guard.
She moved through the sequence, each step feeling more precise, more deliberate, as if she could already see the landing before her feet touched it. By the time she dismounted, she was grinning despite herself — landing soundlessly, beam barely shuddering.
Carly, watching from the sidelines, smirked. “Show-off.”
“Just feeling good today,” Jules said, though she knew it was more than that.
They rotated to the uneven bars. She swung up, fingers biting into the cold metal, and let that same hum coil through her shoulders. The timing of her release felt instinctive — the bar seemed to meet her hands instead of the other way around.
Halfway through her set, the clang of cleats echoed in the gym. Football players straggled in from the locker room, their voices low but carrying. Jules kept her eyes forward, even when she caught the subtle shift in their tone — the kind meant to get a reaction.
She didn’t falter. If anything, she pushed harder, letting the hum in her chest match the rhythm of her swing.
When she landed, she yanked on her warm-up jacket before crossing for her water bottle. Carly jogged past, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re idiots.”
“Working on it,” Jules said lightly, rolling her shoulders to shake off the attention. She knew trouble when she saw it — and some kinds weren’t worth the oxygen.
“Good hustle today, Ambrose,” Coach Finley called as they packed up.
Practice ended in a haze of chalk, sore muscles, and that lingering buzz under her skin. She knew she’d pushed more than usual — and that she’d gotten away with it. For now.
********
That night, the house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. Jules sat cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from a shower, her sketchbook open in her lap.
She wasn’t drawing. Not really. Just absently dragging her pencil in looping shapes, replaying the feeling from earlier — the way her body had felt weightless on the beam, the bars almost pulling her hands to them. It had been subtle, controlled. Nothing anyone could point to and say, That’s not normal.
She should have been more worried about it. Instead, she felt… satisfied. Like she’d gotten away with something.
Downstairs, Bob’s laugh drifted up from the living room, followed by the muffled sound of the TV. The smell of microwaved popcorn still lingered faintly from when he’d made some before disappearing into a movie.
Jules closed her sketchbook, tucking it under her pillow. She told herself she was just tired from practice, that her mind was only making it into something bigger because it felt different.
But lying there in the dark, she could still feel the faint echo of that hum under her skin — like it wasn’t done with her yet.
********
Thursday brought one of those lingering summer sunsets that turned everything gold — the sky streaked with soft clouds, cicadas buzzing lazily in the distance. When Joyce invited her and Bob over for dinner and a movie, Jules hadn’t even hesitated.
The Byers’ living room was already warm and dim by the time she stepped inside, curtains drawn against the last of the light. The place smelled faintly of tomato sauce and oregano, the kind of scent that clung to the air long after dinner plates had been cleared. On the coffee table, a precarious tower of VHS tapes leaned like it might topple into the shag rug at any second.
Will sat cross-legged on the floor, his small hands moving an action figure through some quiet battle only he could see. Joyce was in the kitchen, fussing over popcorn bowls like she was trying to get the ratio of kernels to salt just right. Bob was already on the couch, legs stretched out, looking like he belonged there — like this couch, this house, these people had always been his.
When Jules came in, he shifted, patting the spot next to him with that wide, earnest grin that made it hard not to smile back.
“Movie night rules,” he said as soon as she dropped onto the cushion. “Rule one: no rewinding unless it’s for something truly epic. Rule two: no talking during the important parts. Rule three…” He leaned in with a mock-conspiratorial look. “Save me the last handful of popcorn. Joyce pretends she doesn’t care, but trust me — she’s a popcorn thief.”
“I’ll guard it with my life,” Jules said solemnly, though the corners of her mouth twitched.
Joyce swept in with two brimming bowls, handing one off to Will before settling in on Bob’s other side. “Alright, everyone ready?” she asked, like they were about to start a mission instead of a movie.
The lights dimmed, the TV clicked on, and the screen came to life in a haze of static before the opening credits rolled. Jules curled into the corner of the couch, the popcorn warm against her leg, Bob’s easy presence on one side and the gentle rustle of Will’s shifting on the other.
For a while, the room was filled only with the glow of the screen, the occasional crunch of popcorn, and the distant hum of cicadas outside. And for that stretch of time, they weren’t survivors or caretakers or kids who’d seen too much too young — they were just people, watching a movie together.
When the credits finally rolled and the lights came back up, Jules felt that easy warmth still lingering in her chest. She didn’t expect it to last forever. But for tonight, it had been enough.
********
By Friday evening, the week’s slow hum of classes, practice, and small moments had built toward this — Robin’s mom’s old sedan idling at the curb, headlights catching in the front windows.
Bob was at the kitchen counter when Jules came bounding in, tugging on her jacket. “Robin’s here,” she announced, already half-turned toward the door.
He looked up from the stack of repair manuals spread across the counter, his smile warm but edged with that paternal note of reminder. “Alright, but if you’re staying later than planned, call me from Chrissy’s. I want to know where you are.”
“I will,” she promised, slipping her arms into her sleeves.
“And I want you here by ten tomorrow morning,” he added, pointing toward her like it was a binding contract.
She grinned, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his cheek before darting for the door. “Got it!”
The screen door creaked shut behind her, and Bob shook his head, half-smiling as her laughter faded down the driveway.
Robin’s mom’s old station wagon was idling at the curb, the headlights cutting a pale wash over the driveway. Jules jogged down, tugging her jacket tighter against the chill, and slid into the passenger seat.
Robin glanced over, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. “You ready for a night of sugar, gossip, and questionable eighties pop hits?”
“As long as there’s popcorn,” Jules said, buckling her seatbelt.
Robin smirked, pulling away from the curb. “Oh, there’s popcorn. And probably a Ouija board, because these are the cheer squad girls we’re talking about.”
Jules laughed, watching the familiar houses slip past in the dark. “Great. So when the demons come for us, I’ll just blame you.”
“You’re welcome,” Robin said, flicking on the radio. Tinny synth poured through the speakers, and the two of them hummed along, letting the conversation drift to lighter things — weekend plans, the absurd price of jeans at the mall, and whether Eddie Munson was secretly in some underground art cult.
By the time they turned onto Chrissy’s street, Jules could feel that strange mix of nerves and excitement in her chest — like she was stepping into someone else’s orbit for the night.
*********
Robin eased the wagon up to the curb, engine ticking as it cooled. The porch light spilled gold across the driveway, and voices carried faintly from inside — high, bright laughter that made Jules instinctively straighten her jacket.
Chrissy’s front door opened before they could knock. She stood there with her hair half-up in a ribbon, the scent of warm brownies drifting out behind her.
“Hey!” Chrissy’s face lit up. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jules said, stepping forward for a quick hug. Robin gave a little wave, lingering just behind her.
Inside, the living room was a blur of pink throw blankets, soda cans, and a pile of VHS tapes stacked by the TV. A couple of girls Jules recognized from around school looked up from painting their nails, offering polite smiles before returning to their conversation.
“Okay, snacks are in the kitchen, movies on the coffee table, and I’m making popcorn,” Chrissy rattled off like a seasoned hostess. “Oh — you two grab a spot on the couch before the good ones are gone.”
Robin shot Jules a sidelong glance, the kind that said, This is going to be interesting, before they waded into the soft chaos of the night.
Chrissy ushered them into the living room, where a cluster of girls in matching pajama shorts and oversized Hawkins High sweatshirts sprawled across beanbags and the couch. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and hair spray.
“Jules, this is Amber, Kayla, and Melissa,” Chrissy said brightly, motioning between them. “You’ve probably seen them around.”
“Hey,” Jules said, giving a little wave.
Amber smiled, but there was something in it — the kind of look that measured you before deciding where to place you. “Right, you’re the one who moved here last year,” she said, like it was both a question and a fact. “From… where was it again?”
“Chicago,” Jules replied, settling cross-legged on the floor beside Robin.
“Big change, huh?” Kayla chimed in, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Guess Hawkins is a little slower-paced than the city. Less… exciting.”
Chrissy bounced onto the couch between them, cutting in before Jules had to answer. “She’s got great balance though — she’s amazing at gymnastics.”
“Oooh, gymnast,” Melissa said with an approving nod that somehow didn’t feel approving. “Explains the legs.” She popped a grape into her mouth, then added, “Bet the guys notice.”
Jules gave a short laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wouldn’t know.”
Amber’s gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary before she leaned back, letting the conversation drift. The girls started debating between two rom-coms, their voices overlapping in a practiced rhythm that made Jules feel like she was watching a play she didn’t know the lines to.
She busied herself with pouring a handful of popcorn into a napkin, Robin leaning over just enough to whisper, “Told you this would be interesting.” Jules smirked, but the air still felt just a little too tight, like the room was one deep breath away from turning.
********
By the time the movie ended — a blur of neon outfits and improbable plot twists — the soda cans were empty, the popcorn bowls half-spilled, and the cheerleaders were sprawled across the carpet in that lazy, post-sugar crash sprawl.
Amber plucked a deck of cards from the coffee table, her smile sharpening. “Okay, we need something fun before we all pass out from boredom.”
Kayla sat up, her ponytail swinging. “Truth or Dare?”
The suggestion was met with a chorus of oooohs, a ripple of dramatic anticipation. Jules shot Robin a quick look — Really? — but they were already being pulled into the circle.
Amber shuffled the deck with a little flourish, her gaze flicking up just long enough to land on Jules. “Alright,” she said, voice syrupy-sweet. “Truth or dare?”
Jules leaned back on her hands, casual. “Truth.”
Amber’s smile widened. “Okay… who in Hawkins High have you had a crush on?” She tilted her head, mock-innocent. “And don’t say no one. That’s boring.”
The air shifted — the other girls leaned in, smirks tugging at their lips, eyes darting between each other like they were waiting for a punchline.
Jules shrugged. “Pass.”
Kayla made a sing-song tsk. “You can’t pass. That’s, like, against the rules.”
“Then give me a dare,” Jules said, matching her tone with cool disinterest.
Melissa’s grin curled slow and knowing. “Guess it’s harder when no one here actually likes you back.”
The giggles that followed weren’t loud, but sharp — a couple of the girls leaned together, whispering behind cupped hands. Jules felt heat creep up her neck, but forced her face into a smirk.
“Wow,” she said, “did you practice that in the mirror, or is that natural talent?”
Amber’s brows lifted. “Careful, Jules,” she said lightly. “Wouldn’t want you to get a reputation for mouthing off.”
The game rolled on, skimming over Robin — who was dared to braid Melissa’s hair while blindfolded — but Jules caught the subtle glances, the quiet plotting. She knew they’d circle back.
Melissa draped herself against the couch, twirling her hoodie cord between her fingers. Her gaze drifted over Jules with lazy precision. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Jules said again, feigning ease.
Melissa smirked. “Alright… tell us the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you in school. And make it good.”
Jules hesitated — too many answers, all of them bad. Before she could speak, Melissa gave a little laugh. “Bet it’s from Chicago. Probably something way more… dramatic than anything in Hawkins. You do stand out here.”
The giggles sharpened again, the sound curling under her skin. Chrissy’s brows drew together, and she quickly interjected. “Hey, it’s supposed to be fun. She can pass.”
Melissa made a mock pout. “Fine. We’ll come back to her.”
The next few rounds stayed loud, each question just a little pointed, each laugh a little too knowing. When Melissa finally turned the bottle toward Jules again, her smile was pure saccharine.
“Truth or dare, Jules?”
“Truth,” Jules said, stretching her legs out.
Melissa twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Okay… if you had to choose — Steve Harrington or Eddie Munson? And don’t say neither, that’s lame.”
A ripple of whispers swept the room, the kind that made you certain your name had been in their mouths before you even walked in. Robin’s eyes flicked toward Jules — warning.
Chrissy shifted. “That’s—”
“It’s just a question,” Melissa cut in smoothly.
Jules took her time, sipping her soda. “Honestly? Neither. Not really my type.”
For a heartbeat, the room was quiet — then came a few surprised laughs, real ones this time. Melissa’s smile twitched, but she didn’t push it.
Still, as the movie started again and the circle dissolved back into scattered cushions and blankets, Jules could feel the hum of their earlier laughter in the air — the kind that wasn’t meant to be forgotten.
Robin leaned over, voice low. “I feel like we’re in a nature documentary.”
Jules smirked. “Yeah. Just waiting to see who gets picked off first.”
Chrissy caught her eye from across the couch, and there it was — a flicker of apology, quick and quiet, like she knew exactly what kind of hunt had just happened.
*********
The morning sunlight cut in through Chrissy’s sheer curtains, painting pale squares across the carpet. Most of the cheer squad was still asleep in a jumble of blankets and tangled hair, the faint hum of the VCR still playing static from a tape left on pause.
Jules sat cross-legged near the couch, nursing a paper cup of orange juice while Robin pretended to still be asleep beside her. She’d been replaying parts of last night in her head — the glances, the laughs that were just a little too sharp — when soft footsteps padded over.
Chrissy crouched down in front of her, hair pulled into a messy bun, oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. She lowered her voice. “Hey… I just wanted to say I’m sorry about last night.”
Jules blinked, surprised. “For what?”
Chrissy glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one else was listening. “Amber can be… competitive. Especially if she thinks someone’s getting attention from—” she hesitated, “—from certain people.”
“Certain people?” Jules echoed.
Chrissy’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t really a smile. “Her crush. He’s been talking about you all week.”
Jules let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve barely talked to anyone lately.”
“I know,” Chrissy said quickly. “But that’s how Amber works. She’ll be sweet to your face and… different when she’s with the girls. I should’ve stepped in sooner.”
There was a quiet sincerity in her eyes, and for the first time since arriving last night, Jules believed her.
“Thanks,” Jules said after a moment. “But I can handle it.”
Chrissy nodded, relief softening her expression. “Still, if she says anything else, just… ignore it. She gets bored eventually.”
Robin cracked one eye open from her makeshift nest of blankets. “Noted,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Though I’m thinking of investing in a helmet next time.”
That got Chrissy to laugh, quiet but genuine, before she stood and drifted toward the kitchen.
Jules glanced down at Robin. “You heard all that, huh?”
Robin smirked without opening her eyes. “Please. I’d hear gossip through a concrete wall. And for the record? We are definitely talking about who this mystery crush is later.”
********
The weeks bled together in a blur of classes, practice, and the slow creep of autumn.
Amber’s voice became just another part of the hallway noise — the pointed “cute shoes” that somehow didn’t sound like a compliment, the exaggerated surprise whenever Jules answered a question in class. Never enough to be called out for, but just enough to stick. Jules learned to let them slide off her like chalk dust, though sometimes Robin muttered curses under her breath on her behalf.
Between the noise, there were brighter pieces: afternoons spent sketching in art, Gareth’s sarcastic commentary cutting through the monotony; movie nights with Robin where they argued over which VHS tape to put on; the rhythm of gymnastics practice, her landings sharpening each week until Coach Finley started timing her on the beam.
By early October, Hawkins was deep into football season, the air crisp and smelling faintly of bonfires. That Wednesday morning started like any other — until the squeal of tires in the student lot pulled half the school’s attention toward the windows.
A sleek black Camaro rolled in, rumbling low, the kind of car that didn’t belong in Hawkins. It slid into a parking space like it owned the asphalt.
Heads turned. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Even Gareth, leaning against the lockers with his usual too-cool slouch, tilted his head toward the sound.
The car swung into a spot like it had been saving it all year.
The driver’s door opened, and out stepped a tall, broad-shouldered guy with sun-bleached hair that brushed his collar. Tight jeans, leather jacket, an easy swagger that screamed I already own this place.
A wave of whispers broke out. Jules caught snippets — who is that?, he’s gotta be new, holy— — and the giggles from a pair of sophomores who nearly walked into each other staring.
She rolled her eyes and shut her locker a little harder than necessary. “It’s too early for this much drool,” she muttered to Robin.
Robin smirked. “Guess Hawkins High just got a new mascot.”
Jules didn’t bother watching him head inside. She’d seen his type before — trouble gift-wrapped in a smirk. And she’d learned a long time ago that the smart move was steering clear.
Still, when the Camaro’s door slammed and the sound echoed down the hall, she felt a ripple pass through the student body — like everyone had just been put on notice.
********
The late-morning sun slanted through the tall art room windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm light. Jules had just settled at her usual table when Mr. Cartwright clapped his hands for attention.
“Today we’re practicing live figure sketching,” he announced, gesturing toward a stool in the middle of the room. “You’ll take turns posing for each other. Keep it simple, thirty seconds per pose. No complaining.”
A few groans went around, Gareth included. “Bet I end up posing for the whole period,” he muttered as he flipped open his sketchbook.
But before Cartwright could pick someone, Eddie was already on his feet, that crooked grin in place. “Guess I’ll take one for the team,” he said, strolling toward the stool like he owned the floor.
He dropped into a loose, slouched pose, one hand dangling off his knee, the other curling around the edge of the seat. The room quieted just a notch — Eddie had a way of pulling focus without trying.
Jules smirked faintly, pencil hovering over the page. “Of course you’d pick the laziest pose possible.”
“Not lazy,” Eddie said without missing a beat. “Relaxed. There’s a difference.”
“Uh-huh,” Gareth said, already sketching. “The difference is you’re allergic to effort.”
Eddie’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a laugh, but his gaze slid toward Jules for a second too long before he looked away again.
The timer beeped. Cartwright called for a new pose, and Eddie straightened — only to sprawl backward across the stool like he was in a bad magazine ad. One leg stretched out, chin tipped up, smirk firmly in place.
“Oh my God,” Gareth muttered under his breath. “You are so doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” Jules asked, but her pencil slipped just slightly.
Gareth’s grin was all teeth. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Eddie caught the exchange, eyes glinting. “Something funny, Gareth?”
“Yeah,” Gareth said. “Watching you make an idiot of yourself.”
“Art needs idiots,” Eddie replied. His gaze flicked to Jules again, deliberately slower this time. “And good artists.”
She kept her head down, trying not to let him see the faint heat rising in her cheeks.
When the timer beeped again, Eddie didn’t hop down right away. He leaned forward on the stool, elbows braced on his knees, and glanced at her page. “Not bad, Ambrose,” he said low enough that only she could hear. “Guess Gareth wasn’t exaggerating.”
Jules blinked. “About what?”
Eddie’s grin tilted. “Your drawing,” he said — but the glint in his eyes suggested that wasn’t all.
Cartwright called for the next volunteer, breaking the moment. Eddie hopped off the stool with a lazy salute and headed back toward their table, while Gareth shot Jules a look.
********
The bleachers were warm under Jules’s legs, sun baking the metal until it felt like summer was still hanging on. Down on the blacktop, the JV basketball team ran drills, sneakers squeaking and the coach’s whistle cutting the air.
Steve dropped onto the step below hers with the easy sprawl of someone who’d claimed the best seats a hundred times before. He set his Coke on the rung between them and unwrapped a cafeteria sandwich.
“Skipped the lunch line?” he asked, nodding toward the paper bag in her lap.
“Didn’t feel like watching the football team arm-wrestle over the last basket of tater tots,” she said, peeling back the wrap on her sandwich.
Steve grinned. “Amateur move. You gotta know when to cut ahead, grab your food, and get out before the chaos hits.”
“Guess I’m still learning the Harrington school of survival,” she teased.
They traded easy banter, Jules telling him about Gareth’s latest art class disaster—how he’d glued the spine of his sketchbook shut and somehow glued both hands to his jeans in the process. Steve laughed so hard he nearly choked on his Coke.
“That’s… wow. That’s art,” he said, still grinning.
For a moment, his gaze drifted across the quad. Nancy and Jonathan were huddled over a pile of yearbook proofs, their heads bent close together, camera gear strewn between them.
Steve’s smile faltered, just a fraction. “You ever get that feeling,” he said slowly, “like you’re standing in the room but somehow you’re not… in it?”
Jules tilted her head. “Talking about yearbook duty, or…?”
He gave a humorless little laugh. “I don’t know. It’s like, I’m glad she’s doing something she cares about. I just… sometimes feel like the third wheel in my own relationship, you know?”
She didn’t answer right away, just let the thought hang between them. “You talked to her about it?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “Feels petty. Besides, Jonathan’s a good guy. It’s not like anything’s going on.” He shrugged, a quick motion like he was physically brushing the thought off. “Anyway, enough of my whining.”
Steve took a swig of his Coke, then glanced back at her with a lighter expression. “So… how’s it going with Bob and Joyce?”
Jules blinked at the pivot but went along. “It’s… fine. Good, even.” She tugged at the edge of her sandwich wrapper. “We’re all still figuring out the rhythm, but Bob’s happy. Joyce too. And honestly—” she smirked faintly, “—Joyce might be the only person on earth who can keep up with him when he’s on a roll about RadioShack gadgets.”
Steve chuckled. “So you’re surviving the whole ‘my dad figure’s dating’ thing?”
She hesitated. “Surviving is a good word.” Then, with a small shrug, “Bob’s out with her Friday night, actually. Which means Claudia invited me over for dinner so I can keep Dustin from eating all the dessert before it hits the table.”
Steve grinned. “Sounds like a dangerous mission.”
“You have no idea,” Jules said, shaking her head. “Last time he tried to convince me he needed two slices of pie for… protein.”
Steve’s laugh carried over the thump of a basketball hitting the pavement, but before she could answer, the lunch bell rang. Students started spilling from the cafeteria doors, and Jules shouldered her bag, already thinking about Friday night at the Hendersons’.
********
The gym echoed with the slap of rubber balls and the shrill blow of Coach Barkley’s whistle. Jules adjusted her grip on the dodgeball, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor as she scanned for an opening.
She spotted one—too late. A ball whistled past her shoulder, close enough to ruffle her hair.
“Eyes up, Ambrose,” Barkley barked from the sideline.
She smirked to herself, crouched low, and sent her ball sailing toward a cluster on the opposite team. It nailed Tommy H. square in the ribs, sending him stumbling back with a groan.
“That all you got, sweetheart?”
The voice came from her right—smooth, low, and carrying just enough swagger to make it clear he wasn’t talking about the throw.
She turned, and there he was: tall, broad-shouldered, sun-browned, his smirk like it was carved into place. The new guy.
Billy Hargrove spun the dodgeball in his palm like it weighed nothing. “Heard you’re the gymnast,” he said, eyes flicking down and back up in a way that made his meaning plain. “Guess that means you can dodge.”
Jules didn’t flinch. “Guess that means you can throw?”
“Oh, I can throw,” he said, leaning just slightly closer. “Question is—can you take a hit?”
She narrowed her eyes, but he grinned wider and the ball was out of his hand in a blur. She dropped to the floor just in time, the rubber thudding against the wall behind her.
“Not bad,” Billy said as she popped back up. “We’ll see if you’re that fast next time.”
The whistle blew, sending both teams back to their sides. But instead of moving right away, Billy lingered, his eyes locking on hers for just a second too long before he finally turned.
As Jules walked to the line, she could still feel that look burning between her shoulder blades—not just sizing her up, but staking some kind of unspoken claim.
She told herself it was nothing, just a new guy trying to size up the room. Still, she found herself replaying his words, the faint challenge under them, like he’d been testing her and was already planning round two.
She shook it off in the locker room, trading her gym clothes for her leotard and warmups. Coach Finley ran a tight ship in gymnastics, and she wasn’t about to let some dodgeball posturing throw her off her game.
********
The sweet, chalky scent of the mats hit her as she stepped into the practice gym. Sunlight filtered through the high windows, throwing long bars of gold across the floor apparatus. Girls were stretching along the wall, the muted thud of someone landing a vault echoing from the far side.
“Ambrose,” Coach Finley called from near the uneven bars, clipboard in hand. “You’re on floor today. That meet is in three weeks—if you’re ready, I want to see you run a full routine.”
Jules tied her hair back tighter, nodding. “Got it.”
She took her position on the floor, toes curling into the springy surface. The hum of her powers was faint, a low, familiar vibration under her skin. She’d been careful in practice lately, only nudging them into her routines when no one was watching closely—but today, she let just a little more bleed in.
Her first pass snapped together with an ease that surprised even her—tumbling faster, her feet catching the mat with barely a whisper. The tiny bursts of energy she pushed through her muscles made her landings softer, her balance steadier.
When she straightened from her final pose, Coach Finley’s brows had lifted in faint approval. “Good. Again—cleaner on the transition this time.”
Jules allowed herself the smallest smile as she jogged back to the corner. Billy’s smirk was gone from her head now, replaced by the sharper, steadier rush of control.
********
Friday night brought Jules to the Henderson house, the warmth of the place wrapping around her as soon as she stepped inside. The faint scent of roasted chicken and rosemary drifted through the air, cozy and inviting. She kicked off her sneakers in the front hall, listening to the low hum of a radio somewhere in the house and the clink of dishes from the kitchen.
“Jules!” Claudia’s voice carried, warm and bright. “Perfect timing. Sit yourself down—dinner’s just about ready.”
She followed the voice into the kitchen, where Claudia was in her element — oven mitts in one hand, apron dusted with flour, hair pinned back in a loose twist that had started to come undone.
The dining table was already set, and Dustin sat in his usual spot, leaning forward like he’d been mid-story before she’d even arrived.
“Hey, Dustbin,” Jules said, passing behind his chair and ruffling his curls.
“Hey! Hands off the hair,” he swatted at her but couldn’t keep the grin off his face.
Claudia placed the platter of roast chicken in the center of the table, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans still steaming. “Alright, you two. Play nice. And no dessert if you start another food fight.”
Dustin waited until plates were being filled before he picked up his thread. “So, there’s this player at the arcade—goes by ‘MadMax.’ Shows up, smashes everyone’s scores, and disappears. Total mystery.”
Jules scooped a pile of mashed potatoes onto her plate. “What, she beat you?”
“Yeah. By a lot.” He stabbed at the chicken with almost theatrical gravity. “Dig Dug, Centipede, Tempest… doesn’t matter. She’s crazy fast.”
“Maybe she’s just some twelve-year-old prodigy hopped up on Pixy Stix,” Jules said, smirking.
“Maybe,” Dustin conceded, though the spark in his eye betrayed something closer to admiration than defeat. “Still… would be nice to have her on our side. You know, if she’s not secretly evil or something.”
Jules arched a brow. “Didn’t you once say new players mess up the rhythm?”
“That was before one came along who could stomp Lucas without breaking a sweat.”
Claudia chuckled as she passed the green beans. “Sounds like someone’s got a new hero.”
Dustin grinned around a mouthful of potatoes. “Just saying—mysterious is cool.”
Jules leaned back in her chair, filing the name away. Max. Whoever she was, she clearly had Dustin’s full attention—something that could be both entertaining and trouble in equal measure.
The meal wound down with the comfortable clink of cutlery and the occasional scrape of a serving spoon against the bottom of a dish. When the plates were empty and the roast chicken reduced to bones, Claudia gave them both a pointed look toward the sink.
“You two can start on these. I’ll wrap up the leftovers.”
Jules gathered plates while Dustin stacked cups, following her into the kitchen. The warm air smelled faintly of lemon dish soap as Jules rolled up her sleeves and turned on the tap.
“She probably just lives at the arcade,” Jules said over the rush of water, handing him the first dripping plate.
Dustin took it, drying with a towel in a way that was more haphazard than helpful. “Maybe. But she’s good—like, scary good. Beat Lucas’ Dig Dug time by twenty seconds. On her first try.”
“Tragic,” Jules deadpanned, scrubbing a stubborn casserole dish.
He ignored her tone. “I think she’d fit right in with our party… y’know, if Mike doesn’t implode over it.”
Jules handed him the clean dish. “Mike? Implode? Shocking.”
Dustin smirked. “You’ll see when you meet her.”
By the time the sink was empty and the counters wiped down, Jules had rolled her sleeves back down and shook the last drops of water from her hands. Dustin trailed her into the dining room as she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair.
“Uh-huh,” she said, slipping it on. “And when Mike flips, I’m telling him this was your idea.”
Dustin grinned like that was a challenge. “Worth it.”
Claudia appeared from the kitchen, holding a Tupperware container still warm against her palms.
“Here,” she said, pressing it into Jules’ hands. “Chicken casserole. You can heat it up for lunch tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to—” Jules started.
“I want to,” Claudia interrupted, giving her that pointed look that left no room for argument. “Besides, I made too much. And Bob’s been known to inhale an entire pan when no one’s watching.”
Jules smirked. “Yeah, I’ve seen the evidence.”
Claudia snagged her keys from the hook by the door. “Come on, I’ll run you home. Bob’s got the car tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” Jules said, glancing at the clock. “That’d be great.”
The ride was short, the hum of the heater filling the quiet between Claudia’s soft humming along to the radio. At a stoplight, Claudia glanced over. “You good, honey?”
Jules smiled faintly. “Yeah. Thanks for the ride—and the casserole.” She patted the container in her lap.
Claudia’s voice softened. “Anytime. You know that.”
When they pulled into the Newby driveway, the porch light glowed warm against the dark. Jules climbed out, waving as Claudia backed away, and lingered for a moment in the cool air before heading inside.
Chapter 16: Tink
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The hallway between second and third period was a slow-moving river of students, elbows and backpacks bumping as people tried to get where they were going without being late. Paper pumpkins and bats were taped haphazardly to the cinderblock walls, and someone from student council had hung a long strand of orange lights above the lockers that flickered occasionally like they might give up at any second.
The gym smelled faintly of chalk and floor polish, the rhythmic thump of a basketball echoing from the next room. Jules stood barefoot on the springy mat, rolling her shoulders as Coach Finley strode over with his clipboard.
“Ambrose, you’re anchoring Friday’s meet,” he said, voice clipped but not unkind. “Floor routine. I want clean landings and energy all the way through.”
Her stomach tightened—not from fear, but from the weight of the spotlight. “Got it,” she said, bouncing once on the balls of her feet.
He stepped back. “Run it.”
She took a breath and let that quiet hum under her skin flow into her muscles. The first pass was smooth, each tumble and twist meeting the mat with satisfying precision. The hum sharpened her focus—she could feel the subtle shift in her weight before each landing, the way the floor seemed to spring back under her palms during a roundoff.
“Again,” Finley called, and she did, driving harder into each movement. Her legs felt like coiled steel, her balance unshakable.
By the time he called a stop, she was breathing hard but grinning, sweat cooling on her neck. “Friday’s yours to lose,” Finley said, jotting a note on his clipboard before walking off to the next girl.
Jules grabbed her water bottle and flopped onto the bench, already replaying the run in her mind, fine-tuning the parts she wanted sharper. Friday couldn’t come fast enough.
********
Wednesday’s practice had left Jules with sore calves and chalk still dusting the insides of her gym bag. Coach Finley’s voice echoed in her head for the next two days — “Commit to the landing, Ambrose. No hesitation.” She replayed her floor routine in her mind between classes, on the bus, even while brushing her teeth. By the time Friday morning rolled around, the nervous hum under her skin was impossible to ignore.
The familiar smell of paint thinner and graphite hung in the air as Jules slid into her seat. Normally, she’d already be flipping open her sketchbook, pencil tapping a quick rhythm, but today her hands stilled against the cover.
“You look like you swallowed a swarm of bees,” Gareth said, leaning over his stool with a crooked grin.
Jules huffed a laugh. “Guess I’m a little… keyed up.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Meet today, right?”
She nodded. “Floor routine. If I nail it, we might actually place higher than Hawkins has in years. If I mess it up…” She trailed off, shrugging like it didn’t matter, but the tight set of her mouth gave her away.
“Everything’s riding on it?” Gareth asked gently.
“Feels like it,” she admitted, flipping her pencil between her fingers. “One mistake and it’s over.”
A voice floated from the next table. “Sounds like you need to stop thinking about the ‘one mistake’ part.”
Jules glanced sideways. Eddie Munson had been leaning over his own drawing, but now his gaze flicked up to meet hers.
“Pressure’s just a trick your brain plays on you,” he said with a faint smirk. “Tell it to shut up, and you’ll do fine.”
Her lips curved before she could stop them. “That your expert advice?”
“That, and…” He tapped his pencil against his sketchpad. “Don’t fall.”
Jules rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth stayed hooked in a reluctant smile.
The period dragged, each tick of the clock pulling her closer to the meet. Eddie didn’t say much more, but once or twice she caught him glancing over as if checking whether she’d shaken off the nerves. Gareth kept her talking about anything but gymnastics — ridiculous band stories, a classmate’s failed attempt at bleaching their hair — until the bell finally rang.
“You’ve got this,” Gareth said as they packed up.
“Yeah,” Eddie added without looking at her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knew she’d heard him anyway.
*******
The halls had mostly emptied, the echo of slamming lockers fading into the distance. Jules moved with her gym bag slung over one shoulder, sneakers squeaking faintly against the waxed floor. Her art supplies were still in there somewhere — wedged between her leotard and a rolled-up towel — and she caught faint whiffs of graphite with each step.
The gym was warmer than usual, lights buzzing overhead. Coach Finley stood near the mats, clipboard in hand, already running through stretches with the team. Jules gave him a nod before ducking into the locker room.
She changed without rushing, pulling her curls into a high ponytail and swapping her sneakers for chalk-dusted grips. In the mirror, she caught herself pressing her lips together, just short of a frown. Her leotard — deep blue with silver streaks — fit snug and cool against her skin.
On the mats, she eased into her warm-up: high knees, lunges, a few cartwheels to loosen her shoulders. The springy give of the floor was familiar, almost comforting. Still, her stomach kept tightening in little pulses. She closed her eyes, letting her focus narrow, letting the faint hum of her powers slip through — a subtle push that made each jump lighter, each landing softer, her balance unshakable.
“Ambrose!” Coach Finley’s voice cut through. She opened her eyes to find him watching her closely. “Good energy. Save some for the routine.”
She nodded, breathing slow.
The bleachers were filling — parents, students, the hum of chatter. Chrissy slipped in with a few cheerleaders, waving from across the gym. Jules smiled back automatically, then froze for a second when she spotted familiar faces near the front row: Bob, already with his camera out; Joyce sitting beside him, leaning in to say something that made him grin; and further down, Steve and Robin waving like goofs.
Her chest loosened a little at the sight. They were here.
*********
When her name was called, Jules strode to the center of the mat, chin high, ponytail swishing. The opening guitar riff of “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming” cracked through the speakers, sharp and electric. She saluted the judges, feeling the bass thrum through the floor beneath her feet.
The first driving beat hit, and she launched into a round-off back handspring double back — the mat catching her with a solid bounce. She flowed straight into a punch front tuck, landing light, almost feline, before spinning into a fast, sharp turn sequence that matched the rhythm of the snare hits.
The guitars snarled into the chorus, and she went bigger — a whip-back into a high, clean layout, body stretched like a bow before snapping down into a perfect landing. The crowd reacted with a low swell of applause, but Jules kept her focus, every move tight to the music’s pulse.
Midway through, she dropped into a dramatic split slide that caught the hard stop in the bridge, holding the pose for half a beat before surging back to her feet. A quick aerial followed, her body cutting cleanly through the air, curls catching the light as she came down in sync with the kick drum.
For the final pass, she took a breath and let the hum of her powers push her higher, lighter — a triple tumbling combo that ended with a stuck landing, arms thrown up just as Halford’s voice belted the last defiant line of the chorus.
The gym erupted. Bob was on his feet in the front row, camera clicking wildly. Joyce clapped beside him, beaming. Steve and Robin cheered from the bleachers, their voices carrying above the noise.
Jules stepped off the mat, chest heaving, and waited with her teammates as the judges conferred. The scoreboard flashed her score: 9.75. Hawkins’ team erupted — it was the highest score of the night.
By the final rotation, Hawkins had edged out their rival by less than a point. When the win was announced, the team swarmed together in a hug, the smell of chalk and sweat thick in the air. Coach Finley clapped her on the back, muttering, “That sealed it, Ambrose.”
********
Later, in the locker room, Jules sat on the bench with an ice pack balanced on one knee, still buzzing from the routine. Teammates chattered around her — some replaying their own moments, others already talking about where to celebrate.
By the time Jules emerged from the locker room, her medal hung heavy and cool against her chest, catching the overhead lights every time she moved. Bob was waiting just outside the gym doors, practically vibrating with pride, camera at the ready.
“There she is!” he beamed, snapping a photo before she could protest. “Hawkins’ very own floor champion.”
Robin appeared beside him with a grin, already holding two jackets — one clearly hers, the other Steve’s. “Took you long enough, medal girl.”
Joyce joined them a second later, her smile warm and genuine. “You were incredible, Jules. I swear I forgot to breathe through half of that routine.”
Steve clapped her lightly on the shoulder. “Alright, medalist — we’re getting ice cream. No arguments.”
Minutes later, they were crowded into a booth at the little ice cream shop on Main, the one with neon signs buzzing in the windows and laminated menus that stuck slightly to the table. Bob insisted on paying, Joyce kept sneaking bites from his sundae, and Robin leaned over the table to inspect Jules’s medal like it was made of actual gold.
“You’re gonna blind someone with this thing,” Robin teased, tilting it to catch the light.
“Good,” Jules said, smirking. “They’ll know who they’re dealing with.”
Steve raised his cone in a mock toast. “To Jules — floor queen of Hawkins.”
They all clinked spoons, laughter spilling over into the low hum of the shop. Outside, the fall night pressed cool against the glass, the streetlamps glowing like amber beacons. For a moment, the only thing that existed was the taste of chocolate, the sound of her friends’ voices, and the satisfying weight of the medal resting just over her heart.
And still, in the quiet corners of her mind, there was that flicker — a shadow of someone slipping out before the applause ended.
********
The medal was still on her nightstand when Jules woke up, catching a shard of sunlight through her half-open blinds. For a second, she just lay there, listening to the quiet hum of the house. Her body ached in that satisfying, all-earned way — every muscle reminding her of the floor routine she’d nailed less than twenty-four hours ago.
By the time she made it downstairs, Bob was already in the kitchen, humming tunelessly over the crackle of bacon in the pan. He looked up and grinned when he saw her.
“Morning, champ. How’s it feel to be the best in Hawkins?”
“Like I should be carried everywhere from now on,” she said, snagging a strip of bacon off the plate before he could stop her.
He poured her a mug of coffee — two sugars, just the way she liked it — and slid it across the counter. “Enjoy it while you can. Monday’s back to real life.”
The day stretched easy after that. She drifted between flipping through TV channels and half-heartedly tackling homework, but her mind kept skipping ahead — to the week before Halloween, to the little undercurrents already starting to hum through Hawkins High.
By the time evening rolled around, the phone rang — Robin on the other end, breathless with news about the marching band’s ridiculous plan for the halftime show.
Jules stretched out on her bed, twisting the phone cord around her finger, and listened, already feeling the slow shift of the season pulling them toward something bigger.
********
By noon on Sunday, the house had settled into that easy, post-weekend hum—laundry thumping somewhere down the hall, the TV murmuring an old sci-fi rerun to itself in the living room. Jules padded into the kitchen in cuffed sweatpants, a faded Hawkins High tee knotted at her hip, and thick knit socks patterned with little lightning bolts. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail, a few curls escaping to frame her face.
A brand-new JVC camcorder sat on the table like a spaceship had landed.
“Do not touch,” Bob called from the doorway, even as he beamed. He came in carrying a roll of gaffer’s tape, a Phillips screwdriver tucked behind his ear like a pencil. “Battery’s charging. She’s a beauty, huh? JVC HR-C7. Shoulder mount. Crisp as a winter apple.”
Jules leaned over the silver-black plastic, squinting at the viewfinder. “You’re gonna film the most thrilling documentary about dust bunnies Hawkins has ever seen.”
“Ha-ha.” He kissed the top of her head on his way past. “Careful, or I’ll make you hold the bounce card.”
The doorbell chimed, and a beat later Dustin barreled in, trailing a khaki Ghostbusters jumpsuit and enough PVC piping to threaten the structural integrity of the entryway.
“Okay,” he panted, kicking his sneakers off. “We have a situation.”
“Hi, Dustin,” Jules said dryly.
“Hi, Jules. Situation.”
He dumped a lumpy backpack on the table. Something in it clunked ominously.
Bob lit up. “Is that a… that’s a cyclotron! Kind of. Show me everything.”
Dustin unzipped, revealing a proton pack Frankensteined out of a painted rucksack, vacuum parts, and a spaghetti of wires whose original lives had probably involved lamp cords. “It keeps listing to the left,” he said, exasperated. “And the thrower droops like it’s ninety years old. Also, the Velcro hates me. And I’m Ray, by the way—Ray Stantz. Obviously.”
Jules poked the thrower: a cardboard tube with a taped-on grip and a plastic trigger from a water gun. “I mean… physics.”
“Rude,” Dustin said, snatching it back.
“Garage,” Bob declared, sweeping the camcorder aside like a maître d’ revealing a dessert cart. “Workshop is open. Bring the… device.”
They migrated to the garage, which smelled like wood dust and warm metal. Shelves were lined with neat rows of labeled bins—RESISTORS, MISC. SCREWS, CHRISTMAS LIGHTS (WORKING?), and one simply marked WHY?. On the workbench, a coil of fairy-green wire and a box of zip ties waited like they’d been summoned by destiny.
Bob clapped his hands. “Okay, Doctor Stantz, what’s our failure mode?”
“Torque and shame,” Dustin said, hitching the pack onto his shoulders. The whole contraption pulled left, nearly taking him with it.
“Weight distribution,” Bob nodded. “We build a counter-brace. Jules, tape. Dustin, turn.”
Jules peeled gaffer’s tape while Bob threaded webbing through the rucksack frame, popping a couple of rivets like he’d been born doing it. He added a second strap across Dustin’s chest, cinched a hip belt from a retired camping pack, and fastened a scrap of foam under the top edge.
“Try now.”
Dustin stood. The proton pack sat flush, square and proud. His face went from skeptical to awed in a slow, dawning glow. “No way.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Bob said, already rummaging. He produced a tiny battery-powered red bike light and tucked it into a drilled hole on the cyclotron face. It pulsed to life—soft, steady, otherworldly. “Class-three specter? We’re ready for ya.”
Dustin’s grin could’ve powered Hawkins. “Bob, you’re a genius.”
“Don’t tell my boss,” Bob said, winking. “He’ll start charging me rent for my brain.”
Jules leaned a hip on the bench, watching the two of them orbit each other in easy, nerdy joy. “You’re still, like, five-two,” she said to Dustin, deadpan. “What if a ghost mistakes you for a mailbox?”
“I’ll blast its ectoplasm straight back to—” Dustin broke off, considering. “Where do ghosts even go? Is there a manual?”
Bob slapped the workbench like a game show buzzer. “Speaking of manuals.” He darted back into the kitchen, returned seconds later with the camcorder, a fresh cassette rattling in its cardboard sleeve. “Documentation is the soul of science. We’re making an audition tape.”
Jules groaned. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” Bob said, delighted. He slid the tape into the JVC with a satisfying chunk, shouldered the camera, and peered through the viewfinder. “Okay, Henderson, state your name and… heroic credentials.”
Dustin straightened, proton pack humming with the faint tick of the bike light. “Dustin Henderson. Ghostbuster. Level—uh—thirteen.”
“Levels?” Jules mouthed, amused.
“Shh,” Bob hissed, filming. “Action.”
Dustin struck a stance, one foot forward, thrower up. “We’ve got Class Five full-roaming vapors in Sector Seven,” he barked, voice suddenly gravelly. “Hawkins is under siege. But don’t worry, ma’am—this town’s got me.”
Bob zoomed dramatically. “And what would you say to the specter currently inhabiting Principal Higgins’s 1978 Buick?”
Dustin didn’t miss a beat. “Get out of the car, you jelly-filled menace.”
Jules lost it, laughter ricocheting off pegboard and paint cans.
They shot for another twenty minutes: a faux interview at the dryer (Dustin: “We’ve trapped at least eleven socks here so far”), a slow-mo hero walk past the lawn mower, and a safety PSA in which the proton thrower was sternly never aimed at household pets, “no matter how suspicious that cat looks.”
When Bob finally clicked the camera off, the garage felt warmer, bright with that specific glow of a thing made together.
“Food?” he asked, suddenly sheepish. “I forgot there are living humans to feed.”
Jules raised a hand. “I can do grilled cheese. And… tomato soup? No,” she corrected herself, remembering too many marinara nights. “Chili. We have chili.”
They ate at the kitchen table, the proton pack parked in the corner like an honored guest. Bob balanced his bowl and the JVC’s user manual, glancing between them like both were equally delicious. Dustin inhaled chili at a dangerous speed, then slowed, licking a smear from his thumb.
“So,” he said, like he’d been saving the topic. “We got a new legend at the arcade. ‘MadMax.’ She’s—”
“—real,” Jules finished, smirking. “You mentioned.”
Bob flicked his eyes over the manual. “Does Max pay taxes?”
“Pretty sure she pays in ruined egos,” Dustin said proudly.
They cleaned up together—Jules washing, Dustin drying, Bob attempting to film them until Jules pointed the sudsy sponge at the camera like a weapon. “Boundaries,” she warned.
“Historical record,” he countered, lowering it with a grin.
Claudia’s Buick idled at the curb just as they finished re-threading the proton thrower holster. Dustin shrugged into his jacket, then the pack, testing the new balance with a little bounce. Perfect.
On the porch, Claudia waved from the driver’s seat, windows fogged slightly from the heater. “You two didn’t keep him too long, did you?” she called.
“He saved Hawkins,” Jules said solemnly. “Again.”
Dustin puffed up. “We made a training video.”
“Two training videos,” Bob corrected, lifting the camcorder like a trophy. “And a safety PSA.”
Claudia laughed. “My little star.”
Dustin clomped down the steps, then paused and turned, suddenly shy under the porch light. “Hey, uh—thanks. Both of you.”
Bob saluted with the camera. “Who you gonna call?”
Dustin rolled his eyes but couldn’t kill the smile. “You two, apparently.” He jogged to the car, the red cyclotron light winking through the dusk like a heartbeat.
Jules watched the Buick disappear down the street, the quiet of Sunday evening folding back in around the house. Behind her, Bob set the camcorder carefully on the counter, as tender as placing a newborn.
“He’s a good kid,” he said softly.
“Yeah,” Jules murmured, leaning her shoulder into his. “He is.”
They stood like that for a moment—the kitchen warm, the tape inside the JVC holding a tiny, ridiculous slice of their lives—before Bob clapped once and said, “Okay. Tomorrow the world returns to algebra. But tonight?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Test footage of me doing a vampire impression?”
Jules groaned so loud the neighbors probably heard. “Only if I get to hold the bounce card.”
********
The alarm hit like a brick, and Jules groaned into her pillow before rolling out of bed. Her Hawkins High tee from yesterday lay crumpled on the chair, still faintly smelling of chili and Bob’s aftershave. She grinned to herself, remembering the ridiculous “training videos” with Dustin and the way the red cyclotron light had blinked like a victory beacon all the way to Claudia’s car.
By the time she made it downstairs, Bob was already halfway through a cup of coffee, hair sticking up in the back like he’d slept on a blueprint. “Morning, champ,” he said, sliding a granola bar across the counter. “Fuel for your brain. Big academic week ahead.”
She bit back a laugh. “It’s Monday.”
“Exactly.” He handed her the JVC’s tape from yesterday. “Historical artifact. Keep it safe.”
Jules tucked it into her bag with a mock salute. “See you after school.”
********
The cold morning air snapped her fully awake as she crossed the parking lot an hour later, backpack bumping against her side. Hawkins High loomed ahead, the usual pre-bell chaos spilling into the hallways—lockers slamming, laughter echoing, the smell of cafeteria coffee wafting from somewhere down the corridor.
That was when she saw it: Tina Fuller, center stage in the middle of it all like she owned the place, a neat stack of glossy orange flyers tucked under one arm, her other hand flicking them toward passing students with practiced ease.
“Wednesday night, my place. Costumes required,” she chirped, pressing one into Jules’ hand. Her perfume — something sugary and floral — lingered even after she’d moved on.
Jules glanced down at the flyer. The words HALLOWEEN BASH OF THE YEAR blared in bubbly letters, a badly photocopied jack-o’-lantern grinning up at her. She slid it into her bag without a word.
A low chuckle cut through the crowd noise. Across the hall, Billy Hargrove leaned against a locker like it was part of the pose — jeans slouched, hair perfectly unkempt, and a grin that looked carved from trouble. He caught her eye and let his gaze travel, deliberate and slow, before giving her a nod that was almost a dare.
Jules didn’t break stride. She just rolled her eyes and shouldered her bag higher, muttering under her breath, “Not today.”
*********
The cafeteria was in full lunch-rush chaos, trays clattering, sneakers squeaking across the tile. Jules slid her tray next to Steve Harrington, who was hunched over a pile of glossy college brochures like they were his mortal enemy.
“You look like you’re studying for the SATs,” she said, poking at the carton of milk on her tray.
“I’m deciding if I want to ruin my life,” Steve replied without looking up. He thumbed through a brochure for Emerson, flipping it over like the photo of the smiling campus tour guide had personally insulted him. “Do I go somewhere far away and live in a shoebox, or stay here and… be the guy who stayed here?”
Jules tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Feels like it,” Steve muttered, then pushed the brochure aside and stabbed a fry like it had personally offended him.
Across from them, Nancy tapped a folded flyer against Jonathan’s arm. “It’s just one night,” she said, her voice careful but persistent. “You don’t even have to drink. Just… come.”
Jonathan smirked faintly, eyes dropping to his sandwich. “You know parties aren’t my thing.”
Steve’s fork paused mid-air, gaze flicking briefly between them before settling back on his tray. “Yeah, sure,” he muttered, low enough that only Jules caught it.
She studied him for a moment, but Steve was already changing the subject. “Where’s Buckley today?”
Jules blinked at the shift but rolled with it. “Band room. Pep band’s doing last-minute practice for the game this weekend. I think someone’s horn broke, so she got voluntold to help.”
Steve huffed a laugh. “Figures. She’s probably loving it.”
“Or plotting her escape,” Jules said with a smirk.
The tension at the table loosened, conversation drifting toward safer territory while the clatter and chatter of the cafeteria filled in the rest.
*********
The week had fallen into a familiar October rhythm — the air crisper in the mornings, the trees outside Hawkins High shedding more gold and red with every passing day. Study hall meant freedom for most kids, and Jules took full advantage, claiming one of the far tables in the courtyard to work in the patchy sunlight.
She was bent over her notebook, pencil tapping a steady beat against the margin, when a shadow slid across the page.
“Hey, Chicago.”
She didn’t need to look up. Billy Hargrove’s voice carried that slow, self-assured drawl that always made it sound like you’d already agreed to whatever he was selling. He planted a hand on the table, leaning in just close enough for his cologne and cigarette smoke to settle around her.
“You always work this hard,” he asked, eyeing her notes, “or is this just your way of avoiding me?”
“Maybe I’m actually doing my work,” Jules said, keeping her tone polite but flat.
Billy smirked, pacing around the table like a shark. “Study hall’s wasted on homework. Could be doing something a lot more fun.”
Before she could answer, another voice cut in from behind — low, lazy, but laced with amusement.
“Ambrose, there you are.”
Eddie Munson strolled up with his sketchbook tucked under one arm, curls shifting in the breeze. His grin was easy, like this was all perfectly casual. “Mr. Cartwright’s looking for you. Wants everyone’s project sheets before lunch. And, y’know, before you get swallowed whole.”
Billy straightened. “And you are?”
“The guy saving her from the world’s worst pickup lines,” Eddie said smoothly, not missing a beat. He looked at Jules, cocking his head toward the building. “Come on, before he starts charging you rent for that table.”
Jules grabbed her bag and stood. “See you, Billy.”
Billy’s smirk didn’t fade, but his eyes followed them until they turned the corner.
Inside, Jules let out a breath. “Thanks for that.”
Eddie’s smirk deepened. “What can I say? I’ve got a soft spot for damsels in distress. Plus… I figured if I didn’t step in, I’d miss my chance to talk to the girl who stuck a landing to Judas Priest.”
That made her blink. “You were at my meet?”
“Maybe.” His tone was all mock-innocence, but there was no mistaking the glint in his eyes. “Or maybe I just heard ‘You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’’ blasting and thought, now that… that’s metal. You’ve officially outdone the entire Hawkins cheer squad.”
She tried not to smile. “Glad it met your approval.”
“Approval?” Eddie shook his head. “Ambrose, you single-handedly raised the bar for gymnastics in this town. If Coach Finley’s smart, he’ll have you flipping to Iron Maiden next.”
Jules rolled her eyes, but her cheeks warmed. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Anytime.” He let the pause linger just long enough before adding, “You know, if it were up to me… I’d have given you a perfect score.”
She bit back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but I’m right.” His grin widened, and for a few beats they just walked in a comfortable silence.
When they reached the library doors, Eddie lingered a moment, one hand braced on the frame. “Oh, and for the record—” he let his gaze flick briefly from her hair to her shoes before meeting her eyes again, “—the new look? Works for you.”
Before she could respond, he gave her a quick two-finger salute and disappeared down the hall.
Jules just stood there for a second, lips pressed together in a faint, puzzled smile, before pushing into the library.
********
The library was quieter than usual for a Tuesday afternoon, the faint hum of the overhead fluorescents filling the space between the scratch of pens and the muted shuffle of papers. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, catching on the air like they had nowhere else to be.
Nancy and Jonathan had already claimed one of the long tables, their corner swallowed by contact sheets, layout drafts, and a couple of half-empty coffee cups from the vending machine downstairs. Jonathan was bent over a page with a pencil, making small, precise notes. Nancy leaned in close, her hair falling forward as she pointed out something in the margins.
Robin sat at the far end of the table, spinning a pair of scissors on the tabletop like she was trying to set a record. Steve lounged beside her, leaning back in his chair with a stack of yearbook photos in his lap, flipping through them like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for.
Jules slipped in quietly, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder. The air smelled faintly of paper and floor polish, the kind of scent that could make your eyes feel heavy if you stayed too long. She dropped her bag beside Robin’s chair and slid into the seat.
“Finally,” Robin said, flashing her a grin. “What took you so long? Stop to fight crime?”
“Something like that,” Jules said, pulling her notebook out. “Long walk over here.”
Steve’s head turned lazily toward her, one eyebrow raised. “Everything good?”
“Yeah.” She reached for a pile of unmarked photos, flipping through them to avoid his gaze. “Just one of those afternoons.”
Nancy didn’t look up, but Jules caught the flick of her eyes in their direction before she went back to her notes. Jonathan was already sliding a stack of caption sheets toward her.
“Club pages,” he said. “Just match the photos to the right labels.”
Robin leaned in, lowering her voice so it only carried to Jules. “Translation: we do the grunt work while they make it look like they’re the ones keeping this whole thing afloat.”
Steve smirked faintly but kept his gaze on the page in his hands, his fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the table. Every so often, his eyes wandered to Nancy and Jonathan—lingering a little too long when they bent over the same page—but he didn’t say anything.
“So,” Robin said, her voice cutting through the soft library murmur, “after this, we’re going to Jules’s place to figure out costumes for Tina’s thing. Might have to ransack her closet.”
“Ransack implies you’re gonna leave it a mess,” Jules muttered, sliding a photo into the correct pile.
Robin smirked. “Oh, it’ll be a mess. But a purposeful mess.”
Steve’s mouth curled in a half-smile. “You guys actually putting effort into costumes?”
“That’s the plan,” Robin said. “Why? You and Nancy going?”
Steve straightened a little in his chair, tossing a glance toward Nancy before answering. “Yeah. We’re going as Lana and Joel. You know—Risky Business?”
Robin blinked at him. “So… sunglasses, button-up, and socks?”
“Exactly,” Steve said, grinning like he’d just cracked some kind of code.
Jules shook her head, amused. “So you’re not even trying.”
“Hey, it’s classic,” Steve defended, holding up a photo to the light like he was inspecting it for flaws. “And besides, it’s not about trying—it’s about owning it.”
Nancy gave a small laugh, though she didn’t look up from Jonathan’s notes.
The conversation drifted back to the soft rhythm of page flips and pen scratches, but the undercurrent—Steve’s sidelong glances, the subtle closeness between Nancy and Jonathan—sat quietly in the background, unspoken but impossible to miss.
********
By the time they left the library, the late-October sky had already started to fade into the muted gold of early evening. The air had that dry, leaf-crisp smell that always made Jules think of bonfires and flannel shirts. Robin insisted on carrying Jules’s bag the whole walk back, claiming it was “payment” for her creative genius that was about to be unleashed.
Bob’s car was gone when they stepped up onto the porch, meaning he was still at the store. Jules unlocked the front door, pushing it open to the familiar scent of cinnamon from the candle she’d lit this morning in the kitchen.
“Alright,” Robin said, tossing her own jacket over the back of a chair. “Let’s see what kind of chaos we can cause.”
Jules rolled her eyes but led the way to her bedroom. The space was an organized mess—books stacked in uneven towers, a couple of Polaroids tucked into the mirror frame, her bedspread rumpled like she’d left in a hurry this morning.
Robin immediately made a beeline for the closet. “Okay, ground rules: if it’s sparkly or questionable in length, it’s fair game.”
“That’s… terrifying,” Jules said, but she sat cross-legged on the bed and let Robin dig.
Clothes started flying out in rapid-fire succession—an old Hawkins High hoodie, a sequined top she’d worn once to a New Year’s Eve party, a floral skirt that still had the thrift store tag on it.
And then Robin let out a triumphant noise. “Oh-ho. What is this?”
Jules glanced up—and groaned. “That’s from regionals. Sophomore year.”
Robin held the piece aloft like it was some sacred relic: a shimmering leotard, the fabric catching the light with every shift. “You realize this, plus like… a skirt and some wings, could be killer.”
Jules laughed, shaking her head. “Absolutely not. I am not spending Halloween in something I used to compete in.”
“Why not? You’d look amazing. Add some glitter, pull your hair up, maybe some tiny shoes—boom. Showstopper.” Robin was already rummaging again. “And look—this little wrap skirt thing? Perfect.”
“Perfect for you to wear,” Jules countered, flopping back onto the bed.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m shopping for me too.” Robin tossed a leopard-print scarf over her shoulder before pulling out an oversized blazer. “I’m thinking detective? Or maybe disgraced magician. Both equally cool.”
“Those are… wildly different vibes,” Jules said.
Robin ignored her, laying the skirt and leotard out together on the comforter. “No, seriously, picture it. This is fate.”
Jules propped herself up on her elbows, giving the ensemble a skeptical look. “Feels more like a setup.”
“Same thing,” Robin said with a grin. She snagged the skirt before Jules could hide it. “I’m taking this with me. It’s going to get glitter-bombed and you can’t stop me.”
Jules groaned, covering her face with both hands. “I’m going to regret this.”
“You’re going to thank me,” Robin corrected, already stuffing the skirt into her bag like she was smuggling state secrets. “By tomorrow night, you’re going to be the best-dressed person at Tina’s.”
Jules peeked out from behind her hands. “That’s a low bar.”
“Then you’ll clear it with ease,” Robin said, snapping her bag shut with finality.
*********
By the time October 31st rolled around, Hawkins had slipped into full Halloween mode.
Front yards were littered with plastic tombstones and fake cobwebs that clung stubbornly to porch lights. The air carried that faint, smoky chill of burning leaves, and every other kid on the block seemed to be in some kind of costume — plastic masks grinning from behind pillowcases full of candy.
At the Newby house, the scent of caramel apples from the kitchen drifted upstairs where Jules’ bedroom door was cracked open, the muffled sound of music spilling into the hall.
The low hum of Jules’ desk lamp cast a warm pool of light over the vanity mirror, catching flecks of gold glitter in the air. She leaned close, steadying her hand as she traced a line of eyeliner along her upper lid, the soft smudge giving way to a sharp flick at the corner. A dusting of gold shimmer followed—just enough to catch when she blinked, sweeping up to her temples in a way that made her eyes seem almost unreal in the glass.
Robin lounged sideways in Jules’ desk chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, fussing with a swath of gauzy green fabric in her lap. She had spent the better part of the afternoon “improving” Jules’ sheer wrap skirt, and now it glimmered with the kind of sparkle that would linger in the carpet until Christmas.
“Okay,” Robin said, holding it up for inspection, “we’ve officially reached maximum glitter saturation. If the gym lights hit you just right, people might think you’re on fire.”
Jules capped her eyeliner, grinning faintly. “You’re aiming for blinding, aren’t you?”
Robin set the skirt aside with a smug little shrug. “Exactly.”
On the bed, Jules’ green leotard lay neatly folded beside a pair of forest-green Converse, the high-tops spotless from a quick clean earlier. She slipped into the leotard, tying the wrap skirt at her hip so it fell just to mid-thigh, the gauze catching light every time she moved.
From the hallway came the unmistakable mechanical whir of Bob’s brand-new JVC camcorder, followed by his cheerful, “Knock-knock—are my favorite girls party-ready?”
Robin snorted. “You might want to define ‘ready,’ Bob.”
Bob appeared in the doorway in full vampire costume—cape, slicked-back hair, plastic fangs that sat a little off-center. The camcorder was already up, its little red recording light winking. “Oh-ho, would you look at that,” he said, panning slowly from Robin to Jules. “Now that’s a transformation. Alright, Tinkerbell, give us a spin.”
Jules rolled her eyes but stepped back from the mirror, slipping on the gossamer wings she’d left on the dresser. The straps tugged at her shoulders in a familiar way as she adjusted them.
She twirled once, the skirt flaring in a shimmer of glitter, the green Converse catching the light as she spun. The movement made the gold dust at the corners of her eyes catch the glow from the lamp, a subtle sparkle every time she moved.
“You’re ridiculous,” she told him.
“And you’re going to steal the show,” Bob said, zooming in with the camcorder. “Alright—smile… perfect. Now, rule number one: don’t let Robin talk you into any trouble. Rule number two—”
The crunch of tires on gravel cut him off. Steve’s BMW rolled into view, headlights sweeping across the porch. Jules caught sight of Nancy in a white sweater with black ribbon tied around her neck, Steve in his black sweater and sunglasses, with a cocky grin that sold the whole Risky Business look.
Robin glanced toward the window and smirked. “Oh my god. They actually committed.”
Bob followed them to the door, camera still running as Jules bent to grab her jacket. “Be careful, Jules,” he said—warm, but with that familiar edge of protectiveness. “Now go have fun — and remember, if anyone tries to get you to drink mystery punch, you stake ‘em. Right through the heart.”
Robin snorted from the driveway. “You’re taking this vampire thing seriously.”
“Tell Joyce I said hi,” Jules said, leaning in to hug him quick. Then, with a smirk: “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Bob chuckled. “That list is way too short.”
She laughed as she jogged down the steps, the cold October air nipping at her bare legs, her wings fluttering in the breeze. Robin trailed after, her own costume still half-hidden beneath a loose hoodie, leaving Jules to wonder exactly what she was planning until they hit the party.
They were walking towards the car when Steve rolled down the window.
“Alright, Tinkerbell and… whatever you are,” he called to Robin, “let’s go before Tina kills me for being late.”
Nancy leaned over from the passenger seat, giving Jules an approving once-over. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks,” Jules said, sliding into the backseat beside Robin. The BMW smelled faintly of cologne and the cheap floral air freshener Nancy must’ve added.
Steve pulled away from the curb, Bob waving from the porch like a proud dad.
“You sure you two are ready for this?” Steve asked, glancing at them in the rearview. “Tina’s parties are… next level.”
Robin grinned. “Oh, we’re ready.”
Steve pulled out of the neighborhood, the BMW’s headlights slicing through the crisp October dark. The low hum of the engine filled the quiet for a moment before Robin leaned forward between the seats.
“So, Steve,” she said, voice sly, “how’s it feel chauffeuring two of the coolest people in Hawkins?”
Steve gave a dry laugh. “You two wish.” He flicked his gaze to the rearview. “And what’s with the wings, Ambrose? You planning on flying out if things get weird?”
Jules smirked. “I’ll have you know, this is a high-end costume. Glitter handcrafted by Robin herself.”
“Yeah,” Robin added, “I had to vacuum my room twice. You’re welcome.”
Nancy turned slightly in her seat, adjusting the sleek white sweater and white tennis skirt that made up her Lana-from-Risky Business costume. “It really does suit you. And it’s way more creative than the dozen Madonna’s we’re probably going to see tonight.”
Robin elbowed Jules. “See? Approval from the queen of Hawkins herself.”
Steve glanced at Nancy with a small smile before looking back at the road. “Still think you should’ve gone scary. Zombie ballerina. Killer clown. Something with teeth.”
“Pass,” Jules said. “I’m not trying to give people nightmares.”
Nancy’s lips quirked. “And yet, I’m pretty sure half the senior guys are going to be staring all night.”
Jules groaned. “Thanks for that visual.”
Robin, not missing a beat, said, “Speaking of staring—pretty sure I saw Munson checking you out at lunch the other day.”
Steve’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. “Munson?”
Robin grinned. “Guy with the hair, plays guitar, lives for the sound of his own voice.”
Steve huffed. “Yeah, I know Munson. We had a run-in at the mall. Real charming guy.” His tone made it clear “charming” wasn’t a compliment.
Jules shrugged, aiming for casual. “I think he was just looking for the salt shaker.”
Robin smirked. “Sure. Salt shaker.”
They turned into Tina’s neighborhood, the street buzzing with music and the flicker of jack-o’-lantern light. Bass thumped from somewhere down the block, and kids in mismatched costumes darted between the pools of porch light.
“Alright,” Steve said, parking a few houses away. “Brace yourselves, ladies. We’re entering the danger zone.”
Nancy fixed her ribbon, Robin swung her legs out of the car, and Jules felt that familiar mix of nerves and anticipation — the kind that came right before you stepped into something you knew might be messy but fun enough to risk.
********
The bass from Tina’s stereo was already rattling the front windows when Steve’s BMW rolled to a stop at the curb. The lawn was dotted with parked cars and stragglers heading inside, some carrying six-packs, others clutching plastic pumpkin buckets repurposed for party snacks. Colored lights pulsed faintly through the curtains, casting the porch in shifting pinks and greens.
Jules stepped out, tugging the hem of her sheer wrap skirt as the October air kissed her bare legs. She caught sight of herself in the reflection of Steve’s passenger-side window — the glittery green fabric, the wings catching porch light, gold dust swept across her cheekbones — and for a second, she almost didn’t recognize the girl looking back.
“Ready?” Robin asked, shutting her own door. Her pirate coat flared dramatically in the breeze, complete with brass buttons, a battered tricorn hat tilted rakishly to one side, and a foam sword strapped at her hip.
Jules grinned. “Captain Hook, huh?”
“Correction — Captain Robin Hook. Trademark pending.” Robin gave an exaggerated bow, the hat nearly slipping off her curls.
Nancy stepped up beside them, adjusting the hem of her tennis skirt — sleek, simple, the spitting image of Lana from Risky Business. “You two look great,” she said, glancing between them.
Steve motioned toward the door. “Come on, before the good drinks are gone.”
Inside, the air was warm and thick with perfume, beer, and the faint tang of fog machine haze. The living room was a sea of bodies — vampires and varsity jackets, witches and wannabe rock stars — all moving to the beat of some synth-heavy pop song. Tina, in a glittering witch costume, spotted them from across the room and waved with a drink in hand before disappearing into the crowd.
Jules scanned the room as they moved deeper in — the table stacked with red cups and soda bottles, the couch already crowded with people shouting over each other, the kitchen door swinging open to reveal a group playing quarters at the counter.
“Alright,” Robin said, leaning close so she could be heard over the music. “Step one: drink in hand. Step two: find people we vaguely know. Step three: look like we belong here.”
“Step four,” Steve added, smirking, “try not to get glitter on my seats when we leave.”
Jules rolled her eyes but grabbed a soda from the counter anyway, the condensation beading cool against her palm as she turned back toward the thrumming heart of the party.
The living room pulsed with color from a cheap strobe light propped on a bookshelf, bass thudding so hard the floorboards seemed to hum under Jules’ sneakers. She trailed after Robin toward the snack table, wings brushing strangers’ shoulders, glitter catching every flash of light.
“Hey, fairy girl,” a guy in a letterman jacket called from the couch, leaning forward with an easy grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bet you could pull off some magic for me.”
Jules’ smile was tight, practiced. “Yeah, it’s called disappearing.” She kept walking without waiting for his reaction.
Robin snorted into her soda. “That’s step three on the ‘how not to get murdered at a party’ list.”
They were only halfway to the kitchen when someone else stepped into Jules’ path — this one in a plastic gladiator breastplate and a crooked laurel crown. “So what’s your fairy dust made of?” he asked, eyes sliding far south of her face.
“Ground-up idiots,” she said sweetly, brushing past him before his smirk could widen.
“Feisty,” he called after her, but she was already locking eyes with Gareth over by the kitchen counter.
He was wearing a thrifted army jacket over a faded Metallica tee, a red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. “Ambrose!” he greeted, his voice cutting through the thrum of the bass. “Careful — the sharks are circling tonight.”
She rolled her eyes. “You mean the guy dressed like a Roman extra from a bad soap opera?”
“Among others,” Gareth said, smirking into his drink. “What, did you roll a natural 20 on your charisma stat tonight or something? Feels like every guy here’s made a pass at you.”
“Please,” Jules said, plucking a pretzel from the snack table. “If this is charisma, I’d hate to see what happens when I try.”
Gareth laughed, then leaned a little closer so he didn’t have to shout over the music. “Seriously though — you’ve been laying low all semester. Nice to see you out.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she teased. “I’m here for the people-watching.”
“Sure,” he said, grinning. “And definitely not for the free sugar water and bad dance moves.”
Before she could reply, someone shouted Gareth’s name from the beer pong table. He lifted his cup in acknowledgment, then pointed at her with mock warning. “Watch yourself, Ambrose. The night’s still young.”
When she turned back, Robin was nowhere in sight — already folded into a knot of band kids near the stereo, laughing at some story. That left Jules standing alone in the press of bodies, music, and warmth.
She drifted toward the edge of the living room, scanning for a familiar face, unsure if she wanted to blend in or stand out.
The music shifted — Madonna bleeding into something with a heavier, rolling beat that made the crowd in the living room sway closer together. Jules was still lingering near the wall when Steve spotted her from across the room.
“Jules!” he called, weaving through the crush of bodies with that easy, practiced confidence that came from years of owning whatever room he walked into. His black sweater was pushed up at the sleeves, sunglasses resting on his nose like he’d forgotten they were there.
“You look like you’re having way too much fun,” Jules said as he reached her.
“Correction — you’re not having enough.” Without asking, Steve took her hand and spun her into the open pocket of the dance floor. “C’mon, it’s just a song.”
She laughed, partly from surprise, partly from the absurdity of Steve Harrington pulling her into an impromptu dance. “You trying to loosen me up or yourself?”
“Mutual benefit,” he said, smirking. He had decent rhythm — enough that Jules let herself fall into step, the bass under her sneakers, the strobe flickering against grins and glitter and sweaty costumes.
For a minute, it was just fun — no pointed looks, no jocks with sleazy lines, just a couple of friends moving to the music. But then Steve’s smile faltered, his gaze catching over her shoulder.
Jules followed it in time to see Nancy across the room, laughing with a couple of friends from yearbook, another drink in her hand. The red plastic cup looked identical to the last one she’d had, but her movements were looser now, her laugh a little louder than usual.
Steve’s jaw tightened — just enough for Jules to notice — but he didn’t say anything right away.
“You good?” she asked over the music.
“Yeah,” Steve said after a beat too long, shaking it off. “Just… keeping an eye on things.”
He spun her one last time before stepping back. “Go have fun, alright?”
Before she could answer, he was gone, threading his way through the crowd toward Nancy. Jules stayed where she was for a moment, the warmth from dancing lingering even as something quieter crept in — that ripple of tension she’d felt before, back in the cafeteria.
The song faded into another — this one faster, brighter — and Jules decided not to retreat to the wall just yet. A couple of girls she recognized from gym class looped her into their circle, all laughter and loose spins. She let the beat guide her, shaking off the week’s weight one song at a time.
Madonna gave way to Prince, then to a synth-heavy track she didn’t recognize but didn’t care about — the floor was hot under the press of moving bodies, bass thudding in her ribs, and for a while she let herself sink into it.
Robin reappeared briefly, grinning, before disappearing again into the kitchen with a band kid dressed as Indiana Jones. Steve and Nancy were nowhere in sight, the party swallowing them in its constant churn.
By the fourth song, Jules’ hair was sticking to the back of her neck and her lungs ached in the best way. She pushed through toward the kitchen, the air growing warmer and stickier with every step. Someone handed her a red cup from the counter — sweet, spiked, and just strong enough to burn faintly on the way down.
She took a slow sip, feeling the edges of her thoughts loosen, then wove her way toward the front door.
The air outside was a shock — cool and damp with the faint scent of fallen leaves. The thump of music dulled to a background heartbeat as she stepped onto the porch. Halloween lights strung along the rail cast everything in soft orange and purple, and for the first time all night, she could hear herself breathe.
Jules leaned against the porch post, taking another drink, letting the night slow around her.
********
She was halfway through her drink when a cheer erupted from the backyard — the kind of roaring, drawn-out yell that meant someone was either about to do something impressive… or something incredibly stupid.
Curiosity tugged her toward the noise. She followed the porch steps around to the side yard, where a loose crowd had gathered under the glow of floodlights. The air reeked faintly of beer, sweat, and cheap cologne.
At the center of it all, Billy Hargrove was upside down, boots in the air, clinging to a keg tap like it was a lifeline. Two guys held his legs steady while another tipped the nozzle into his mouth. The chanting got louder with each second — “Hargrove! Hargrove! Hargrove!” — until he pulled away with a wet gasp, beer dripping down his jaw.
Someone shouted, “New record!” and the crowd erupted.
Billy grinned like a wolf spotting prey. His gaze swept lazily over the spectators before locking on someone across the yard.
Jules followed the line of his stare — straight to Steve Harrington, standing near the steps with his arms crossed. Steve’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t move.
Billy shoved his way through the bodies, still grinning, the crowd sensing the shift in the air and parting just enough to give him a clear path. Jules hung back, lingering at the edge of the scene.
“Guess you’re not king of the hill anymore, Harrington,” Billy drawled once he was close enough, his voice low but cutting. “Better watch that crown — might not be yours much longer.”
Steve’s smirk was thin and humorless. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Billy laughed under his breath, clapped Steve on the shoulder — a little too hard — and drifted past him toward the kitchen. The crowd slowly dissolved back into the party, the moment over but not forgotten.
Jules let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her cup now empty. She glanced back towards the front porch, figuring she’d retreat there again…
*******
The thump of the party was muted, the bassline just a dull heartbeat through the walls. The smell of beer and hairspray clung to her skin, but a faint breeze carried the bite of fallen leaves and something faintly woodsmoke-sweet.
She leaned against the railing again, the condensation from her cup damp against her fingers, when the boards behind her creaked.
“Guess I’m not the only one escaping the madness.”
She turned, and there he was — Eddie Munson — filling the doorway like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t just walk out; he strolled, a slow, unhurried saunter that made it seem like the porch had been waiting for him. The porch light caught on the unruly curls at his shoulders and the glint of his rings, and his eyes skimmed her from head to toe before settling back on her face.
“Well, damn,” he said, voice low and deliberate, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Didn’t think anyone could pull off Tinkerbell and make it look… dangerous.”
One brow arched. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” He shifted closer until his arm brushed the railing beside hers. “It’s the sneakers. Like you’d kick someone’s ass and still sprinkle pixie dust on ‘em.”
A reluctant smile curved her lips. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”
“Oh, it is,” Eddie assured her, eyes glinting with mischief. “Pretty sure you’ve officially ruined Disney for me. In a good way.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head. “And here I thought you’d show up as something equally ‘dangerous.’ What happened, Munson? No leather armor? No fake blood?”
“Had to go low-key tonight,” he said with mock seriousness. “Didn’t want to overshadow the quarterback vampires and sexy nurses. Besides—” He reached behind his ear with a magician’s flourish and pulled out a joint. “—I came prepared in other ways.”
She eyed it. “You always carry one of those around?”
“Like a Boy Scout,” he said, flicking his lighter open with a sharp, practiced snap. “Always be prepared.”
“You’re comparing yourself to a Boy Scout?”
“Only in the ways that matter.” He lit up, inhaled slow, the ember flaring between his fingers, then passed it her way.
Her fingers brushed his when she took it — just a quick touch, but enough to send a warm little jolt through her. The first drag burned the back of her throat, but the smoke spread heat in her chest, loosening something in her shoulders.
“Not bad,” she said, handing it back.
His smirk deepened. “Careful, Tink, I might start thinking you’re cooler than me.”
She tilted her head. “And here I thought that was impossible.”
He was still grinning when his gaze flicked upward, sharpening with focus. “Hold still.”
Before she could ask why, he leaned in, close enough for her to catch the faint mix of smoke, cologne, and something warm and earthy that clung to him. His knuckle skimmed her cheek before his fingertip caught on something near her temple.
When he pulled back, a tiny lash balanced on his fingertip. He held it between them, his grin turning softer. “Make a wish, Tink.”
Her pulse stuttered. “What if it doesn’t come true?”
“Then I’ll just have to make it happen for you,” he said, quiet but certain, like a promise he had no intention of breaking.
The door banged open, and a burst of music and laughter spilled onto the porch.
Jules barely registered it. Her eyes were still locked on his, her pulse thrumming in her ears. She could feel it — a faint vibration under her skin, like static before a storm, the kind she’d only started noticing when her powers slipped through the cracks. Except this time, it wasn’t fear or danger setting it off. It was him.
Eddie leaned in just a fraction, close enough for the porch light to pick out the warm brown in his eyes. The air between them felt heavier, sharper, and she swore she could feel the energy rolling off him — like every heartbeat was in sync for a second too long.
His thumb brushed her cheek again, slower this time, before he held up the tiny lash between them. “Guess we’ll see if it comes true,” he murmured.
The lash fluttered away in the next flick of wind, and that low hum in her veins faded with it, leaving her almost breathless.
The voices at the door moved back inside, but for a heartbeat longer, neither of them did.
Jules still felt the echo of Eddie’s finger brushing her cheek, the phantom weight of his gaze. She was about to say something—what, she didn’t even know—when the front door slammed so hard the porch light rattled.
Steve Harrington barreled out, jaw tight, sunglasses situated on his head. He didn’t even glance at them as he strode down the walkway toward his BMW, muttering something she couldn’t catch.
Eddie’s brows shot up. “Yikes. Somebody’s night just tanked.”
Jules’ gut twisted. “I should—” She gestured toward Steve’s retreating back.
Eddie leaned one shoulder against the railing, the corner of his mouth ticking upward like he knew she was about to disappear. “Go be the hero, Tink.”
Her heart gave a treacherous little skip at the nickname, but she didn’t have time to linger on it. Steve had just pushed through the front door, jaw tight, strides clipped as he headed down the walkway toward his car.
Jules followed, calling, “Hey, Harrington—wait up!”
He didn’t slow until she caught up beside him, the gravel crunching under their shoes. Streetlights spilled a pale orange over his face, highlighting the frustration still etched between his brows.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Steve said, but it came out flat. His hand fumbled with the keys in his pocket. “Just… needed some air.”
Over his shoulder, movement caught her eye — Nancy stepping out the side door, Jonathan right behind her. They didn’t touch, but they walked close enough that the gap between them felt deliberate.
Jules glanced back to Steve, catching the way his shoulders stiffened even though he hadn’t turned around.
She opened her mouth to say something — to break the heavy silence — but he beat her to it. “You riding with me or staying?”
Jules hesitated, glancing back toward the house. Music pulsed through the open door, laughter spilling over it in bursts. “Let me find Robin.”
Inside, she wove through the crowd until she spotted Robin near the kitchen, animatedly arguing about setlists with a couple of marching band guys.
“Hey,” Jules said, touching her arm. “I’m heading out with Steve.”
Robin arched a brow, then smirked. “Bailing on the chaos? Can’t blame you. I’ll get a ride with Tammy.”
Jules squeezed her hand in goodbye before stepping back outside. Steve was leaning against his car, sunglasses now hanging from his collar, looking more tired than annoyed.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, and the two of them climbed in, the party noise fading behind them as he pulled away from Tina’s.
********
The BMW’s headlights cut through the quiet Hawkins streets, the thump of bass from Tina’s party long gone, replaced by the low hum of the engine. Steve’s hands gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles pale against the black leather. His sunglasses — still dangling from his collar — swayed slightly with every turn.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Jules sat angled toward him, her glitter catching the occasional streetlight, the faint scent of bonfire smoke clinging to her wings.
Finally, Steve let out a sharp breath. “She said it was all bullshit.” His voice was low, tight. “Us. Everything we’ve been through. She said she doesn’t love me.”
Jules blinked, the words hanging heavy between them. “Nancy?”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, Nancy. Who else?” His jaw worked as he stared out at the road. “I mean… I thought we were good, you know? Not perfect, but… good. And she just—” He shook his head. “Drops that on me like it’s nothing.”
Jules studied him in the dim glow of the dash. “And you think she means it?”
His silence was answer enough.
They passed a cluster of kids in mismatched costumes, their laughter fading behind them. Jules let it breathe before speaking. “Do you want my perspective, or do you just need to get it out?”
Steve’s eyes flicked to her, brief but considering. “Hit me.”
“I think Nancy cares about you. I also think she’s been through a lot this year, and maybe she doesn’t know what she wants right now — or she’s scared to say it. But that doesn’t mean you’ve failed, Steve. Sometimes it’s just… not about you.”
“Yeah, well, if it’s not about me, why’s it feel like it is?”
“Because you care,” she said simply. “And that’s not a bad thing. It just… sucks sometimes.”
They rolled to a stop sign, the car idling in the cool October air. Steve’s grip finally eased on the wheel. “You know, you’re a pretty good listener, Ambrose.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she teased, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “I charge for repeat customers.”
That earned her a real laugh, small but genuine, as he eased the BMW forward again. The tension in the car didn’t vanish entirely, but it was lighter — enough to make the silence feel a little more like peace.
Steve’s laugh lingered for a second before fading into a sigh. His hand drummed once against the steering wheel, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end but didn’t know where else to take it.
Jules glanced at him, then out the windshield at the empty road ahead. “You know,” she said slowly, “we could sit here all night talking about how much tonight sucked… or we could do something to make it suck less.”
One brow lifted. “Like what? You got some grand plan to fix my life?”
She shot him a side-eye. “Nothing that dramatic. But there’s a twenty-four-hour diner three blocks over that does milkshakes the size of your head. My treat.”
That finally got a flicker of a smile out of him. “Milkshakes, huh? That’s your big life fix?”
“Hey, I’ve yet to meet a problem that can’t be temporarily solved by ice cream,” she said, tugging at her seat belt. “You in, or you planning to keep sulking in your BMW until the engine dies?”
Steve shook his head, “Fine. But I’m ordering the biggest one they’ve got. If I go into a sugar coma, it’s on you.”
For the first time since they’d left the party, Steve’s shoulders loosened. He flicked on his turn signal without another word, pulling the BMW in the opposite direction of her street.
*******
Smitty’s looked like it had been frozen in time somewhere around 1965 — red vinyl booths patched with duct tape, checkered linoleum worn smooth by decades of boots, and a neon sign in the front window that buzzed faintly with every flicker. The smell of coffee, fryer oil, and something vaguely sweet hung in the air like a permanent fog.
Jules pushed the door open and waved Steve in ahead of her. “Go on, big spender. I’ll even let you pick the booth.”
Steve glanced around like he’d just stepped into an alternate universe. “Wow. This place looks… exactly the same as it did when my parents were in high school. Which is mildly terrifying.”
“Yeah, well, the grease is vintage too,” Jules said, sliding into a booth by the window. “Adds character.”
A waitress with a pencil tucked behind her ear wandered over, pad in hand. “What’ll it be?”
“Two of your biggest milkshakes,” Jules said before Steve could speak. “Chocolate for him, strawberry for me. And—” she glanced at Steve, “—do you want fries?”
Steve hesitated, then smirked. “I mean… would it even be a late-night diner run without fries?”
“Fries it is,” the waitress said, scribbling before disappearing toward the counter.
Steve leaned back in the booth, sunglasses still dangling from his sweater collar. “You’re really pulling out all the stops here.”
“Yeah, well,” Jules said, propping her chin in her hand, “you looked like you needed saving. And let’s be real — I’m the hero in this story.”
That got a short laugh out of him, the first one that sounded like him all night. “Guess that makes me the damsel in distress.”
She grinned. “Exactly. Now all you need is a dramatic fainting spell and we’re set.”
When the shakes arrived — each topped with a ridiculous mountain of whipped cream — Steve stared at his like it had personally offended him. “Okay, this is obscene. How am I supposed to drink this without a fork?”
“You don’t. You commit,” Jules said, already digging in with her straw. “It’s a lifestyle.”
Steve took a sip, whipped cream smearing the corner of his mouth. Jules raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Elegant.”
He wiped it with a napkin, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she said, lifting her glass in a mock toast, “here you are, not sulking in your BMW. You’re welcome.”
Steve clinked his glass lightly against hers. “Yeah. Thanks, Ambrose.”
For a few minutes, they just sat there, the hum of the neon and the clatter from the kitchen filling in the gaps. Steve didn’t look quite so weighed down, and Jules counted that as a win.
********
Steve eased the BMW to the curb in front of the Newby house, the engine idling in the quiet street. The porch light cast a soft glow over the steps, insects tracing lazy loops through it.
Jules unbuckled herself, grabbing her jacket. “Well, that was ten bucks well spent.”
Steve shot her a sideways look. “You sure you don’t want me to pay you back?”
“Nope. Consider it my good-deed-for-the-week.” She leaned on the doorframe. “Besides, I told you milkshakes fix everything. Now you know I’m right.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. “Guess I do.”
She smirked. “Try not to brood too hard, Harrington. And maybe hold off on declaring your life officially over until, I don’t know… Thursday?”
He gave her a lazy salute. “I’ll pencil that in.”
Jules shut the door and crossed the short walk to the porch, glancing back once to see Steve watching her, one hand drumming the steering wheel. She lifted a small wave before disappearing inside.
As the door closed behind her, she lingered in the narrow entryway, peeking once through the curtains. The BMW was still there, Steve’s silhouette outlined in the dash glow, shoulders slouched just a little too much for someone who’d been smiling a minute ago. She thought about going back out, but the engine started, and the car rolled away before she could decide.
Notes:
Well you guys, I've been waiting to get this chapter finished the last couple of day. Finally got some Eddie and Jules moments! Hope it was worth the wait.
Chapter 17: Into The Woods
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning light slanted through the blinds, pooling in dusty stripes across the heap of clothes Jules had left on the floor after getting home. Her Tinkerbell wings dangled from the back of her desk chair, glitter scattered below like the remnants of some dream she hadn’t quite shaken off.
She sat cross-legged on the bed, gathering her curls into a loose ponytail, when the walkie on her nightstand crackled to life.
“Jules, come in. This is urgent. Over.”
She froze for half a beat, Eddie’s grin still vivid in her head — the way he’d leaned in last night, slow and sure, brushing the eyelash from her cheek like it meant something. Her pulse had skipped then, and it did again now, though for entirely different reasons.
Grabbing the walkie, she pressed the button. “It’s seven in the morning, Henderson. Unless the world’s ending, it can wait.”
“Trust me, this cannot wait. I’ve got something… insane. The coolest thing you’ve ever seen.”
She pulled on her favorite color-block sweatshirt — teal, cream, and soft charcoal — and snorted. “You say that every other week. What is it this time, a mutant squirrel?”
“Nope. This is better. So much better. But you don’t get to see it ‘til after school.”
Bare feet hit the cool floorboards as she stood. “Is it alive?”
A suspicious pause. “…Maybe.”
“Dustin.”
“It’s fine! Totally harmless. You’re gonna thank me later. My place, right after school. Over.”
She reached for her sneakers, still smiling faintly. “Fine. But if it bites me, I’m telling your mom you skipped first period.”
“You’ll be too busy naming it. Over and out!”
The line went dead with a pop, leaving only the quiet hum of her room and the faint shimmer of glitter in the carpet. Jules shook her head — but the truth was, the mystery had already hooked her.
********
By the time Jules reached the double doors of Hawkins High, the hallways were already a blur of students. The air inside was warmer but carried that sharp scent of winter coming on — wool jackets, pencil shavings, and the faint tang of floor cleaner. She shouldered through, the chill still clinging to her sleeves, weaving between a knot of juniors crowding by the vending machine.
First period chemistry was three doors down, and she slipped in with less than a minute to spare. Most of the class was already settled, Mr. Johnson humming something under his breath as he arranged a stack of worksheets on the counter. Jules dropped into her usual seat near the back, flipping open her notebook and clicking her pen like she could will her brain awake.
The door swung open just as the first bell rang, and Nancy barreled in, cheeks flushed from the cold. She moved fast — too fast — to her spot beside Jules, sliding onto the stool with a quiet exhale that sounded more like frustration than exhaustion. Her bag thunked against the table, the strap sliding off her shoulder.
“You okay?” Jules asked, keeping her voice low while Johnson started scribbling chemical formulas on the whiteboard.
Nancy hesitated, her pen hovering just above her paper. “Steve didn’t pick me up this morning,” she said finally. “No call. No nothing. Just… didn’t show.” Her voice wasn’t angry so much as confused, and maybe a little hurt.
Jules kept her eyes on the worksheet now being passed down the row. She knew exactly why Steve hadn’t shown, but his voice from last night still echoed in her head — tight and low, spilling things he probably hadn’t told anyone else. “Do you remember what happened last night?” she asked carefully.
Nancy’s brow furrowed as she fiddled with the cap of her pen. “Not really. Just… pieces. I think Steve brought me home? But it’s all fuzzy.” She gave a quick shake of her head, like trying to clear static. “Did he say anything to you?”
For a moment, Jules thought about lying — saying Steve hadn’t mentioned it — but that felt like it would just make everything messier. She tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook, stalling. “I think you should talk to him,” she said at last. “Get it from him, not me.”
Nancy studied her for a beat, eyes narrowing just slightly, before giving a small nod. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
The quiet between them stretched, thick enough to feel, while Mr. Johnson launched into an explanation about balancing equations. Jules jotted down numbers without really looking at them, her mind wandering. She could still see Steve’s face in the dim streetlight from last night — the flicker of hurt when he’d talked about Nancy, the way it had stuck with him all the way to her front door.
She wondered if Nancy would notice it when she saw him next.
********
The squeak of sneakers and the hollow echo of basketballs smacking hardwood filled the gym, ricocheting up into the rafters and back down in sharp bursts. Jules sat sprawled on the top row of the bleachers, one knee bent, a paperback balanced lazily against her thigh. Her hair spilled forward as she read, catching the cool beams of late-morning light filtering through the high windows. Dust motes drifted in the sun, moving with the slow, lazy confidence of something that knew it couldn’t be rushed.
Below, two teams clashed in a half-hearted scrimmage. Billy Hargrove was in full peacock mode — curls damp with sweat, jersey hanging loose over his hips, every movement exaggerated like he had an invisible spotlight following him. Steve was guarding him tight, jaw locked in that way Jules had learned meant he was forcing himself not to rise to the bait.
Billy still made it a show. The occasional shoulder-check. A flash of that cocky grin when he sunk a shot. The low, taunting “Nice try, Harrington” whenever Steve missed a rebound.
On the far end of the bleachers, the cheer squad had claimed their usual roost. Their conversation was a constant hum, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Jules caught snatches over the thump of the game — Tina’s party was still the reigning topic. Who danced with who. Who kissed who. Who’d spent the night with their head over the toilet.
Billy drove toward the hoop again, Steve shadowing him step-for-step. And something about the way he smirked, glancing briefly up toward the bleachers like he knew she was watching, made Jules’ fingers twitch against her book.
She let her eyes drop back to the page, but her focus shifted — narrowing, subtle. The gym’s noise dulled at the edges. Billy’s sneaker caught just wrong on the polished floor, sliding a fraction too far. It was the smallest thing, but it broke his rhythm; the ball arced high, kissed the rim, and clattered away.
Billy recovered quickly, masking the slip with a self-deprecating chuckle as he jogged after the ball. But Jules caught the microsecond flash of irritation in his eyes before he turned away.
She smirked, flipping a page.
The game reset, but the slam of the gym doors cut through the bounce of the ball. Nancy stepped in, hair neat, sweater crisp, though there was something wound tight in her posture. Her eyes swept the court until they locked on Steve.
She called his name, voice carrying just enough to reach him without breaking the game. Steve jogged over, towel in hand, wiping sweat from his face. Jules didn’t catch the words, but the tone — low, clipped — said enough.
Steve followed Nancy out the door. The brief whoosh of it closing behind them seemed to suck some of the energy from the room.
Jules closed her book and tucked it under her arm. The cheerleaders had already resumed gossiping, the ball was back in play, and no one seemed to notice the tension that had just left the court. But Jules felt it — a shift, subtle and sharp — and somehow knew this was the start of something heavier than a missed shot.
********
The game kept going after Steve left, but it didn’t have the same heat. Billy was still strutting, still making every point look like it belonged on a highlight reel, but without Steve there to needle, it felt hollow.
The slam of the doors a few minutes later pulled Jules’ eyes from her book. One of the guys from Steve’s team jogged across the court toward him in the hall, calling him back in. “Hargrove’s killing us, man, c’mon!”
Steve reappeared, running a hand through his damp hair, jaw tight. He didn’t say a word as he strode back onto the court, but Jules caught the look in his eyes — frustration, sure, but underneath it… something heavier. Something that still had Nancy’s name on it.
The scrimmage picked up, though it was clear Steve’s head wasn’t in it. He moved slower, let a couple plays slide. Billy made sure everyone noticed.
When the coach finally called it, the guys shuffled off, chests heaving, sweat darkening their shirts. Steve grabbed a water, downed half of it in one go, and sank onto the bench to untie his shoes.
Jules hopped down from the bleachers and wandered over, keeping her tone light. “If you want to vent about whatever that was, I’ve got lunch free.”
He gave her a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, but… I think I just need to be by myself for a bit.”
She nodded, not pushing. “Alright. Rain check, Harrington.”
By the time he left, she was already heading for the locker room. A quick change into jeans, her color-block sweatshirt, and sneakers. She slipped out of the gym and headed to her locker.
********
By the time Jules made it down to the cafeteria, the lunch line was already crawling. She grabbed the quickest thing she could — a turkey sandwich, an apple, and a carton of chocolate milk — and scanned the room.
Her eyes landed on Robin instantly, animatedly talking with a small knot of band kids. From the looks of it, they were deep into some heated debate about sheet music or halftime formations. Robin caught Jules’ gaze mid-gesture and gave her an apologetic wave, mouthing, I’ll find you later.
Jules just shrugged and flashed a small grin, lifting her tray in a mock toast before heading for the doors.
Outside, the air was cool enough to make her pull her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands. She crossed the cracked blacktop to the far end of the courtyard, where a weathered cement picnic table sat under a spindly maple. The surface was rough beneath her as she slid onto the tabletop, letting her legs dangle over the bench.
She unwrapped her sandwich, popped her headphones around her neck, and was just reaching for her Walkman when movement in her peripheral caught her eye.
Down by the chain-link gate at the edge of the lot, a tall figure slipped through, heading toward the tree line with a familiar loose-limbed stride.
Eddie Munson.
Her curiosity pricked.
Her curiosity tugged harder with every step he took toward the woods.
She slid her sandwich back into the bag, hopped off the table, and trailed him at a careful distance. The last thing she wanted was to spook him into bolting — Eddie Munson was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t usually one of them.
He didn’t notice her at first, too focused on the path as he ducked between the bare branches. She followed until the trees thickened just enough to muffle the sounds of the school behind them. That’s when he stopped.
“You lost, Tink?”
The name hit her like a spark — warm, unexpected, and somehow… hers. Her chest tightened in that good, nervous way, and she felt heat creep into her cheeks before she could stop it.
“Not exactly,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even. “I was just… wondering where the great Eddie Munson disappears to during lunch.”
He smirked, finally facing her. There was a spark in his eyes — surprise, sure, but also something else. A flicker of excitement, like he wasn’t sure if she was trespassing or just making the smartest decision of her day.
“You know,” he drawled, “most people see a guy wander into the creepy woods behind the school and think, ‘Wow, probably a murderer.’”
“Guess I’m not most people.”
That earned her a smirk. He tilted his head toward a little clearing ahead. “C’mon then. Might as well see the top-secret Munson lunch spot. Just… don’t tell the faculty, the jocks, or anyone who still voluntarily goes to pep rallies.”
She laughed and followed him in, the name still ringing in her head like a secret only they shared — one she wasn’t sure she wanted to let go of.
The clearing felt like stepping through a doorway into another place entirely. Behind them, the noise of the schoolyard — shouts of kids lingering outside, the distant clang of lockers — faded until it was nothing more than a muffled hum. Out here, the air was different: stiller, softer, with only the occasional rustle of dry leaves stirred by the wind.
At the very center stood the picnic table, weathered and scarred, like some forgotten relic the woods had decided to swallow. Its surface told stories — jagged initials, band names gouged deep, lightning bolts, crooked stars. And there, commanding the middle like a badge of honor: Corroded Coffin. The letters were rough, uneven, but unapologetically bold.
Jules trailed her fingers over the carvings, rough edges catching on her skin. It felt almost like a diary, only one Eddie had written in wood instead of ink. A little world no one else had thought to care about.
Eddie dropped his dented lunch pail onto the table, the metallic clank snapping her out of it. He flipped it open with a flourish, revealing a sandwich, pretzels, and the inevitable stash tucked into one corner. He spread his arms wide like he was unveiling a stage.
“Welcome to my kingdom,” he said, smirk tugging at his mouth. “The Munson Suite. Best view in Hawkins — assuming your standards are appropriately low.”
Jules snorted, sliding onto the opposite bench. The wood creaked beneath her as she pulled out her own sandwich again. “Guess it beats the cafeteria.”
“Beats anywhere,” Eddie said, already taking a massive bite of his sandwich. He chewed noisily, grinning through it. “No jocks, no teachers breathing down my neck, no cafeteria pizza masquerading as food.”
She unwrapped her turkey sandwich, took a smaller bite, and arched a brow. “Just you and your… questionable artwork.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, still chewing. “Art is subjective, Ambrose. That there—” he pointed with half his sandwich to a lopsided dragon carved into the underside of the bench—“is a masterpiece.”
She bent down to look, laughing when she saw it. “Wow. Museum quality. I’m sure Hawkins is hiding a wing at the Met just for you.”
“Finally,” he said through a mouthful, shaking a pretzel loose from his bag. “Someone who gets it.”
They fell into a comfortable rhythm: her nibbling at her sandwich, him demolishing his lunch between jokes, the crunch of pretzels and the snap of her apple punctuating the quiet.
The cafeteria would’ve been buzzing, chaotic. But here… it felt different. Like stepping into his orbit.
The name he’d given her earlier lingered at the edges of her thoughts, warm and unshakable. Tink. No one else in the world had ever called her that, and somehow it fit — not because of the costume, but because of the way he’d said it, like he’d claimed it just for her.
She picked at the edge of her sandwich bag, pretending not to feel her pulse jump. “So… do you always eat out here?”
Eddie smirked, eyes catching hers. “Most days. Keeps me sane. And sometimes…” His smile widened, almost conspiratorial. “Sometimes, it attracts the right kind of company.”
She ducked her head, fighting the smile tugging at her mouth. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”
“Guess I am,” he said, grinning like it was the best deal he’d ever made.
Eddie tapped the table with his rings, drawing her attention to another carving scrawled near the edge. A crooked sword with flames shooting off it.
“That beauty right there?” he said with exaggerated pride. “Took me two whole lunch periods. Nearly lost a finger to my own pocketknife, but hey — art demands sacrifice.”
Jules leaned closer, squinting at the jagged lines. “That’s supposed to be a sword?”
He clutched his chest. “Supposed to be? Excuse you, that’s Excalibur, Ambrose.”
She smirked. “Looks more like a sad kebab.”
Eddie barked a laugh, throwing his head back. “Cold. Real cold.”
Her grin widened as she ran her fingers over another doodle — a lopsided bat with devil horns. “And what’s this? Hawkins’ first vampire sighting?”
“That,” he said, wagging a finger at her, “is a demon bat. Trademark Eddie Munson. Will one day be a household name in fantasy horror. You’ll see.”
She arched a brow. “Uh-huh. You planning to sell them to Hallmark for next Halloween?”
His eyes glittered, lips twitching at the corner. “Only if you’re buying the first card.”
That caught her off guard, and she laughed despite herself, heat creeping into her cheeks. She ducked her head quickly, pretending to inspect the carvings again.
Eddie watched her for a beat longer, that smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “You know, most people just walk past this spot and never give it a second glance. But you…” He leaned an elbow on the table, chin propped in his hand. “You actually look. Makes you different, Tink.”
The nickname landed in her chest again, fluttering in a way she couldn’t control. She tried to play it off, tilting her head with mock seriousness. “Different as in crazy enough to follow you into the woods?”
He grinned slow, dangerous. “Different as in smart enough to know it’s worth it.”
Jules felt her pulse quicken, and she busied herself wrapping the rest of her unfinished sandwich just to have something to do with her hands. Still, she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.
A bell clanged faintly in the distance, muffled by the trees but insistent enough to cut through their silence. Eddie groaned, tossing his head back.
“Time waits for no man,” he said, crumpling his sandwich wrapper and shoving it into the pail. “Or for two highly underappreciated lunch-break philosophers.”
Jules smirked, sliding off the bench. “Pretty sure your teacher would call it ditching, not philosophy.”
“Semantics.” He snapped the lid shut and slung the pail into his hand, falling into step beside her as they picked their way back toward the edge of the woods.
The clearing behind them whispered in the wind — only it wasn’t just the wind. Jules felt it ripple under her skin, a low hum like static, sharp enough to make the hairs on her arms rise. Dry leaves scattered across the ground in a sudden rush, spiraling around their feet as though stirred by more than the breeze.
Eddie paused, glancing at the trees with a faint frown. “Weird.”
Her pulse jumped. She shoved her hands deep into her sleeves, willing the prickling in her fingertips to calm. “Yeah. Must’ve been a gust.”
But she knew better. It was the same pull she always felt right before something slipped — a thread of energy straining for release, responding to… him.
By the time the chain-link fence came into view, she’d forced her breathing steady again. Eddie slowed, his eyes lingering on her like he was cataloging something he couldn’t name.
“Guess I’ll see you around, Tink.”
The nickname hit like a spark all over again, hotter this time, scattering her carefully stacked thoughts. She tried for casual, but her grin betrayed her. “Guess so.”
As they stepped back into the noise of Hawkins High, Jules cast one last glance over her shoulder. The clearing stood quiet, leaves settling back to the earth — but the hum lingered in her chest, restless, like she’d left part of herself behind with him.
********
The balance beam swayed just slightly under Jules’ feet as she shifted her weight into the landing. She stuck it, knees bent, arms out — but her stomach was already twisting before Coach Finley’s whistle cut through the gym.
“Better,” Finley called, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Again.”
Jules blew out a breath and reset, climbing back to the beam. Normally, this was her comfort zone — the rhythm, the precision, the way her body knew what to do even before her mind caught up. But today… today something itched under her skin.
Halfway through her pass, the feeling sharpened — like the air itself thickened around her, charged, humming. Her foot faltered, only for a second, but it was enough to make her heart lurch. She caught herself before Finley could bark at her, but the sensation lingered, crawling up her arms, prickling at her neck.
She hopped down early, pressing her palm to her temple as if the pressure could quiet the static inside her.
“You good, Ambrose?” Finley asked, frowning.
“Headache,” she lied quickly. It wasn’t entirely untrue; her skull felt like it was caught in a low-grade vibration. “Mind if I call it for today?”
Finley studied her a beat longer, then sighed. “Fine. Ice it and rest. Don’t make a habit of cutting early.”
“Yes, sir.” Jules grabbed her duffel, already moving before he could change his mind.
The second she stepped out into the hallway, the pull grew stronger. Not hers — she knew that much. Someone else’s ability, close. Too close.
She broke into a brisk walk, ignoring the echo of her sneakers on the linoleum. The hum tugged her forward, across the parking lot, past the baseball field where a couple of freshmen lingered with bats slung over their shoulders. By the time she reached the edge of the middle school campus, her pulse was racing.
And then she saw her.
A girl stood just beyond the chain-link separating the schools, posture rigid, curls falling in front of her face. Her hands hung at her sides, trembling. Her dark eyes darted across the gym doors, still too wide with whatever she’d just seen.
Eleven.
Jules hesitated at first, caught between instinct and nerves. Then she stepped forward.
“El?” Jules’ voice carried across the chain-link, soft but steady.
The girl’s head snapped toward her, curls swinging into her face. Her eyes were wide, wet, guarded.
Jules hesitated, then stepped closer. “You okay?”
El swallowed hard, jaw working. Her voice cracked when it came out. “Mike. With… her.”
Jules blinked. “Her?”
El’s chin dipped, stubborn as stone. “Girl.” The word was clipped, bitter, like it cost her to even say it.
Understanding dawned, hazy but enough. Jules didn’t need details. Whoever the girl was, El had seen her close to Mike, close enough that it felt like a replacement. And judging by the rawness in her face, that had cut deeper than anything else could.
“Hey,” Jules said softly, crouching a little to meet her eye-line. “I don’t know what you saw, but… I don’t think Mike’s the type to just forget people who matter. If it looked bad, maybe it’s not the whole story.”
El’s lips trembled, but she shook her head, eyes shining. “He… helped her.”
Jules’ chest ached at the way she said it — like kindness itself was betrayal. “That’s just who Mike is,” she said gently. “Helping people doesn’t mean he stopped caring about you.”
The words sounded clumsy, but El’s shoulders softened, just barely.
“You shouldn’t be here, though,” Jules added, softer still. “If Hopper finds out—”
“I wanted… to see him.” Her voice cracked on it, a confession and a defense all at once.
“I get it,” Jules murmured. And she did. More than she wanted to. “But if he knows you were here, he’ll go nuclear. C’mon. Let me walk you back part of the way.”
For the first time, El’s gaze steadied on her, searching. Maybe for judgment. Maybe for betrayal. When she found neither, she nodded, slow.
Jules offered a small smile. “Good. We’ll keep this between us, yeah?”
As they moved along the tree line, back toward the edges of the woods, Jules kept glancing sideways. El’s eyes were still storm-bright, her fists clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold the world together with her bare hands. The hum of power eased gradually, fading back into Jules’ chest until it was only her heartbeat again.
When they reached the fork where Jules would have to split off for home, she stopped. “Go on. He’ll be worried. But… don’t give up on Mike, okay? He’s just a dumb boy. They catch up slower.”
El studied her a long moment, then gave the smallest, fiercest nod Jules had ever seen.
Watching her slip back into the shadows, Jules felt the pull in her chest ease, but not vanish. The hum lingered — a reminder she wasn’t the only one carrying something dangerous under her skin.
********
Jules adjusted her duffel higher on her shoulder, the straps digging into her sweatshirt as she cut across the cracked sidewalk. The sun was low, bleeding warm light over the rooftops, the kind of afternoon that made Hawkins look deceptively ordinary.
For a few minutes, it worked. Her head cleared, her pulse settled. She replayed El’s expression — raw, wounded — and told herself she’d done the right thing walking her back. Keeping it secret, too. Hopper didn’t need another reason to hover, and El clearly needed space.
Then it hit.
The shift came sudden and sharp, like the ground itself took a breath. Air pressed against her skin, heavy and wrong, humming under her ribs. Jules froze mid-step, her knuckles tightening on the strap. This wasn’t like before — not the quiet hum of El’s power tugging at her edges. This was bigger. Colder. Like the echo of something reaching across the world.
Her breath snagged. For a second, she swore she felt something crawl inside her chest, a flicker of… not her. A shadow brushing past her ribs and gone just as fast.
And then — faint, but clear enough to freeze her where she stood — a voice.
“Go away!”
It was a boy’s voice, thin and straining, like it came from underwater.
Jules spun in place, heart racing, eyes darting across the quiet street. Nothing. Just the rattle of a wind-chime on a porch and the creak of a loose shutter.
Her throat tightened.
No. She wasn’t doing this again.
It had to be El, still raw from whatever happened with Mike. Powers sparking out, reaching too far. Yeah. That made sense.
She forced her legs to move, quickening her pace. By the time she reached her block, the sensation had dulled to a ghost of itself — a whisper at the edge of thought.
She told herself it was nothing. She told herself she believed it.
But deep down, her gut whispered otherwise: that voice hadn’t been El’s. And if it was real… something was happening in Hawkins again.
*******
The smell of melted cheese and oregano greeted Jules the second she pushed open the front door.
“Hey, kiddo!” Bob’s voice floated from the kitchen, warm and bright. “Perfect timing — I’ve got the oven reheating a pie. Should be ready in ten.”
He was hunched over the counter when she walked in, surrounded by the usual clutter of wires and half-open gadget guts. Today it looked like an old radio in pieces, screws lined up neatly in the order he’d taken them out. Nothing urgent, just Bob being Bob — always tinkering, always fixing.
He glanced up, smiling as if nothing in the world could be wrong. “You look wiped,” he said, gently tugging the duffel from her shoulder before she could argue. “Gymnastics run you ragged again?”
“Something like that.” She mustered a half-smile, pressing her palms into the countertop like it could anchor her. The real reason — the static that still buzzed faintly in her chest, the shadow of Eleven’s storm-bright eyes — stayed tucked behind her teeth.
Bob didn’t press. He never did. He just patted her shoulder and nodded toward the oven. “Pizza’ll fix it. Trust me. Go change, relax a little. I’ll holler when it’s done.”
Jules leaned in and kissed his cheek, grateful for the way he never pried, even when she almost wished he would. “Thanks, Bob.”
Upstairs, her room was dim with the early evening light bleeding in through the blinds. She dropped her bag, kicked off her sneakers, and was halfway to pulling her hair loose from its ponytail when the walkie crackled to life on her desk.
“Jules! You there? Come in, over!”
She froze, then groaned. Only one person used that much enthusiasm for walkie etiquette. She snatched it up. “Dustin, you know normal people use phones, right?”
His voice buzzed through, indignant. “Phones are boring. And besides, I need you on this one — you’re gonna back me up.”
“On what?” she asked warily, flopping down onto the bed.
“Not on what,” he corrected smugly. “On who. Dart.”
Jules blinked at the ceiling. “What the hell’s a Dart?”
“You’ll see,” Dustin said, all secretive glee. “Meet me at my place in ten. It’s important. Oh — and don’t tell anyone else yet. The guys don’t get it.”
She hesitated, chewing her lip. Whatever he was up to, it reeked of trouble — the kind she was still trying to stay out of. But Dustin’s voice held that crackling edge of excitement, and she’d never been good at telling him no.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But this better not be another one of your failed science experiments.”
“It’s not. Promise.”
The line hissed as he signed off, and Jules tossed the walkie onto the bed, dragging both hands down her face. Pizza, peace, and maybe a quiet night — all gone in an instant.
She thudded back down the stairs just as Bob was sliding the pie from the oven, steam curling from the crust. He looked up, brows lifting. “You’re heading out?”
“Yeah,” she said, already pulling her sweatshirt over her head. “Dustin needs me for… something.”
Bob set the pan down and straightened, concern flickering across his features. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He just sounded excited. I’ll be back before it gets dark.”
Bob hesitated, then nodded, though his eyes lingered on her like he wanted to ask more. Instead, he just offered her a slice wrapped in foil. “For the road.”
She grinned, taking it. “You’re the best.”
By the time she stepped out into the cooling air, foil warm in her hand, the buzz of Dustin’s urgency had already taken root in her chest. Whatever “Dart” was, she had the sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be half as harmless as he thought.
********
The Henderson house smelled warm and savory the second Jules stepped inside — butter, onions, something rich in the oven. Claudia’s voice carried from the kitchen before Jules could even knock her sneakers off.
“Julienne!” Claudia beamed as she peeked around the doorway, wooden spoon in hand. “I’m making shepherd’s pie. You staying for dinner?”
Jules smiled, already shaking her head. “Thanks, but I promised Bob I’d be home. He’s probably already timing me.”
Claudia sighed, mock-dramatic, but waved her spoon like she’d expected the answer. “One of these days, I’m going to win.”
Before Jules could answer, Dustin came barreling into the entryway, wild-eyed and buzzing with the kind of secret only he thought he could keep. “C’mon, Jules, you gotta see this,” he hissed, already tugging her down the hall.
She barely had time to drop her bag before he hauled her into his room, slamming the door shut behind them. Mews, perched primly on the dresser, flicked her tail in disdain at the commotion.
“Okay,” Dustin whispered, lifting a sheet he had been using to cover his terrarium. “Prepare yourself.”
Jules arched a brow. “This better not be another one of your science projects gone wrong—”
The words caught in her throat when she leaned closer.
A small, slimy creature squirmed inside, pressed against the glass with a mouth that was too wide, too sharp. Its body was somewhere between a frog and something else, legs twitching, skin slick and wrong.
Dart.
The hum hit her chest instantly, like a struck chord. The same prickling static she felt when her own control faltered — only this wasn’t hers.
The creature stilled. For a breathless second, it pressed closer to the glass, its black eyes locking onto hers like it recognized something in her. Jules’ pulse spiked, throat tight.
Mews hissed suddenly, tail puffing, and the sound broke whatever thread had stretched between them. Dart’s body jerked, slapping the glass once before scuttling back into the shadows of the terrarium.
Jules stumbled a step back, shoving her hands deep into her sleeves to hide the trembling. “Dustin… what the hell is that?”
His grin faltered, but only slightly. “I call him Dart. Found him last night. He’s… unique.”
“Unique?” Jules snapped, unable to keep the sharpness out of her voice. “That thing looked at me like—like it knew me.”
Dustin crossed his arms, defensive. “He’s not dangerous.”
Her chest still hummed, low and insistent, like an echo she couldn’t shake. Jules dragged in a breath, forcing it steady. “Yeah,” she muttered, eyes still locked on the terrarium. “Tell that to the cat.”
Dustin edged closer to the terrarium, eyes softening as he watched the little creature curl back into itself. “Look, I know what you’re thinking, but he’s not like… that. He’s different.”
Jules barked a laugh, sharp and uneasy. “Different? Dustin, that thing just made my skin crawl. It looked at me like it knew something I didn’t. And Mews is one hiss away from a heart attack.”
Mews, as if on cue, flicked her tail and retreated to the bed, glaring down at the terrarium like it was a ticking bomb.
“He’s not dangerous,” Dustin insisted, lowering his voice like he was soothing a skittish animal. “Will—he recognized Dart. Said he’s from… you know. But that doesn’t mean he’s bad. Maybe he’s just… lost.”
Jules froze, her breath catching. From the Upside Down. The hum in her chest thrummed harder, like confirmation. “And you thought keeping him in your bedroom was the smart call?” she hissed.
“It’s better than letting the guys find him and stomp him flat,” Dustin shot back. “Or the lab taking him apart piece by piece. At least here he’s safe.”
Her pulse hammered. Safe. The word echoed wrong in her head, clashing with the visceral recoil she’d felt the second Dart looked at her.
“Dustin…” Jules tried, softer this time. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“I know he likes nougat,” Dustin countered, like that was irrefutable evidence. “I know he listens to me. And I know he hasn’t hurt anyone. Not once.”
Jules pressed her lips together, caught between warning and wanting to believe him. The protective stubbornness in his face was the same look he got whenever someone teased him about his teeth — fierce, immovable.
She exhaled, long and slow. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, you know that?”
A grin cracked across his face, relieved. “So you’re not gonna tell?”
She shook her head, though the unease stayed coiled in her gut. “Not tonight. But Dustin? Keep him away from Mews. And if he so much as twitches wrong—”
“I’ll handle it,” he promised quickly, already slipping another crumb of nougat through the vent. Dart’s slick little body darted forward, snatching it with a wet snap.
Jules shivered. She turned toward the door before he could see her expression, muttering under her breath. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
********
The night air was colder than it had been that afternoon, crisp enough that Jules tugged her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands as she left the Henderson’s porch. Claudia’s voice trailed after her, reminding her again that she was welcome to stay for dinner anytime. Jules only smiled and waved before stepping off the walk.
The neighborhood was already settling in for the evening. Porch lights glowed warm against the dark, windows flickered with televisions, and the smell of shepherd’s pie still clung faintly in the air behind her.
She’d barely gone half a block when the air shifted.
It was sudden, sharp — like the whole world had drawn in a breath. The branches overhead rattled against one another, dry leaves scattering in a rush across the pavement. Power lines buzzed faintly, their hum carrying in the quiet.
Jules slowed, gaze sweeping the row of houses, the stretch of trees beyond the street. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed.
And then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. The leaves settled. The wires stilled. The quiet of Hawkins pressed back in.
She pulled her sleeves tighter around her hands and quickened her pace toward the steady glow of her own porch light, pretending not to notice the way her skin still prickled.
Notes:
So, we got some more Eddie time. :)
Chapter 18: Interference
Chapter Text
The smell of coffee and toasted bread met Jules before she even hit the bottom step. She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail as she padded into the kitchen, socked feet sliding against the linoleum.
Bob stood by the counter with the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder, one hand scribbling notes in the margin of a Radio Shack flyer. His voice was pitched low, soft in that way he got when he didn’t want to sound worried.
“—yeah, Joyce, of course. Don’t even think twice. You just focus on Will, alright? I’ll check in after work. Uh-huh. Yeah. You’re doing everything right.”
Jules lingered in the doorway, leaning on the frame as she caught the tail end. Her stomach tightened at the sound of Will’s name.
Bob gave a few more gentle affirmations before hanging up. He exhaled slowly through his nose, the weight of it tugging his shoulders down, before he turned — catching her standing there. A small smile tugged at his mouth, weary but warm.
“Morning, kiddo.”
“Morning,” she returned, sliding into a chair at the table. “That was Joyce? How’s Will?”
Bob set the receiver back in place, rubbing his palm against his thigh before leaning a hip on the counter. “Not great. Joyce says he’s running cold, some headaches. She’s keeping an eye on him, making sure he rests. He’s… been through more than most kids should have to.”
Jules frowned, twisting the bracelet on her wrist. “Yeah.”
There was a beat of quiet — the hum of the fridge, the tick of the kitchen clock. Then Bob sighed, folding his arms. “I, uh… noticed my camcorder got dinged up. So before I loaned it back to Joyce, I checked the tape. Turns out…” He hesitated, chewing on his cheek before finishing, “it caught some kids giving Will a hard time. Real mean stuff.”
Her chest tightened. “Bullies?”
“Yeah.” His mouth flattened, eyes flicking to the counter. “He’s such a gentle kid. Doesn’t fight back. Just takes it.” He shook his head, jaw tense. “Joyce didn’t need that on top of everything else, but at least now she knows. Maybe she can talk to him.”
Jules pushed her spoon through her cereal, appetite gone. She could picture it too easily — Will shrinking in on himself, cornered. She hated how normal it sounded, kids being cruel just because they could.
Bob must’ve noticed her silence, because his tone lightened, though the effort showed. “They’re tough, the Byers. Both of ‘em. Joyce’ll move mountains for that boy, and Will—he’s stronger than he looks.” He pushed a smile across his face, a little crooked but genuine. “Still. Makes you wanna build a bubble around them, doesn’t it?”
Jules huffed softly, looking down at her bowl. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Bob gave the top of her chair a squeeze as he passed, grabbing his thermos. “Alright. I’m off. You’ll be good today?”
She managed a smile for him. “Always.”
“Liar.” He grinned, kissed the top of her head, and grabbed his keys.
The door shut behind him, and the kitchen fell quiet again. Jules stared at the clock, the spoon idle in her hand. The heaviness of Bob’s words sat with her, pressing in at the edges. Stronger than he looks. She hoped that was true.
********
By the time Jules made it to Hawkins High, the weight of Bob’s words about Will still sat heavy in her chest. She tried to shake it off crossing the parking lot, but the knot never quite eased.
English class didn’t help. Mr. Carter had them split into groups for some half-hearted analysis exercise on Of Mice and Men. Desks scraped as everyone shuffled into clumps, and Jules ended up across from Robin Buckley, who already had her notebook cracked open and a pen tucked behind her ear.
Robin gave her a lopsided grin. “Partnered again. Fate or tragedy, you decide.”
“Pretty sure tragedy,” Jules said, dropping her book on the desk. “Unless you’re secretly amazing at this.”
Robin snorted. “I’m terrible at this. But I can BS my way through a theme until Carter gives up. That counts for something.”
Jules smirked, leaning on her elbow. “That’s a skill.”
“Exactly.” Robin tapped the page between them. “So — loneliness? Dreams? Or do we just say the dog’s a metaphor for death and call it a day?”
“Loneliness works,” Jules said after a beat. “Makes sense.”
Robin tilted her head, catching the weight in Jules’ voice. Her expression softened, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nudged the book toward her. “Alright. Loneliness it is. Carter eats that stuff up.”
They jotted down a few lines, neither taking it too seriously. Robin’s pen stilled, though, and her gaze flicked past Jules to the front of the room.
“Okay, tell me I’m not crazy,” she whispered. “Both Wheeler and Byers are MIA again, right?”
Jules followed her glance. Jonathan’s usual slouching spot — empty. Nancy’s neat row of notes — gone. She forced a shrug. “Guess so.”
“And before you say flu — nope.” Robin’s voice dropped lower, conspiratorial. “Didn’t see them in geography yesterday either. Not a cough, not a sniffle. Just poof.”
Jules raised her brows, feigning casual. “That’s… weird.”
“Mm-hmm.” Robin spun her pen lazily, though her eyes glittered with satisfaction. “So either they’ve secretly eloped, or they’re running some underground operation the rest of us aren’t cool enough to know about.”
Jules snorted, playing along. “Yeah, totally. A whole operation.”
“Hey, don’t mock me. When half the AV club goes missing next, I’ll be the one who called it.”
Jules shook her head, but the unease twisted deeper. She pressed her pencil too hard, leaving dents in the page.
Robin caught it instantly. Her chair thumped forward onto all four legs, voice softer now. “Hey.” Her eyes searched Jules’ face. “You know something.”
Jules’ throat tightened. She kept her gaze on the book. “I don’t.”
Robin didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push, either. She just sat back, pen spinning again — though her eyes lingered on Jules, sharp and unrelenting, like she’d filed the moment away to revisit later.
********
The gym buzzed with noise — sneakers squeaking, the hollow thud of the basketball, the sharp echo of the whistle cutting through the humid air. Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove were locked in another showdown at center court, circling each other with the kind of restless energy that wasn’t about basketball anymore. Every rebound was a shove, every drive to the basket another excuse to body into the other.
On the bleachers, clusters of girls sprawled in shorts and tees, chatting idly as they waited their turn. A couple shouted half-hearted encouragements when Billy dunked, a chorus of laughter following when Steve nearly tripped catching himself on the baseline.
Jules sat further down, away from the cluster of voices. Her Walkman dangled around her neck, the foam of one headphone pressed lightly to her ear while the other slipped off. The pencil in her hand scratched across the page of her sketchbook, lines weaving into dark, tangled roots that spread wider with each stroke. She smudged the shading with the side of her thumb, deepening the shadows until they seemed to crawl across the paper.
Beside the roots, another sketch had begun to take form — the horned bat from Eddie’s clearing, its wings jagged, the horns curling sharp and wrong. She didn’t know why it had stuck in her head so vividly, but her pencil kept going back to it, outlining the strange, menacing curve of its body as if her hand was remembering something her mind hadn’t fully caught yet.
Across the court, Billy barreled into Steve with a shoulder that could’ve been called for a foul three times over. Steve stumbled but didn’t go down, jaw tightening as he shoved back, reclaiming the ball. The bleachers erupted in a mix of cheers and jeers, the girls leaning forward as if watching a boxing match instead of gym class.
Behind Jules, someone snickered. “Harrington’s gonna eat floor any second.”
Another voice chimed in, louder. “Think he’ll cry if he loses again?”
Jules kept her eyes on her page, pencil dragging harder across the paper. She didn’t laugh, didn’t join in. Her stomach twisted as the voices grew sharper, more mocking, bouncing off the gym walls.
“Or,” she said finally, voice even but carrying just enough, “maybe you guys could let them play instead of running commentary.”
The girls blinked, caught off guard. One of them rolled her eyes, muttering something about Jules being no fun, but the jabs died down.
Jules went back to pressing down the graphite until it darkened to near black, shading the wings of the horned bat until they almost swallowed the roots she’d drawn beneath it.
The whistle blew, sharp and frustrated. Coach barked something about “clean play” that everyone ignored. Billy smirked as he scored again, his laugh carrying across the gym — all teeth and victory.
Jules finally looked up, the pencil still in her hand. Her gaze drifted from Billy’s self-satisfied strut back to Steve. He was flushed, hair plastered damp against his forehead, but his eyes cut sideways, scanning the bleachers. For the briefest second, they landed on her — not long enough for anyone else to notice, but long enough that she felt the weight of it. He saw her not laughing, not leaning in with the others, just watching quietly with her sketchbook open.
Jules blinked and looked back down quickly, the pencil trembling just a little between her fingers. She smudged the shadow of the roots until they blurred, until her page was messy with gray and black, like the lines were spreading beyond her control.
Around her, the girls were still gossiping, voices pitched high with amusement. But Jules let them fade into the background, the sound swallowed by the faint hiss of her half-playing tape and the steady scrape of her pencil on the page.
********
The cafeteria was its usual chaos — trays clattering, voices ricocheting off the walls, the smell of French fries competing with bleach. Jules sat wedged between Robin and Steve, idly picking at her pizza while Robin launched into a dramatic retelling of how the lunch lady had definitely tried to murder her with questionable milk.
Jules laughed, shaking her head, when a shadow slid across the table.
“Well, if it isn’t Chicago.”
Billy Hargrove. He leaned one arm on the table, grin lazy and sharp all at once. His hair was still damp from the showers after P.E., and he reeked of cologne so strong it burned the back of Jules’ throat.
Jules didn’t bother looking up at first, stabbing her fork through a fry. “Creative. Bet you thought that one up all on your own.”
Robin stifled a snort into her juice box.
Billy’s smile only widened. “You keep sittin’ with Harrington here, people are gonna start talkin’. You sure you don’t want an upgrade?”
Steve’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Back off, Hargrove.”
Billy ignored him, gaze locked on Jules. “I mean, let’s be real. A city girl like you doesn’t really fit with the small-town crowd. Bet you’re already bored outta your mind here. Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted something… different.”
Jules set her fork down slowly. Then she looked up at him, eyes flat. “Pretty sure Megan already covered that ‘something different’ yesterday. Front seat, back seat. Sounded like a busy afternoon.”
Robin choked, half laughing, half coughing into her sleeve. A couple of nearby tables went quiet, straining to hear.
For the first time, Billy’s grin faltered. Just a flicker, quick enough he smoothed it over with a low chuckle. “Feisty. I like that about you.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “You know, most girls here don’t have any bite.”
“Maybe that’s because they don’t need to waste it on you,” Jules shot back, meeting his stare without flinching.
Steve shifted in his seat, shoulders tight, ready to step in. But Jules didn’t give him the chance.
“You don’t scare me, Billy,” she said evenly. “So here’s the deal — find someone else to bother. Because whatever game this is? It’s old, and I’m not interested.”
The smirk snapped back into place, but his eyes were colder now, sharp. He straightened, hands spread in mock surrender. “Guess Chicago’s got claws. Careful, sweetheart. Claws can get dull quick.”
He sauntered off, Tommy laughing a beat too loud as he trailed behind, though even he kept glancing back at Jules like he wasn’t sure if he should.
For a moment, the table was silent but for Robin wheezing. She pressed her face into her sleeve, shoulders shaking. “Oh my god. You wrecked him. I think Tommy forgot how to breathe.”
Steve was still glaring at Billy’s retreating back, jaw flexing. He finally turned to Jules, voice low. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, she did,” Robin cut in, grinning. “She torched him. Like, ashes on the cafeteria floor torched him. Legendary.”
Jules stabbed her fry again, shrugging like it was nothing, though her leg bounced under the table with leftover adrenaline. “Guy’s not worth the energy.”
Robin leaned closer, smirking. “You say that now, but I’m pretty sure half the junior class is gonna be retelling that burn by last period.”
Steve finally cracked the faintest smile. “Well, at least his ego took the hit.” He gave Jules a quick look, softer. “Thanks.”
Jules just smirked back, but she could feel the heat still buzzing under her skin — part adrenaline, part the thrill of not backing down.
*********
The squeak of sneakers and the sharp clap of chalked hands echoed off the rafters. The rest of the girls were winding down their rotations, but Coach Finley still had Jules running her beam set.
“Again,” he called, whistle bouncing against his chest.
Jules adjusted the tape around her wrists, then jogged back to the start of the beam. She launched into her routine — back handspring, split leap, aerial. Her body moved clean and sharp, but her dismount wavered just enough to draw a grimace from Finley.
“Better,” he said, already jotting notes. “But you’re rushing your landing. Don’t cheat yourself.”
Jules blew out a breath and tried again. Sweat prickled along her hairline, sliding into her collar. Her thighs burned from repetition, arms aching with the constant tension of keeping steady. But she nailed the dismount this time, knees bent, arms snapping out.
Finley gave a curt nod. “That’s more like it. One more run, then cool down.”
Her pulse thudded in her ears, but she didn’t argue. Jules climbed back on the beam, forcing herself into the rhythm: breathe, launch, land. This time everything lined up, and she stuck the finish with sharp precision.
“Good,” Finley said, finally sounding satisfied. He blew his whistle to signal the end of drills. “Hit the mats, stretch out, then you’re done. And don’t slack over the weekend. Monday we tighten the sequence.”
“Yes, sir,” Jules muttered, wiping sweat from her forehead with the edge of her sleeve.
The team began to trickle out, chatter bouncing between the walls as lockers slammed and sneakers squeaked toward the exit. Jules stayed a few extra minutes on the mat, stretching out her shoulders and hamstrings, letting the burn ease.
By the time she headed for the locker room, the gym was almost empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as she peeled off her practice gear and tugged on jeans and a hoodie. She stuffed her leotard into her bag, hair still damp with sweat, and let the door slam shut behind her.
********
The gym doors groaned shut behind her, the sound echoing down the empty hall before the cool night air hit her skin. Jules tugged her jacket tighter, rolling her sore shoulders as she stepped into the parking lot. The sky was painted in bruised shades of violet and gold, the kind of twilight that made the town feel smaller, quieter. Cicadas buzzed in the tree line, and the field lights hummed faintly, throwing long shadows across the asphalt.
She was halfway to the curb when another set of doors banged open on the far side of the courtyard. Eddie Munson spilled out, flanked by Gareth and two other Hellfire boys, their laughter bouncing off the concrete. Eddie was in full performance mode, hands carving the air as he spun out the details of some grisly D&D finale.
“…and then, naturally, the entire battalion bursts into flames—because, gentlemen, what’s a finale without a little carnage?”
The others cracked up. Gareth shook his head, catching sight of her lingering near the lot. He lifted a hand. “Hey, Jules. Coach keep you hostage again?”
Jules smiled faintly, brushing a curl from her face. “Something like that. Guess Finley thinks weekends are optional.”
“Sounds about right. Catch you on Monday.” Gareth smiled, peeling off with the others toward their cars. Eddie, though, hung back—like he always did. His grin was already locked on her, all sharp edges and mischief.
“Well, if it isn’t Tink,” he said, sauntering closer. “Tell me, what’s a gym rat like you still doing here at this godforsaken hour?”
She raised a brow at him. “Practice. What’s your excuse?”
He tapped the cigarette tucked behind his ear like it was a badge of honor. “Campaign debrief. Some of us have kingdoms to raze, lives to ruin. Heavy responsibility, Ambrose.”
She smirked despite herself. “Sounds exhausting.”
Eddie gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. “Exhausting? That’s rich, coming from someone who balances on sticks for hours.”
“Beams,” she corrected, a little warmer this time. “They’re called beams.”
He staggered back as if wounded. “I stand corrected. Truly humbled.” His grin softened just a notch as he tilted his head. “Need a lift?”
She shook her head, tugging her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m fine walking.”
“Walking?” His eyes widened in mock horror. “Tink, that’s practically an open invitation to get abducted by raccoons.”
Her laugh slipped out before she could smother it. “Pretty sure I can handle a raccoon, Munson.”
“Bet you could,” he said, his voice dropping into something less teasing, more certain. He gave a little bow, curls falling in front of his face. “Still. Humor me. Your royal carriage awaits.”
Jules shoved his shoulder, but there wasn’t much force behind it. “Fine. But if you crash, I’m haunting you.”
His eyes glittered like he’d just won something big. “Deal.”
And even though every instinct told her she should just walk home, Jules found herself falling into step beside him, their shadows stretching long and thin across the asphalt as the last sliver of sun disappeared behind the trees.
********
The van was parked crooked at the edge of the lot, looking like it had been through at least two small wars and lost both. Its paint was a dull, dented gray, scabbed with rust and plastered in stickers—half metal bands Jules had never heard of, half doodles that looked suspiciously Eddie-made. A peeling decal of a demon skull grinned from the back window, cracked right through the eye socket. The whole thing radiated don’t trust me in a way that somehow fit him perfectly.
Eddie swung the passenger door wide with a flourish, like he was unveiling treasure. “Your chariot awaits, Tink.”
She raised a brow, hesitating. “This thing pass inspection?”
“Define inspection,” he shot back, grinning.
Inside, the van smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something sweet she couldn’t quite place. The back looked more like a makeshift den than a vehicle—amps and guitar cases propped against beanbags, flyers scattered across the floor, band stickers curling off the side panels. There were guitar picks wedged into the dash and a half-toppled stack of tapes jammed between the seats. It was chaos, sure, but chaos with personality.
Jules climbed in, adjusting her bag on her lap. “Wow. You… live in here?”
Eddie clutched his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you. This is a finely curated lounge.”
Her eyes flicked over the mess, landing on a flyer half-stuck under the seat. Corroded Coffin. The same name plastered across half the van. She lifted it, one brow arched. “So what’s with all the shrine stuff? Posters, flyers… feels like you’re running a cult.”
Eddie’s grin spread slow and wide, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to ask. “That, Tink, would be my band. Corroded Coffin. Hawkins’ one and only purveyors of face-melting metal.”
Jules snorted. “Face-melting? Sounds… dangerous.”
“Damn right it is.” He drummed his fingers on the wheel, a riff only he could hear. “Gareth’s on drums, Jeff on bass, Frankie on rhythm, and yours truly on lead guitar. We play the Hideout most Tuesdays, which—granted—mostly means drunks too sloshed to tell Metallica from Motown, but hey. It’s a start.”
“Let me guess,” Jules said, feigning seriousness. “You’re the star.”
“Front man, songwriter, hair model.” Eddie tossed his curls dramatically, nearly swerving before righting the van again. “Triple threat.”
Jules laughed, the sound slipping out before she could catch it. “Hair model, huh? You should put that on the flyers.”
He shot her a look, mock-wounded. “You wound me, Tink. Deeply. Corroded Coffin is art. The kind of art that’ll outlive Hawkins High’s soul-crushing mediocrity.”
She tilted her head, still smiling. “Well… I can’t knock the passion. Even if the name makes it sound like a Halloween prop store.”
“Exactly!” Eddie barked, slapping the steering wheel. “That’s the point! Death, rot, decay — it’s all part of the vibe. We laugh in the face of mortality.”
“Or trip over it,” Jules teased.
He let out a wild cackle. “Now you’re getting it.”
The van rolled to a stop in front of her house, engine rumbling like it might stall out at any second. Jules hesitated with her hand on the door, still caught in the warmth of Eddie’s laughter, the energy that clung to him like static.
“Well,” she said, tugging her bag onto her lap, “guess this is me.”
Eddie drummed his fingers against the wheel, glancing at her sideways with a grin that softened at the edges. “Doesn’t have to be a one-time thing, Tink. I give rides, free of charge. Consider it part of the Munson charm package.”
Jules laughed, shaking her head as she slid down from the seat. “Right. Charm package. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do that,” he said, leaning across the wheel as she shut the door. “See you around, beam rat.”
She shot him a look, trying not to smile too wide, before heading up the walk.
********
The house was still and quiet when she slipped inside. Bob was gone, probably closing up at Radio Shack, and the emptiness rang loud against her thoughts. She dropped her bag by the stairs, leaning against the wall for a moment, letting herself replay the last ten minutes.
The way Eddie tossed his hair like a rock star, half-serious, half-joke.
The flash of his grin when he called her Tink.
The ridiculous pride in his voice when he talked about Corroded Coffin.
It shouldn’t have gotten under her skin. But it had.
Jules pressed her palms to her cheeks, groaning into the empty house. “Get a grip,” she muttered, though the smile curling her lips said otherwise.
Her room greeted her with its usual mess — open notebooks, a lopsided stack of comics, a few cassette tapes scattered across the dresser. She flipped one into her tape deck, pressing play until the low thrum of guitars and steady percussion filled the air. It wasn’t Eddie’s music, not exactly, but the beat tangled with the thought of him anyway.
She gathered fresh clothes and padded to the bathroom, shutting the door with a click.
Steam curled along the bathroom mirror, blurring her reflection into ghost shapes. Jules tipped her head back into the spray, letting the heat wash away chalk dust and the knot in her shoulders, though Eddie’s grin still flickered stubbornly in her mind. His van. His stupid curls. The way her chest had fluttered like it had no business doing.
Music pulsed faintly through the door from her stereo — loud enough to drown out the world.
Which was why she didn’t notice the faint crackle of her Walkie from the nightstand in her room. Didn’t hear the static stutter, then Dustin’s voice, sharp and urgent:
“Jules? Come on — pick up! Please, Jules, I need you!”
Another rush of static swallowed the words, but his voice broke through again, louder, more frantic.
“Something’s wrong, okay? Dart — he’s not what I thought he was. You have to— Jules, answer me! Please!”
The hiss went unanswered.
Jules smoothed a palm across the fogged glass, humming faintly with the music, completely unaware. Her Walkie blinked and sputtered in the other room, Dustin’s voice cracking in panic, but she couldn’t hear a thing over the water and the song.
By the time she shut off the tap, the room wrapped in silence again, the Walkie had already gone dead quiet.
Chapter 19: Code Red
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sizzle of bacon and the faint clatter of a spatula pulled Jules into the kitchen, still tugging her sweatshirt over her head. Bob was already at the stove, humming along with a record spinning low in the living room—something upbeat, probably The Cars. The TV muttered faintly behind the music, half-static local news no one was paying attention to.
“Morning, kiddo,” he said, without missing a beat. “Sit. Eat. No arguments.”
Jules smirked, sliding into a chair. “Since when do you make the big breakfast?”
“Since today.” Bob turned, presenting her with a plate like he was some kind of diner short-order cook. “Growing athletes don’t run on coffee and sarcasm alone. Gotta keep that engine fueled.”
She rolled her eyes but picked up her fork. “You’ve been talking to Claudia again, haven’t you?”
Bob chuckled, piling bacon onto his own plate. “Maybe. Or maybe I just worry, Jules. You’ve been running yourself ragged.”
Her smile softened around a bite of egg. For all his nerdy quirks, Bob had this way of sneaking concern into the smallest things—extra toast, fresh batteries in her walkie, a hand on her shoulder at just the right time.
At the far end of the table, an open box sat waiting. Jules glanced at it between bites. “What’s in the mystery box?”
Bob’s whole face brightened. “Ah—puzzles, riddles, little brain teasers. Stuff that kept me sane when I was sick as a kid. Figured Will could use the distraction.”
Jules tilted her head, chewing slowly. “That’s actually… really thoughtful.”
“Sweet and practical,” Bob said with a grin, snapping the lid shut. “I’ve got the market cornered.”
“You’re such a sap,” she muttered, but her lips betrayed her with a smile.
Bob grabbed his jacket and hefted the box. He lingered at the door long enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll check in later. You check in too, alright? Don’t disappear on me.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, pretending to be put-upon, though her chest warmed. “Good luck with the nerd box delivery.”
He pointed at her like she’d nailed the joke. “Exactly. Operation Nerd Box. I’ll report back.”
The door closed behind him. Jules took another bite of bacon, half-listening to the record and the TV overlapping in the background—so much noise that she never heard the faint crackle of her walkie upstairs, Dustin’s urgent voice breaking through static:
“Code Red! Code Red, do you copy?! Code Red!”
*********
Jules tugged on her sneakers, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out into the cool Indiana morning. The air carried that faint sharpness of fall — woodsmoke, damp leaves, a chill that clung even when the sun cut through the clouds.
She pedaled past the long stretch of farmland on her way to Robin’s, the familiar rows of pumpkin patches rolling out along the roadside. The fields were off somehow — soil darker than it should’ve been, whole patches of withered vines curling into themselves like fists. She slowed instinctively, nose wrinkling at the faint sour tang in the air, something rotting beneath the autumn sweetness.
For a beat, a shiver prickled her spine, a feeling she couldn’t pin down. Like the world was holding its breath. She let out a quick laugh under her breath, forcing herself to shake it off. Weird farm smells weren’t exactly rare in Hawkins.
Still, her foot pressed harder on the pedal. She was already running late, and Robin was expecting her.
********
The record player in the corner buzzed faintly as Blondie’s Parallel Lines spun, the needle popping every so often like static. Jules was sprawled across Robin’s bed, flipping through a battered stack of cassettes, while Robin sat cross-legged on the floor with an open notebook, a half-finished doodle of a trumpet blaring across the page.
“Please tell me you didn’t actually suffer through that whole football game last Saturday,” Jules said, holding a tape up to the light. “Could’ve sworn the marching band was the only thing keeping people awake.”
Robin groaned, tipping back against her desk chair. “Try three hours of bad bleachers, worse nachos, and our brass section tripping over themselves in formation. Honestly, the only entertaining part was when the drum major almost got tackled by a ref.”
Jules snorted. “Now that I would’ve paid to see.”
“You would’ve loved it. Pure slapstick.” Robin’s grin lingered, but her eyes drifted, like her thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Jules noticed. She’d been noticing all afternoon — the way Robin had spaced out mid-song, how she’d scribbled over the same doodle line three times. Jules tossed the cassette back onto the pile and leaned over. “Okay. Spill. You’ve been… daydreamy. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Robin’s ears went pink immediately. “I have not.”
“You so have,” Jules pressed, smirking. “First it was you staring out the window, then humming like you’re in some kind of music video. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you’ve been hanging around the band kids more.”
Robin buried her face in her notebook with a groan. “You are relentless.”
“Yup,” Jules said, grinning. “So who is it?”
Robin peeked over the cover, voice dropping. “It’s… someone. Someone smart.”
Jules raised a brow. “Smart, huh? So… not one of the football guys?”
“God, no.” Robin rolled her eyes, then fiddled with the corner of her notebook. “It’s… they don’t even really notice me most of the time.”
Jules tilted her head, curious. “Band, then? Or AV club?”
Robin shrugged a little too quickly. “Something like that.”
Jules smirked, leaning back into the pillows. “Alright, fine. Keep your secrets. Just don’t get all moony-eyed at practice or you’ll trip over your trumpet and I’m not helping you recover from that humiliation.”
Robin laughed, half-nervous, half-genuine, and glanced at the clock. “Speaking of practice… I’ve gotta head over early. Game tonight means extra rehearsal.”
Jules groaned dramatically, flopping onto her stomach. “And here I was, thinking we had all afternoon to roast your love life.”
Robin tossed a balled-up sock at her. “Later. Maybe.”
Jules caught it, grinning, but she didn’t push. She could tell Robin was holding something back — and whatever it was, she’d get it out of her eventually.
*******
By the time Jules pedaled into her driveway, the sky was already slanting toward evening, painted with the gray-gold haze of late autumn. She leaned her bike against the porch and jogged up the steps, not paying much mind to the uneasy prickle she’d carried since cutting past the empty fields outside town.
The house was still, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge downstairs. She kicked off her sneakers, climbed the stairs two at a time, and ducked into her room.
Her backpack hit the floor with a dull thud. For a moment, she just stood there, eyes tracing over the cluttered familiarity of her space: books stacked haphazardly, comics spread like a fan across her bed, the Polaroid of her and Dustin stuck in the corner of her mirror.
That was when it hit her — she hadn’t talked to him in two whole days. Not since she’d gone over to his house and he’d introduced her to Dart. She shivered at the memory: the thing’s slick body twitching against the glass, its gaze fixed on her like it knew her somehow. Jules had felt her stomach drop, a visceral recoil she couldn’t explain, and Mews had hissed like the creature was poison. She’d told Dustin to keep Dart away from the cat, told him it was bad news, but he’d just laughed it off with that stubborn streak of his.
And now? Radio silence. For Dustin, that wasn’t just odd — it was alarming.
Unease tightened in her chest. She grabbed the Walkie from her nightstand and flicked it on.
“Dustbin, you out there?” Her voice came out sharper than she meant, the edges hiding her worry.
Static answered first, loud and grating. She was just about to try again when a voice broke through, ragged and rushed.
“Jules?”
She straightened, pulse kicking. “Dusty! Where the hell have you been?”
On the other end, there was a jumble of noise — scuffling, the scrape of something heavy, a muffled voice she swore sounded like Steve Harrington of all people.
“I don’t have time to explain,” Dustin blurted. “It’s bad, okay? But I’m not alone. Steve’s helping.”
Jules blinked, stunned. “Harrington is helping you? Seriously? What did you get into—”
“Just be ready,” Dustin cut her off, voice cracking with urgency. “We’ll come get you.”
The channel snapped to static again, leaving Jules clutching the Walkie with her stomach knotted. Whatever Dustin had stumbled into, it was worse than she’d guessed. And the fact that Steve Harrington was involved didn’t make her feel any better.
********
Jules spotted the familiar BMW before it even slowed, headlights sweeping across the curb as Steve Harrington pulled up. Gravel crunched under the tires, and before the car had fully stopped Dustin was halfway out the passenger window, curls bouncing wildly.
“Finally!” he shouted, voice cracking with something sharp—panic, frustration, relief all knotted together.
Jules tugged open the back door and slid inside, her bag hitting the seat with a thump. She was still catching her breath, hair clinging to her forehead from the ride back.
“Okay, okay—I’m here. Don’t combust, Dustbin.”
Dustin whipped around in his seat, arms crossed, cheeks flushed. “Don’t combust?! I’ve been calling you all day! Code Red, Jules. Multiple Code Reds!”
The weight in his tone landed heavier than the words. Jules’ stomach sank. She leaned forward between the seats, meeting his wide eyes.
“I didn’t hear them, Dusty. I swear—I wasn’t ignoring you.” Her voice softened. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been there.”
He glared, lips pressed tight, but his chin wobbled. The anger crumpled into something raw. “You missed everything,” he muttered. “Dart… he’s not small anymore. He—he ate Mews.”
Jules froze. Her chest tightened like the air had been punched out of her. “He killed the cat?”
Dustin nodded, jaw tight. He sniffed, forcing the words out. “I had to get him out of the house. I lured him into the cellar with bologna slices and locked the door. He’s trapped down there—for now.”
The image made Jules’ skin crawl. Dart wasn’t just some weird science project anymore; he was dangerous. And Dustin had handled all of that alone.
Her chest ached as she looked at him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that by yourself.”
Dustin shrugged, trying to look tougher than he felt. “Didn’t have a choice.” He flicked his hand toward Steve. “That’s when I called in Harrington.”
Jules turned her gaze on Steve. He still hadn’t said much, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, uncertain.
“Thank you,” Jules said softly.
Steve gave a little shrug, his tone flat but edged with disbelief. “I haven’t actually seen this thing yet. For all I know, Henderson’s hyped up over a big iguana or something.”
“Not an iguana,” Dustin snapped, voice sharp with the conviction of someone who’s already been burned by disbelief. “It’s—it’s something else. You’ll see.”
Steve smirked faintly, like the kid’s fire was the only thing keeping him grounded. Jules leaned back, torn between guilt and relief. She’d missed too much already. But at least she was here now—before Dustin had to face whatever was waiting in that cellar alone.
********
Steve popped the trunk and pulled out the nail-studded bat, its wood scarred and darkened from last year’s fight. Jules’ brows rose when she spotted it, memories flashing of that chaotic night at the Byers’ house.
“Still keeping that around, huh?” she said, half teasing, half relieved.
Steve smirked, giving it a spin in his hand. “Call me sentimental.” He reached back in, fishing out an old crowbar and offering it to her. “For old times’ sake?”
Jules took it with a dry laugh, the weight familiar and not at all comforting. “Some people keep yearbooks. You keep medieval weapons in your trunk.”
“Yeah, well,” Steve said, shrugging, “they come in handy.”
Dustin practically vibrated beside them, shoving them both toward the backyard. “Guys, c’mon. He’s still down there—I locked him in tight.” His voice pitched higher with every word, a blend of urgency and pride.
The three of them circled around to the cellar doors. Steve planted himself in front, bat at the ready, and shot Jules and Dustin a steady look. “Okay. Nobody freak out. Just…let me go first.”
Dustin nodded quickly, but his eyes darted to Jules like he needed her reassurance too. She gave him the smallest nod back, her grip tightening on the crowbar.
Steve threw the cellar doors open and descended the steps, the bat raised like he expected something to leap at him. Jules and Dustin hovered at the top, the damp air rolling up around them, thick and sour.
The cellar smelled damp, like soil and rot, the only light coming from the flashlight beam Dustin was angling nervously after him.
A long beat of silence. Then Steve’s voice drifted up, tight but steady.
“He’s gone.”
Jules froze halfway down the steps, heart kicking hard. “What do you mean, gone?”
“Just—just get down here,” Steve said, and there was something in his tone that made her skin prickle.
Dustin dashed past her into the cellar. Jules followed, careful on the creaking stairs. Steve was standing in the middle of the room, the beam of his flashlight fixed on something clutched between his fingers. He held it out as they reached him.
The sight made Jules’ stomach lurch. A sheet of slick, translucent skin hung limply from Steve’s bat, like something shed off a snake but wetter, rawer.
“What the hell,” she whispered.
Dustin’s eyes went wide. “He shed again,” he said, voice cracking.
Steve dropped the thing with a wet slap against the dirt floor and angled his light toward the far wall. Jules followed the beam, and her chest went tight when she saw it: a ragged hole gnawed straight through the cellar wall, earth churned up, wood splintered and chewed.
“Oh, shit,” Jules breathed.
None of them moved. The air seemed heavier now, thick with damp earth and the weight of what they were staring at. The tunnel gaped back at them, black and endless.
Steve swallowed hard, tightened his grip on the bat. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “He’s out there now.”
Jules glanced between Dustin’s pale, panicked face and the tunnel. Her gut twisted. This was so much bigger than what Dustin had shown her two nights ago—and now it was loose.
********
Steve’s light cut back to the tunnel, lingering there like he half-expected Dart to crawl back out. Dustin was breathing hard, muttering under his breath, “No, no, no, no—this isn’t how it was supposed to go.”
“Okay,” Steve said finally, his voice edged with that fake calm he used when he was trying not to freak out. “So we’ve got a giant science experiment–slash–alien–slash–whatever loose in the woods. That’s… awesome. Totally awesome.”
Dustin snapped his head toward him, eyes wild. “This isn’t funny, Steve! Dart’s out there—he’s growing, he’s changing. If he finds other animals—” His voice cracked. “—if he finds people—”
“Hey,” Jules cut in, sharp enough that both boys looked at her. Her pulse was still hammering, but she forced her voice steady. “We’re not gonna solve this tonight.” She glanced between the shed skin on the floor and the dark mouth of the tunnel. “You said you locked him in, Dusty. You did the best you could. It’s not your fault he got out.”
Dustin’s mouth twisted, guilt written all over his face. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either.
Steve blew out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what—just… call it a night? Pretend there’s not a baby Demogorgon running around out there?”
“No,” Jules said firmly. “We crash at my place tonight. All of us. Tomorrow, we come up with a real plan.”
Dustin blinked at her. “Your place?”
She nodded, already picturing Bob’s old spare room and the couches that could fit the three of them. “It’s safe. And I’m not letting either of you sit around here all night waiting for that thing to come back.”
Steve hesitated, then finally lowered the bat. “Yeah. Okay. That’s… not the worst idea.”
For the first time since stepping into the cellar, Dustin’s shoulders eased a little. He gave Jules a quick, grateful look—one she felt settle in her chest.
“Alright then,” she said, forcing a little bit of levity into her tone. “Let’s lock this up and get out of here before I lose my nerve.”
Together, they shut the cellar door and bolted it, the weight of what they’d just seen pressing on all three of them. Jules didn’t let herself look back.
*********
The drive back to Jules’ place was heavier than any of them wanted to admit. Steve kept his eyes on the road, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, the nail bat resting against the seat beside him.
In the back, Dustin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, quiet for once. Jules glanced at him in the rearview mirror. His face was tight, pale—not the usual mischievous glow he carried when things got weird.
“You okay, Dusty?” she asked softly.
He didn’t look up. “I should’ve known sooner,” he muttered. “About Dart. About what he really was.”
Jules turned in her seat a little, her chest pulling at his guilt. “You didn’t know. None of us would’ve.”
“Yeah, but I liked him,” Dustin admitted, voice catching. “He was mine. I fed him, I kept him safe. And then he—” His jaw clenched. “He killed Mews. And now he’s just… gone.”
Steve cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Kid, you couldn’t have changed what he was. That thing was never gonna stay a pet.”
Dustin swallowed hard but said nothing, staring out the window instead. Jules reached back, giving his shoulder a small squeeze. She could feel him trembling under her hand.
********
By the time they pulled into the driveway, night had fully settled in. The porch light buzzed faintly as Jules unlocked the front door and led them inside. The house was still, shadows stretching long across the walls, and for the first time all day she felt the silence pressing down.
Jules moved automatically into the kitchen, switching on the light and digging leftovers from the fridge—cold roast chicken, green beans, a pile of mashed potatoes in a glass bowl. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was food. Steve grabbed plates, Dustin forks, and soon they were seated around the small table, the hum of the refrigerator filling the gaps between them.
No one really ate at first. Dustin sat hunched, poking at his chicken, his eyes fixed on his plate but unfocused. Jules caught him chewing his lip raw, that nervous energy of his building like a kettle about to boil.
Finally, he burst out, voice tight: “He’s not gone. Dart’s not gone. He’ll come back. If I bait him, he’ll follow. He always does.”
The words hit like a stone in the quiet.
Jules set her fork down, leaning toward him. “Dustin… this isn’t some science fair project. This thing killed your cat. It’s not—” She broke off, because the memory of Dart’s eyes locking with hers that first night still made her stomach twist. “It’s not something we can just… manage.”
“I know that!” Dustin’s voice cracked, frustration flaring as he slammed his fork down. “I know what he is now. That’s why I have to do this. He trusts me enough to get close—close enough that we can end it.”
Steve leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly torn between disbelief and grim acceptance. “And where exactly are we planning this? Because I’m not volunteering to crawl back into your murder basement.”
“The junkyard,” Dustin shot back, immediate. “Wide open space, no neighbors, no one to see. And the bus is still there—we can use it as cover. We lead him to it with meat.”
Jules exhaled, rubbing her forehead. “That’s your whole plan? Throw some steaks around and hope for the best?”
“It’ll work.” Dustin’s voice had gone softer now, almost pleading. “He’ll follow the food. He always does.”
Steve blew out a breath, giving a half-laugh that wasn’t really amused. “So tomorrow we buy out the butcher’s aisle at Melvald’s, set a buffet, and wait for the thing to show? Sounds solid.”
Jules glanced between the two of them, then finally nodded, her voice steady. “If we’re doing this, we’re not half-assing it. No second chances. We bait him, we corner him, and this time—it’s over.”
The table fell quiet again, the three of them sitting in the weight of what they’d just decided. Jules picked at her food, but her mind was already a hundred miles away.
Bob.
She pushed her chair back with a scrape, heading for the phone on the wall. She dialed the Byers’ number, the rotary clicking under her fingers, pressing the receiver to her ear. One ring. Two. Three. No answer.
Her throat tightened. He’d told her to check in with him tonight, to call, just to make sure everything was fine. He’d kissed her on the head when he left, his voice light but steady: “Call me later, kiddo.”
The line kept ringing. Jules pressed her lips together, hanging up slowly.
“They’re probably out,” she told herself under her breath. “Joyce keeps him busy. It’s fine.”
But the knot in her stomach lingered, heavy and restless.
********
The house had gone still. Dustin had long since claimed the guest room, and Steve was stretched out on the couch, a blanket pulled up over his chest, snoring soft enough to be almost comforting. Jules lingered in her room with the lamp on low, her hair still damp from a late shower, textbooks and loose notes scattered across her desk but untouched.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, phone cradled in her hand. For the third time that night she dialed Joyce’s number, listening to the ring buzz hollow through the receiver. Still nothing. She chewed her lip and hung up before the machine could click on.
Bob had asked her—told her, really—to check in. He never forgot things like that. He was the type to double-back if he left his thermos on the counter, or call her mid-shift just to make sure she’d eaten something. And now here she was, sitting in the quiet, staring at a useless phone.
She tugged the quilt tighter around her shoulders and muttered, “He’s fine. You’re just being… clingy.” The word felt sour on her tongue. Bob was steady, unshakable Bob. He’d probably solved half of Will’s puzzles by now, laughing over how clever the kid was.
Still, the unease lingered like static at the back of her mind, following her even after she killed the light. She closed her eyes and told herself again—he was fine, he was always fine.
********
Jules sat at the edge of her bed, one sneaker already tied, the other tapping impatiently on the floor as the dial tone rang in her ear. For the fourth time she tried Joyce’s number. For the fourth time, no answer. The sound dropped into the machine’s empty click, and Jules pressed the receiver harder against her ear like she could force Bob’s voice to cut through.
Nothing. Just silence.
“C’mon, Bob…” she whispered. Her thumb hovered over the phone cradle like setting it down might make the worry real.
“Jules!” Dustin’s voice barreled up the stairs. “We gotta go! Now!”
She startled, nearly tangling herself in the cord as she set the receiver back down. Her chest felt tight, the unease sharper than it had been last night.
“Coming!” she called, forcing her legs into motion. She snatched her jacket, shoved her arms through, and jogged out the door.
Outside, Steve’s car idled at the curb, exhaust curling into the cool morning air. Dustin was already in the backseat, bouncing with impatience, his baseball cap turned backward.
“Finally,” he muttered as she climbed in, but the relief in his eyes undercut the words.
Jules pulled the door shut and buckled in. “After this,” she said firmly, glancing between the two of them, “I need to check on Bob. Okay? He asked me to, and I just—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “I’ll feel better once I see him.”
Steve glanced at her in the rearview, something softer than his usual smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. We’ll swing by after.”
Dustin leaned forward between the seats, voice gentler this time. “We’ll make it quick. Promise.”
But as they drove off toward the store, Jules pressed her palms against her knees, trying to ignore the hollow weight still lodged in her chest.
********
The bell over the store door jingled as they shuffled in, looking like the world’s weirdest trio. Steve grabbed a cart, spinning it once like he was already regretting his life choices.
“Okay,” he muttered, “where do you even buy… bait? For… whatever this counts as.”
“Meat aisle,” Dustin said matter-of-factly, marching ahead like a general on a mission.
By the time they hit the freezer section, Jules was already laughing under her breath. Steve started loading ground beef into the cart — one pack, then two, then ten. Dustin darted around him, grabbing hot dogs, chicken drumsticks, anything vaguely edible. Jules added a family-size pack of bologna just for the absurdity of it.
“Subtle,” she said dryly, glancing at the overflowing cart. “Totally normal Saturday shopping trip.”
Steve scowled at the mound of meat. “He’s not eating all this. We’ll freeze what’s left.”
“Yeah, ‘cause nothing says leftovers like monster bait,” Jules teased.
At checkout, the cashier scanned each package with growing disbelief. By the time she reached the third roll of ground chuck, her brow was arched so high it could’ve left orbit.
“Planning one hell of a barbecue?” she deadpanned.
Jules didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” she said brightly, jerking her thumb at Steve. “He’s trying to impress his girlfriend’s family. Big grill guy. Super traditional.”
Steve nearly dropped his wallet. “What?!”
The cashier smirked, but kept scanning. Dustin cackled so hard he knocked a pack of hot dogs onto the floor.
Steve groaned, slapped a twenty on the counter, then dug out more bills as the total climbed higher.
“Thanks, Mr. Moneybags,” Jules said sweetly, scooping up the receipt as the cashier shoved the last pack into a bag.
Steve gave her a flat look as he hauled the heavy bags into his arms. “You’re paying next time.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Jules said, grinning. “I’ll just put it on my nonexistent salary.”
Dustin beamed as he hefted his share of bags. “This is perfect. Dart won’t stand a chance.”
As they headed out to the car, Jules shook her head, still laughing. It almost felt like a normal errand run — except they were arming themselves to take down a monster.
********
Steve pulled his car off the gravel road and into a narrow opening in the trees, headlights catching on the low-hanging branches before he killed the engine. The woods swallowed them whole, damp earth and fallen leaves muffling the world outside.
They climbed out, each of them busying themselves with the gear. Buckets of raw meat sloshed as Jules set them on the ground, the sour smell of blood already seeping into the air. She crouched beside her pack, slipping in two flashlights and sliding the crowbar on top. Steve dug his nail bat from the trunk, its wood darkened with old stains, and shoved it into his bag with a grimace. He also grabbed the gasoline out the back and laid it next to the meat.
“Really gotta stop hauling this thing around,” he muttered. “One day someone’s gonna ask questions.”
Jules arched an eyebrow. “Oh, sure. Because lugging buckets of raw ground beef into the woods is totally normal.”
Steve shot her a crooked grin, but before he could answer, Dustin’s walkie crackled sharply, the static cutting into the night. He fumbled for it, thumb pressing down on the button.
“Dustin! Dustin, do you copy?!” The voice was breathless, urgent.
Dustin smirked, leaning back on his heels. “Well, well, well… look who finally decided to tune in.”
“Sorry, man—my sister turned it off.”
“While you were busy having sister problems, Dart grew again. He escaped. And now? He’s a baby demogorgon.”
The line went quiet long enough that Jules glanced between them, the hair on her arms prickling.
“…Wait. What?”
“Yeah, I’ll explain later. Meet me, Steve, and Jules at the old junkyard.”
There was a pause, then: “Steve?”
“And bring your binoculars and wrist rocket.”
“Steve Harrington?”
“Just get here. Stat. Over and out.” Dustin clicked the button with a flourish, smugness written all over his face.
Jules shook her head, muttering, “You’re impossible.”
“Effective,” Dustin corrected, stashing the walkie.
The three of them set off, buckets in hand, leaving a trail of meat along the tracks as the woods grew darker around them. Every wet plop echoed unnervingly, but Dustin kept talking, his nerves leaking out as chatter.
“I thought maybe Max would get it, you know? She’s cool, smarter than she lets on. If she saw Dart… maybe she’d understand me.”
Steve stopped dead, turning toward him with hands on his hips. “Okay, let me get this straight. You kept something you knew was dangerous—just to impress a girl you barely know?”
“That is grossly oversimplifying it,” Dustin shot back.
Jules smirked, glancing at Steve. “Sounds pretty spot on to me.”
Steve spread his arms like, thank you. “Why would some girl like a nasty slug anyway?”
“An interdimensional slug,” Dustin corrected, indignant. “Because it’s awesome.”
Steve groaned. “Even if she thought it was cool—which she didn’t—I just feel like you’re trying too hard.”
“Well, not everyone can have your perfect hair, alright?”
Jules bit her lip to hold back a laugh, but her eyes sparkled. “He’s got you there.”
Steve aimed the bucket at her like a weapon, then turned back to Dustin with a sigh. “It’s not about the hair, man. The key with girls is acting like you don’t care.”
Dustin frowned. “Even if you do?”
“Exactly. Drives them nuts.”
The conversation wound on, Steve trying to explain “storm electricity” and Dustin gamely missing every metaphor. Jules kept quiet, half amused, half baffled, watching this odd brotherly energy bloom between them. By the time Steve got to confessing about the “Farrah Fawcett spray,” Jules had to stuff her sleeve against her mouth to muffle her laugh.
“Your secret’s safe,” she teased when she caught her breath, grinning at him. “Mostly.”
Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I regret everything.”
********
The last of the raw meat hit the dirt with a wet slap. Jules dusted her palms on her jeans and surveyed the bloody trail that led right up to the rusting school bus. The smell was already thick, metallic and sour in the cool air.
“This might actually work,” she murmured.
Steve adjusted the nail bat on his shoulder, lips quirking into a crooked grin. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head, Henderson.”
Before Jules could shoot something back, a voice cut across the lot:
“I like it medium well.”
Lucas strolled out from between two piles of scrap metal, hands tucked smugly into his jacket pockets. Behind him trailed a girl Jules didn’t recognize — red hair catching the light, chin tilted like she was daring anyone to underestimate her. She moved with that careful balance of defiance and control, the kind Jules recognized instantly: someone used to proving herself.
Steve straightened, his stance shifting, and Jules folded her arms, the two of them instinctively sizing the stranger up.
“And… who’s she?” Steve asked slowly.
Lucas’ grin widened, but Dustin froze where he stood. His eyes went wide, then narrow, then back to wide again as panic tightened his face. He looked like a kid caught with both hands in the cookie jar.
Jules exchanged a glance with Steve — the kind that didn’t need words. Red hair. Attitude. The one Dustin kept dropping hints about.
Jules tilted her head toward the girl, voice deliberately casual. “So… you the one causing all the chaos with the boys lately?”
The girl’s green eyes flicked to hers, sharp but unreadable. For half a beat she didn’t answer, then smirked — small, sly. “Depends who you ask.”
Steve huffed a laugh under his breath, low and skeptical. “Yeah. Figures.”
Behind them, Dustin suddenly yanked Lucas out of sight behind a car, their muffled voices already rising — Lucas ribbing him about how “convenient” it was that he just happened to find Dart, Dustin snapping back in frantic protest.
Jules didn’t move to follow. Her eyes lingered on the girl — on Max — taking in the defiance under her easy posture, the spark that said she was more than just some tagalong. Jules couldn’t decide yet if that spark meant trouble, or if it meant she was about to prove herself useful.
Dustin and Lucas’s voices carried across the junkyard, sharp and overlapping as they picked apart each other’s choices.
“…you weren’t even supposed to tell her—”
“Yeah, and it’s real convenient you just ‘found’ Dart—”
“Because I did find him, genius—”
Steve groaned and finally snapped, dropping the gas can with a thud. “Alright, that’s enough! Meeting’s adjourned. We lose light in forty minutes, so get your asses over here and help before we’re all monster chow.”
The boys fell silent for half a beat, trading glares, then trudged toward the bus.
Jules smirked faintly as Steve passed her the gas can again. “Effective.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not about to die because Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum want to argue over custody of a slug.” He bent, splashing a dark trail of gasoline from the pile of meat toward the bus. “Now come on, let’s make this place look less like a rust bucket and more like a fortress.”
That broke them into motion.
Steve hefted the ladder with a grunt, angling it through the bus door. “Move, move,” he muttered, muscling it down the narrow aisle. He wedged it under the hatch, testing the balance before giving one solid shake.
“There,” he said, straightening and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Quick way up if we need it.”
Jules glanced at the ladder, then at the bat sticking out of Steve’s backpack. “You planning on roof duty?”
“Planning on options,” Steve said, tapping the rung. “We get cornered in here, that hatch is our best shot.”
Jules and Max dragged more warped panels across the dirt, leaning them against the bus windows. Steve followed behind, hammering the edges in with a rusted wrench to make sure they stayed put. They left narrow slits at the top of each window — just wide enough to peer through, not enough for anything else to force its way in.
“Little murder bus,” Jules muttered under her breath, adjusting a crooked plank.
“Better than a coffin,” Steve replied, swinging the nail bat up to his shoulder.
Dustin and Lucas came huffing back with a stack of bald tires, the rubber leaving black streaks on their shirts. With grunts and swears, they rolled them up the ladder and onto the roof, stacking them in messy rows along the edges. The tires formed rough barriers, places to duck behind if anything made it up top.
“Nice,” Steve said, nodding at their work. “That’s cover. Good thinking.”
Lucas brushed his palms on his jeans. “We should get them higher on that side. Otherwise, it’s a blind spot.”
Max climbed onto the bus bumper and peeked through a slit in the metal. “You can see all the way down the lot,” she reported. “If they come, we’ll know it.”
“Big if,” Steve muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Jules slung her crowbar into her pack and leaned against the bus, watching the last of the meat steam in the cooling air, gasoline snaking in a gleaming trail toward the wheels. The sun was slipping lower, stretching the shadows long across the junkyard.
“Guess this is as ready as we’ll ever be,” she said.
Steve exhaled slowly, bat resting against his shoulder. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Now we wait.”
Notes:
No Eddie for a few chapters but he'll be back you guys, I promise. Scouts honor!
Chapter 20: The Spark And The Shatter
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The bus smelled faintly of gasoline, rubber, and rust. Inside, the air felt heavier, like it was already bracing for something ugly. Lucas had climbed up through the ladder hatch to the roof, binoculars pressed to his face as he scanned the tree line. From below, Jules could hear the occasional scrape of a tire shifting under his weight.
Down inside, the rest of them had claimed their corners. Dustin paced the narrow aisle, sneakers squeaking against the metal floor, his voice bubbling with restless energy. Steve sat slouched in a seat by the window, nail bat leaning against his leg, flicking his lighter open and shut in a steady rhythm—click, fffsh, snap. Jules sat across from him with the crowbar balanced in her lap, her thumb tracing over the cool iron ridge while her eyes flicked between the others.
“So you’ve fought one of these things before?” Max finally asked, hugging her knees to her chest. She glanced between Steve and Jules, suspicion edging her voice. “Are you sure it wasn’t just a bear or something?”
“It wasn’t a bear,” Dustin snapped, spinning around so fast he nearly tripped. His voice cracked with frustration. “Don’t be stupid. Why are you even here if you don’t believe us? Just go home.”
Max’s eyes narrowed, taken aback. “Geez. Someone’s cranky. Is it past your bedtime?” Without waiting for a response, she pushed herself up and climbed the ladder, disappearing onto the roof where Lucas sat with the binoculars.
Steve leaned back in his seat, continuing to flick his lighter open and shut. “Good job, Dustin. Show her you don’t care.”
“I don’t,” Dustin shot back, arms folding tight across his chest.
Steve smirked and gave him an exaggerated wink.
“Why are you winking? Stop winking at me!” Dustin barked.
Jules snorted from her seat, the crowbar balanced across her lap. “Smooth, Dustbin. Really nailed that whole ‘cool and unbothered’ vibe.”
Steve chuckled, flicking the lighter closed again. Dustin’s ears went pink, but he muttered something under his breath and kept pacing.
Above them, the faint scuffle of Max settling in next to Lucas broke the silence, and Jules couldn’t shake the sense that the waiting was about to get a lot harder.
“You’re wearing a hole in the floor,” Jules said to Dustin, voice dry.
He stopped pacing long enough to shoot her a look. “Sorry, I don’t know how you’re all so calm. We’re basically bait waiting to be eaten.”
Steve smirked. “That’s why we’ve got the meat out there, genius. To keep the main course—” he gestured at Dustin with a lazy wave “—off the menu.”
“Funny,” Dustin muttered, resuming his pacing.
Jules tilted her head toward Max and Lucas on the roof. “For the record, I think babysitting three twitchy kids should come with hazard pay.”
“Four,” Steve corrected, pointing at himself with mock indignation.
Jules rolled her eyes. “You’re the biggest one of all, Harrington.”
Steve let out a low laugh, but Dustin just groaned. “Why am I even here with you two?”
“Because you dragged us into this,” Jules shot back. “You and your pet slug.”
That earned her a glare, but before Dustin could fire something back, a loud roar split the air—freezing his tongue.
Not distant, not muffled—close. Deep and guttural, rolling through the junkyard and rattling the thin metal walls of the bus. Max’s voice carried down from the roof, sharp and startled. “What was that?”
Above them, Lucas’ voice cut sharp through the hatch. “Ten o’clock! Dart’s at ten o’clock!”
Steve shot up, nail bat in hand, lighter snapping shut with a sharp click.
Jules pushed to her feet, knuckles white around her crowbar. She flicked a glance at Dustin, whose wide eyes mirrored the same sick dread crawling down her spine.
Steve’s brow furrowed. “He’s not taking the bait. Why isn’t he taking the bait?”
“Maybe he’s not hungry?” Jules offered; her voice tight.
“Or maybe he’s sick of cow.”
Her stomach dropped as she caught the look in his eyes, the one that said he’d already made his decision. “No. Absolutely not. Are you crazy?” She scrambled up, hand clamping on his arm.
Steve only gave her a quick, almost gentle smile—the kind meant to settle nerves even though it didn’t settle hers. He pressed the lighter into her palm. “Just get ready.”
“Steve—please,” Jules whispered. If he died out there, it’d be her fault. She knew it, felt it in her chest like fire, but her hand still slipped from his sleeve.
He stepped toward the front of the bus. Jules’ heart clawed against her ribs as he pulled the door open and slipped out, the fog curling around him like it had been waiting. She slammed the doors shut behind him, pressing her forehead to the glass for half a second before she forced herself back.
Outside, Steve cradled the bat tight, shoulders squared. He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead with the fog spilling into the yard, but Dart’s wet chitter echoed from somewhere close. Steve pursed his lips and whistled.
“Come on, buddy,” he called, voice carrying bravado it didn’t quite feel. “Come out and play.”
Max dropped down the ladder hatch into the aisle, eyes wide. “What’s he doing?”
“Expanding the menu,” Dustin muttered, knuckles white around the lighter Jules had pressed into his hands.
Steve’s whistle cut through the fog again. He swung the bat once, a hard, testing crack against a car door. “Come on, dinner time. Human tastes better than cat, I promise.”
Max stared, horrified. “He’s insane.”
Dustin’s eyes gleamed. “He’s awesome.”
Through the fog, Dart’s warped silhouette moved closer, head tilting unnaturally as he stalked toward the sound. Then Lucas’ shout rang out from the roof, urgent and panicked. “Steve! Three o’clock! More of them!”
“Shit,” Jules hissed, slamming her palm against the glass. She shoved the door halfway open and screamed, “Get your ass back here right now, Harrington!”
Steve glanced back toward the bus just in time to dive sideways, rolling across the hood of a rusted car as Dart lunged. Another demodog burst from the mist, and Steve swung, the bat crunching across its face. He spun, batting another away from his leg, before bolting toward the bus in a desperate sprint.
“Go, go, go!” Dustin was shrieking, voice cracking. Jules had already shoved the door open wider, her pulse thrumming, that dangerous heat flaring under her skin. One of the demodogs leapt for Steve’s back—and Jules’ whole body jolted with panic. The air rippled around the creature like heat shimmer on pavement, knocking it sideways in a concussive blast.
Jules gasped, yanking her sleeve down over the faint glow at her wrist, heart hammering. The shimmer snapped out just as Steve barreled back through the door.
“Push!” Jules barked, forcing herself into motion, grabbing the wood plank and bracing it against the door with him as a demodog crashed against the outside, her chest still burning with the ghost of what she’d done.
The bus rocked under the impact, snarls and claws raking against the metal.
Max’s voice rose shrill behind them. “Are they rabid or something?!”
“They can’t get in!” Lucas shouted, though his voice shook. “They can’t—”
A set of claws punched through the door window, teeth snapping through the gap. Jules swung her crowbar over and over until blood slicked the iron and the creature recoiled with a howl.
“Shit, shit—give me the radio!” Dustin fumbled for his walkie, his voice breaking as he called into it. “We’re in the junkyard! We need help now! Do you copy?! We are going to die!!”
The pounding didn’t stop. Then—silence.
The five of them froze.
Something heavy landed on the roof above them. The scrape of claws, slow and deliberate, crept toward the open hatch. Jules could hear every breath, every guttural rasp of the creature above
Max’s eyes widened as the demodog’s head appeared in the hatch, jaws opening wide to reveal rows of gleaming teeth.
“Back away!” Steve barked, sprinting from the doors with his bat raised.
Jules kept hammering at the door, though the hum in her chest begged to break free again. Steve drew his bat back for the swing—
—and then, just as suddenly as they came, the creatures froze. Something deeper roared from the trees, a sound that rattled the bus all the way down to its bolts.
The demodog at the hatch snapped its jaws shut, eyes flicking toward the woods. One by one, they turned, slinking away into the fog.
Silence.
The bus creaked in the stillness. No one spoke. Their ragged breathing filled the hollow space, and Jules pressed her crowbar against her knee so hard it left a dent in the metal.
The silence stretched long enough for every creak of the bus to feel deafening. Jules’ knuckles were sore from gripping her crowbar, but she didn’t notice until her arms trembled from the strain.
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement—Max and Lucas, shoulders pressed close, their hands tangled together on the seat between them. When Jules’ gaze lingered, both kids seemed to realize at the same time. Their hands snapped apart, cheeks coloring as they stared very hard at opposite windows.
Jules swallowed, dragging her eyes away. The fog outside hung still, smothering. Finally, she eased the crowbar against the door latch. “Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone. Slowly, she pushed it open an inch.
Steve was right behind her, bat at the ready. “On three,” he murmured, voice taut.
She nodded. Together, they pushed the door wider, the hinges groaning, and stepped out into the open air. Jules kept low, crowbar raised, her eyes darting between the shadows. The junkyard felt even bigger now, the fog thick with a silence that pressed on her ears.
Max’s voice carried faintly from the bus doorway. “What… what happened?”
Lucas shook his head, lowering the binoculars that had hung forgotten around his neck. “I don’t know.”
“They just… left,” Max breathed.
Dustin’s voice was hushed, almost reverent. “Steve scared them off.”
Steve shook his head instantly, scanning the dark. “No. No way. They didn’t run from me. They’re going somewhere.”
That dread twisted in Jules’ gut again, but this time, fear burned itself into something sharper. Her crowbar clanged against the bus as she swung around on Steve, shoving his shoulder hard enough to jolt him back a step.
“What the hell was that?!” Her voice cracked, raw from adrenaline. “You just—just waltz out there like some kind of action hero, while four of those things are circling, and what? You think you’re invincible?”
Steve blinked, taken aback. “I had to—”
“No! Don’t you dare.” She jabbed the crowbar toward him, tears burning the edges of her eyes she refused to let fall. “You could’ve been torn apart, Steve. And I had to stand here and watch it. Do you have any idea how—how scared I was?”
The weight of her words seemed to hang between them. Jules finally let the crowbar drop to her side, her voice dropping lower, shakier. “Don’t ever do that shit again. Not like that. Not when they need you.” She nodded sharply toward the kids still crowded in the bus doorway.
Steve’s mouth pressed into a line. For a moment, he didn’t argue, just let the rebuke settle like it belonged. He finally muttered, “Alright. Point taken.”
The fog held still, pressing down like a lid. Jules’ chest still burned from shouting, her crowbar trembling faintly at her side. Steve hadn’t pushed back—he just stood there, jaw set, eyes narrowed toward the trees like the silence itself was a clue.
“They’re not gone,” he muttered. “Not really. They’re going somewhere.”
Dustin scrambled down the bus steps, walkie still clutched in his hand. His face was pale, sweaty. “And what, you wanna follow them? Are you out of your damn mind? We barely survived the last five minutes!”
Max dropped down behind him, brushing rust off her jeans. “Yeah, no thanks. I like being alive. Call the cavalry or something.”
“There is no cavalry,” Steve shot back, sharper than he meant. “It’s just us.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Dustin snapped, his voice cracking. “We’re kids, Steve! And Jules isn’t even—” he cut himself off, but the words hung there anyway.
Jules lifted her chin, her voice flat. “Not even what? Capable?” Her green eyes burned into him, and for a half-second the air around her seemed to hum, like the faint static before a storm. Dustin flushed and mumbled an excuse, staring at the ground.
Lucas finally climbed down from the bus. “Look, I don’t like it either. But Steve’s right. They weren’t running scared. They were answering to something.” His voice wavered. “If we don’t know where… then we’re blind.”
Max scoffed. “Blind is better than dead.”
Jules’ knuckles whitened on the crowbar. She could feel that strange warmth still pulsing under her skin, faint threads of energy shivering along her arms like it wanted out. She exhaled hard through her nose, forcing it down.
“Fine,” she said at last, voice edged with steel. “Then Steve and I go. The rest of you stay here where it’s safe.”
“No way,” Dustin barked, shaking his head so hard his curls bounced. “I’m not sitting around while you guys get torn apart.”
“Me neither,” Lucas added quickly, glancing at Max. She crossed her arms but didn’t disagree.
Jules frowned, looking from one determined kid to the next. Stubborn, every single one of them. She pinched the bridge of her nose, groaning.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, then shifted the crowbar in her grip. “Alright. But if any of you so much as trip on a twig, I’m dragging us all back here.”
Steve glanced at her, not surprised. Almost like he’d been counting on her to back him up.
Dustin threw his hands up. “Oh, perfect. Great idea. Let’s just march after a pack of demodogs like we’re on safari. Nothing could possibly go wrong.”
“Dustbin,” Jules said, softer now, though her wrist still tingled with heat, “you’re the one who brought Dart into this. This is on us whether we like it or not.”
Dustin winced but didn’t argue. He just clutched his Walkie tighter, glaring at the dirt.
The fog stirred again, carrying another guttural roar—fainter, further away.
Steve slung the bat over his shoulder. “That’s our trail.”
Max crossed her arms. “You guys are insane.”
Lucas glanced at her, then back toward the woods. “Maybe. But if we don’t figure this out, we won’t get another chance.”
For a beat, no one moved. Then Jules sighed, her shoulders dropping as she gave in. “Alright. But you’re sticking to me like glue. No wandering off.”
Steve’s smirk flickered, thin and humorless. He gave a short nod and stepped forward, leading them into the trees.
Behind him, Jules flexed her fingers once, as if shaking the last of that restless energy out of her bones.
********
Their flashlights cut narrow paths through the trees, the beams bouncing with every uneven step. Damp leaves crunched underfoot, and the air felt tight, charged, like even the woods were holding its breath.
“You’re sure that was Dart?” Lucas asked, slowing just enough to glance at Dustin.
“Yeah, I’m positive,” Dustin said, voice sharp with certainty. “He’s got the same yellow mark on his butt.”
Max wrinkled her nose. “He was tiny two days ago.”
“He’s molted three times already,” Dustin explained quickly.
“Malted,” Steve muttered.
“Molted,” Dustin corrected, gesturing with both hands. “Like hornworms. He sheds his skin to make room for growth.”
Max frowned. “When’s he gonna molt again?”
“Soon,” Dustin said grimly. “And when he does, he’ll be fully grown. Or close to it. And so will his friends.”
Steve snorted. “Yeah, and he’s gonna eat a lot more than just cats.”
Lucas whipped around, blocking the path. “Wait—cat?! Dart ate a cat?!”
Dustin sputtered. “No! What? No!”
Steve frowned, unbothered. “What are you talking about? He ate Mews.”
Max blinked. “Mews? Who’s Mews?”
“It’s Dustin’s cat,” Steve said.
“Steve!” Dustin groaned, face red.
Lucas’ eyes widened. “I knew it! You kept him!”
Dustin threw his hands up. “No—I, he missed me and he wanted to come home!”
“Bullshit,” Lucas snapped.
“I didn’t know he was a demogorgon, okay?!” Dustin shot back.
“Oh, so now you admit it!”
The argument kept rising, voices bouncing off the trees.
Jules felt it before she realized it—the low hum under her ribs, a prickle in her wrist like her body was reacting to the tension. She clenched her fist until the faint spark fizzled and forced herself to steady. Not now. Not here.
“Guys—” she tried once, sharp but ignored.
“I care!” Lucas barked. “You put the party in jeopardy. You broke the rule of law.”
“Oh, please,” Dustin fired back. “So did you!”
“ENOUGH!” Jules’ shout cracked through the trees like a whip. They all flinched, flashlights jerking toward her. She stood rigid, crowbar angled low, her face hard. “You wanna rip each other apart, do it later. Right now, we’ve got bigger problems.”
The buzzing in her chest was sharper now, insistent. Jules turned her head, listening.
“Listen.”
The group fell quiet.
That was when they all heard it—low, guttural screeching, carried on the wind.
Jules froze, pulse spiking. That hum in her chest sharpened like a compass needle locking north.
Steve’s head snapped up, scanning the treeline. “You hear that?” His jaw tightened. “That’s… that’s not good.”
They pushed forward until the woods broke into a clearing. Below them, Hawkins Lab sprawled in shadow. Every light—floodlamps, windows, security beams—was dark.
Steve lowered the binoculars from Lucas’ hands, squinting. “That’s not right. The whole place is out.”
But Jules already knew. Her gut burned with certainty. Her beam cut toward the silhouette, voice steady and sure: “That’s where they’re going.”
And before anyone could stop her, she broke into a run, flashlight beam cutting ahead like a blade.
“Jules!” Steve barked, sprinting after her.
“Slow down!” Dustin wheezed, nearly tripping as he scrambled to keep pace.
Lucas cursed under his breath and charged after them, Max on his heels. “Are you kidding me? We’re running straight toward the noises?”
But Jules didn’t slow. The certainty pulled her like a hook buried deep in her ribs, dragging her faster through the dark. She didn’t tell the others what she felt—what she knew. Something was seriously wrong.
*******
Gravel spit under their shoes as they skidded to a stop at the lab’s outer fence. Hawkins Lab rose like a black monolith in the dark, every window blank, every floodlight dead. Not a glimmer inside.
Jonathan’s car sat half on the grass; headlights dimmed. He and Nancy were already at the gate, hands braced on the metal, arguing in hushed but frantic tones. They spun at the sound of the kids rushing up.
“Nancy?” Steve barked. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”
“We were looking for Will,” Nancy said, breathless. Her eyes flicked from Steve to Lucas, then Jules, Dustin and Max—lingering in confusion on the unfamiliar redhead. “He and Mike weren’t at the Byers’. We thought maybe—” She cut herself off, gaze snapping back to the lifeless lab. “—we thought they might be here.”
The words punched Jules harder than she expected. Will. Mike. Missing. The lab. It all funneled into one sick certainty, the kind that grabbed her gut and twisted: if they were in there, then Bob was too.
Jules started pacing tight circles near the gate, boots crunching over gravel. The longer they stood there, the sharper the hum under her skin grew, until it burned hot in her veins. A faint shimmer pulsed beneath her wrist. She yanked her sleeve down, clenching her fists until her nails dug deep.
Steve noticed. His brow furrowed. “Hey. You good?”
“I’m fine,” Jules snapped, too fast, before forcing herself into another lap. Stillness was worse—it left too much room for panic.
Dustin ducked into the booth by the gate, slamming the button again and again. Each clack echoed in the dead air. “Come on, come on…”
Nothing.
Max leaned against the car; arms crossed. Lucas shifted uneasily. “So, what now? We can’t just stand here.”
Nancy shook her head, jaw tight. “Jonathan already tried ramming it with the car. Nothing.”
Jonathan slammed his palm against the steering wheel, jaw set. “Power’s dead. Unless we find another way in—”
“Another way?” Jules muttered under her breath; her voice tight with rising panic. Every extra second chewed at her nerves.
“Hey, I got this,” Dustin said quickly, slamming the button again. “I’ll get it—just—”
The silence stretched, heavy, until Jules thought she’d choke on it. Her chest buzzed like a live wire, sparking against her ribs. She pressed her palms hard against her knees, willing it to stop.
And then—suddenly—the floodlights blazed to life. One by one, lamps flared around the compound, washing the gate in harsh white. The whine of generators rumbled faintly beneath the ground.
“Power’s back,” Steve breathed.
Dustin let out a triumphant whoop, slamming the button again. This time, the gate groaned, gears whining as it dragged itself open. “Ha! Told you I could do it!”
No one cheered.
Jules turned to Steve, eyes fierce and wet around the edges. “Watch them. Please. Don’t let them do anything stupid.”
“Jules—”
“Promise me, Steve.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Promise.”
She didn’t hesitate. She yanked open Jonathan’s back door and slid in. “You’re going in,” she told him, voice shaking but steady. “So am I.”
Nancy started to protest. “Jules—”
“I’m not sitting out here while people I love are trapped in there.”
The door slammed shut. Jonathan cursed under his breath but threw the car into drive. Gravel spit from the tires as the vehicle shot forward, headlights cutting a path straight into the belly of the dark building.
Steve stayed rooted at the gate, bat gripped white-knuckle. Max, Lucas, and Dustin clustered close, pale faces washed in the floodlights.
“Alright,” Steve muttered. “Babysitting time.”
********
Inside the car, Jules pressed her palms hard against her knees, but the harder she pushed, the more they trembled. Her chest thrummed, buzzing sharp with every foot they closed in.
Bob’s voice floated up unbidden—gentle, goofy, the way he always tried to soften a room. “C’mon, Jules, not everything’s the end of the world. Just take a breath. One thing at a time.”
But this wasn’t a crossword puzzle. This wasn’t a busted radio. These were monsters. Blood. Teeth. A war Bob had no business being in. He was a pacifist to his bones—the kind of man who’d pull over to rescue a turtle off the road, who laughed too easily, who never raised his voice.
Her throat closed tight. He wasn’t built for this.
The crowbar across her lap vibrated faintly. When her hand shifted, she jerked at the heat pulsing against her palm. It wasn’t glowing, not yet—but it was warming unnaturally, like it had been sitting in the sun too long. She curled her fingers around the handle anyway, gripping like she could keep herself from unraveling.
“Hang on, Bob,” she whispered, voice breaking under the roar of the engine.
Jonathan didn’t look over—his knuckles were white on the wheel—but Nancy caught her, just for a second. That flash of wild fear in Jules’ eyes, the kind that told her there was no talking her out of this.
The lab loomed closer. Black windows. Dead silence.
And in her chest, a truth Jules couldn’t outrun:
Bob was in there.
And she wasn’t leaving without him.
*******
Jonathan’s car screeched to a halt at the front steps. Jules was out before the wheels stopped rolling, boots hitting pavement hard. Her flashlight beam cut across the cracked lot—then froze.
Mike was crouched on the ground, pale and frantic, holding an unconscious Will in his arms. Jonathan and Nancy bolted to them, voices low and urgent as they lifted the boy between them. Hopper stood sentry at the doors, assault rifle raised, jaw set.
Jules sprinted for Hopper, chest heaving. “Where’s Bob?!”
Hopper’s face pinched. “Inside.”
That one word nearly dropped her. “Where?”
He hesitated, then lifted the walkie clipped to his vest. Jules didn’t wait for Hopper’s answer and swiped the walkie. The hum under her skin was a live wire now, every nerve screaming at her to move. Jules shoved past Hopper’s arm before he could stop her.
“Jules—dammit!” he barked, but she didn’t slow. The hum under her skin had built into a roar, and standing still felt like drowning. She shouldered through the front doors and into the lobby.
Joyce was there, pacing like a trapped animal, hands twisting together. She froze when she saw Jules, eyes wide and shining with fear. Neither spoke.
The walkie hissed, static crackling until a man’s urgent voice cut through.
“Okay—now take a right. Keep going, keep going, keep going… stop!”
Bob’s reply came in a panicked rush. “What?!”
Jules’ chest seized at the sound. She staggered closer to Joyce, as though proximity alone could steady her.
“There’s a door to your left, do you see it?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a closet. Get in it.”
“What?”
“Now! Right now, get in the closet!”
The radio picked up the muffled slam of a door. Joyce flinched, pressing her fist to her mouth. Jules swallowed hard, nails digging crescents into her palm as her wrist pulsed hot under her sleeve.
“Okay. How you holding up in there? You alright?”
“Y-yeah. Yeah.”
Jules squeezed her eyes shut. She could picture him—sweating, trying to put on that smile he always used when he didn’t want her to worry.
“You’ve got a clear shot to the front door.”
“Okay.”
“You can do this, alright? You’re almost home free, Bob” The sound of something clattering to floor split the silence, then, “Run!!”
The walkie exploded with the sound of feet pounding down stairs—loud, frantic, desperate. Jules pressed both hands over her mouth to keep the sound in her throat from breaking out.
And then, layered beneath Bob’s ragged breaths, came the sound she’d dreaded: a deep, guttural snarl that rattled through the static like claws on metal.
Joyce’s eyes shot to hers. They didn’t need words.
“Come on, Bob,” Jules whispered, her voice cracking. “Please, please…”
The walkie snapped again, Bob’s gasps colliding with the heavy scrape of something monstrous close behind. Jules’ grip on her crowbar pulsed with unnatural heat, her whole body vibrating like it might shatter from holding it in.
The heavy steel doors to Hawkins Lab shuddered as something slammed against them from the inside. A split second later they burst open, and Bob came barreling through, his face pale, chest heaving. Behind him, claws scraped metal and a guttural snarl echoed, but he threw his full weight into the doors and managed to slam them shut. The thud rattled the walls. Silence fell—unnatural, brittle.
“Bob!” Jules’ voice cracked before she even realized she’d moved. She sprinted across the foyer and collided into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle. Relief punched the air from her lungs as hard as panic had minutes before.
“Hey, hey—Julesy,” Bob gasped, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head, grounding her. He hadn’t used that nickname since she was kid having nightmares. “I’m here. I’m okay.”
“You didn’t answer the phone,” she blurted into his shirt, voice muffled but fierce. “We didn’t know where you were, I thought—” She broke off, the words catching in her throat, the images that had haunted her since the gate refusing to let go. “Don’t do that to me again, okay? You don’t get to just disappear.”
Bob pulled back just enough to look at her, his smile soft even through the sweat beading on his brow. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… had to finish the job. Get everyone safe.”
Jules’ throat burned. She wanted to be angry—she was angry—but the sheer relief of him standing there alive made it impossible to hold onto the sharp edges. She pressed her forehead against his chest for one more second, just breathing him in.
Off to the side, Joyce stood frozen in the entryway, tears already spilling down her cheeks. She didn’t step forward, not yet—she let them have this moment, a small smile trembling on her lips at the sight of Bob holding Jules like he always should have.
But as Jules clung to him, something unsettled twisted in her gut. A low hum sparked under her skin, the same warning buzz she’d been fighting since the junkyard. Her body knew before her mind did: the danger wasn’t over.
Bob stiffened at the same time, his head turning slightly, eyes flicking past Jules toward the shadowed hallway beyond. His hand tensed on her shoulder.
And then it happened.
The hallway erupted with a roar, guttural and wet, as a Demodog lunged from the shadows. Time slowed, stretching the moment into something jagged and unbearable.
Bob’s eyes widened, the color draining from his face. In the same heartbeat, he shoved Jules hard to the side.
“Bob!”
The creature collided with him mid-turn, claws raking across his torso. The sound—wet and tearing—snapped through the room. Jules skidded across the tile, pain sparking through her knees as she whipped her head up.
“NO!” Her scream tore from her chest, raw and breaking.
The Demodog slammed Bob against the wall, teeth bared, claws sinking deeper into his side. Blood spread fast across his shirt, the crimson soaking through in thick waves. Bob gasped, choking, but his eyes—his eyes were locked on Jules.
“Run!” he rasped, voice strangled, blood bubbling at his lips. “Jules—run!”
Joyce shrieked, rushing forward trying to grab Jules, but Jules tore free of her grip, lunging toward Bob with blind desperation. Her whole body shook, her hands clawing at the floor as if sheer will could drag her faster.
Behind them, Hopper barreled into the entryway, rifle raised. “Get down!” His gunfire cracked thunderous in the confined space, bullets sparking against tile as they hammered into the creature. The Demodog shrieked, thrashing but not letting go.
Jules’ powers surged in response, the hum in her veins screaming hot. Her chest heaved as tears blurred her vision.
“GET OFF MY DAD!”
The words ripped out of her with a force that was more than human. Energy detonated from her like a shockwave, a blinding concussive blast. The Demodog latched onto Bob disintegrated in a flash of violent light, its body collapsing into dust and ash. The others, clawing at the doorway, screeched in unison before bolting back into the dark, the echo of their retreat filling the halls.
Silence.
Smoke.
Bob collapsed against the wall, sliding down, blood smearing across the tile.
Jules’ breath came in broken sobs, her body trembling from the energy she’d unleashed. Her powers still flickered faintly around her, a ghostly shimmer pulsing through the air.
She scrambled to him, dropping to her knees, arms wrapping desperately around his shoulders.
“Dad—Dad, no, no, no—please, don’t do this, don’t you dare do this to me!”
Bob’s eyes fluttered, his chest rattling with every breath. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth as he tried to smile.
And the world around Jules collapsed into nothing but him.
Jules cradled Bob’s head in her lap, blood slicking her palms no matter how tightly she pressed them to his chest. Her hands shook violently, the metallic scent filling her nose until she thought she’d choke on it.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” she sobbed, the words cracking as they tumbled out. “Not you, Bob. Not you. You’re all I’ve got. Please—please don’t leave me.”
His lashes fluttered weakly. The corners of his mouth twitched into the faintest smile, smeared red with blood.
“You… called me Dad.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it landed like a sledgehammer in her chest. His hand, trembling and cold, fumbled for hers. “I’m so proud of you, Julesy. You hear me? So proud. You… you take care of Dustin, okay? Take care of him for me.”
Her throat closed up. The world blurred with tears. She shook her head hard, pressing her forehead against his. “No. No, don’t you say that. You’re not done. You don’t get to be done.”
Bob coughed, his body convulsing weakly, before his chest rattled again. His eyes fluttered shut.
“NO!” Jules’ scream ripped through the building, raw and furious. “No—you don’t get to leave me too!”
The hum in her veins roared to life, more violent than ever. It clawed through her chest, hot and unrelenting. She clutched at him, shaking, and in her desperation, she reached for it—every ounce of power thrumming in her blood.
The air warped around them, an invisible pressure radiating outward. Dust rose in spirals from the floor. The crowbar at her side glowed faintly, vibrating against the tile.
“Please—please—” She pressed her hands harder to Bob’s chest, her voice breaking. “If I can heal me—I can heal you. Just—just come back, Dad. Please.”
She didn’t notice the life around her draining. Grass and weeds outside the shattered windows shriveled black, brittle in seconds. A small decorative plant in the lobby withered to dust. The world itself seemed to recoil as she pulled it in—life force, energy, anything she could steal.
Joyce stared in horror, hands clamped over her mouth as tears streamed freely. Hopper stood frozen, rifle limp at his side, eyes locked on the impossible sight before him.
Jules poured it all into Bob. Her body shook with the effort, light flaring faintly under her skin, her breath ragged and uneven. She was burning herself hollow just to keep him tethered.
The wounds across Bob’s chest began to knit. Blood slowed. Color crept faintly back into his skin.
But he didn’t stir. Didn’t open his eyes. His chest rose and fell shallowly, faint as a whisper—alive, but his spark dim, almost silent.
“Wake up!” Jules cried, shaking him, her tears falling onto his shirt. “You’re okay, you’re okay now—wake up, please, wake up!”
Hopper dropped to one knee, pushing Jules’ trembling hands aside just long enough to press his thick fingers against Bob’s neck. He leaned in, waiting, his ear close to Bob’s mouth. A long, tense moment stretched. Finally, Hopper shook his head, jaw tight.
“There’s nothing,” he said, gravel in his voice. “Kid… he’s gone.”
“He’s not!” Jules shot back instantly, wild and desperate, eyes locked on Bob’s still face. “Look at him—he’s still breathing, I can see it!”
Hopper’s eyes hardened, voice rising. “There’s no pulse. Do you understand me? He’s gone. We have to go—now.”
But Jules shook her head furiously, clutching Bob’s chest tighter, convinced. “No—you’re wrong. He’s still here. I know he is.”
Silence pressed in, heavy and merciless.
Joyce finally tore forward, grabbing Jules’ shoulders, her own sobs breaking free. “Honey—we have to go. We can’t stay here!”
Jules wrenched against her grip, screaming. “I’m not leaving him! I’m not leaving him!”
Hopper’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like stone. He pulled Jules back by the arms as gently as his strength allowed. “Jules. He’s gone. We’ll keep him safe; I promise—but right now, we have to move.”
She fought like an animal, kicking, clawing, her voice shredded raw. “No! No, he’s not gone! He’s not! Let me go!”
Hopper dragged Bob’s limp form into a nearby room, laying him down carefully before locking the door. When he turned back, his face was pale, shaken, but grim with resolve.
Joyce held Jules as she broke apart in her arms, sobbing until she couldn’t breathe. Hopper finally scooped her up despite her thrashing, carrying her bodily toward the exit.
As the truck roared to life and sped into the night, Jules’ cries echoed into the dark, every word sharp with grief.
She had saved him.
But she hadn’t brought him back.
********
The engine roared as Hopper slammed the truck into gear, tires spitting gravel. Hopper’s grip on the wheel was iron, jaw locked, but his eyes kept sliding toward the back seat. Joyce had Jules pulled against her chest, rocking her like she was a little kid again.
Jules was shaking so hard Joyce could barely keep hold of her. Her sobs came ragged and broken, words spilling between them in gasps.
“He’s not gone… he’s still alive… he’s still alive…”
Joyce’s tears soaked into Jules’ hair as she whispered, “I know, sweetheart, I know.”
The truck ground to a halt at the gate, and Steve was already there with the kids, waving them in. Their faces were pale, shadows stretched long in the floodlights.
As Hopper pulled forward, Dustin yanked open the back door before anyone else. His eyes darted past Joyce to Jules—her face streaked with tears, her hands trembling like she couldn’t hold herself together.
“Where’s Bob?” Dustin’s voice cracked in the middle. He looked from Joyce to Hopper, desperate. “He’s—he’s coming, right? He was with you, right?”
The silence that answered him was worse than a gunshot.
Jules’ sobs surged, and she reached a hand out for Dustin without even looking. He scrambled forward, climbing halfway over the seat until he was pressed against her side. She clutched him like a lifeline, burying her face in his curls.
“I’m sorry,” Hopper said, gravel thick in his voice. “He didn’t make it.”
Dustin’s breath hitched so hard it turned into a sob. “No, no—don’t say that! He—he’s Bob, he’s—he wouldn’t—” His voice collapsed into Jules’ shoulder as he cried, muffled.
Jules held him tighter, rocking them both, her own voice spilling in hoarse gasps. “He’s alive, Dusty, he has to be—he’s still alive.”
The others climbed in quietly, faces stricken. Max had a hand pressed over her mouth; Lucas’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Steve slid into the passenger seat, his bat still gripped in white knuckles, staring out the windshield because he couldn’t bear to look back.
The truck rolled forward again, but inside it was all grief: Jules rocking Dustin, Joyce’s arms circling both of them, Hopper’s silence at the wheel.
And through the sobs, Jules kept repeating the same broken promise—like if she said it enough, the world might listen:
“He’s not gone. He can’t be gone. He’s still alive.”
Notes:
I'm not crying, you're crying.
Chapter 21: All The Things Unsaid
Chapter Text
The truck’s engine growled as it ate up the empty roads, headlights cutting a harsh path through the dark. No one spoke. Only the sound of Jules’ broken murmurs—“he’s still alive, he’s still alive”—filled the silence, her words collapsing in on themselves like a mantra.
Hopper’s grip tightened on the wheel. In the rearview, he saw her clutching Dustin so tightly the kid’s curls were crushed against her tear-streaked face. Joyce’s arms wrapped around both of them, rocking, whispering nonsense comfort she didn’t believe herself.
For a fleeting second, Hopper thought of Sara. Of the way he’d held her too tight at the end, like maybe his arms could anchor her to the world. His throat locked, and he dragged his eyes back to the road.
Steve stared straight ahead, bat across his lap, jaw clenched hard. He didn’t dare look back—didn’t think he could handle the sight. Max leaned against Lucas’ shoulder, her face hidden behind her hands, while Lucas stared out his window, lips pressed to a grim line.
By the time the truck rumbled up the Byers’ driveway, the tension was wound so tight it felt like it might snap. Hopper killed the engine, but no one moved at first. Then Jules stirred, shoving at the door handle with shaking hands.
“I need to—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “I need to see—”
The door gave, and cold night air rushed in as she stumbled out. Her boots hit the gravel, but her legs buckled instantly. Her knees hit hard, gravel biting through denim.
“Jules!” Dustin scrambled after her, half falling out of the truck. He crouched beside her, grabbing her arm. “Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
“I can’t—” Jules’ voice broke apart into gasps. Her arms quivered, trying to push herself up, but they buckled under her weight. Her body convulsed in shallow tremors, muscles twitching like live wires burning out.
Joyce was there in an instant, sliding down beside her, hands on Jules’ back. “Sweetheart, listen to me. Just breathe with me, okay? In—out. In—out.”
But Jules couldn’t. Her chest seized like it forgot how, each inhale ragged and wet. Her skin glistened faintly in the moonlight, sweat slicking her curls to her temples. And then—Hopper saw it from the porch—her veins flickered with faint light, that same strange shimmer he’d seen in the lab, sparking erratically like shorted wires.
Max lowered her hands from her face, eyes huge. “Holy shit…” she whispered.
Lucas’ jaw worked as he shifted closer to her, staring. “That’s not normal,” he said under his breath, though his voice cracked on the words.
Steve finally turned, eyes wide at the sight. He started forward, but Hopper stopped him with a hand. “Give her space.”
“She’s not okay,” Steve snapped.
“She’s running on fumes,” Hopper said, low but steady. He knelt down himself, close enough to see Jules’ pupils blown wide, her lips tinged pale, her body swaying like she couldn’t tell up from down. “She’s burning herself out.”
Dustin’s voice cracked as he clung to her arm, refusing to let go. “She’s never been like this before.”
Jules’ arms gave out entirely, and she collapsed forward, her body trembling uncontrollably as if every nerve inside her had been fried. She lifted her head weakly, breath shuddering, and whispered hoarsely:
“He’s still alive. He has to be. He’s still alive.”
Hopper didn’t wait for her to try again. He bent down and scooped her up, her body light but frighteningly limp in his arms. She trembled against him, skin clammy with sweat, breaths hitching like every inhale was a battle.
“Got you, kid,” he muttered, voice rough, though his jaw was locked tight. He carried her up the steps and into the Byers’ house, Joyce and Dustin right at his heels.
Joyce pushed open the bedroom door, the one with soft sheets and familiar clutter, and pulled the covers back with shaking hands. Hopper laid Jules down as carefully as if she might shatter, brushing the damp curls back from her face before stepping back.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, skin glowing faintly with that unnatural shimmer before it faded, leaving her pale. She looked impossibly small against the bedspread.
Joyce sat immediately at her side, cupping Jules’ cheek with one trembling hand. “Sweetheart… it’s okay. You’re safe now. Just rest, okay? Just rest.”
Jules stirred weakly, eyes half-lidded, unfocused. Her lips moved, the words faint, cracked: “Still alive… he’s still alive…”
Dustin scrambled onto the edge of the bed without hesitation. He caught her hand in both of his, holding on tight, his own face blotchy from crying. “I’m here, Jules. I’ve got you. Don’t worry about anything else. Just stay with me, okay?”
Her fingers twitched weakly around his, as if even that little grip cost her everything she had left.
Joyce glanced up at Hopper, her own eyes red-rimmed and wet. “She’s running herself ragged. She can’t keep this up.”
Hopper stood in the doorway, shoulders filling the frame, his face carved out of stone but his eyes heavy. He didn’t answer. He just nodded once, slowly, and kept watch—like he could hold the whole damn house together by sheer will.
Inside the bedroom, though, it was quieter—just Joyce stroking Jules’ hair, Dustin clutching her hand, and Jules fading into a trembling half-sleep, whispering brokenly into the dark:
“Don’t leave me, Dad… please don’t leave me.”
When exhaustion finally dragged her under, it was like drowning in tar. No dreams, no light—just black, crushing silence.
********
When Jules came to again, it wasn’t morning. It wasn’t even quiet.
Her lashes fluttered open to the dim glow of lamps. Voices murmured beyond the cracked door, low and steady—measured, like the grown-ups were trying not to stir her. Her body ached everywhere, heavy in a way that even sleep hadn’t fixed. Muscles screamed like she’d been wrung out, bones hollow, her skin clammy where it clung to Joyce’s sheets.
For a long moment, she just lay there, staring at the ceiling, breath shallow. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her heart stumbling over itself as flashes of memory slammed back: claws tearing, blood slick on her hands, Bob’s smile. Dad.
Her throat tightened. She rolled to her side, and the movement alone nearly drained her.
The door creaked, and Dustin slipped in, careful like he thought she might shatter. His curls were a mess, his eyes swollen from crying. He crouched at her bedside; voice hushed.
“Hey. You’re awake.”
Jules swallowed, but her voice was sandpaper. “How long…?”
“About an hour,” he said softly. “You passed out. Hopper says you’ll be okay, just… you over-exerted yourself.”
Her brows pinched together. Over-exerted felt too small a word for what was clawing through her veins, but she didn’t argue.
Instead, she pushed herself up, slow and shaky. Dustin immediately steadied her with both hands. “Easy. Don’t—don’t push too hard.”
But the worry on his face cracked fast into something sharper. His eyes darted over her, brimming with confusion and hurt. “So… powers. You’ve had them this whole time? And you didn’t tell me?” His voice pitched higher, a break in the middle. “Jules, we’re family. You’re my sister. You were supposed to trust me.”
The words hit harder than she expected. Jules flinched, staring at him, throat tight. “Dusty…” Her voice came out raw, hoarse. “I wasn’t—this isn’t—I wasn’t trying to hide from you. I was trying to keep you safe.”
His lip trembled, eyes shining, but he didn’t back down. “I don’t care about safe. I care about us. No secrets.”
She grabbed his wrist, grounding herself as much as him. “You can interrogate me later, okay? When we’re not one step from dying. I promise, Dusty. I’ll tell you everything. Just… not right now.”
Dustin stared at her for a long second, breathing fast. Then his shoulders slumped, and he gave one stiff nod. “Fine. But you don’t get to break promises. Not with me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Her voice broke halfway through, but she forced the words out anyway.
The sound of shuffling boards and dragging furniture filtered in from outside the room. Jules frowned, head tilting toward it. “What’s going on?”
“They’re… setting something up,” Dustin admitted, glancing toward the door. “For Will. To trick… you know, the thing inside him.”
Jules’ gut twisted. She pressed a hand to her stomach, suddenly nauseous. “And Bob?”
Dustin’s mouth pressed tight. He didn’t answer. He just sat with her in the silence, his hand firm on hers like an anchor.
Jules drew a breath, unsteady, and pushed the covers back. Her body screamed in protest, but she needed to move, needed to see.
Dustin’s hand darted out, catching her wrist. “Are you sure?”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “But I can’t just lie here.”
He nodded once, eyes wet, then helped her swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Together, they pushed toward the door, toward the murmured voices and the dim light spilling down the hall—toward whatever came next.
********
The hall was dim, lit only by a couple of lamps dragged from other rooms. The shadows seemed heavier, pressing in like they knew something was wrong. Jules leaned hard into Dustin as they walked, every step slow and deliberate, her body weak in ways it had never been before.
The murmur of voices pulled them toward the living room. Steve was the first to spot them—he stiffened mid-step, a hammer dangling forgotten from his hand. “Hey—hey, you shouldn’t be up,” he blurted, already crossing toward her.
“I’m fine,” Jules rasped, though the word scraped like broken glass in her throat.
Steve shot her a look that said you’re full of it but didn’t push, just hovered close, ready to catch her if she swayed.
Past him, the Byers’ couch came into view. Will lay slumped against the cushions, pale and still, his chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. Jonathan knelt nearby, brushing damp hair from his brother’s forehead. Joyce paced like a caged animal, arms crossed so tight it looked painful.
The moment Jules’ eyes landed on Will, her stomach flipped. It wasn’t just the sight of him drugged and fragile—it was the feel. Something crawled under her skin, an invisible static gnawing at the edges of her senses. His energy wasn’t Will’s. Not anymore. It was twisted, tainted, threaded through with something dark and cold.
Her breath hitched. She staggered a step closer, eyes locked on him.
“Jules?” Dustin’s voice was tight, worried.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her chest felt like it was caving in, like standing too close to an open flame. The same hum that had nearly torn her apart in the lab stirred faintly now, warning her away.
Joyce finally noticed her, stopping dead. “Sweetheart—what are you doing out of bed?”
But Jules barely heard her. Her legs buckled suddenly, a sharp give under her weight. Dustin scrambled to keep her upright, arms locking around hers, but it wasn’t enough. Steve lunged in, dropping the hammer with a heavy clatter and bracing her under the arms. Between the two of them, they steered her down into the nearest chair before she could hit the floor.
Her fingers clawed at the armrest, trembling, eyes never leaving Will. “He’s… wrong.” Her voice cracked, raw. “Something’s wrong inside him.”
Jonathan froze, his hand hovering over Will’s head. Joyce’s lips trembled, her arms folding tighter across her chest.
“What do you mean, ‘wrong’?” Lucas asked finally, cautious.
Jules’ breath hitched. “It’s… not him. Not all him. Something’s inside, and it’s loud.” Her voice wavered. “Like standing too close to a power line. I can feel it crawling under my skin.”
Max’s eyes widened, flicking between Jules and Will. “That’s real? You can actually feel it?”
Jules nodded, slow and weighted. “Yeah. And it doesn’t belong here.”
Steve shifted closer without thinking, crouching in front of her like he could shield her from the thing inside Will.
Mike spoke up then, his voice low. “She’s right. We saw it at the lab. It’s what called the demodogs over.”
The words landed like a punch. Joyce flinched, her breath catching hard. For just a second, her eyes darted to Jules, brimming with something sharp—guilt. Because Bob was gone, and the thing inside Will had led the monsters straight to him. She pressed a hand over her mouth, like she could hold back the grief and the shame all at once.
Dustin squeezed Jules’ arm. “Sit down, Jules, please—”
But Jules shook him off, anger sparking under the exhaustion. Her chest heaved as she pushed forward, her voice breaking. “No. I can help. If it’s inside him, maybe I can drag it out. Maybe I can fight it.” Her hands trembled, but her jaw was set. “I won’t just sit here while it uses him—while it takes everything from us.”
“Jules,” Hopper said from the doorway, voice firm. “You’re barely standing. You’d burn yourself out before you made a dent.”
Her face crumpled, grief twisting into fury. “So I just do nothing? That thing killed Bob, and now it’s in Will, and you want me to rest?”
Steve leaned in fast, sharp but steady. “Hey. Look at me.” His eyes caught hers, grounding. “You are helping. Right now. Just by being here. And we’re gonna need you later. If you torch yourself now, there won’t be a later.
“That’s not enough,” she choked.
Steve’s voice gentled. “It is. For now. Let us carry it. You save your strength for when it counts.”
Dustin nodded fiercely beside her, curls bouncing. “He’s right, Jules. Please. Don’t break yourself. Not now.”
Her lip trembled, but Steve’s words cut through the storm. She sagged back against the chair, fists curled tight in her lap. Her eyes stayed locked on Will, though, the wrongness still humming in her bones.
“Fine,” she whispered, raw. “But if that thing makes one wrong move—”
Steve’s mouth curved into a grim almost-smile. “Then we’ll sic you on it. Deal?”
Jules swallowed hard, gaze dragging back to Will’s pale form. She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The promise was written in every tense line of her body:
Next time, she wouldn’t be too late.
********
The shed groaned with every nail Hopper drove into the boards. Each strike echoed in the cramped space, dust drifting from the rafters. Jonathan pulled heavy tarps across the inside walls, stapling them down so no crack of moonlight could slip through. Steve worked beside him, muttering under his breath as another plank slid into place, his hammer swinging sharp and sure. Bit by bit, the shed was disappearing into shadow, turned into a dark, airless box.
Jules sat wrapped in a heavy blanket on a lawn chair just outside the ring of lamplight. A mug of hot chocolate warmed her hands, the steam curling against her face as she lifted it for a sip. Her body still felt hollowed out, like someone had taken sandpaper to her insides, but the warmth helped, slow and steady. Dustin sat cross-legged on the ground beside her, leaning against the chair like he refused to be more than an arm’s length away.
Steve kept glancing over, hammer hanging at his side a little longer than it should, like one eye was always on her no matter how much Hopper barked at him to focus.
She finally rasped, voice hoarse, “Why the shed?”
Hopper didn’t glance back, just drove the nail home with a sharp crack. “Because he won’t immediately recognize it. No memories here for that thing to grab onto. We cover it, black it out completely, and it won’t know where he is.”
Jules nodded faintly, lips pressing thin. “Smart. Dangerous, but smart.” She tipped the mug, staring into the swirl of chocolate at the bottom. Her voice dropped, quieter, meant only for Dustin beside her. “Bob would’ve liked it. A plan with edges. Something that made people feel like they had a shot.”
Her chest tightened—because Bob should be here. He should be the one calling the plan smart, making the others laugh with some goofy metaphor that somehow worked. He should be the one pacing the yard, hands on his hips, proud of them all for fighting back.
Instead, he was gone. And maybe not gone, not for sure, not unless she let herself believe it—but her stomach turned at the thought of hope. Hope was just another way to get ripped apart.
Jules kept her eyes locked on the mug, her voice scraping low. “I called him Dad, Dusty. In the lab. When the demodog was on top of him—when it was tearing into him—” Her throat closed up, the memory ripping fresh again. “I didn’t even think about it. It just came out.”
Dustin’s throat bobbed. He nudged her knee with his shoulder, gentle but insistent. “You finally said it.” His voice cracked, small but certain. “I knew he was your dad all along.”
The words cracked something sharp inside her. Jules shut her eyes, breath shuddering. The word had finally broken free only in the instant she lost him. The cruelest timing in the world. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, he was. And I wasted so much time not saying it.” Her fingers curled tight around the mug, knuckles blanching. “I thought if I called him that, if I let myself… it’d hurt too much when he left. And now—” Her voice broke, jagged. “Now it hurts worse, because he’ll never hear it again.”
Her throat closed, grief pressing against her ribs, but no tears came. Just a hollow burn, like the world had already wrung her dry. She swallowed hard, her voice barely more than breath. “I already lost Mom. And now him. It feels like the universe is just… stripping it all away. Piece by piece.”
And if Bob really was gone, that was it. No parents. No safety net. Just her. Just Dustin.
Jules’ voice cracked, and she bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron. The words came anyway, ragged, unstoppable. “He was supposed to be there, Dusty. When I graduated. When I got married. He was supposed to embarrass me with his camera, and cry when he gave me away, and be the best damn grandpa in the world. I wanted him there for all of it. And now—” Her voice broke clean in half. “Now it’s just gone.”
The images swarmed her mind, too vivid: Bob in the bleachers at her graduation, his ridiculous cheer drowning out everyone else’s. His hand trembling but steady as he passed her into someone else’s arms at the altar. His laugh, his terrible dad jokes, the way he would’ve spoiled Dustin’s kids and hers, the way he would’ve told them the same corny stories over and over until they rolled their eyes. Whole futures that evaporated in seconds. Futures she’d already lost once with her mother.
Dustin’s throat worked as he swallowed, his curls bobbing with the shake of his head. He rubbed his sleeve across his face like he could hide the wetness in his eyes. “It’s not fair.” His voice came out small, younger than he wanted it to. “We didn’t get enough time.”
Jules dropped her gaze to him, blinking against the sting in her eyes. Dustin’s hands were fisted tight in the hem of his shirt, knuckles white. He wasn’t just mourning Bob. He was mourning the future, too—the one they’d both thought was guaranteed.
“I didn’t say it soon enough,” Jules whispered, guilt bleeding through every syllable. “All those years, and I never gave him what he deserved to hear. He went out not knowing. That’s my unfinished business. Not the monsters, not the fighting. Him. I had more to say. More to give.”
She finally glanced down at Dustin, her green eyes rimmed red but dry. “And now it’s just gonna haunt me. Forever.”
Dustin’s eyes snapped to hers, fierce through the tears. “He knew. Jules, he knew. He didn’t need the word. He had you. Every second, he knew.” His voice cracked but he forced the words through it, as if sheer belief could make it true.
She pressed the rim of the mug against her trembling lips, drawing a shaky breath that burned all the way down.
The hammering didn’t stop, but it slowed. Hopper’s strikes grew more measured, a fraction off-rhythm, and Steve’s muttering cut quiet for a beat too long. They were close enough to hear, Jules realized dimly, though neither man turned, neither broke the illusion that this was private.
She clutched the mug tighter, staring into the bottom as if she could crawl inside it and hide. Dustin leaned harder into her leg, anchoring her without a word.
They let her speak. They let her break in the small, cracked way she could manage. And when she was done—when the last words bled out dry and thin—Hopper drove the next nail home with a sharp crack that said nothing and everything all at once.
Steve just kept working, shoulders tense, gaze never once straying from the boards in his hands. But his jaw clenched, hard enough Jules could see it even in the shadows.
Neither of them asked. Neither of them comforted. They just built faster, steadier, as though their silence was the only gift they could give her: the chance to grieve without an audience.
*******
The house was too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind outside pressed against the walls like it was holding its breath.
They’d sealed the shed completely—boards nailed, tarps stapled, every scrap of light and memory smothered until it was just a black box waiting to swallow Will whole.
Now it was just the waiting.
Jules sat curled in the armchair, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders. The mug of hot chocolate had long gone been drained, heavy and useless, but she kept it anyway, something to hold onto. Dustin sat cross-legged on the rug at her feet, his back pressed against her legs like he refused to be more than an arm’s length away.
Nancy sat stiff on the couch, hands twisted together in her lap. Lucas lingered at the window, peering through the crack in the curtain. Steve hovered by the door, arms crossed, his restless foot tapping a sharp, uneven rhythm on the floorboards.
At first, there was nothing. Just the tick of the clock. The faint groan of the house settling.
Then Jules felt it.
A low thrum under her skin, faint enough she thought she’d imagined it. But then it surged—sharp, hot, like static snapping against her ribs. She stiffened, her breath catching.
“Jules?” Dustin craned back, worry written plain on his face.
She swallowed hard. “It’s… fighting. Inside him.” Her voice rasped, tight.
Nancy leaned forward. “You can feel it?”
Jules nodded faintly, eyes unfocused. “Like it’s… thrashing. Angry. Desperate.”
Lucas frowned, pulling the curtain back further, but the shed gave away nothing. “I don’t see anything.”
“You wouldn’t,” Jules murmured. “It’s not out here.”
The thrum spiked again, jagged, violent, rattling through her chest. Jules flinched, nearly dropping the mug. Steve was beside her in an instant, steadying her shoulder with one hand.
Before she could find words for the wrongness tearing through her, the back door slammed open and Hopper barreled in, Joyce, Jonathan, and Mike on his heels. His face was grim, a pen already clutched in his fist. He snatched a piece of unopened mail off the counter, slapped it against the table, and began scribbling frantic dots and lines.
Everyone in the living room froze.
Nancy took a hesitant step forward. “What is that? What’s happening?”
“I think he’s talking,” Hopper said, not looking up. His voice was rough, but steady, like a man clinging to a lifeline. “Just not with words.”
Steve leaned over his shoulder; brow furrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to be?”
“Morse code,” the boys chorused in unison—Dustin, Lucas, and Mike’s voice overlapping, certain.
Hopper’s pen scratched again, scrawling letters beneath the dots and dashes. “H…E…R…E.” His jaw tightened. He lifted his eyes to the group, the weight of it heavy in his voice. “Will’s still in there. He’s talking to us.”
The room rippled with relief and fear. Joyce pressed a hand to her mouth, Jonathan swore under his breath, and Mike’s eyes filled fast with tears.
Jules felt the sharp static inside her chest flare—frantic but hopeful. For the first time, it didn’t just feel like the monster. It felt like Will, fighting back.
Jonathan bolted for the hall. “He needs something to hold on to.” He came back a moment later clutching his cassette player tight against his chest, the tape of Will’s favorite song already inside.
Hopper turned to the kids. “You still got those walkies?”
“Of course,” Dustin said, digging into his bag. He pulled out two, setting them on the table.
Hopper snatched one up and clipped it to his jacket. “I’ll transmit the code from in there. You keep the other.”
Dustin clutched the second walkie tight, nodding quickly. “Got it.”
“Be ready,” Hopper said. Then he jerked his chin at Joyce, Mike, and Jonathan. “Let’s move.” In a rush, the four of them disappeared back into the night,
The kitchen had gone tomb-quiet, everyone pressed close around the table. Dustin hunched over the paper, pencil poised, Lucas with the Morse chart at the ready, Max leaning in over his shoulder. Jules sat stiff in a dining chair, blanket still draped around her, mug abandoned on the counter. Her insides buzzed with static, the same low hum she’d felt at the lab—frantic, uneven, but threaded with something else this time. A pulse. A will.
The walkie crackled, faint at first. A soft click. Then another. Dustin shot Lucas a look.
“C,” Lucas said quickly.
Dustin scrawled it down. His hand shook.
Another burst of static, another stutter of clicks.
“L.”
“Slow down,” Dustin muttered, more to himself than the signal. He pressed the pencil hard enough to nearly snap it. “Just… slow down.”
The next letter dropped. “O.”
Jules leaned forward without realizing it, breath tight in her throat. The rhythm of it wasn’t just noise to her. She felt the pattern, sharp pricks sparking across her skin with every pulse, like her bones already knew the next beat. Will’s voice, buried but fighting.
“C-L-O-S-E,” Lucas spelled out, faster now. Dustin dragged the pencil across the paper, hand smudging the lead.
Max whispered it before anyone else could. “Close…”
The walkie burst again, harder, like it was straining.
“G-A-T-E.”
Dustin slammed the pencil down. “Close gate.”
The words lay there on the paper in jagged strokes, all of them staring at it. Jules’ stomach knotted so hard she thought she might retch. That was Will. That was him. The proof throbbed in her chest like a second heartbeat.
Then the phone rang.
The shrill, ordinary sound shattered the room. Everyone jumped, chairs scraping against the floor.
Jules was on her feet before she even thought, tearing the phone off the cradle and slamming it down. Silence. The kind that pressed against her eardrums. Her pulse thundered in it.
The ring split the air again, louder this time, impossibly loud.
Her hands shook. Something inside her screamed no. She ripped the whole phone off the wall, cord snapping, and flung it to the floor. It hit with a crack that echoed through the room.
Max’s voice was barely a whisper. “You think he heard that?”
Steve swallowed hard, trying for steady. “It’s just a phone. Could be anywhere, right?”
But Jules felt it—the same pull, the same suffocating weight she’d felt in the lab when the shadow passed close. Her chest tightened. The air was wrong.
“No,” she said, voice trembling, eyes fixed on the shattered phone. “It knows where we are.”
The roar that followed shook the glass in the windows. A deep, guttural sound that vibrated in her teeth and clawed down her spine.
The kids bolted to the front windows, craning for a glimpse into the night. Max shoved the curtain aside, Lucas pressed against her shoulder, Dustin fumbling with the walkie like he could will it into silence.
Jules stood frozen for a second, blanket slipping from her shoulders. The roar wasn’t just sound—it was pressure, crawling under her skin, dragging at the static inside her like it recognized her, too.
The back door slammed open. Hopper thundered in, Joyce and Mike tight at his heels, Jonathan stumbling after with Will’s limp body in his arms. Hopper’s face was set like stone, both hands gripping rifles.
“Get away from the windows!” he barked, shoving past them. “Lucas, Max, Dustin—back, now.” He thrust one of the guns into Jonathan’s chest. “You know how to use this?”
Jonathan’s eyes went wide, his arms still trembling with Will’s weight. “What—”
“Can you use this?” Hopper snapped.
Jonathan froze.
Nancy’s voice cut in sharp, unwavering. “I can.”
Hopper shoved the rifle into Nancy’s hands without hesitation. “Take it.”
She caught it, grip steady, nodding once.
The group shifted instinctively, falling into formation at the front of the living room. Hopper and Nancy flanked the center, guns raised. Lucas crouched low with his wrist-rocket locked and loaded. Steve planted himself solidly beside Jules, bat gripped in both hands, his body angled just enough to shield her. Jules stood behind him, jaw set, every nerve strung taut. Her limbs still carried a dull heaviness, a bone-deep fatigue that hadn’t shaken loose since the lab, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. Not anymore. Max pressed close behind Lucas, tense and ready. Mike clutched a heavy trophy, knuckles white around the base.
Jules’ breath came shallow, heart hammering against her ribs. Fear pressed down hard, but so did the burn of something else—anger, sharp enough to keep her upright when her body wanted to fold.
The skittering started then. Claws scraped against the siding, shadows circling the house. Jules flinched at the sound, pressing closer to Steve’s back. The noise burrowed under her skin, tugging at the static in her chest. It wanted out, wanted to tear through her, but she gritted her teeth and forced it down.
Then chaos. Roars split the night, bodies colliding, bone snapping. For one sickening heartbeat, she thought they’d already lost. But then glass shattered inward. A demodog slammed against the wall and crumpled, shards raining across the carpet.
Max stumbled back. “What the hell—”
“Is it dead?” Dustin squeaked.
Hopper strode forward and kicked it hard. No movement. He kicked again. Still nothing. Jules’ stomach twisted. Even dead, it looked wrong—like it might spring back to life at any second.
Then—click.
Every lock on the front door began to slide back, one after another. The sound knifed through the silence, louder than the roar had been. Jules’ skin went cold.
Her breath hitched as the knob turned. She curled her hand tighter in Steve’s jacket, bracing for the worst.
The door swung open.
El stood framed in the doorway, small but fierce, a streak of blood under her nose. She wiped it away with the back of her hand like it was nothing, her eyes steady and blazing.
Gasps rippled through the room. Mike froze like the world had stopped turning.
Jules let out a shaky laugh, the tension buzzing in her chest easing just a notch.
“You showed up late and missed all the fun,” she said, her voice dry, teasing but threaded with relief.
Her eyes flicked over El’s outfit—black, sharp edges, eyeliner cutting across her pale face, white Converse scuffed from travel. Jules raised her brows.
“New look I see.”
El’s gaze landed on her, steady but softening for a flicker of a second. Beneath the armor, Jules caught a glimpse of the same girl she’d walked halfway back to the cabin only days ago—quiet, searching, familiar.
And Jules? Something in her chest gave way. Relief, yes, but threaded with sharper things: the ache of having missed her, the anger of worrying without answers, and the dizzy realization that the girl who could tip the scales in this war was finally here.
Chapter 22: Through The Veins
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The room seemed to hold its breath. No one moved, no one spoke, all eyes fixed on the girl in the doorway.
Mike was the first to break. His voice was little more than a whisper, cracked and trembling.
“El?”
She nodded once. And then he was across the room, arms locking around her, clutching her like he’d been drowning for a year and finally surfaced for air. El buried into him, her body taut at first, then melting into the embrace. He whispered that he never gave up, that he called every night, and she answered in her steady way: three hundred fifty-three days.
Every word hit Mike like lightning, but when she admitted she had been there, listening, his face shifted from wonder to hurt.
“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”
El’s silence was answer enough—until another voice cut through the room.
“Because I told her not to.”
Hopper stepped forward, his presence filling the space as much as the revelation did.
Shock rippled through the group. Dustin’s mouth fell open. Lucas blinked rapidly. Max’s gaze darted between them like she’d stumbled into a story already half-told.
Mike jerked back from El, eyes wild as he rounded on Hopper.
“You’ve been hiding her? All this time?”
Before Hopper could answer, Mike’s gaze snapped sideways. It landed on Jules. She had gone still, lips pressed tight, but she didn’t look surprised—not even a little.
Realization struck.
“You knew,” he whispered, horror and betrayal tangling in his voice. His face crumpled. “You knew she was alive and you didn’t tell us? You didn’t tell me?”
Jules’ stomach dropped, heat crawling up her neck. Her throat locked as guilt surged, sharp and heavy. Because yes, she had known. She’d walked El halfway back to the cabin only days ago, carrying that secret like a stone in her gut while Mike’s grief sat raw in his eyes. She’d hated herself for it.
But she hadn’t told him.
Mike’s voice cracked again, louder now, angrier. “You let me think she was gone—”
“I told them not to,” Hopper cut in, firm, brooking no argument. His tone was a wall. “Both of them. It wasn’t Jules’ choice. It was mine. She was protecting El. Same as me.”
The words pressed down, thick and immovable. Mike faltered, torn between his fury and the authority in Hopper’s voice.
Dustin shifted awkwardly, glancing at Jules with wide eyes. Lucas exhaled sharply through his nose. Max muttered something under her breath, too quiet to catch.
Jules finally managed to speak, her voice low and strained. “I wanted to tell you. I almost did. But it wasn’t my secret.”
Mike shook his head, looking like the ground had slipped out from under him. His eyes burned, not just with anger but with the raw ache of betrayal. Jules had seen Mike furious before, had seen him terrified, stubborn beyond reason. But never like this. His anger wasn’t loud—it was sharp, like something breaking between them.
Hopper stepped forward. “That’s enough.” His voice was gravel and steel. He fixed Mike with a steady look. “We’ll talk. In Will’s room. Alone.”
Mike bristled but didn’t argue. He stormed down the hall, Hopper following close behind, leaving the living room heavy with silence and El standing in the center of it.
Lucas and Dustin moved first, rushing forward to hug her so tightly she nearly vanished between their shoulders.
“We missed you,” Lucas murmured, his voice muffled.
“Yeah,” Dustin added, grinning through the weight of it all. “We talked about you pretty much every day.”
El’s arms curled around them, a small smile breaking through. “I missed you too.”
They finally pulled away, and Dustin beamed. She startled, pointing at his mouth.
“You have teeth.”
“Oh! Yeah!” He puffed up instantly, flashing his grin. “You like my pearls, huh?” He even made his ridiculous purring sound.
Lucas rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, but there was no real bite to it.
A small voice piped up from the side. “Eleven?”
Max hovered close now, awe written across her face. She stepped forward hesitantly. “Hey. I’m Max. I’ve heard… a lot about you.” She offered her hand, awkward but earnest.
El looked at it, considered… and walked right past her. Max’s hand dropped, her face falling.
She walked right up to Jules.
For a heartbeat, the weight of Mike’s anger still pressed in her chest, but then El’s gaze found hers.
Jules let out a shaky laugh, softer this time. “You had me worried, you know. Last time I saw you, you were prairie chic. Now you look like you wandered out of a punk show.”
El’s eyes softened, just for her, but they also flickered—sharp, searching—as if she was seeing something else. Jules felt it, the way El’s gaze lingered a second too long. She was noticing. Not just the exhaustion Jules carried, but the faint hum that clung to her like static. Proof she’d been using her powers. Proof that something in Jules had shifted.
“You missed me,” El said quietly.
“Yeah,” Jules admitted, her voice catching despite the teasing edge. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
The corner of El’s mouth twitched before she finally moved to Joyce, who swept her into a trembling embrace. Joyce stroked her hair, murmuring, “It’s okay… I’m here, I’m here.”
El pulled back, her gaze steady and filled with something heavier. “Can I see him?”
The room went still again.
********
Jonathan’s room was too quiet, save for Will’s shallow breaths. He lay pale and still on the bed, eyes flickering beneath their lids.
El moved straight to him, kneeling by the bedside. She pressed her palm to his cheek, her eyes closing.
Jules meant to hang back with the others, but as soon as El reached out with her power, something caught her too. Like a wire being struck, humming in her bones.
Her vision stuttered. For a moment, she saw with El—saw Will not as a boy, but as a vessel threaded through with shadow. Dark tendrils curled around him, filling the spaces that should’ve been his alone.
Her stomach clenched. Because she knew this feeling. She’d felt it before.
The memory crashed back: Will on the couch, her own body buckling under the pressure of the static pouring off him, the wrongness crawling under her skin until she thought it would split her open.
Now, seeing it laid bare through El’s reach—it matched. Exactly.
Her breath hitched, too sharp. “It’s the same,” she whispered before she could stop herself. The others looked at her, but her eyes were locked on Will. “That’s what I felt. That’s what’s inside him.”
Joyce’s voice cracked. “He’s sick.”
El opened her eyes, quiet but certain. “I know. I saw.”
The others shifted uneasily, whispering. Dustin’s brow furrowed; Lucas shot Jules a sideways glance, like he half-believed, half-feared what she meant.
Jules wrapped her arms tight across her chest, as if she could hold the static in. Because what rattled her most wasn’t just seeing the shadow inside Will—it was the sensation, fleeting but sharp, that when it noticed El… it noticed her, too.
********
The kitchen table was cluttered with papers and scrawled Morse code—CLOSE GATE burned in block letters across the page. El sat stiffly in a chair, Joyce beside her, while the others clustered in loose circles around the table. The air was tight, heavy with what they’d just seen in Will.
Joyce’s voice wavered. “You opened this gate before, right?”
El’s eyes flickered, guilt shadowing her face. “…Yes.”
“If we got you back there,” Joyce pressed gently, “could you close it again?”
El hesitated, her hands curling into fists in her lap. “I can do it,” she said finally, quiet but firm.
The words dropped into the room like a stone.
Hopper leaned forward, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. The lab is crawling with those things—”
“Demo-dogs,” Dustin blurted out.
Hopper cut him a glare. “How is that important right now?”
“I can do it,” El repeated, louder this time, her jaw set.
Mike’s voice broke through the silence. “Even if she can… if the brain dies, the body dies.”
Everyone turned toward him. His voice shook, but he pressed on. “If she closes the gate, it’ll kill the Mind Flayer’s army. But Will’s part of that army.”
The silence that followed was brutal. Joyce went white, one hand pressing to her mouth. Jonathan’s jaw locked so tight it looked painful.
Mike continued, “Closing the gate will kill him.”
Jules gripped the table edge until her knuckles ached, but her eyes weren’t on the plan—they were on the people. Joyce’s trembling. Jonathan’s rigid shoulders. Mike’s pale face, every ounce of hope and terror braided together. Lucas and Dustin flanking each other, pretending calm that neither of them had. Max, arms crossed but eyes sharp, still searching for a place to stand in all this.
Every crack was on display. And Jules knew, with a heaviness that pressed against her ribs, that one wrong choice could split all of them open.
********
The bedroom was too still, too quiet. Will lay motionless on the bed, his face pale against the sheets, his chest rising and falling in shallow pulls of air. The curtain at the open window stirred in the night breeze, a soft, cold ripple that made the silence even sharper.
Joyce stepped inside first. She froze at the window, her eyes flicking between the curtain and her son’s slack face. Her lips moved, almost too soft to hear.
“…He likes it cold.”
Hopper shifted behind her. “What?”
Joyce’s voice cracked but steadied. “Will told me that. He likes it cold. And we just—we just keep giving it what it wants.”
Something in her tone snapped the group to attention. Nancy straightened, the weight of her thought slipping out before she could hold it back. “If this thing is like a virus, and Will’s the host…”
Jonathan’s throat bobbed. “Then we need to make the host uninhabitable.”
Joyce slammed the window shut, cutting off the draft. The sound made everyone flinch, but she only turned back with a fierceness in her eyes that hadn’t been there a second before. “Maybe we can burn it out of him.”
The silence that followed was jagged, humming with the danger of the idea.
Jules’ chest tightened. She felt it ripple through the group—the way Nancy’s hands knotted in her sweater, the way Jonathan flinched at the word burn, the way Joyce clung to her own certainty like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Heat flushed under Jules’ skin, not from the thought of fire but from the weight of it. The choice pressed sharp against all of them, too heavy for the air in the room.
Mike’s voice cracked through the stillness. “We’d have to do it somewhere he doesn’t know this time.”
“Somewhere far away,” Dustin added quickly, seizing the thread.
The words hung, heavy and uncertain.
Hopper’s jaw worked, eyes distant, like he was already halfway out the door. Jules felt the thought spark in her chest at the same time—the one place that made sense, the one place Will wouldn’t know.
Hopper’s gaze lifted, and for just a second it locked with hers. The unspoken truth hung between them, sharp and inevitable.
Then he broke the silence. “I know a place.”
********
The night air hit sharp as the front door banged open. Hopper barreled past with Will in his arms, Joyce and Jonathan at his sides. Jules followed; her legs steadier now—stronger than earlier—but still carrying a heaviness that made every step feel borrowed.
Hopper’s voice was clipped, urgent. “Stay on Denfield until you see a big oak tree—then swing a right. You’ll hit a dead end. Five-minute walk from there.”
Jonathan’s nod was frantic, eyes flicking from his brother to Hopper. “And it’s channel ten?”
“Yeah, ten. As soon as he’s safe, you let me know.”
Hopper lowered Will into the car as Joyce slid in beside him, curling around her son like armor. Jonathan shut the hatch hard, his jaw locked tight. Jules swallowed against the pressure rising in her chest.
Nancy appeared then, a heater in her arms. She spoke quickly to Jonathan, who gave a sharp nod. She slipped into the car without another word, her face pale in the porch light.
At the Blazer, Hopper opened the passenger door for El. Jules caught the tail end of El’s goodbye to Mike, their words small and breaking in the dark.
“Friends don’t lie.”
The phrase carried across the yard, not meant for her, but it landed anyway. Jules pressed her nails into her palms, that sting burrowing under her ribs. She wanted to believe it—God, she wanted to live by it. But hadn’t she been lying all along? Hiding El. Hiding herself. She wondered if Mike’s heart would shatter all over again if he knew just how much she’d kept from him.
“Time,” Hopper said, ushering El forward.
And Jules moved. “I’m coming with you.”
Hopper froze. Turned. His face was stone, but his eyes flicked over her—her pale skin, the slight tremor in her hands, the way she leaned harder on one leg than the other.
“No.”
Jules lifted her chin, heat flooding her chest. “I’m not just sitting here while you take her. I can help.”
He stepped closer, his shadow folding over hers. His voice dropped low, sharp as steel. “You can barely stand.”
“I’m standing now.” It came out fierce, stubborn—though even she could hear the wobble in it.
His jaw flexed. He leaned in, the weight of him pressing down without ever touching her. “You can’t. You think I don’t see you shaking? I carried Bob out of that lobby. I’m not doing that again. Not with you.”
The words slammed into her chest. For a moment, the night seemed to tilt. The image came unbidden—Bob’s weight in Hopper’s arms, the echo of gunfire, the smell of smoke. She’d tried so hard not to replay it, but now it cracked through her like glass underfoot.
Her throat burned, but she swallowed hard, locking her jaw so he wouldn’t see her splinter.
Steve stepped up beside her, silent but close enough she felt the steady warmth of him at her shoulder. She caught the look he gave her—gentle, edged with a quiet don’t push him.
She wanted to scream, to shove past all of them, to prove she wasn’t weak, wasn’t fragile. But Hopper was already turning, hauling himself into the Blazer and slamming the door with a heavy thunk—final as a verdict.
The convoy pulled away, tires spitting gravel and dirt into the night. Jonathan’s car went first, its taillights glowing faint and red as it disappeared down the road. Hopper’s Blazer followed, steady and unrelenting, shrinking smaller and smaller until both vehicles were swallowed by the dark.
And then there was nothing. Just the cold, and the sound of cicadas, and the long empty stretch of road.
Jules stayed rooted where she was, her fists aching from how tightly she held them. The dust settled slowly around her shoes, but inside she was still vibrating, buzzing with everything she hadn’t been able to do, to say.
The porch creaked as the others shifted in behind her. Mike’s arms hung stiff at his sides, his face pale with worry. Max glanced between him and the road, chewing her lip raw. Lucas pulled his jacket tighter, his eyes darker than usual. Dustin adjusted his hat and swallowed hard, like if he said anything, it might break the fragile silence holding them together.
Steve lingered closest to Jules, arms crossed, jaw tight. His gaze stayed fixed on the road, as if staring long enough might will the cars back.
The weight pressed down on all of them, the helplessness like a tide they couldn’t push against. They had weapons, they had each other—but none of it mattered here. Hopper had drawn the line, and all they could do was wait.
Jules let out a shaky breath and finally turned back toward the porch. The group followed wordlessly, a silent, nervous orbit. All they could do now was wait—for headlights to cut through the dark again, for news, for something.
But as the door creaked shut behind them, the night stayed still, unbroken.
********
The kitchen looked like a bomb had gone off—condiments, leftovers, even Joyce’s Tupperware scattered across the counters. Dustin knelt in the middle of it, muttering to himself while trying to wedge the Demo-dog carcass deeper into a blanket. Jules leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, her body tired but her mind sparking with restless energy.
“Okay,” Dustin grunted, rocking back on his heels. “He should fit now…”
Steve was standing above him, jaw set tight. “…Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, it’s necessary,” Dustin snapped, not even looking up. “This is a significant scientific discovery. You can’t just bury it like some common mammal.”
Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Alright, well—you’re explaining this to Mrs. Byers when she finds out you’ve turned her fridge into a morgue.”
Jules huffed a laugh under her breath, though it died just as quickly. Everything felt absurd. A dead monster in the fridge while her friends were driving into danger without her. The whiplash made her stomach twist.
Mike paced like a caged animal, each step cracking through the silence. Lucas and Max tried to sweep up the broken glass, but Lucas finally snapped.
Lucas threw his hands up. “Would you please stop pacing, Mike? You’re just making it worse.”
Jules drifted into the living room, lowering herself carefully into a chair. Her legs felt steady enough to carry her, but inside she buzzed with the same energy Mike was spilling across the floor. She got it. She got it.Standing still when your people were out there—it was like trying to breathe with a hand pressed over your mouth.
Mike spun on him; voice sharp. “You weren’t in there, okay, Lucas? That lab was swarming with hundreds of those dogs—”
“Demo-dogs!” Dustin called automatically from the kitchen.
Jules exhaled hard, rubbing at her temple. “Can we not argue over what to call them right now?” Her voice cracked sharper than she intended, but the room actually went quiet for a beat.
Mike’s chest heaved; his hands balled tight. “You don’t get it. None of you do.”
Jules straightened in her seat, ignoring the ache in her legs. “No, Mike, I do. I saw it too. I saw Bob—” The name caught like glass in her throat, but she forced it out. “—and I know exactly what’s waiting down there. But Hopper’s right. Charging in without a plan gets us all killed.”
Silence stretched. For a second, even Mike’s pacing faltered.
“Well…” Dustin reappeared in the doorway, his face alight with the beginnings of an idea. “That’s not entirely true.”
All eyes snapped to him.
“I mean, the Demo-dogs—they’ve got a hive mind, right? That’s why they ran from the bus. They were being called away.”
Lucas’ brow furrowed, gears turning. “So, if we get their attention—”
“Maybe we can draw them away from the lab,” Max finished, stepping closer.
Mike’s face lit up, too eager, too hungry. “And clear a path to the Gate.”
Jules leaned forward in her chair, her pulse picking up. It was reckless, but… it wasn’t wrong. “It could work,” she said quietly, eyes on the map. “Split their focus, buy El time.”
Steve’s head snapped toward her; his frown sharp. “No. Absolutely not.”
But Jules kept her gaze on Mike. “It’s better than sitting here waiting to hear who doesn’t come back,” she muttered.
Steve’s voice cut in flat, hard. “Yeah—and then we’ll all die.”
“That’s one point of view,” Dustin said.
“No,” Steve snapped, pointing at him, then swinging the glare back to Jules. “That’s not a point of view. That’s a fact.”
But Mike was already moving, storming into the next room where the map was still pinned across the walls, his finger tracing the lines frantically. “Look—this is where the chief dug his hole. This is our way into the tunnels.” His voice cracked with urgency. “And here—see this hub? This is the center. Everything feeds into it.”
The kids crowded after him, eyes following where his finger jabbed at the paper. Jules stayed rooted in the doorway, her pulse hammering as she watched hope flare too bright, too reckless.
“If we set this on fire,” Mike said, “the Mind Flayer will call away his army.”
Lucas nodded, the idea catching flame. “They’d all come to stop us—”
“Exactly,” Mike pressed. “By the time they realized we weren’t there, we’d be gone. El would be at the Gate—”
“GUYS!” Steve slammed his hand down on the table, making them all jump. “Hey! Hey!”
Jules flinched, heat sparking in her chest.
“This—” Steve jabbed at the map, his voice rising with something bigger than frustration—fear. “This is not happening.”
“But—” Mike tried.
“No buts,” Steve barked, louder than before. His voice filled the room, sudden and commanding. “I promised to keep you shitheads safe, and that is exactly what I’m gonna do. We are sitting here, on the bench, waiting for the starting team to do their job. Does everyone understand that?”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Max shifted, Lucas frowned up at the map, Mike muttered under his breath. Jules clenched her jaw, wanting to argue, to push back, to say she wasn’t a kid waiting for permission. But Steve’s glare landed on her, heavy, pleading under all that steel, and the words lodged in her throat.
The room fell still.
Jules opened her mouth—but before anyone could speak, a sound tore through the silence.
Not claws. Not snarls. A low, familiar growl that didn’t belong to a Demo-dog at all. Tires on gravel. An engine rolling closer.
Every head turned toward the windows at once.
Max’s face went bloodless. “…It’s my brother.”
The Camaro’s roar filled the night, closer and closer, until Jules swore she could feel the vibration in her bones.
Max spun, panic sharp in her voice. “He can’t know I’m here. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill all of us.”
Billy Hargrove had arrived.
Steve’s eyes locked on hers for a beat, and she knew without words that he was going out there. Jules pushed herself up anyway, legs steady enough now, and followed him toward the door.
“Steve—”
He stopped dead before the front door and spun, one hand pressing lightly but firmly against her shoulder. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharper than she’d ever seen them.
“Stay inside,” he said, low, urgent. “This isn’t your fight.”
Her chest flared hot with defiance. “Like hell it isn’t. You think I’m just gonna stand here while—”
“Yes,” Steve snapped, his voice cutting sharper than usual. He caught himself, softening just barely, but didn’t back down. “Yes, that’s exactly what you’re gonna do. You keep the kids safe, Jules. That’s your job right now.”
The words landed like a stone in her gut, heavy and immovable. She wanted to argue, to shove past him and prove she wasn’t breakable. But the look in his eyes—protective, desperate—rooted her to the floor.
Jules’ pulse thundered as the door shut behind Steve. She hovered near it for a beat, nails digging into her palms, every instinct screaming to follow. But his voice still rang in her head—stay inside, keep the kids safe.
She forced herself back, ushering the others deeper into the living room. “Away from the windows,” she whispered, sharper than she meant to. “Now.”
Lucas ducked behind the couch, tugging Max with him. Mike crouched low by the coffee table, Dustin pressed in close at Jules’ side, his wide eyes flicking between her and the door.
Jules sank down onto her heels, her body angled toward the door as though she could will herself through it. Every muffled sound outside bled into the room—Billy’s taunting drawl, Steve’s steady but strained replies. Then a thud. Her stomach clenched. Another impact, heavier, and Steve’s pained grunt.
Her nails bit crescents into her palms. She couldn’t see it, but she knew. Billy had him down.
The house rattled as the door suddenly slammed open. Billy filled the frame, a wolfish grin stretched across his face, smug and cruel. Behind him, Jules caught a glimpse of Steve in the dirt, curled around himself, struggling to breathe.
Billy’s gaze flicked into the room, sweeping fast until it caught on her. His grin sharpened, like he’d been handed a prize.
“Well, well,” he drawled, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect to find you here, Ambrose. Hiding out with the kids? Thought you were tougher than that.”
He stepped forward, deliberate, until her back brushed the wall. He didn’t touch her—not yet—but he planted himself close enough that the heat of his breath brushed her cheek.
Jules’ jaw locked, heat sparking in her chest. Her eyes flicked to the ugly shadow blooming on his cheek. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“Funny. For a guy with a bruise like that, you’re talking a whole lot of shit.”
Billy’s grin widened. “See? That’s why you stand out. Every other girl around here knows how to behave. You—” his gaze flicked down, then back up with slow intent, “—you bite. Makes me wonder what you’d do if I pushed hard enough.”
“Push, and you’ll find out,” Jules snapped, her voice low and sharp.
Max’s voice cut in from behind Jules, trembling but fierce. “Billy, leave her alone!”
Billy’s eyes cut toward his stepsister, his jaw ticking. He pointed at her without even pulling back from Jules. “Don’t worry, shitbird. I’ll deal with you after.”
His eyes cut back to Jules, heat sparking under the mockery. “Every time you tell me no, Ambrose, it just makes me wanna hear it again.”
“Sounds like you like humiliation more than I thought.” Jules shot back, arching a brow. “Shocking.”
The grin faltered just slightly, a flicker of something darker under his charm.
That’s when Dustin lost it. He barreled into Billy’s side with all the force his small frame could muster. “Get away from her!”
Billy staggered half a step, then caught himself, spinning on the kid with a snarl. “Jesus—” He grabbed Dustin by the front of his shirt and hurled him down onto the rug like he weighed nothing. “Stay down before you get hurt.”
Jules surged forward before she could think, fury ripping through her exhaustion. She drove her knee up, hard, catching Billy square in the groin. His smirk collapsed into a grimace as he stumbled back, cursing.
Through the open doorway, she saw Steve drag himself upright outside, his eyes locking on Billy with renewed fire.
Billy was still doubled over, a curse ripping from his throat. For one second, Jules thought he’d turn on her. But his head snapped sideways, eyes locking on Lucas. His smirk came back, crueler this time. “Lucas Sinclair…. what a surprise. I thought I told you to stay away from him Max. You disobeyed me. And you know what happens when you disobey me.” His voice curled; venom laced. “I break things.”
Max’s face went pale. “Billy, stop—”
But Billy was already moving. He straightened, shaking off the hit, and lunged a step toward Lucas.
Jules didn’t think—she planted herself squarely in his path, arms spread just enough to block the way. “Not him,” she snapped. Her voice was low, sharp enough to slice the air. “You want to throw your weight around; you do it with me.”
Billy’s laugh was cold, humorless. He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. “Careful, Ambrose. Keep putting yourself between me and what I want, and I might start thinking you like being in my way.”
Jules’ pulse hammered, but she didn’t move. “Better me than a kid half your size.”
Lucas’ fists clenched at his sides, his face set, but Jules could feel him hovering behind her. Max’s voice shook as she stepped forward. “Leave them alone, Billy. Leave all of us alone!”
Billy cut her a look over Jules’ shoulder, his grin curling cruel. “Keep running that mouth, Max, see where it gets you.”
That was it. Jules’ hands curled into fists, her body buzzing with fury. Every part of her wanted to strike, to wipe that smirk off his face. But before she could move, a shadow shifted at the edge of the porch.
Steve. Upright again, face bloodied, eyes locked on Billy like a wolf that had just found its footing.
Jules caught the flicker of relief in Max’s eyes, the way Lucas shifted subtly behind her.
Jules held Billy’s stare, not flinching, buying Steve the seconds he needed to step back into the house.
Steve’s shadow slid into the doorway. Billy didn’t notice, too locked on Jules, too caught in his own sneer.
Then Steve’s voice cut through, ragged but steady. “Hey, asshole!”
Billy’s head whipped around—just in time to meet Steve’s fist. The crack of impact rang out, sharp and satisfying, as Billy stumbled back a step, his smirk faltering.
Jules’ chest jolted with a surge of relief and adrenaline. Steve was back on his feet, bloodied but burning.
Billy wiped at his nose, saw the smear of red, and let out a laugh that was all teeth. “Finally. Some fire.” His gaze gleamed as he circled. “Been waiting to meet this King Steve I’ve heard so much about.”
Steve didn’t answer. He just squared his shoulders and jerked his chin toward the open door. “Get. Out.”
Billy’s laugh sharpened, mean and eager. He swung hard—fast—but Steve was ready this time. He ducked, slipped past, and slammed another punch into Billy’s jaw. BAM. Then another. BAM. The kids shouted behind Jules, Dustin’s voice cutting above the rest: “Kick his ass, Steve!”
For a breath, hope surged hot in Jules’ chest. Steve had him—he was winning.
But then Billy’s hand flashed to the counter, snatching up a plate. Jules barely had time to suck in a breath before—
CLANG!
The plate shattered across Steve’s head. He staggered, knees buckling, his hand flying up to the blood that already slicked his hair.
“Steve—!” Jules lurched forward, her heart slamming in her chest.
Billy didn’t stop. He tracked Steve like prey, eyes wild, and shoved him down hard into the living room.
“No one tells me what to do,” Billy snarled, headbutting Steve so hard Jules felt the crack vibrate in her bones. Steve crumpled under him, and then Billy was on top, straddling him, fists raining down. BAM. BAM. Steve’s head snapped to the side with each hit, blood already smearing across his face.
Jules moved before she could think. “Enough!” she shouted, shoving forward, clawing for anything—anything—that could break this.
Max’s voice cut sharp through the chaos. “Jules—catch!”
Something small and glinting flew through the air. Jules snatched it instinctively—the IV needle, cool and sharp in her hand. Her heart hammered.
Billy didn’t even see her coming. She drove forward, dropped low, and jammed the needle into his neck.
Billy froze. His eyes went wide, the punch he’d been about to throw hanging suspended in the air.
“What the—” He ripped the needle out, staring at it in disbelief, his words already slurring. “The hell is this…?”
Steve coughed, dragging himself upright beneath Billy’s slackening grip. Jules staggered back, chest heaving, her hand still clenched around nothing. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Billy swayed, tried to step forward, and nearly toppled. His furious gaze found her even as his knees buckled. “You little bitch—what did you—” His voice cracked, garbled, and he went down hard, sprawling across the floorboards like a felled tree.
Jules rushed to Steve’s side, catching his head in her hands as he slumped against the floor. His eyes blinked sluggishly, unfocused, blood streaked through his hair.
“Did… I do good?” he rasped; his voice broken but hopeful.
Her throat tightened, but she forced a steady smile. “Of course you did.”
His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to grin, but his eyes fluttered shut. His weight went slack in her arms. Jules cradled him closer, placing his head in her lap, her hands gentle despite the panic clawing through her chest.
Behind her, the scrape of wood on wood drew her attention—Max, stepping forward, both hands locked tight around the nail-studded bat. Her arms trembled, but her eyes burned as she raised it high and threatening.
Billy’s half-lidded eyes snapped open, glassy but aware enough to clock Max and the bat.
“You’re gonna leave us alone,” Max spat, her voice shaking but strong. “All of us. Do you understand?”
Billy’s mouth twisted, the words slurring through the drug haze. “…fuck off.”
Max’s grip tightened. Without warning, she yanked the bat back and swung —CRACK—the nails burying into the floor a mere inch from Billy’s crotch. Billy’s eyes went wide, all that smug cruelty bleeding into something else: fear.
“Tell me you understand,” Max demanded.
“I…” Billy swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “I understand.”
Max leaned in; her glare unrelenting. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“I understand!” he barked, louder this time, though his words cracked. His body slumped fully to the side as the sedative finished its work, unconscious at last.
The room held still; every breath heavy.
Jules stayed crouched with Steve, his head still in her lap. His breathing rasped against her, shallow but present. She held onto that sound like a lifeline, brushing blood from his locks with a trembling hand.
A sharp clatter pulled her gaze up. Max dropped the bat, crouched, and shoved her hand into Billy’s pocket. When she straightened, his car keys dangled from her fist. Her jaw was set, her chest heaved, but her eyes blazed with something fierce.
“We’re done here,” Max said, voice flat and certain.
********
The Camaro shot down the empty back road like a bullet, the engine howling under Jules’ foot. She knew she was pushing too hard on the gas, but adrenaline had her pressed forward, eyes locked on the dark strip of asphalt whipping past.
Lucas sat shotgun, the giant fold-out Hawkins map wrinkling across his knees like it had a grudge against him. “Straight for half a mile, then left on Mount Sinai,” he read, his voice pitched over the roar.
Max was wedged between the boys in the backseat, her chin over Lucas’ shoulder, jabbing at the map with one finger. “No, not that left — the next left, the one past the farm stand. Otherwise we’re in Kentucky.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how maps work,” Mike muttered, hugging a gas can like it was a life preserver.
Beside him, Dustin held a bag of ice against Steve’s head, whispering like he was calming down a spooked horse. “It’s fine, you’re fine, she’s fine, everything’s fine.”
Jules’ knuckles tightened around the wheel. “Would everyone shut up? I’m trying not to kill us.”
A groan from the backseat cut through the noise. Steve. His head lolled against the window as his eyes blinked sluggishly open, blood matting his hair.
Jules risked a quick glance in the rearview. “Hey, buddy,” she called, her voice just a little too high-pitched with effort. “So, remember that whole talk about not going to the tunnels?”
Steve blinked. “…yeah?”
She swerved around a pothole, tires squealing. “Okay, so—hear me out—we’re kind of… going to the tunnels.”
That woke him faster than the ice bag. “What?!” Steve’s voice cracked into full panic. He clawed at his seatbelt, eyes wild. “No. No, no, no—stop the car, stop the goddamn car!”
Dustin leaned in quick. “Don’t freak out, she knows how to drive—”
Mike yelped over him: “Yeah, with a lead foot!”
“That’s not untrue,” Jules muttered through clenched teeth.
Steve buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god, I’m gonna die in Billy Hargrove’s Camaro. This is worse than the dogs.”
Jules smirked despite the sweat prickling down her neck. “Relax, Harrington. I’ve got this.”
She cranked the wheel hard into Lucas’ shouted left turn, the Camaro fishtailing wildly before slamming back onto the road. Everyone in the backseat shouted at once, Dustin’s voice carrying loudest: “KICK THE GAS, JULES!”
“Not a problem,” she laughed in glee, foot pressing down even harder.
The Camaro roared forward into the night, headlights cutting through the dark, every bump and jolt rattling Jules’ bones. Fear and laughter tangled hot in her chest, because if they were going to drive straight into hell, she was damn well doing it with both hands tight on the wheel.
********
The Camaro fishtailed into the gravel lot, kicking up dirt and pebbles in its wake. Jules yanked the wheel, braking so hard the tires screamed. The car lurched to a crooked stop, headlights blazing against the looming silhouette of the barn.
Everyone groaned as they slumped forward, half from motion sickness, half from sheer terror.
Max peeled herself off the window. “…Well. We’re here.”
Jules pried her hands off the wheel, every muscle buzzing. “Told you I could drive.”
“Drive?” Steve rasped from the backseat, slumping against the door. “That wasn’t driving—that was attempted manslaughter.”
Jules twisted around, meeting his bleary eyes with a smirk she didn’t quite feel. “And yet… you’re still alive. You’re welcome.”
Steve groaned, letting his head thunk back against the seat. “Next time, I’m walking.”
She reached over the seat and brushed blood back from his hair, sticky and matted where it had fallen across his forehead. “Excuse me? You saying my driving’s worse than getting your face caved in?”
Steve gave a raspy chuckle, smacking her hand away, “Not worse….but pretty damn close.”
The kids were already piling out, grabbing gear with jittery hands—flashlights, goggles, bandanas, gas cans. Their silhouettes moved against the barn light, small but determined, like they’d already left childhood somewhere behind them.
Jules lingered a moment with Steve, her hand steady on his shoulder. “Come on, Harrington. We’ve got a monster to roast.”
He groaned again, but this time a ghost of a grin tugged at his mouth as he got out of the car.
The kids’ chatter was hushed, jittery, nerves leaking through every movement. Max slung the gas can from the trunk like it weighed nothing, Lucas dug into the box of flashlights, and Mike yanked a pair of goggles over his head, too big but worn like armor.
Dustin was already fumbling with batteries, muttering, “Last thing we need is lights cutting out in the middle of the hive…”
Jules climbed out quickly, one hand steadying Steve as he eased onto the gravel. He swayed, still pale under the barn light, but his grin—stubborn and lopsided—stayed in place. Jules kept a firm grip on his arm, ignoring the way her stomach knotted every time he winced.
“Bandanas,” Max said, tossing one to Lucas, then another to Mike. “If the air’s nasty down there, you’ll thank me.”
“Feels like we’re robbing a train,” Lucas muttered, knotting his behind his head.
“Coolest damn train robbery ever,” Dustin said, clicking on his flashlight and sweeping it across the dirt dramatically.
Jules almost smiled. Almost. Her focus was on Steve, gently settling him against the Camaro’s hood. She adjusted his bandana for him, tugged his gloves tighter around his wrists. He let her fuss, too tired to protest, eyes soft on her face.
Then she worked on herself. She pulled her own gloves snug, goggles over her curls, bandana tight around her nose and mouth. The fabric muffled her voice when she said, “There. Now we both look like badasses.”
Steve squinted at her through the fogged goggles, lips quirking. “Pretty sure I look concussed.”
“Concussed and badass,” she corrected, brushing her knuckles lightly against his shoulder. Steve winced a little bit but chuckled.
Jules’ energy immediately shifted, doubting him going down there. “You sure about this?” she asked quietly, her voice not meant for the kids.
Steve smirked, though it wobbled. “Hey, you’re the one who promised me a monster roast. Can’t back out now.”
Her chest ached, but she shook her head, brushing her thumb against the corner of his temple before letting go.
One by one, the kids lined up with their makeshift gear, looking half like adventurers, half like soldiers. Too young for either, Jules thought, but no less determined.
She exhaled, turning toward the looming dark where the tunnel waited. “Alright,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Let’s finish this.”
********
The tunnel’s mouth gaped at the edge of the pumpkin patch, jagged and wet like the earth itself had rotted away. The smell hit first—sharp and chemical, undercut by something sickly sweet, like mold that had been festering too long.
Jules tugged her bandana higher, but it did little. Her stomach knotted, bile threatening, as she stared into that black throat. For a moment, none of them moved. The barn light behind them felt weak, too human against the abyss yawning ahead.
Lucas adjusted the strap of his goggles, flashlight beam shaking as it cut a narrow path down. Mike’s jaw clenched tight, his knuckles white around the gas can. Max swore under her breath but didn’t hesitate—her boots crunched over the dirt as she approached the hole first, fearless or pretending to be.
Steve shifted beside Jules, leaning too much of his weight into her arm. She glanced at him. His lips were pale, his breaths ragged, but his chin was high. Stubborn bastard.
“You sure you’ve got this?” she whispered.
He huffed a laugh that sounded too close to a wince. “Not a chance. But somebody’s gotta keep you all from getting eaten.”
Before she could argue, Dustin’s voice piped up, muffled by his bandana. “We’re wasting time. The longer we wait, the stronger that thing gets.” He swung his flashlight toward the dark, toward the pulsing, living roots curling out of the earth. “We go now, or we don’t go at all.”
The words chilled Jules worse than the night air.
Steve straightened with a groan, peeling himself off her shoulder. He looked at them all, then at the hole, and let out a long, ragged breath. “Alright. Here’s the deal.”
His voice was hoarse but steady, cutting through the dread. “Any of you little shits die down there, I’m getting blamed. So from here on out—” He snatched the flashlight from Mike’s hand, flicked it on with a snap. “—Jules and I lead the way.”
The kids exchanged glances, a strange mix of awe and relief. Jules said nothing. She just adjusted the strap of her goggles, tightened her grip on the flashlight, and stepped closer to the hole.
The earth exhaled a breath of damp, fungal air that coated her skin, thick as a warning.
And then, one by one, they dropped into the dark.
********
The rope scraped against Jules’ gloves as she lowered herself into the dark. The dirt wall pressed close to her sides, flakes crumbling under her boots. For a heartbeat she felt suspended—weightless, like the earth itself was swallowing her—until her feet hit the soft, spongy ground below.
The air struck her first. Thick. Damp. A rot that crawled up her nose and clung to the back of her throat even through the bandana. Her flashlight beam cut a thin line through the dark, sliding over walls of tangled roots pulsing faintly, like veins.
Steve landed beside her with a grunt, his breath sharp through the fabric over his mouth. He swayed for a second, but his grip tightened on the spiked bat and his chin lifted like he was daring the whole place to try him. Jules stayed close, ready to catch him if his legs gave.
One by one, the kids dropped in. Flashlights flicked on, beams darting nervously over the alien landscape. The tunnels sprawled around them—vast, endless, a labyrinth of slick black vines that shivered when the light touched them.
“Holy shit,” Steve muttered, voice muffled under his bandana. The awe wasn’t just in him—Jules felt it too, twisting with the dread in her gut.
The ground squelched under their boots, sticky and uneven. Every step tugged like it wanted to hold them there. Lucas swung his light down one passage, then another, the walls stretching in all directions like the ribs of some enormous beast.
Jules swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “Stay close. Don’t wander. If it feels like it’s breathing—it probably is.”
The kids clustered tighter, their makeshift gear catching the glow in fractured, jittering glints. They looked small—tiny against the immensity of the place—but not weak. Not anymore.
Steve flicked his light across the wall, then shot her a sideways glance, his eyes hazy but locked on hers. “Lead the way, Ambrose.”
Her grip tightened on the flashlight. She nodded once, breath hot behind her bandana, and stepped forward into the dark.
The tunnel closed in quick. The ground squelched underfoot, and every few steps the roots shifted under their weight, almost like muscle. Somewhere in the dark, a low groan rolled through the vines. Dustin’s flashlight jittered. “Tell me that’s not—”
“Don’t,” Jules cut in. “Just don’t.”
They pressed deeper, the walls tightening, every branching passage a choice between nightmare or nightmare. The further they went, the more the sound changed—the faint hum she’d felt before now threading into the air itself, vibrating faintly against her skin. It was alive. All of it.
And then her light swept forward and froze.
The tunnel ahead widened suddenly into a chamber, the walls spidering out into a dense, knotted hub. Roots clustered thick, pulsing, feeding into one dark mound in the center of the room.
Jules’ throat closed. She felt Steve step up beside her, bat tightening in his grip.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice low. “Definitely the heart of the freakshow.”
Jules swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “Welcome to the hive.”
The chamber seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. The wet, sucking rhythm of the roots shifted under their boots, the sound too close to breathing. Jules’ skin prickled. She could feel it again—the hum she’d sensed in Will, only here it was louder, pressing at the edges of her skull like static.
Max whispered, voice muffled by her bandana, “This is it.”
Lucas nodded stiffly, fingers tightening around the strap of the gas can. Mike stepped forward, his flashlight beam jerking as his hands shook. “We light it here. Burn it out.”
“Faster we do this, the faster we get out,” Dustin added, though his voice cracked on the last word.
Jules tore her gaze from the mound at the center and scanned the kids instead. Their goggles fogged with breath, hands jittering, but no one backed down. They weren’t soldiers, not even close—but right now, they sure as hell looked like ones.
She crouched, pulling her gloves tighter and uncapping one of the gas cans. The fumes hit immediately, harsh and chemical through the fabric of her bandana. She poured slow, deliberate, letting the gasoline seep into the roots at her feet. Lucas mirrored her on the other side of the chamber, Max moving in tandem. The liquid soaked fast, darkening the vines until they gleamed wet.
Steve shifted closer to her, bat gripped one-handed, his other braced against the wall for balance. He leaned in, voice a rasp at her ear. “I hate to say it, Ambrose, but this is the worst date I’ve ever been on.”
Despite everything, Jules let out a shaky laugh. “Stick with me, Harrington. You’ll live to complain about it.”
A sound shuddered through the chamber then—low, guttural, reverberating off the vines. The walls trembled.
Dustin froze. “Uh… did anyone else hear—”
“Shh,” Jules hissed. Her flashlight swept toward one of the branching tunnels, catching movement. A ripple in the dark. The shuffle of claws on wet ground.
They weren’t alone.
Her stomach turned to stone. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “We move fast. We light it, and we run. Stay together.”
The roots along the walls quivered again. Somewhere deep in the tunnel, another growl answered back.
The silence didn’t last.
From deep in the tunnels came the sound of claws—skittering fast, multiplied by the echo until it felt like dozens rushing all at once. The walls trembled harder, roots quivering underfoot.
Dustin’s voice broke, high and thin. “They know we’re here.”
“No kidding,” Steve muttered, tightening his grip on the bat.
“Gas!” Jules snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through their panic. “Now!”
The kids scattered, upending cans over the pulsing vines. The reek of gasoline filled the chamber, clinging to their clothes, soaking the air. Jules splashed the last of hers across the center mound and tossed the can aside, her hands shaking as she dug for the matches in her pocket.
But then—shadows moved at the tunnel’s edge. Glimpses of slick bodies, teeth glinting in the glow of the roots. The first demo-dog slithered into view, its throat opening in a wet, guttural roar.
“Light it, Jules!” Mike’s voice cracked, urgent.
Her fingers fumbled with the matchbox. A growl rumbled closer, another shape lumbering into the chamber. Then another.
“Jules!” Max shouted.
She struck the match. Flame hissed to life, tiny and fragile in her trembling hands. For half a second, the whole chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Then she dropped it.
The gasoline ignited in a rush, fire crawling across the vines in a wave. The chamber lit up with a sickly glow, roots writhing and popping under the heat. The demo-dogs shrieked, recoiling, but more kept pouring in, their bodies jerking as the firelight carved them in silhouette.
“Run!” Jules yelled, her voice raw.
Flashlights snapped up. Gas cans clattered to the floor. The kids bolted for the tunnel they’d marked as their exit, bandanas pulled tight over their faces. Jules grabbed Steve’s arm, dragging him with her as he staggered, his bat swinging wildly to keep anything from closing in.
Behind them, the hive burned. The smell of scorched rot and gasoline chased them as the demo-dogs howled, their roars echoing down the tunnels like the voice of something much larger.
They didn’t look back.
The fire roared behind them, heat licking at their backs, but the sound that chased them was worse—the thunder of claws on stone, too many to count. The demo-dogs weren’t scattering. They were hunting.
Jules ran, her lungs burning, flashlight beam jerking wildly over roots and slick patches of muck. Steve stumbled at her side, and she yanked him forward, her grip bruising on his sleeve. The kids were ahead—shadows darting, goggles glinting in the firelight as they sprinted for their lives.
Dustin’s voice carried back through the tunnel, thin and panicked: “They’re gaining!”
Jules didn’t dare look, but she could feel it—the air seemed to press forward, heavy with the things barreling after them. The walls vibrated with snarls, so loud it rattled her ribs.
“Keep moving!” she barked, voice tearing out of her throat. “Don’t stop—no matter what!”
Lucas tripped on a root, his flashlight clattering, but Max was there in a blink, hauling him up before the darkness could swallow him. Mike nearly collided with them, shouting something Jules didn’t catch over the roar.
Steve’s breath was ragged, blood still trickling down his temple, but when another growl echoed too close, he swung his bat blindly behind them—metal meeting flesh with a sick crunch and a pained screech. It bought them a second, no more.
“Left!” Jules shouted, spotting the mark they’d carved into the tunnel wall earlier. She skidded, boots sliding in mud, yanking Steve with her as the kids veered hard. The pack behind them followed, snarls multiplying, bouncing off the roots like the hive itself was screaming.
Her lungs seared. Her legs felt like they might snap under her. But adrenaline was the only fuel left, and she couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop.
Not while the kids were still running ahead. Not while Steve dragged himself along beside her, bloodied but swinging, refusing to go down.
The tunnel seemed endless. Every corner they turned, the growls only got louder, the shadows closer. And then—
Up ahead, another chamber. Their hub. Their chance.
“Go!” Jules shouted, her voice cracking. “We make our stand there!”
The kids bolted toward the rope, their shapes swallowed by moonlight. Jules tightened her grip on Steve’s arm, forcing her legs to carry them faster, her heart slamming in her ears as the swarm howled closer, closer—
They burst into the chamber. The vines writhed in the firelight, the hive burning alive, shrieks rising from everywhere at once.
The kids fanned out instinctively, raising flashlights like weapons, while Steve and Jules stumbled in last, slamming shoulder to shoulder against the wall.
The demo-dogs poured in after them. Dozens of eyes gleamed in the firelight, jaws unhinged, snarls vibrating the air.
Jules and Steve kept to the front, keeping the kids bunched close behind like a second heartbeat.
Steve adjusted his grip on the nail-studded bat, knuckles white. “Guess this is where we die, huh?”
Jules’ lips twitched. Her pulse was a hammer, but she managed a snort. “Not if I fry them first.”
She spread her hands. The static she’d felt since the lab crawled up her arms, igniting at her fingertips. A faint glow bled into the damp air, pale and unsteady but real. The tunnel seemed to vibrate with it, dirt raining lightly from the ceiling.
Steve side-eyed her, bloodied but still somehow smirking. “Well… that’s new.”
For one breath, Jules felt it—the raw edge of terror, the certainty that this was it.
Then she set her jaw and hissed through her teeth:
“Come on, then.”
The demodogs charged; a blur of claws and snarls. Jules and Steve prepared their attack. Only they didn’t slow, racing by Jules and Steve like they weren’t there. The rush of air nearly knocked Jules back. One after another, they streamed past, the tunnel shaking with their stampede.
Jules’ glow sputtered out, leaving only the flickering beam of her flashlight. Her chest heaved, sweat slick against her skin.
Steve blinked after the swarm, lowering his bat. “…Okay. Not what I was expecting.”
For one breath, nobody moved. Then—
A low growl rolled out of the shadows.
Another shape padded forward, slower, deliberate. Its body was leaner than the others, its skin stretched tight over slick muscle, yellow cutting through black skin. Its head tilted, eyes glinting pale in the flashlights.
Dart.
The growl thickened in the tunnel, vibrating in Jules’ chest. Dart crouched low, saliva stringing from his jaws, eyes locked on the small cluster of humans huddled in the dark.
Jules’ heart shot into her throat. Her hands snapped up, the glow sparking faintly back to life at her fingertips, ready to tear herself apart if she had to. Beside her, Steve shifted the bat into both hands, planting his feet like Hopper had drilled into him.
“Not running this time,” Steve muttered, jaw set.
Jules swallowed hard, her voice tight. “Guess we’ve got front-row seats to the encore.”
Behind them, the kids clustered tight. Lucas’ flashlight beam jittered. Max clutched the gas can so hard her knuckles paled. Mike’s goggles fogged where they pressed to his face.
And Dustin—
Dustin’s face was stricken, caught between terror and something softer. His breath hitched as he stepped forward. “Wait—wait! Don’t! That’s Dart.” His voice cracked, desperate. “That’s my Dart.”
“Dustin—” Jules hissed, shooting him a sharp look.
But he didn’t stop. He edged around them, his small frame silhouetted against Dart’s hulking shadow. The demodog snarled, snapping its jaws, crouching lower like it was seconds away from leaping.
Dustin’s hand shook as he dug into his pocket. His voice wobbled, but he forced it out steady. “I’m sorry, buddy.”
The silver wrapper crinkled in his fingers. He held out the 3 Musketeers bar, arm trembling. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve kept you safe. But you still remember me… don’t you?”
Dart sniffed the air, the growl thinning into a low, uncertain rumble. Its head cocked.
Jules held her breath, her glow flickering. She felt Steve lean forward slightly, bat half-raised, ready to swing if it went wrong.
Dart crept closer, claws scraping wet earth. One step. Two. Its maw opened wide, and for a heartbeat Jules thought that was it—
Then the candy was gone, snapped up with a wet crunch.
The sound of tearing wrapper echoed in the tunnel. Dart chewed. The growl quieted.
“Good boy,” Dustin whispered, tears stinging his eyes. “Good boy…”
The demodog huffed once, then stepped aside, sliding its body against the tunnel wall. Its eyes lingered on Dustin—hungry, wary, but not attacking. Not this time.
The path ahead was clear.
Dustin choked on a laugh, swiping at his face. “Told you he likes nougat.”
Jules’ chest unclenched all at once, the glow fizzling from her hands. She blew out a shaky breath, then cast Dustin a look—half scolding, half fierce pride.
Steve lowered the bat slowly, his voice hoarse. “Kid, remind me never to doubt your freaky pet skills again.”
They moved past, one by one, brushing close to Dart’s body. Jules stayed near the front, between him and the kids, every muscle tense. But Dart stayed back, chewing quietly in the shadows.
When they finally cleared Dart and reached the rope, Jules felt her knees almost give. She caught Steve’s arm, steadying them both, and whispered, “Let’s never speak of this again.”
Steve huffed, lips quirking through the blood. “Deal.”
The night air slammed into Jules like a wave when she pulled herself out of the tunnel. Cold, sharp, but cleaner than the suffocating rot below. She gulped it in anyway, her lungs burning, arms trembling as she dragged herself up onto solid ground.
One by one, the kids tumbled out behind her. Max, then Lucas, Mike, Dustin—mud streaked, hands raw, eyes wide but alive. Steve hauled himself up last, swaying hard enough that Jules shot out a hand to catch his sleeve. He gave her a crooked grin that was slightly bloody.
They collapsed in the dirt together, backs to the Camaro’s tires, the barn looming silent behind them. No one spoke at first. Just the ragged sound of breathing, the night pressing in heavy around them.
Dustin broke it with a wheeze, brushing mud off his bandana. “So, uh… that went well.”
Lucas barked out a laugh that sounded more like a cough. “You call that well?”
“Hey.” Dustin jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, toward the tunnel. “We’re still breathing, aren’t we?”
Jules tipped her head back against the car, closing her eyes for one long beat. The tremor in her hands hadn’t stopped. Every nerve still felt strung too tight. Dart’s growl echoed in her chest, the memory of it scraping raw against the part of her that still hadn’t recovered from Bob.
A gentle nudge at her shoulder pulled her eyes open. Steve. He was pale, swaying, but his gaze was steady on her. “Told you we’d make it out.”
Her throat clenched. She wanted to snap at him for scaring her half to death, for always trying to play the shield when he could barely stand—but instead she let the corner of her mouth twitch upward. “Barely.”
He smirked, winced when it tugged the cut on his lip. “Details.”
Suddenly, the Camaro’s headlights cut across the field—then flared brighter. Their flashlights pulsed too, beams stretching white and unnatural.
Everyone froze.
The ground seemed to hum beneath their feet. A low vibration, faint but certain.
Jules’ chest tightened. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what it meant. The Gate. Something was happening.
Lucas’ mouth parted as the beams grew almost blinding. “What the hell—”
And then, just as suddenly, the light dimmed. The vibration stilled. A silence hung heavy over the field.
They all stared at one another, wide-eyed.
“…It’s over,” Mike whispered. His voice cracked with awe. “It has to be.”
Dustin scrubbed a trembling hand across his face, a shaky grin tugging at his mouth. “El did it.”
The kids broke into nervous laughter, shoulders sagging with relief. But Jules was stiff, her hand gripping Steve’s jacket, her pulse still hammering. Relief tangled with something darker.
Because for them, it was over. But she knew exactly where she had to go next.
She turned, meeting Max’s expectant eyes, then Lucas’, then Dustin’s. “I’m dropping you back at the house. All of you.”
Mike frowned. “Wait, what about—”
“End of the line,” Jules said firmly, her voice steady even as her throat closed. “This fight’s done. And you’re not going anywhere else tonight.”
The kids shifted uneasily, but none of them argued. Even Dustin only nodded, a flicker of something sad in his eyes.
Jules helped Steve toward the Camaro. His weight leaned heavy against her, his breaths ragged, but he still found the strength to murmur, “House first, huh?”
Her chest tightened. She glanced at him, brushing mud from his sleeve. “Yeah. House first.” A beat, then softer: “Lab after."
Steve blinked, weary but knowing. He didn’t ask questions. He just gave her arm a squeeze as she helped him into the car.
*********
The Camaro rumbled into the familiar driveway, its engine growling low before Jules killed the ignition. For a moment, no one moved. The headlights cast long beams across the yard, washing over the sagging porch and the patchy lawn. After everything—the tunnels, the dogs, the dark—it looked impossibly ordinary, minus the broken window.
The kids were the first to stir. Dustin shoved his goggles off his head, muttering, “Home sweet home,” though his voice cracked halfway through. Lucas and Max shuffled out next, shouldering the gas can and flashlight like soldiers disarming. Mike lagged, his face pale, but when El’s shadow flickered through the living room curtain, his eyes brightened just slightly.
Jules helped Steve out last, his arm heavy across her shoulders. His boots dragged on the dirt as she half-walked, half-carried him toward the porch. He still managed a crooked grin, though his face was smeared with blood and dirt. “Bet I look like hell,” he rasped.
Jules tightened her grip, her voice steady but soft. “You look like someone who needs a bed. And maybe a weeklong coma.”
That earned a hoarse laugh from Dustin, already bouncing on the porch step. “We’ll tuck you in, Mom.”
Jules shot him a look sharp enough to quiet him, but it was fond too. She eased Steve onto the railing, steadying him before stepping back.
One by one, the kids filed inside. Joyce’s voice rose from somewhere deeper in the house, sharp and frantic, wrapping them instantly in warmth and safety. The sound tugged at Jules’ chest until it ached.
She lingered on the porch.
Steve’s hand caught her wrist before she could turn. His eyes, bloodshot but clear, searched hers. “Stay.”
Jules’ throat tightened. She shook her head once. “I can’t.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The muffled sound of kids talking, Joyce fussing, the scrape of a chair—all of it spilled through the thin walls behind them. A picture of safety. Of home.
But not for her. Not tonight.
She leaned down, pressing a brief touch to Steve’s temple—gentle despite the dried blood there. “Rest. They need you in one piece tomorrow.”
He caught her hand again, his voice low, warning. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Jules forced a faint smile. “Too late for that.”
She pulled free, stepping off the porch. The Camaro waited at the curb, dark and still, but she could already hear the road stretching toward Hawkins Lab. Toward Bob.
She didn’t look back as she slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
********
Floodlights blazed across the front lawn, turning the ruins of the lab into a stage of chaos. Military jeeps lined the drive, their engines rumbling low, soldiers moving in tight formations across the cracked pavement. Medics crouched over stretchers, barking orders, hands slick with blood. The air reeked of smoke and antiseptic, of something acrid carried out from the building.
Jules slammed the Camaro door and ran, gravel spitting under her boots. Her heart jackhammered in her chest as her eyes snagged on the shapes being carried out—bodies, limp beneath white sheets. One after another.
Her throat closed. Bob.
She sprinted harder.
“Restricted area, ma’am!” A soldier broke from the line, grabbing her arm, his face sharp under the brim of his helmet. Another moved in, blocking her path.
“Let me go!” Jules fought against their grip, voice breaking. “Bob—where’s Bob?!”
“Ma’am, you need to stand down—”
“Let her through!”
The command cracked through the chaos. The men hesitated. Jules twisted in their grip to see a man leaning heavily on crutches, his leg bound in makeshift splints. His jacket was torn, his face streaked with blood, but his eyes—sharp, assessing—locked on her.
“She’s with me,” he said, firm despite his rasp. “Let her go.”
The soldiers released her. Jules didn’t stop to question it—didn’t care who he was. She bolted past, straight into the broken husk of the lab.
The air inside was worse—thick with smoke and the stink of gunpowder. Boots thundered all around her, soldiers shouting orders, dragging equipment, carrying more bodies.
Jules stumbled through the wreckage, her throat raw, her ears ringing with panic. Then the familiar doorway yawned open—and she froze.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Bob lay where Hopper had left him. His shirt was soaked through with blood, dried into rusty patches. His hair was mussed, and his skin was sickly pale. He looked—God, he looked exactly the same as when she’d last touched him.
Exactly the same as when she thought she’d saved him.
Her knees buckled, and she dropped beside him. Her trembling hands hovered inches above his chest, her lungs burning for air that wouldn’t come.
“Bob…” Her voice cracked, thin and desperate. “No. No, you can’t—”
She pressed her forehead against his shirt, the fabric still tacky with blood, and sobbed. He was too still. Too silent. Had she imagined it? Had her grief tricked her into believing he’d drawn breath under her hands?
Her fingers found his hand, cold and limp. She gripped it tight, clutching it like it could anchor her.
Words spilled ragged, broken. “I’m sorry I never said it before. I was scared. Scared if I called you Dad, it would make losing you worse. But it’s worse now. It’s so much worse.”
Her chest heaved. Tears blurred everything. “I love you. You’re my dad. You’ll always be my dad. Please—please don’t leave me too.”
Her forehead pressed harder into his chest, sobs muffled against his skin. She almost missed it—the faintest twitch beneath her fingers.
Her breath froze. Her head shot up, eyes wide. She stared at his hand like she’d conjured the movement out of grief. But then—there. A curl of his fingers, so slight it could’ve been a trick of her mind.
“No,” she whispered. Her voice shook. “No, no, I didn’t imagine that.”
She squeezed again, desperate. “Bob, it’s me. I’m right here. Stay with me.”
Another twitch. A squeeze, faint but real.
Her heart stuttered, then slammed into a gallop. Tears blurred her vision all over again as she cried out, voice breaking. “Medic! Somebody—he’s alive!”
The door burst open, soldiers and medics flooding the room. Hands grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back, but she fought against them, straining toward him.
“Please, he’s right there—don’t let him go!”
The medics were already on him, shouting vitals, calling for a stretcher. Jules’ voice broke into a sob as they lifted him, his limp hand slipping from hers.
She stumbled forward, but another figure blocked her—the man from before. He moved slower this time, leaning hard on his crutches. Up close, Jules could see the lines of pain carved into his face, the blood caked at his collar.
He caught her before she could collapse, his voice steady in the storm. “He’s alive. Let them work.”
Her chest heaved, her eyes locked on the sight of Bob’s body disappearing through the door. “I didn’t imagine it,” she whispered, as though saying it aloud would make it true.
For the barest second, the man just looked at her—too closely, too intently, like he’d seen her somewhere before. Something flickered in his eyes, shock and recognition layered under fatigue.
“No,” he said finally, quiet. “You didn’t.”
Jules blinked at him, unease twisting through her. There was something in the way he looked at her—like he knew her. She wanted to ask, but Bob’s stretcher was already gone, pulling her focus with it.
Notes:
Whew! So I meant to also post this last night but I fell asleep, sorry. But we made it through season 2 and we can now focus on other things....if ya catch my meaning. :) Anyways, enjoy! Comments and Kudos appreciated, let me know what ya'll think.
Chapter 23: Holding On, Letting Go
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The ambulance lights strobed red against the lab walls as Bob’s stretcher disappeared into the chaos. Jules tried to follow, but a soldier’s grip on her arm held firm.
“You’ll see him at the hospital,” the man with the crutches said, his voice low, decisive. “They’ll do everything they can.”
Jules’ chest heaved, her gaze snapping between him and the retreating stretcher. She wanted to scream, to claw her way after Bob, but her legs refused to move. The man’s eyes lingered on her a beat too long—curious, unsettled—but before she could ask why, a medic shoved past, barking orders about transport.
The next blur of hours was all sirens and fluorescent lights. Jules sat crammed in the back of the ambulance, her hand locked around Bob’s wrist like she could tether him there. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. The machines did the rest of the talking, beeping in stubborn rhythm as if to reassure her: still here, still here.
By the time they wheeled him into the emergency wing, Jules was numb, her body moving only because the medics pulled her along.
A doctor stepped into her path, still snapping on his gloves. “You’ll need to wait out here.”
Her throat burned raw. “No—I’m not leaving him.”
“I understand,” the doctor said carefully, “but he’s critical and we need to move fast.”
She hovered in the corner as they swarmed him, her back pressed to the cold tile, nails biting into her palms. They checked vitals, ordered scans, started fluids. The language was clinical, rapid-fire, almost comforting in its efficiency. Until one word broke through.
“…unresponsive.”
Jules’ chest hollowed. She pushed forward. “What does that mean? He’s alive, I felt—he squeezed my hand—”
The doctor glanced at her, then back to the chart. “He is alive. His pulse is strong, his body’s stable. Frankly, given that he has no wounds, it’s an enigma. It’s just his-” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “His nervous system isn’t behaving the way it should. The scans don’t show brain damage, but his activity is… muted. It’s like something disrupted the normal firing patterns. Almost like they were… short-circuited.”
“Short-circuited?” Jules echoed; the word jagged in her mouth.
The doctor didn’t flinch. “We don’t know why. But for now, he’s in a coma. He could wake up tomorrow, or next week… or not at all.”
Her vision blurred, her whole body trembling. A coma. Alive but unreachable. It felt like losing him all over again, except now he was right there, his hand slack on the bed beside hers.
She slid into the chair at his bedside and laced their fingers together, whispering under the steady beep of the machines. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
********
The fluorescent light hummed faintly above, casting everything in sterile blues and whites. Jules hadn’t left Bob’s bedside—not for food, not for sleep, not even when the nurses nudged her with sympathetic looks. Her hand stayed wrapped around his, fingers laced tight, like letting go would mean losing him again.
The door creaked.
She didn’t move at first. Not until a heavy, familiar step filled the silence.
Hopper.
He hesitated just inside the doorway, hat twisting in his hands. His eyes fell on Bob—motionless under the thin hospital sheet, color drained from his face—and for a moment he just stood there, jaw clenched, as if the sight hollowed something out of him.
“They told me…” Hopper’s voice rasped, rougher than usual. He shook his head, huffing a humorless laugh. “Hell, I told you he was gone.”
The words hung heavy, thick as smoke. Jules’ stomach twisted. “You thought you were right.”
“I was sure,” Hopper admitted, his voice low. He dragged a hand across his face, sighing. “He wasn’t breathing, no pulse. I thought…” He trailed off, shaking his head.
For a beat, silence pressed in. Only the machines filled it.
Jules swallowed hard, her throat raw. “Maybe you were right. Maybe he should’ve stayed gone. Because now he’s here, and he’s… not. And I don’t know if it’s because of me.” Her hand tightened on Bob’s. “If I didn’t push too far, force something that wasn’t supposed to be fixed.”
Hopper’s eyes flicked to her then, sharp and searching. “You think this is on you?”
“Who else?” Her voice cracked. She looked down at Bob, blinking hard against the blur in her eyes. “I touched him, and he came back. I thought I was helping, but—what if I just trapped him like this? What if I—” Her words tangled in her throat, collapsing into silence.
Hopper’s hand came down heavy but steady on her shoulder. Not soft—he didn’t know how to be soft—but firm enough to cut through her spiral.
“You didn’t do this,” he said, rough but certain. “You gave him a chance. That’s more than anyone else could’ve done. Including me.”
Her breath shook. She wanted to believe him, but the guilt clung too tightly, curling deep in her chest. She pressed her forehead against Bob’s hand, whispering, “Then why doesn’t it feel like enough?”
Hopper didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, his shadow stretching across the bed, silent witness to her breaking.
Finally, he muttered, “Sometimes enough is just keeping someone breathing. The rest… we wait and see.”
********
The hospital smelled of bleach and burnt coffee, the kind of sterile mix that seeped into your clothes. Jules sat slumped in a hard plastic chair outside Bob’s room, her chin balanced on her fist. Her body buzzed with exhaustion, but her mind refused to stop. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him on that stretcher, saw his hand twitch, heard the medics shouting.
Hopper’s boots scuffed to a stop in front of her. He looked like hell himself—blood on his jacket, dark circles stamped under his eyes—but his voice was steady.
“You need a break,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Go grab something to eat, stretch your legs. I’ll sit with him.”
She wanted to argue, but the set of his jaw told her she’d lose. With a reluctant sigh, she pushed herself to her feet. “Fine. But only because you look like you might keel over before I do.”
Hopper grunted, a ghost of a smirk breaking through.
Jules shuffled down the hall, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the linoleum. The waiting area was crowded with military personnel and medical staff, voices low, movements brisk. She slowed when she spotted him—leaning on crutches, leg bound in splints, face washed out but eyes sharp.
The man from the lab.
He was half-surrounded by medics, one adjusting the straps on his crutches, another checking his vitals. But when his gaze slid up and landed on her, he froze. Just for a beat.
Jules hesitated, her pulse jumping. She stepped closer anyway. “Hey. I, uh… I just wanted to say thanks. For letting me through last night. If you hadn’t…” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words. “I wouldn’t have made it to him in time.”
The man nodded once, slow. His eyes didn’t leave her. “You’re welcome.”
Something about the way he said it—careful, measured—made her shift uncomfortably. Like he wasn’t just looking at her, but through her.
Jules folded her arms, her voice wary. “Do I… know you? You’ve been staring at me like I should.”
He blinked, the faintest crack in his calm. For a second, his expression flickered—recognition, disbelief, something almost haunted. But then it smoothed again, practiced and neutral.
“No,” he said softly. “We’ve never met.”
It was the kind of answer that didn’t feel like an answer at all. Jules opened her mouth to push, to ask what he meant by that, but the PA system crackled overhead with a burst of static and a call for another emergency team.
The medics bustled around him again, adjusting his crutches. Jules lingered a second longer, unsettled, then nodded faintly and turned back down the hall. Her unease lingered, prickling at the back of her neck like a shadow she couldn’t shake.
********
The hospital room blurred into days. Jules barely left, anchored to the chair at Bob’s bedside with his hand wrapped tight in hers. Nurses nudged her to eat, to shower, to sleep in the visitor’s lounge, but she always came back, afraid that if she wasn’t there, he’d slip away for good.
Joyce came often, slipping in quiet, her face drawn and exhausted. Sometimes she’d smooth the sheets, murmuring apologies Jules pretended not to hear. Other times she just sat and cried softly, tears sliding into silence. Dustin brought chaos instead—arms full of comics and candy, smuggling in board games with the stubborn promise that he’d play them with Bob when he woke up. He filled the silence with chatter until he, too, would fall quiet, leaving another comic on the nightstand like an offering.
On the third day, the rhythm broke. The door opened and didn’t close again. Hopper stepped in first, shoulders heavy under the sterile light, followed by Claudia Henderson and a woman Jules didn’t recognize—pressed blazer, clipboard in hand.
“Miss Ambrose,” the woman said carefully. “Given Mr. Newby’s condition, his legal guardianship is… uncertain. Until there’s clarity, the court will need to consider temporary arrangements.”
The words hit like ice water. Jules blinked at her, slow at first, then shaking her head hard. “No. No, you don’t understand. This is temporary. He’s coming back.”
The woman’s practiced sympathy smile only sharpened Jules’ panic. “I understand how difficult—”
“No.” Jules’ voice cracked sharp as glass. She shot up, the chair scraping back hard. “You don’t get it. He’s still here.” Her eyes snapped to Hopper, desperate. “Tell her. Tell her he’s still here.”
Hopper’s jaw flexed. For a second, guilt flickered across his face—but his voice was firm, solid as stone. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters right now.”
Claudia stepped in gently, her voice low and careful. “Sweetheart, until he wakes up, someone has to be responsible. For you. For the house.”
Jules’ throat locked. She hated that word—responsible. Hated that they were already planning a world without him. “I don’t need anyone,” she whispered, fierce and small all at once. “I just need him.”
Hopper’s eyes softened, but his tone didn’t. “Doesn’t matter what you think you need. You’re not doing this alone. If Bob can’t be here, Claudia will step in. Just until he’s back on his feet.”
Claudia’s hand hovered like she wanted to touch Jules’ shoulder, but she didn’t push it. “I know this is a lot,” she said softly. “But staying with us….it shouldn’t change too much. You’re family.”
Jules sank back into her chair, her hands trembling as they found Bob’s again. His skin was warm, but limp. Her chest ached with the weight of everything she couldn’t say, couldn’t fight.
The room eventually emptied, the door shutting behind them, but Jules didn’t move. She bent low over Bob’s hand, clutching it to her chest, tears burning fresh. “I told them you’re coming back,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “So, you better. You hear me? You better.”
*********
The halls of Hawkins High felt wrong. Too bright, too loud, too normal. Bells shrilled overhead, lockers slammed, kids laughed like the world hadn’t almost ended a week ago. Jules drifted through it all like a ghost, her books clutched tight against her chest.
She’d fought it, of course—swore she wasn’t leaving Bob’s side until he opened his eyes. But Hopper had cornered her, blunt as ever. He’s in good hands, Ambrose. Sitting in that chair won’t wake him up. You want him to come back? Give him something normal to come back to.
Claudia had been gentler, nudging Jules toward school with packed lunches and promises to check on Bob while she was gone.
So, she’d gone. And now here she was, surrounded by chatter about football games and crushes, about homework and movie nights, all of it jarringly small compared to the weight pressing on her chest. Teachers gave her that soft, pitying look, the kind that made her want to sink through the floor. Classmates whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear.
At lunch, Robin Buckley slid into the seat across from her without asking, launching into a running commentary about the pizza squares being “one chemical spill away from sentience.” Jules didn’t laugh, not really, but she saw the effort.
By the end of the day, Steve Harrington’s BMW was parked crooked at the curb. He leaned out the window, sunglasses on, and yelled, “Ambrose! Let’s go!” loud enough for half the school to hear. Mortifying, sure—but there was something in his overprotective bravado that made her chest ache with reluctant gratitude.
And in the quiet between those moments, when the halls thinned and the noise died down, Jules felt it again—the wrongness of being here while Bob lay silent in a hospital bed. Like she’d stepped back into a life that didn’t fit anymore.
********
The hospital was a sharp contrast to the chatter and chaos of Hawkins High. Jules slipped through the automatic doors with Robin trailing behind her, spinning some nonsense about how Steve nearly got into a fight with a crossing guard on the drive to school that morning.
Steve himself was already marching toward the nurses’ desk, sunglasses shoved onto his head, demanding to know if Bob was still stable. He didn’t even look back to see if Jules followed.
She did. Her steps felt heavy, like each one dragged her further from the world of lockers and homework and deeper into the one where she’d been living all along—the one where Bob lay silent and unmoving.
Inside the room, the steady beep of the heart monitor was the only thing tethering her to the ground. Bob looked the same as always—still, pale, caught in some place between here and gone.
Robin, uncharacteristically quiet, set a comic down on the nightstand with an awkward shrug. “Dustin said he’d want the latest issue. I… figured maybe it’s like brain food.”
Steve leaned against the wall, arms loose over his chest, his eyes flicking down the hallway with a sharp, practiced focus. He wasn’t looming, not really—just there, solid and unshakable, like if anything came through that door he’d meet it first. Jules could breathe a little easier with him planted at her side.
She sat by Bob’s side, fingers curling around his limp hand. “I’m back,” she whispered, the words spilling out soft, meant only for him. “Sorry it took so long.”
The guilt gnawed sharper than ever, the thought repeating in her mind like a curse: I did this. My powers did this.
She felt Robin shift behind her, voice soft but restless. She talked about how she never knew what to say in moments like this, how she always worried she’d make things worse just by opening her mouth. Jules barely heard the words, but the honesty itself—awkward and unpolished—was enough to anchor her.
A quiet knock came at the door. Jules looked up to see the man from the lab leaning on his crutches, a clipboard tucked under his arm.
He smiled faintly, though his eyes flickered when they met hers, like she unsettled him. “I won’t intrude. Just came by to check in on a brave patient…maybe two.”
Robin glanced between them, brows raised, then offered, “We were just leaving, actually. Steve, come on.”
“What? I’m not—” Steve started, but Robin grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the door.
“Let the doctor do his thing,” she said breezily, winking at Jules in reassurance as they slipped out.
That left Jules, still clutching Bob’s hand, and Owens, watching her with something too careful, too curious.
“Mind if I sit?” His voice was quiet, rasp worn into it, as if the word itself cost him breath.
Jules looked up sharply. He was already lowering himself into the chair beside her, crutches leaned against the wall. His leg was stiff, bandaged beneath the torn fabric of his slacks.
She hesitated, then shrugged, her grip tightening on Bob’s hand. “You’re the doctor. Guess you can sit wherever you want.”
Her eyes flicked down, catching the embroidered patch on his lab coat. “Dr. Owens.”
Owens gave the faintest smile. “Not much doctoring going on these days. More… surviving.” He studied Bob for a long moment, then added softly, “He’s stable. That’s good. Sometimes stable is the first step back.”
Her throat worked, but she didn’t answer.
For a beat, silence settled between them—broken only by the monitor and the low shuffle of nurses outside. Owens shifted, folding his hands in his lap. When he finally spoke again, his voice was gentler, probing.
“I saw you in the lab. In the lobby.”
Jules froze. The words slammed into her like cold water. She didn’t move, didn’t blink, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
“You don’t know me,” Owens went on, “but I know what I saw. The dogs were tearing through men like paper, and then you—” He stopped, measuring her. “You shouldn’t have walked out of that room alive. And Bob certainly shouldn’t have.”
Jules’ grip on Bob’s hand tightened until her knuckles blanched. “Don’t.” The word tore from her, low and sharp. “Don’t you dare.”
Owens lifted a hand, placating. “I’m not accusing. I’m… trying to understand. People don’t just close wounds with their hands.” His eyes flicked to her fingers, then back to her face. “Not unless they’re something more than people.”
Her jaw locked. The glow in her palms itched at the memory, and for a heartbeat she thought it might spark even now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough to be careful,” Owens said simply. He leaned back, studying her the way a man studies a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. “And I know you’re scared of it. That fear’s written all over you.”
Jules looked away, blinking hard, tears stinging her lashes. “He’s in a coma because of me.”
Owens’ brows drew together. “That’s not how this works. Trauma, blood loss, shock—there are a dozen reasons his body could shut down while his brain fights to catch up. If anything…” He hesitated, and when he continued his voice was softer, almost awed. “If anything, the only reason he’s still here is you.”
She turned back, startled, searching his face for mockery. There was none—just exhaustion, curiosity, and something she couldn’t place.
“You’re not a monster,” Owens said firmly, leaning forward despite the pain in his leg. “Whatever you think, whatever you’ve been told—you are not that.”
Jules’ breath hitched. The words cracked something in her chest. She swallowed hard, looking back down at Bob, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.
Owens let the silence stretch before speaking again, voice quieter this time. “This conversation doesn’t leave this room. Not yet. But we will talk, Julienne. About what you can do. About what it means.”
Her eyes shot back to him, startled. “How do you—”
“Later,” Owens interrupted gently, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. He grabbed his crutches, steadying himself. “Right now, you sit with him. That’s the only job that matters.”
And then he was gone, leaving Jules with Bob’s still hand in hers, her heart pounding at the weight of what he’d just said.
********
The smell of bacon drifted into the hallway before Jules even opened her eyes. For a moment, half-dreaming, she expected it to be Bob humming off-key in the kitchen. But when she sat up, heart lurching, she remembered.
The Henderson guest room felt foreign to her. The quilt on her bed was tucked tight, patterned with faded sunflowers that looked like they belonged to another decade. A dresser stood mostly empty except for a single vase with silk flowers in it—dustless, deliberate, like Claudia had been waiting for someone to use this room again.
She dragged herself into the kitchen barefoot, curls tangled around her face. Claudia turned from the stove the second she appeared, smiling too brightly, spatula in hand.
“Good morning, sweetheart! Sit, sit. I made pancakes—your favorite. Chocolate chip. And bacon, because I know you like the crispy kind.”
Jules blinked; throat tight. That was her favorite when she was eight.
Before she could answer, Dustin barreled in, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. He thumped a plate down in front of her, piled so high with food it could’ve fed three people. “And OJ! And toast! Mom, don’t forget the jam!”
“Already on it,” Claudia said, bustling with a little too much energy.
Jules stared at the mountain of breakfast; her stomach knotted. “Guys… I’m not that hungry.”
“Nonsense,” Claudia chirped, sliding the jam onto the table. “Big day ahead. You need your strength.”
“Yeah,” Dustin added, dropping into the chair across from her. “It’s, uh… normal day stuff. School. Friends. Lunch in the cafeteria. Totally normal.” He gestured wildly at her plate, grinning too hard. “So—eat up. Fuel for normal.”
Jules couldn’t help it—her lips twitched. They were trying so hard it almost hurt.
She picked up her fork, poking at the stack. “You guys know I’ve known you basically my whole life, right? You don’t have to… audition for me.”
Claudia’s smile softened, just a little, though her eyes were still damp. “I know. But you’ve been through enough. Let us fuss a little, okay?”
Dustin ducked his head, hiding his grin in a glass of orange juice. Jules looked between them—this ridiculous, overperforming team—and felt something in her chest ease.
She cut into the pancakes and took a bite. Warm, too sweet, perfect.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “You can fuss. Just… don’t make it weird.”
Dustin snorted orange juice out his nose. Claudia laughed, relieved. Trust Dustin to weaponize orange juice against grief—she almost smiled watching him choke on it.
********
Jules drifted through Hawkins High in a haze, half-listening, half-counting the minutes until she could leave.
Robin kept orbiting, whispering that the only thing more terrifying than Mr. Clarke’s pop quizzes was watching the football team try to spell “victory” on their banners, then nudging Jules’ arm lightly. “You don’t have to laugh, but if you wanna roll your eyes, I’ll take it.”
Steve wasn’t glued to her side, but he lingered when he could—walking her to class if their schedules lined up, or hanging in the hallway just long enough to make anyone think twice about staring. He didn’t say much, but the steady presence was enough to anchor her.
By the last bell, Jules was wrung out. Normal life clung to her like a sweater two sizes too small—uncomfortable in all the wrong places. All she wanted was the hospital, the steady rhythm of Bob’s heartbeat.
But Steve’s BMW was idling at the curb, headlights blinking like a summons. Robin leaned halfway out the window, demanding to be noticed. “Arcade night, Ambrose. No arguments. You’re coming.”
Steve leaned across the seat with an easy grin. “Get in, Jules. Doctor’s orders.”
Jules hesitated on the sidewalk, exhaustion tugging her back toward the hospital. But Robin’s grin was expectant, and Steve’s voice—gentle under the teasing—made it harder to say no.
With a sigh, she climbed in.
********
The neon buzzed overhead, casting sickly pink and green across the scuffed floor tiles. The whole place smelled like popcorn oil and cheap plastic, the air thick with the beeps and shrieks of machines all clamoring for attention.
Jules hovered by the entrance, arms crossed, instantly regretting letting them talk her into this.
“Jules!” Steve’s voice cut across the chaos. He was leaning against the counter like he owned the joint, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, a cup of soda in his hand. “You planning to play or just brood by the door all night?”
Robin appeared at Jules’ side, clutching a fistful of quarters like she’d robbed a bank. “Ignore him. He thinks his hair makes him arcade royalty. Me? I’m here to honor the fine art of dying in pixels.”
Jules huffed, not quite a laugh, but close.
Robin shoved the quarters into her palm and marched her toward Dig Dug. “Come on, we’ll start you easy. Pump up a few underground monsters, get some catharsis.”
Jules fumbled through her first run, dying three times before she’d figured out which button did what. Robin narrated every move like a sportscaster on too much caffeine.
“Oh! Brutal! She’s down again! This mole’s career is shorter than a Saturday detention.”
Jules exhaled through her nose, lips twitching faintly. “Guess I’m hopeless.”
“Correction,” Robin said solemnly, hand over her heart. “You’re hopeless with style.”
Steve wandered over, leaning on the cabinet with a smirk. “Don’t let her hype you. It’s a game, not the Olympics.”
Jules arched a brow. “Easy to say from the sidelines. You practice in the mirror or something?”
Robin barked a laugh so loud people turned their heads. Steve flushed pink. “I don’t—okay, maybe once. But it was for research!”
Jules only shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching.
They drifted from Pac-Man to skee-ball, Robin tossing commentary like confetti, Steve taking every game far too seriously. Jules played along, her hands moving through the motions, sometimes catching herself almost smiling. But it never lasted. The laughter never made it all the way through her chest.
When her first skee-ball rolled clean over the lane into someone else’s, Steve groaned. “Wow. You’re terrifying behind the wheel, and now throwing balls. Truly a menace to society.”
Jules flipped him off without looking back. No laugh this time—just the sharpness of it, enough to make Robin grin wide.
The last of their quarters clinked away, and the three of them wound up in a booth near the back wall. Neon buzzed overhead, throwing jagged stripes of green and pink across the sticky table. Robin dumped a basket of fries between them, instantly stealing the crispiest ones.
She chewed thoughtfully, then leaned in with mock seriousness. “Principal Higgins gives those speeches like he’s auditioning for America’s Most Boring Man. Pretty sure even the fire alarms nap through them.”
Steve snorted, tipping back in his seat. “Hard to argue with that. Guy could make summer vacation sound depressing.”
Robin pointed a fry at him. “Exactly. And yet we’re supposed to applaud like he cured cancer.”
Jules managed the faintest twitch of a smile. It wasn’t much, but it was there.
Robin caught it, grinned, and nudged her arm. “See? That’s all I’m asking. Micro-smiles. I collect them.”
Jules ducked her head, picking at the fries without eating them. The neon made them look fluorescent, almost unreal. The noise of the arcade pressed close, too bright, too loud. For a second she wished she were back in Bob’s room, listening to the soft beep of monitors. At least that sound had a rhythm she could trust.
Steve shifted beside her, his voice low, steadier than Robin’s teasing. “You’re here. That’s good enough.”
Robin didn’t push after that. She just leaned back, stealing another fry, muttering something under her breath about Dig Dug rematches.
The hum of machines carried on, laughter rising from the other side of the arcade. For a moment, Jules could almost pretend she was part of it—almost. But when she blinked, the neon haze felt sharp again, her chest tight, her mind already drifting back to a hospital bed and the sound of a heartbeat that might not be there tomorrow.
The fries, the games, the noise—it dulled the edges, but it didn’t reach the center.
*********
By the time Robin and Steve dropped her at the Hendersons’, the neon hum had already faded from her skin. The quiet crept back in during the drive, settling heavier with every mile. An hour later, the noise of the arcade felt distant, unreal—replaced by the clatter of dishes and the warm smell of buttered noodles drifting through Claudia’s kitchen, homey in a way that pressed tight against Jules’ chest. Claudia hummed along to the radio while she drained the pot, her apron dotted with flour from some earlier baking. Dustin sat at the table, pencil clenched between his teeth as he scribbled battle stats across a sheet of graph paper, muttering numbers under his breath.
Jules sat across from him, chin in her palm, pretending to follow along in a magazine. She loved this house — the floral curtains, the clutter of knickknacks, Claudia’s voice filling the air like sunlight — but it wasn’t hers.
“More garlic bread?” Claudia asked, already sliding another slice onto Jules’ plate.
“Thanks,” Jules murmured, forcing a small smile.
Dustin shot her a grin around his pencil. “Careful. It’s her master plan. Feed you until you can’t leave.”
Claudia swatted at him with the dish towel. “Oh, hush. Jules has always been part of this family. Paperwork or no paperwork.”
That was the problem, Jules thought. Claudia meant it — had always meant it — and that almost made the weight worse. She wasn’t Claudia’s daughter. Just someone filling space because Bob wasn’t here to anchor her.
Later, after the dishes were done and Dustin vanished to his room in a clatter of dice, Jules lingered at the threshold of the guest room. Claudia had washed the sheets in lavender detergent, tucked a lamp by the bed, even stacked Jules’ books neatly on the nightstand. Every gesture was kindness.
And still, it didn’t feel like home.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenched together. If Bob didn’t wake up… if he was gone for good… she couldn’t just keep moving into other people’s lives, pretending she fit. She couldn’t bear being folded into another family, no matter how much love was offered.
It was Bob or nothing.
The thought settled heavy in her chest, sharp as truth.
*********
The first half of the following day blurred together. Teachers droned, notes scrawled across chalkboards, and Jules’ pencil scratched just enough to look busy. Her brain wasn’t absorbing any of it.
By the time the second bell released the flood of students into the hall, the noise hit her like a wall. She kept her head down, weaving through backpacks and sneakers squeaking on tile.
She didn’t see the shoulder coming until it clipped her hard enough to knock her books against her chest.
“Watch it,” Amber snapped, her cheer skirt swishing as she spun to glare. Kayla and Melissa flanked her like shadows, already snickering. “God, maybe try walking like a normal person for once.”
The laughter was sharp, meant to sting.
Jules’ eyes flicked up, green sharp as glass for half a second, then dulled. She didn’t have it in her today. Not the energy, not the fight. She just rolled her eyes, tucked her books tighter to her ribs, and kept walking.
Their laughter followed her down the hall, but she let it slide off like static, pretending it didn’t stick.
*********
The cafeteria was unbearable — trays clattering, voices bouncing sharp off the walls, laughter pitched too high to be real. Jules lasted three minutes before shoving through the side doors, letting the cold November air bite her cheeks.
Her feet carried her on instinct, past the cracked blacktop, through the fence, down the narrow path behind the school. The clearing opened like an exhale. The old picnic table sat scarred and waiting, initials gouged into its surface, its edges worn smooth by years of weather and bored teenagers with pocketknives. She climbed onto the tabletop, lay back flat, and let her eyes blur on the pale sky. Finally, the noise in her head dulled.
She didn’t hear the footsteps until a voice cut through.
“You know,” Eddie Munson drawled, “most people ask before they steal a man’s castle.”
Her heart jolted. She sat up quickly, hair falling in her face. Eddie stood a few feet away, lunch pail dangling loose in his hand, curls shifting in the breeze.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I just needed… space. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
He dropped onto the bench without hesitation, sprawling with the ease of someone who never asked permission for anything. “Relax, Tink. Castle’s got room for two.”
Silence stretched. Jules picked at the grooves in the tabletop, her fingertip catching on a set of initials carved deep. Eddie pulled a pretzel from his pail, spun it between his rings, then popped it into his mouth like the crunch could fill the quiet.
After a moment, his voice dropped softer. “I heard about Bob. I—”
“Please don’t.” It came out sharper than she meant. Her throat closed around the words, leaving them brittle. “I can’t… not right now.”
He stilled, then nodded once. No push, no apology. Just: “Alright.”
The quiet came back, steadier this time. The wind rattled through the bare branches overhead, whistling low through the chain-link behind them. Jules let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Eddie drummed his rings against the wood, rhythm thoughtful. “When I get stuck in my head, I’ve got this ritual.” His grin twitched faint, like he was embarrassed to admit it. “I throw on The Dark Crystal — wore the tape out in, like, six months — grab whatever junk food Wayne hasn’t inhaled, maybe light up if it’s one of those nights. By the end, I’m either laughing at nothing or drooling on the couch.”
Jules blinked, caught between disbelief and an unexpected pull of warmth. She could picture it too clearly: Eddie sprawled across a sagging couch, movie light flickering against his curls, half a bag of Doritos crushed under his elbow.
It was nice having the thought not come with strings. With Robin, it could feel that way sometimes—though Robin came wrapped in noise, all words and gestures and restless energy. With Steve and Dustin, the quiet was there, but it was weighted, every glance carrying what they knew. The Upside Down. The monsters. Bob in a hospital bed.
But Eddie didn’t know any of that. He just knew her as Jules. Tink. A girl he’d nicknamed on a whim and teased because it made her smile. With him, there was no script, no loaded silences, no secrets pressing down. Just her, lighter than she’d felt in a long while.
He flicked his eyes to her, deliberate this time. “That’s the plan after Hellfire tonight. Forest Hills. If you ever… needed a different kind of quiet.”
She lifted her gaze, the name snagging her. “Forest Hills?”
“Trailer park out on the edge of town.” He leaned back, grin crooked but not unkind. “Looks rough, smells like cigarettes, but the couch is ugly enough to grow on you. It’s home.”
Something tugged sharp in her chest at that word — home — like it had splintered off from her earlier realization this morning. She forced a half-smile, tried to shape it into a joke. “Wow. You really know how to sell it.” Her voice wavered; the humor thin.
Eddie didn’t press, just let his mouth curl wider, softer. Like he heard the weight under her words. “Door’s open, Tink. That’s all.”
She looked back at the table carvings, fingers still tracing the grooves, but her pulse thudded a little harder than before. The silence hung between them again, only now it felt different. Not heavy. Not empty. Just… waiting.
***********
By the last bell she was on autopilot — books, locker, crowded halls. The squeak of sneakers on linoleum still clung to her ears as she stepped outside, where November air stung cold against her cheeks.
By the time the hospital doors hissed open, she wasn’t sure how she’d even gotten there. The chatter and laughter of Hawkins High dissolved behind her, replaced by the antiseptic hush of the ward.
The steady beep of machines filled the room, soft but relentless. Jules curled into the chair by Bob’s bed, knees drawn up, chin resting against them. His chest rose and fell beneath the blanket, shallow but steady, wires threading out from him like anchors holding him in place.
She reached for his hand, thumb tracing small, steady circles over his skin. “So, uh… Henderson house report.” Her voice was hushed, pitched for him alone. “Dustin tried another one of his inventions today — little speaker thing. Fried itself in thirty seconds flat. You would’ve fixed it in five. Claudia’s been sneaking extra garlic bread onto my plate. You’d probably tease me about it, so… I didn’t tell her to stop.”
She shifted forward, fussing with the details the way she’d seen him do a hundred times. Smoothed the blanket flat across his chest. Brushed his hair back until it lay the way he always kept it, neat instead of mussed. Straightened the magazines on the table so they weren’t crooked.
Her throat tightened. “It’s nice there. They love me. You know they do. But it’s not…” The words snagged, breaking. “It’s not home. Not without you.”
For a long beat she sat there, listening to the steady rhythm of the monitor. And in the silence, she realized the truth: keeping these little things in place, keeping him neat, talking to him— it felt like the only way to keep him alive. As though if she stopped, he’d slip further away.
“I can’t keep being passed around, Bob,” she whispered, pressing her forehead lightly against his hand. “I can’t move into another family’s house like I’m some spare puzzle piece that’ll fit anywhere. It’s you, or… nothing. I don’t know how to do this without you.”
The peppermint tea the nurse had left on the side table had gone cold, its sweetness lingering faint in the air.
That was when she noticed it — the corner of a folded slip of paper, tucked half-hidden beneath the edge of Bob’s chart.
Her brows knit. She slid it free, hands shaking slightly.
For a moment she only stared at the fold, heart thudding, a chill prickling along her arms. Then she opened it.
Her breath hitched. The words she read slammed into her chest, snapping her spine straight.
She folded the note quickly, carefully, and slipped it into her jacket pocket, the paper suddenly feeling heavier than it should.
Then she leaned forward, thumb brushing once more across Bob’s knuckles, voice breaking into a whisper. “I’ll be back. Promise.”
The monitor’s steady beep was her only reply.
*********
The lab felt different now. Hollow. The kind of quiet that follows when something enormous finally dies. Jules trailed the sterile hallway, the note Owens had left burned a hole in her pocket. Come see me. Hawkins Lab. 8 p.m.
The office door was half-open. Inside, the place looked more like a crime scene cleanup than a workplace: boxes stacked in uneven towers, files spilling loose sheets across the desk, a lab coat folded sloppily on the arm of a chair. Even the air smelled wrong — cardboard, dust, stale coffee instead of bleach and chemicals.
Owens sat behind the desk; shoulders slouched but eyes sharp. He was rifling through a folder thick with yellowed notes and clipped photographs. His lips pressed thin, eyes scanning fast, almost desperate. His tie was crooked, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, bandaged leg stretched stiffly beneath the desk. He looked like a man too tired to stand but too wired to stop.
Then he looked up. And just like that, the folder snapped shut, his hand dragging it under a neat stack of files. The motion was too sharp to be casual.
Not sharp enough to hide the name stamped on the tab: Eleanor Mathis.
The syllables seared into Jules’ mind before she could stop herself. She didn’t know why it mattered — or why Owens looked like he’d been caught with contraband — but she filed it away in the same quiet corner of her brain where she kept things she wasn’t ready to unpack.
“You came,” Owens said at last, voice even, as if nothing had happened.
Jules hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. Her pulse hadn’t steadied since the hospital. “You left me a note. Seemed rude to ignore it.”
One corner of his mouth tipped upward — not quite a smile, more like acknowledgment. He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit. Unless you’re more comfortable looming.”
She slid into the chair, tapping her boot against the tile to mask the restless energy crawling under her skin. Her eyes scanned the office: half-empty shelves, stripped bulletin boards. It looked like abandonment. “So this is it? Lab’s shutting down. No more… weird experiments, monsters in jars.”
Owens glanced at a folded newspaper on his desk, the headline stark: Chemical Leak Tragedy at Hawkins Lab. He tapped it once with two fingers. “That’s the story the town gets. Tragic accident, facility closed, case closed.”
“And the real story?” Jules asked, voice sharper than she meant.
“The real story,” Owens said, leaning back, “is that gates close, but eyes don’t. Someone is always watching. Someone is always waiting for cracks to open.”
Her throat tightened. She hadn’t expected that answer — not the ease, the certainty. She leaned back, arms crossing tighter, and forced her voice low. “So what am I supposed to do? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Pretend Idon’t exist?”
Owens’ gaze sharpened. He folded his hands, resting them over his stomach like a judge about to deliver a verdict. “Tell me something. When did it start? When did you first notice?”
Jules’ pulse stumbled. His tone wasn’t accusing, but the question coiled through her anyway. She rubbed her thumb along the seam of her jeans, stalling. “Notice what?”
He didn’t blink. “You know what.”
Her hand drifted up, almost without thinking, brushing the nape of her neck, no scar, just smooth skin. It should have been comforting. Instead, it rattled her. Because sometimes the absence felt worse — like proof had been erased, leaving only her memory to convince her it had been real at all.
She forced the words out, rough. “Not until last year. After it clawed me. The Demogorgon.” She swallowed hard, throat dry. “It swiped at my neck. Next day, I… woke up different. Stronger. Like something broke open. My neck was clean, like nothing happened.”
Owens went still. No scribbled note, no click of a pen, no muttered medical jargon — just silence. His eyes flicked to where her hand rested, then back to her face, and his composure cracked. Something flickered there — recognition, maybe even grief — before he masked it again.
“I see,” he murmured, voice pitched lower.
Jules shifted, heat crawling up her neck. “What? What do you see?”
Owens inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “Enough to know you need to be careful.” His voice dropped, firm. “What you can do — it’s rare. Precious. Dangerous in the wrong hands. If the wrong people had seen you in that lobby, you wouldn’t be sitting in this chair. You’d be tagged and numbered. Property.”
Her stomach twisted. She pressed her nails into her palm until it stung, fighting the urge to flinch. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”
“No one does,” Owens said quietly. His gaze softened — but only just. “That doesn’t change what you are.”
The silence stretched, heavy. Jules’ chest ached, her breaths shallow.
Then Owens reached into a drawer and slid a notecard across the desk. Neat handwriting, a single phone number scrawled clean.
“If you ever need me — for anything — you call this. Doesn’t matter when.”
Jules picked it up, turning it between her fingers, the weight of it absurd for such a small thing. Before she could overthink it, the words tumbled out. “There is something.”
Owens arched a brow, waiting.
“I can’t…” She faltered, her throat tightening. “I can’t live in someone else’s house anymore. Claudia, Dustin — I love them. But it feels like I’m just… filling a gap. Pretending. And I can’t keep pretending.” She forced her eyes up, meeting his steady gaze. “You helped Hopper and El. Got her papers. A new life. Can you do that for me? Emancipation. A clean start.”
Owens leaned back slowly, folding his hands again. The silence stretched, long enough for her pulse to pound in her ears. Finally, he said, “That’s a big ask.”
Her stomach dropped. She gripped the edge of her chair, bracing for the no.
“But not impossible,” he finished, voice measured. “It’ll take time. Patience. Paperwork. And you’ll have to be certain this is what you want. Emancipation isn’t freedom, Julienne. It’s responsibility.”
“I’m certain,” Jules said. Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down. “I can’t keep borrowing a life that isn’t mine.”
Owens studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, at last, the corners of his eyes softened, faint lines etched with something almost paternal. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”
Jules let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She slipped the notecard into her pocket, the edges biting against her palm.
Owens reached for a box, sliding a file inside and shutting the lid with quiet finality. “Go live your life. Be careful who you trust. And don’t waste what you can do.”
She rose, legs unsteady. At the door, she paused, glancing back at him. “You sound like you know exactly what I am.”
His eyes met hers, dark, unreadable, full of things unsaid. “I know enough.”
And that was all. She left him with his boxes, his crutches, and whatever ghosts lived in the silence after she closed the door.
*********
The night air slapped cold against her face as she stepped out of the lab. The heavy door clanged shut behind her, muffling the distant echo of boots and orders inside. For a moment, she just stood there, staring out over the parking lot lined with military jeeps and floodlights.
Her pulse was still racing, her body wired with the things Owens hadn’t said.
Eleanor Mathis.
She didn’t know the name. Didn’t know why he buried it so quickly, like it was something dangerous. But it lodged behind her ribs all the same, a splinter she couldn’t dig out.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, brushing the edge of the notecard. His number. His warning. Someone is always watching.
She swallowed hard and pulled her jacket tighter, the fabric scratching at the same spot she touched earlier on her neck. She’d never told anyone what happened there — how the Demogorgon’s swipe had left her bleeding and how the next morning, the world had felt… off. She still remembered staring at her hands, waiting for them to behave like they always had, and knowing they never would again.
Owens’ words echoed: If the wrong people saw you… you’d be property.
Her throat tightened. The last thing she wanted was to be someone’s experiment. Not like El. Not ever.
She forced her legs to move, boots crunching over gravel as she crossed the lot toward Bob’s car — his boxy ’83 Toyota Camry Liftback. The old paint was dull under the floodlights, but the shape was so familiar it steadied her, like she could almost see him sliding into the driver’s seat, humming along to the radio.
She climbed in, the cracked vinyl seat groaning beneath her. The smell was the same — faintly sweet, worn in, like old fast-food wrappers and the cologne Bob used to over-spray. For a second, it was too much. She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel and let herself breathe.
Finally, she reached for the glove box. Pulled the notecard out of her pocket. Owens’ number glared back in clean, sharp handwriting.
It didn’t feel like safety. Not exactly. But it was something.
She shoved it deep into the glove box, slammed it shut, and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed once, then settled into its uneven hum.
The Camry rattled as she pulled out of the lot, its headlights cutting a weak cone through the dark stretch of road. Hawkins blurred past in fragments: the shuttered gas station, the pool chained up for winter, houses with porch lights glowing against the November cold.
She drove with the window cracked just enough for the air to sting her face. It didn’t quiet the thrum in her chest. Owens’ words looped back like a song she couldn’t switch off. Eleanor Mathis. Someone is always watching.
She gripped the wheel tighter, knuckles pale. Part of her brain whispered to just go home — back to Claudia’s kitchen, Dustin’s questions, the TV murmuring in the background. Safety in routine.
But her hands didn’t turn. They kept the wheel straight, then tipped it left at the next intersection, almost before she realized what she was doing. The streets thinned, streetlamps replaced by long shadows of trees. The Camry hummed over cracked asphalt, the only car for miles.
She didn’t even know why until the sign rose in her headlights: Forest Hills Trailer Park.
Her pulse spiked. A part of her almost laughed — she hadn’t promised Eddie anything, hadn’t even told him she’d come. But the thought of sitting alone with the silence and Owens’ voice in her head… that felt worse.
**********
The sign for Forest Hills sagged in her headlights, its paint nearly stripped bare. The park unfolded in crooked rows — sagging trailers, porches lit by dim yellow bulbs, yards scattered with rusted bikes and oil-stained cars that hadn’t run in years. The air smelled faintly of damp leaves and cigarette smoke, threaded with the sharp bite of cold. Somewhere down the row, a dog barked once, then again, hoarse and unrelenting.
Her eyes caught on the van parked crooked in a gravel drive. Even from a distance, she knew it. Eddie’s. The dented gray paint, the stickers clinging stubborn against rust, the cracked demon skull decal on the back window — familiar enough to steady her, yet jarring in this setting.
Her chest tightened. She pulled the Camry to a stop a little up the row, cut the engine, and let the silence rush in.
That was when her body betrayed her. Every sense sharpened at once, like her nerves had slipped into overdrive. The hum of a far-off streetlight. The crunch of gravel under some unseen step. The way the cold air burned in her lungs, sharp enough to taste. Her pulse was everywhere — in her fingertips against the steering wheel, in her throat, even in her ears, beating too fast.
She sat there too long. Hands locked at ten and two, palms damp. Every excuse flickered through her head: start the engine again, go home, tell herself she got lost. But her body didn’t move, didn’t listen.
Finally, she pried her hands free, wiped them against her jeans, and shoved the door open. The hinge groaned, loud in the stillness.
The gravel felt unstable under her boots as she crossed to the trailer, every sound magnified — the crunch of each step, the squeak of her jacket, even her breath fogging pale in the air. The closer she got, the smaller the world seemed to narrow: porch light glowing weakly, the van hulking to her left, and the door in front of her. This was Eddie’s world. Just him.
At the bottom of the steps she paused, breath fogging pale. She lifted her hand and knocked, quick, before she could talk herself out of it.
For a beat, silence. Then a shuffle inside, the metallic click of a lock.
The door swung open.
Eddie leaned against the frame, curls frizzed from the damp air, a ratty Corroded Coffin tee hanging loose over his jeans. His forearm pressed casual to the metal, rings catching the porch light like glints of mischief. He smelled faintly of smoke and detergent, like a hundred small stories clinging to him at once.
For a heartbeat, Jules just… looked. Without the noise of school crowding around them, without the buffer of Robin’s laughter or Steve’s sarcasm, it was only him. He filled the doorway like he belonged there, like the whole place bent itself around his presence.
Surprise flickered in his eyes first — then something brighter, softer. Relief, maybe. Or the kind of pleased you couldn’t fake, not even if you tried. He smoothed it into a grin, but she’d already caught it.
“Well, well,” he drawled, voice warm and lazy. “Didn’t think you’d actually show. Forest Hills doesn’t get many fairy visitors.”
Her mouth tugged despite the thrum in her chest. She forced her voice steady. “Yeah, well… place looks like it gives out tetanus with the welcome mats.”
That cracked his grin wide. He barked a laugh, stepping back with a flourish and sweeping an arm inside. “Guess I better prove we’re only mildly hazardous, then. Come on in, Tink.”
For the barest second, she hovered on the threshold, the glow of the porch light haloing him, the hum under her skin louder than it had been all day. Then she stepped inside.
The warmth hit her the second she crossed the threshold, heavy and close after the sharp night air. It smelled different than anywhere else she’d been — faint cigarette smoke woven through with coffee grounds, old wood, something faintly sweet she couldn’t place. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was lived-in.
The door shut behind her with a dull thud. She turned just in time to see Eddie fumble the lock — not really fumble, but his fingers lingered longer than necessary, tapping once against the latch before pulling away. His grin had dimmed, too. Not gone, just… smaller. Less performance.
Jules’ eyes tracked him as he moved past her. Without the doorway to lean on, without the hallway audience to play to, his body language shifted. He rubbed the back of his neck once, quick, then crossed the room with long strides that didn’t quite hide how restless he was. His rings clinked faintly when he picked up a stack of cassettes and set them down again, like he’d forgotten what he meant to do with them.
Her gaze caught on the room itself — the clutter of tapes spilling across the TV stand, a half-full ashtray gone crooked, a crumpled Doritos bag on the counter. A vintage patchwork quilt was tossed across the back of the couch, wrinkled in a way that suggested it had been dragged over more than once for late nights. The whole place carried a kind of chaotic intimacy — a map of someone’s life left out in the open.
And Eddie… he didn’t look untouchable here. He looked like a guy suddenly hyper-aware of every mess, every flaw. For a split second, she could see him second-guessing himself — should he crack a joke, offer her a seat, apologize for the socks on the floor? His mouth opened, shut again, then curved into a grin that was more sheepish than suave.
“So,” he said finally, gesturing with both hands at the room like it was a grand reveal. “Welcome to the Munson palace. Uh… sorry if it smells like Wayne’s cigarettes. And… socks. Definitely socks.”
It wasn’t the smooth banter she was used to. It was raw, unpolished. And Jules thought it was… adorable.
She let herself smile, small but real, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. For once, it wasn’t her carrying the weight of being seen. Eddie was the one on display — and she didn’t feel crushed by it.
*********
The couch springs squeaked as Jules sank deeper into the ugly plaid cushions. The Dark Crystal flickered on the TV, its dreamlike world bleeding pale colors across the trailer walls. Eddie sprawled at the opposite end, long legs stretched out, a bowl of popcorn balanced between them like a truce offering.
He scooped a handful, shaking the bowl with exaggerated care. “Alright, lesson one. The Munson method. Shake every twenty seconds—perfect butter distribution. Science.”
Jules tugged her sleeves down over her hands, arching a brow. “Pretty sure that’s just called making a mess.”
He tipped the bowl dramatically, a few kernels bouncing onto the couch. “Lies. This is generational wisdom. Someday, they’ll etch it on my tombstone: Here lies Munson, pioneer of perfect popcorn.”
Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, light and unexpected. It cracked something in her chest, and her shoulders eased.
They reached for the bowl at the same time. Her fingers brushed his—quick, electric, enough to jolt heat into her neck. Jules jerked her hand back, tucking it under her leg like it had betrayed her.
Onscreen, the Chamberlain let out his shrill, whiny croak. Jules groaned, pulling her sleeves further over her hands. “That noise should be illegal. He’s vile. No redemption arc, just… turkey with a lizard tail.”
Eddie gasped, scandalized, nearly spilling his popcorn. “Vile? Tink, you wound me. If I were writing this story, he’d flip. Make peace with the Gelflings. Be the Skeksis who finally restores order. The ultimate redemption.”
“You’d rewrite the whole movie just to give a turkey-man a happy ending?”
“Damn right I would.” His grin stretched wide, reckless. “Underdog stories, Ambrose. Nobody expects the creep to grow a conscience. That’s what makes it gold.”
She snorted. “You’re a menace.”
“Brilliant’s more like it.” He smirked, unbothered. “Alright, your turn. Podling lore. Go.”
Jules hesitated, then pointed at a squat Podling tottering across the screen. “That one. His name’s Kip. He makes the worst soup in the village. So bad they banned him from cooking.”
Eddie brightened instantly, leaning in. “Brutal start. Go on.”
“But…” She caught herself smiling. “He carves spoons out of bark. Gives them away for free. Nobody wants his soup, but everyone uses his spoons. So maybe that counts for something.”
The smirk eased out of Eddie’s expression, replaced by something quieter. He looked at her differently then, softer, like she’d said more than she realized. “That’s actually perfect. Doesn’t matter if the soup sucks. People remember what you give. That’s legacy.”
Heat pricked her cheeks, and she ducked her head, letting the flicker of the screen give her an excuse not to meet his eyes. She pretended to fuss with a loose thread on her sleeve, though the truth was she didn’t trust her face not to give something away.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The movie carried on, but Jules caught herself noticing everything except the story. The faint clink when Eddie adjusted his rings against the soda can. The way the lamplight carved shadows across his cheekbones. How his laugh, when it finally slipped out at a Skeksis pratfall, was softer here than at school — like he didn’t need to throw it as far.
Her gaze drifted to the mess on the table: magazines stacked in uneven piles — Hit Parader, Circus, Creem, Rolling Stone — some dog-eared, a pencil wedged like a bookmark through one. It was all unpolished, lived-in, and somehow more honest than anywhere else she’d been lately.
When her eyes flicked back, Eddie was watching her, not the screen. Not smirking, not posturing — just watching. The kind of look that made her throat go dry. She shifted her foot without thinking, and when it bumped his, she didn’t move it away.
The warmth in the room settled differently after that. Not loud, not buzzing. Just steady, like a thread tying them loosely together.
By the time the credits rolled, neither of them moved. The popcorn bowl was empty, the sodas half-drained, and the glow painted Eddie’s curls silver-blue.
He groaned when the TV clicked to static, leaning over to smack it until the noise cut. “Tragic. Every masterpiece must end.”
“Masterpiece?” Jules teased, tucking her knees up. “Bold word for puppets.”
He turned to her, mock-offended. “Hey! You don’t insult Dark Crystal and walk away unscathed.”
“You mean like this?” She smirked, daring him.
Eddie narrowed his eyes, then wiggled his fingers at her ribs. “Careful, Ambrose. That’s eviction-level offense.”
Jules yelped, curling up tighter under her sleeves, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare, Munson.”
He cracked up, holding both hands up in surrender. “Fine, fine. You’re safe… this time.”
The laughter settled, but the warmth stayed. Jules realized her chest wasn’t aching the way it had been for days. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just… there.
She tugged her jacket back on, voice soft. “I should get back. Hendersons are probably wondering where I am.”
“Hendersons?” Eddie asked, brow arched.
“Temporary situation,” she said quickly. “Just… temporary.”
She lingered at the door, fiddling with her jacket zipper; “Thanks...for tonight. For not asking. For just being you.”
Something flickered across his face — the grin fading into something gentler, truer. “Anytime, Tink.”
She hesitated, then added, almost without meaning to: “You’re not the same here.”
His brows rose. “Not the same?”
“Not like at school. Dungeon Master. Class clown. Always on.” Her eyes darted past him, to the band magazines, the vintage patchwork blanket, the guitar cases stacked in the corner. “Here… you’re different.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, thumb sliding over his rings. “Off-duty Munson,” he muttered, trying for casual. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the mystique.”
Her smile curved, small but steady. “I like it.”
The tips of his ears flushed pink, but his grin spread wider anyway. “Yeah, well. Door’s open, Tink. Anytime.”
Cold air rushed in when he pulled the door open. Gravel crunched under her boots as she crossed to Bob’s Camry. She glanced back once. Eddie’s silhouette lingered in the doorway, watching until she slid behind the wheel.
She started the engine, and for a heartbeat, she believed she could get through this.
Notes:
This one drained me in the best way. Writing Jules in this chapter meant sitting with a lot of heavy emotions — grief, guilt, and that terrifying feeling of being in-between things, not knowing if the person you love most is still really there. Bob’s coma isn’t just a plot beat for me; it’s about Jules clinging to the only anchor she’s ever had, while the rest of the world keeps pulling her forward.
Balancing that with her moments with Eddie was important. Those scenes weren’t just “light relief” — they’re the cracks where warmth sneaks in, where she can remember what it feels like to laugh, to be seen without the weight of everything pressing down. Writing their banter, their small touches, their quiet honesty — that was me giving her (and myself) a breath of air in a chapter that otherwise could’ve drowned in sorrow.
If you felt yourself holding your breath at Bob’s bedside, or smiling a little too wide when Eddie broke through her walls with popcorn philosophy, then I think we’re feeling this story the same way. Thank you for sticking with me — through the ache, through the small comforts, through the messy middle spaces where it’s not about endings or beginnings, but about holding on and letting go.
Chapter 24: Open Circuits
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The cover story clung to Hawkins like smoke: chemical leak at the lab. That was what the papers printed, what the whispers at school parroted in hallways. For a while, Jules couldn’t walk ten feet without catching someone’s eyes on her, pitying or suspicious, waiting for her to unravel. But as the weeks wore on, even that dulled. The whispers softened into background noise, and eventually she wasn’t the girl with the poisoned guardian anymore—she was just Jules again, carrying books through too-bright halls, pretending she fit.
Bob stayed the same. Stable, the nurses kept repeating until the word felt meaningless. Jules read his machines the way other kids read magazines—heartbeat, oxygen, every number telling her he was still tethered here even if he wasn’t with her. She talked to him the way she always had, only now her words hung heavier, prayers in disguise.
School slipped by in fragments. At lunch, Robin’s chatter filled the air—her eyes moving, narrating who was sitting where and what it really meant—half gossip, half anthropological study, like Hawkins High was her personal case file. She bounced between her band friends and Jules, always looping back to pull her into the noise. Steve drifted near too, his presence quieter but no less steady. He cracked jokes and leaned against lockers like nothing touched him, though Jules caught the shadow in his eyes whenever Nancy and Jonathan passed by.
And then there was Eddie. After their night at Forest Hills, something shifted. Not drastically—just in small, steady ways. A joke tossed across the cafeteria. A smirk over a doodle in art class. Gareth rolling his eyes, not even surprised as he watched their friendship take shape in the margins. They didn’t spend every lunch together, but when they did find each other—on the cracked bench behind the school or in the easy sprawl of art class—it felt like a corner of Hawkins belonged only to them.
The hardest shift came at home. Dustin had been cracking jokes about her “superpowers” since the lab, but when the two of them finally sat down—just the two of them—Jules told him everything. How the Demogorgon had clawed her, how she’d woken the next morning with her skin completely healed, how something had changed inside her. How she’d practiced alone in the woods, terrified and exhilarated. How she’d run into El more than once, and how El, in her blunt way, had shown her how to focus, how not to lose control. She told him all of it, every piece she’d carried.
Dustin listened in silence, his face a storm. When she finally trailed off, he let her sit in it a long moment before muttering, “You don’t get to keep stuff like that from me again.” It wasn’t a threat, but it carried weight. Jules promised, guilt twisting deep, and when he finally cracked a grin—calling her a secret superhero wannabe—it felt like the air broke open again.
The days blurred like that: hospital chairs and cafeteria debates, Eddie’s grin across a table, Dustin’s stubborn loyalty pressing close. The ache of Bob’s absence threaded through all of it, constant as her pulse. And before she knew it, November had thinned to bare trees and frosted mornings.
By the time Thanksgiving crept up on Hawkins, the world had settled into a rhythm she couldn’t quite name—half borrowed, half hers, all of it heavy with the space Bob should have filled.
********
The Henderson kitchen smelled of roasting turkey and pie crust, warm enough to fog the windows. Claudia moved between stove and counter with practiced rhythm, apron dusted with flour. Jules stood at her side, chopping celery into neat little piles, while Dustin crouched on the floor, wires spilling from a cereal box contraption like tangled guts.
“Careful with that knife, sweetheart,” Claudia called without looking up. “Don’t want to explain to the ER why Thanksgiving ended with stitches.”
Jules smirked, flicking a slice into the bowl. “Relax. Dustbin’s the one messing with live wires. I’m the safe one.”
“Perfectly stable technology,” Dustin muttered—right before a spark popped sharp enough to make him flinch. “Mostly stable.”
The laugh burst out of her before she could think, sharp and genuine. It startled her almost as much as the spark had, but she let it stand, the sound hanging warm in the kitchen air.
Claudia glanced over, catching it. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes softened, like the sound was worth more than the celery getting chopped.
The kitchen clatter filled the silence that might have felt too heavy otherwise. But Claudia broke it herself, her voice softer. “You remember Chicago, don’t you? That year Bob insisted on making cranberry sauce?”
Jules laughed before she could stop herself. “Oh my God. He dumped in half a cup of salt instead of sugar.”
Claudia nodded, grinning wide. “He was so proud of that bowl—until you two gagged your way through spoonfuls, daring each other not to spit it out.”
“And then he tried it,” Jules said, shaking her head. “Nearly spit it across the room.”
“Ordered pizza,” Dustin chimed in, grinning. “Best Thanksgiving dinner ever. Pepperoni and salted cranberries.”
The laughter carried, warm and sharp-edged, filling the kitchen like Bob was still here to hear it.
But Claudia didn’t stop there. She set down her spatula, eyes glinting with a different kind of memory. “You know… your mom had her quirks, too. Back when we worked together at the hospital. Records room, long nights, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. And she’d…” Claudia chuckled, shaking her head. “She’d sing along to the radio jingles. Totally off-key. Didn’t matter if it was a car dealership or a toothpaste commercial. She sang it like it was gospel.”
Jules blinked, caught off guard. “She… did?”
“Oh, constantly,” Claudia said, smiling at her. “And loud. People used to peek in the door to check what was going on. I’d be dying trying not to laugh.” She tilted her head at Jules knowingly. “You get that from her, you know. I’ve heard you in the car with Dustin.”
Heat rushed to Jules’ face. “I do not.”
“Sweetheart, you do,” Claudia teased, laughter warm.
Dustin cackled, nearly choking on his juice. “Oh my God, she totally does.”
Jules swatted at him, cheeks pink, but her chest tugged in a different way — the sudden knowledge of a thread she hadn’t known tied her to her mom. Something small. Something real.
The warmth lingered a beat longer, but Claudia must have seen the way Jules’ smile faltered, the shadow creeping back in. She reached across the counter, squeezing Jules’ wrist, steady and sure.
“Next year, sweetheart,” she said softly. “We’ll get it right next year.”
Jules swallowed hard, the words lodging somewhere between ache and hope. She nodded, whispering back, “Yeah.”
And she let herself believe it.
********
Jules pulled on a sweater Claudia had folded into her drawer a few weeks ago. Just basic things Claudia had grabbed from the lake house while Jules camped out at the hospital: jeans, a couple flannels, the battered sneakers Bob once teased her about never throwing away. She hadn’t stepped foot back in that house since the night they wheeled him away, and the thought of crossing that threshold without him still made her chest tighten.
Here, at Claudia’s, the pieces mostly fit. Warm meals, Dustin’s incessant tinkering, Claudia’s fussing. It felt like family—enough that she could settle into it for now. But some edges stayed jagged, raw, reminding her this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. Her drawer. Her seat at their table. Claudia’s wrist-touch that felt too practiced, like Jules had always been folded into the rhythm here. It was comforting, and it was wrong, both at once.
She laced her shoes tight and stepped into the kitchen. Dustin was hunched over the table, dice spilling out of a Crown Royal bag while he scribbled notes across graph paper.
“You’re really going to the game?” he asked, disbelief edging his tone.
Jules smirked faintly, tugging her jacket on. “Why’s that so hard to believe?”
“Because it’s you,” Dustin said flatly, not looking up. Then, after a beat, he cracked a grin. “Guess miracles do happen.”
She swatted at the back of his curls as she passed, grinning despite herself. “Dustbin.”
He ducked away, still smirking. “Well, don’t have too much fun. I’ve got a campaign with the guys before dinner, so I’ll be out too.”
From the stove, Claudia wiped her hands on a dish towel, eyeing both of them. “Seven sharp. This year we’re still doing the table together, no matter what.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dustin said quickly, yanking the door open. He paused halfway through, twisting back with a grin. “And hey—don’t root for the Tigers, Jules.”
Jules lingered a moment longer, the warmth of Claudia’s words tugging at something in her chest. Still doing the table together. She nodded, voice quieter. “I’ll be back in time.”
The hum of Steve’s BMW floated in from outside before she saw it roll into the drive, music spilling faint from the cracked window. He pulled in at a slight angle, like always, and leaned across the passenger seat to honk once, sharp enough to make Claudia glance out the kitchen window.
Claudia touched her wrist gently, the same way she always did when she wanted Jules to really hear her. “Be safe. And don’t let him keep you late.”
“I won’t.” Jules managed a smile, grabbed her bag, and stepped out into the cold.
Steve was leaning against the car, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, grinning like he’d already won something—though his eyes lingered a second longer, softer than the smirk suggested.
“Ready, Ambrose?”
She rolled her eyes but slid into the passenger seat anyway, the faint hum of the radio filling the space as they headed toward the stadium.
*********
The BMW hummed along the backroads, heater rattling against the November cold. Steve tapped the heel of his palm against the wheel, drumming in rhythm with the track on the radio — something bright and guitar-heavy that made the whole car feel less hollow. Jules watched him out of the corner of her eye, lips twitching at the sight. For the first time in days, he looked almost easy, shoulders loose, hair bouncing faintly with the beat.
Then the song faded.
A softer melody slipped in, familiar from the first note. Cyndi Lauper’s voice — tender, aching. If you’re lost, you can look, and you will find me… Time after time.
Jules perked up, her mouth opening to hum along. Before she could get a word out, Steve’s hand shot forward, slamming the dial. The station flipped to static, then something else — louder, safer. He muttered, “Nope.”
“Hey,” Jules said, startled. “I like that one.”
Steve’s jaw locked, eyes fixed hard on the road. “I can’t.” His voice was clipped, low. “It was ours.”
The word hit heavy. Ours. He didn’t need to say Nancy’s name.
Her chest tightened. She tugged her jacket closer, studying him out of the corner of her eye. His fingers gripped the wheel too hard, knuckles pale against the leather.
“You’re brave, you know that?” Her voice was soft but steady.
He huffed a sharp laugh, bitter. “Brave? For what, losing?”
“For letting go,” she countered. The words felt sharp, but true. “Most people drag it out until it’s ugly. You didn’t. You loved her enough to let her go.”
Steve scoffed, shaking his head, but his voice cracked as he answered. “Didn’t feel like love. Felt like getting ripped in half.”
The honesty cracked something open in her. Jules reached across the console, fingers brushing his sleeve before resting lightly on his forearm. Warm, grounding. “And I should’ve been there for you. The way you’ve been there for me with Bob. You deserved that.” Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out anyway. “I’m gonna try harder.”
Steve’s grip on the wheel eased a little. Slowly, he turned his head, sunglasses pushed up, his eyes raw in the afternoon light. For once he wasn’t the king of Hawkins, wasn’t even the protective big brother. Just Steve. Bruised, but still standing.
The silence that followed wasn’t jagged anymore. It held. Jules didn’t move her hand.
After a long beat, she nudged the quiet. “So… what’s our song then? Yours and mine. No ghosts attached.”
That startled a huff of laughter out of him, reluctant but real. “Something loud. Guitars. You can scream it out the window.”
She arched a brow, grinning now. “So basically, something you can wreck your hair to while pretending you’re in a music video.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “God, you’re impossible.”
“Menace,” she corrected, smug. “Alright then, Harrington. Pick one.”
Steve thought for a beat, then flicked the dial again until a familiar disco beat spilled into the car. He smirked, tapping the wheel. “ABBA. Obviously.”
Jules laughed so hard she nearly doubled over. “You would. Let me guess — Dancing Queen?”
He groaned but didn’t deny it. “Shut up.”
Still grinning, she leaned back in her seat, eyes on the pale sky rushing past the windows. “Then I call Dolly. Here You Come Again. That one’s mine.”
“That would murder my reputation,” Steve muttered, but he was smiling now, shaking his head.
“Exactly. Which is why it’s perfect.” She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Windows down, hair everywhere, Hawkins would never recover.”
Steve’s laugh broke loose — full, unguarded, the kind that caught her off guard in its warmth. The music swelled back into the car, and the air shifted with it, lighter now, as if something had finally eased between them.
Not grief. Not loss.
Possibility.
*********
The BMW rumbled into the cracked asphalt lot, already half-filled with cars. Green and orange streamers hung from the chain-link fence, flapping in the cold wind. From inside the stadium came the sharp blare of a trumpet, the steady thump of a bass drum — the marching band running warm-ups that bled into the November air.
Steve slid into a spot crooked between two trucks, killed the engine, and smirked like he’d just pulled off a victory. “Front row parking,” he said, ignoring the fact they were three rows deep from the entrance.
Jules tugged her jacket tighter as she followed him out. The air smelled like popcorn and hot cocoa drifting from the concession stand, sugar and salt clinging to the cold. Families funneled through the gates, parents in knit hats clutching thermoses, kids waving handmade posters with crooked tiger paws sketched in orange paint.
The bleachers loomed ahead, already alive with stomping feet and scattered cheers. Cheerleaders in bright uniforms stretched near the track, their pom-poms catching the light whenever the sun broke through the gray sky. The band sat in neat rows off to one side, instruments gleaming — Robin among them, bouncing on her toes to keep warm, clarinet case at her feet. She spotted them instantly, lifted her arms like she was conducting the whole crowd, then mimed swooning with theatrical flair.
Steve groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. Jules bit back a grin, her breath fogging pale. “She’s relentless,” she muttered.
“Tell me about it,” Steve muttered back, steering her toward the bleachers.
The closer they got, the louder it grew — whistles, the metallic clank of the scoreboard being reset, the buzz of hundreds of voices mixing into one restless hum. Jules let herself take it in, the press of bodies and sound and color.
Then, near the cheer squad, a familiar flash of blonde. Chrissy Cunningham, ponytail high, pom-poms at her side, laughing with one of the other girls. Her gaze drifted over the crowd, landed on Jules. Recognition flickered. The easy cheerleader smile faltered, turned curious, then guilty.
Jules looked back, steady but guarded. They hadn’t spoken since everything with Amber and the cheerleaders blew up, but the weight of that history hung sharp in the glance. For a second, it felt like the whole stadium noise dipped beneath it.
Steve nudged her arm, oblivious to the tension. “Come on, Ambrose. Seats this good don’t save themselves.”
Jules tore her gaze away, following him up into the bleachers, though she could still feel Chrissy’s eyes linger a moment longer before the cheer routine called her back.
********
The first half blurred in bursts of noise and color. Hawkins High tore up the field in green and orange, the bleachers shaking with every touchdown chant. Steve heckled refs under his breath, too invested for someone who claimed he only showed up for the band, while Jules clapped along just enough to blend in. The cheer squad flipped and shouted, Chrissy flashing in her element, though Jules kept her eyes trained mostly on the scoreboard.
By halftime, the band spilled across the field in crisp formation. Robin stood front and center with her clarinet, bouncing on her toes like she might launch straight into orbit. When the drumline kicked off, she blew into her mouthpiece with the kind of fervor that had nothing to do with staying on key and everything to do with making herself impossible to ignore.
Jules cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Go, Buckley!” earning herself a sharp look from the dad in front of her and a startled laugh from Steve.
“She’s gonna see you,” he muttered, half covering his face. “And then I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Good,” Jules shot back, grinning as Robin winked exaggeratedly mid-song and nearly tripped over her own march step.
Steve groaned, burying his head in his hands. “This is my nightmare.”
Jules only laughed, the sound mingling with the stomping feet and brass blare of the fight song.
When the band finally marched off and the cheerleaders reclaimed the field, Jules tugged her jacket tighter and leaned toward Steve. “Want anything from the concession stand? Hot cocoa? Popcorn?”
He lifted a brow. “You volunteering to stand in line with half of Hawkins?”
She smirked. “Halftime’s over. Lines’ll be dead.”
Steve shrugged, conceding. “Alright. Surprise me.”
Jules slipped down the bleacher steps, the noise of the crowd dimming as she moved toward the glow of the concession stand.
********
The line at the concession stand was short, just a couple of kids fumbling with cocoa lids, steam curling pale into the sharp November air. Jules dug for quarters, already debating if Steve was more of a nachos or popcorn guy, when a hand closed suddenly around her wrist.
Her breath snagged. Before she could react, she was tugged sideways into shadow. She stumbled straight into someone’s chest, solid and warm, the smell of smoke and leather clinging close. Her face went hot before she even looked up.
“Easy, Tink,” Eddie murmured, voice low and amused. His grin flickered in the dim light as he steadied her by the elbow. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”
She stepped back quickly, pulse skittering, brushing her sleeve down to cover the flush in her cheeks. “You could try ‘hello’ like a normal person.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He leaned against a steel beam, lunchbox tucked under his arm like it belonged there. His eyes swept her once, half curious, half teasing. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Football doesn’t really scream… you.”
“I’m here for Robin,” Jules said, straightening her jacket. “She performed at halftime.” A pause, then almost too casual: “And Steve.”
Something shifted in his expression — quick, subtle, gone in an instant. His grin tilted sharper. “Figures. Harrington probably dragged you in by the hair.”
Jules smirked, but her pulse still jumped. “Close enough.”
He tapped the lunchbox lightly with his rings, not opening it. He didn’t have to. She knew.
“Work day?” she asked, brow arched.
“Where else?” Eddie’s grin stretched, shameless. “Restless parents, bored band kids, half the football team stressing over scouts. Supply and demand, sweetheart. I’m practically a community hero.”
She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. Real public service.”
His laugh came softer, tugging at her more than it should have. Then his gaze lingered — not sharp, not mocking, just steady — long enough to make her shift her weight.
The bleachers rattled overhead, crowd roaring as the players clashed on the field. Eddie tipped his head toward the noise. “Whole damn town’s out there pretending touchdowns fix everything. Don’t tell me you actually feel at home in all that.”
Her throat tightened. She let out a slow breath, the truth slipping easier in the shadows. “Not really. Bob used to sneak me off to the comic shop instead — said it was our version of Friday night lights.” A faint smile tugged despite the ache in her chest. “Guess that’s where I still fit. I was gonna grab the newest Secret Wars for him later… if you wanted to come.”
For once, Eddie didn’t fire back a joke. His grin softened, quiet and real, eyes catching hers like he’d just been handed something fragile.
“Careful, Tink,” he said, voice lower now. “Invite me into your rituals and I might not leave.”
Her pulse tripped. She shifted her gaze, brushing at her sleeve again, but didn’t take it back.
Above them the crowd erupted — a touchdown. Jules startled at the sound, but Eddie didn’t move, still leaning against the beam, still watching her like she was the only thing worth paying attention to.
Finally, he pushed off, mask sliding half back into place with a crooked smile. “Better get back before Harrington calls in a search party.”
Jules smirked, brushing past him into the light, though her chest buzzed in a way the roar of the crowd couldn’t touch. “Don’t work too hard, Munson.”
His grin followed her, even when she didn’t look back.
********
The line at the stand wasn’t long, but Jules lingered anyway, grateful for the pause. She bought popcorn and a cocoa, letting the warmth seep through the flimsy paper cup while she steadied herself. Her wrist still tingled faintly where Eddie had grabbed it, and the memory of his grin stuck sharper than she wanted to admit.
She climbed the bleacher steps carefully, balancing the snacks against her chest. Steve spotted her halfway up, leaning forward like he’d been tracking her the whole time.
“There you are,” he called, shading his eyes with one hand. “What’d you do, get lost with the marching band?”
Jules rolled her eyes, sliding the popcorn into his lap as she dropped onto the bench beside him. “Line was longer than it looked.”
Steve plucked a kernel, unimpressed. “Mm-hm. That explains why you’re ten shades flushed, too.”
Jules shot him a sideways glare, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s called stamina, Harrington. You remember that, right?”
He smirked, crunching dramatically on the popcorn. “Please. I’m still an athlete.”
“Geriatric athlete’s more like it,” she muttered, sipping her cocoa.
Steve gasped in mock offense, bumping his shoulder into hers hard enough to jostle the cup. She steadied it quickly, fighting the curve at her mouth.
Around them the game surged back to life, whistles shrilling, the crowd stomping in rhythm. Robin’s clarinet rose above the band like a single bright thread, and Jules lifted her chin toward the sideline, spotting her friend bouncing on her toes and mouthing something that looked suspiciously like pay attention to me.
Steve followed her gaze and groaned. “She’s going to milk that solo for a week.”
“She earned it,” Jules said, smirking.
“Gremlin,” Steve muttered, but he was grinning as he said it.
Jules tucked her hair back again, heat still lingering in her cheeks. She let herself sink into the rattle of the bleachers, the sweetness of cocoa, Robin’s bright notes threading over the field. And if her pulse still skittered at the memory of shadows and cigarette smoke beneath the bleachers, well — that was hers to carry.
********
The second half of the game was a blur of whistles and stomping feet. Hawkins came alive, two quick touchdowns sending the bleachers into chaos. Steve jumped up so fast he nearly knocked the popcorn into Jules’ lap, fist-pumping like he’d scored it himself.
“See?!” he shouted over the roar. “Told you, we own this game!”
Jules shoved him lightly back into his seat, laughing when he almost spilled kernels down his sweater. “You’re gonna choke on your own ego, Harrington.”
He only grinned wider, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth.
From the sideline, the band blasted the fight song, Robin puffing so hard into her clarinet Jules swore she could hear her above everything else. The cheerleaders leapt and twirled, the scoreboard ticked down, and Hawkins pushed the lead higher until the outcome wasn’t even close.
When the final buzzer shrilled and the Tigers sealed the win, the stadium erupted. Hats flew into the air, kids stomped so hard the bleachers rattled, parents whistled until their voices cracked. Steve whooped loud enough to draw stares, then hooked an arm around Jules’ shoulders and shook her until she laughed, breathless.
“All hail the Tigers,” he crowed.
Jules rolled her eyes, but her grin stuck.
*********
The crowd was still buzzing when Robin bounded up the bleachers, clarinet case swinging from one hand and her hat sliding off her head. Her cheeks were flushed, hair sticking to her temples, but her grin was unstoppable.
“Did you see me?!” she shouted over the din, arms wide. “Solo of the century! I had the whole stadium in the palm of my hand.”
Steve groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god, Buckley, don’t start.”
“Start? Please, I’m just getting warmed up.” Robin plopped down beside Jules, immediately stealing a fistful of popcorn. “This is my origin story. By Monday, they’ll be naming the marching band after me.”
Jules smirked, sipping her cocoa. “She’s not wrong. She crushed it.”
“Finally,” Robin said, pointing at her with a popcorn kernel. “Validation! Unlike Harrington, who nearly threw his back out trying to relive his glory days screaming at the ref.”
Steve sputtered. “Excuse me? That was a totally justified call!”
Robin only cackled, elbowing Jules. “See? Case closed. Man can’t even deny it.”
Steve shot Jules a pleading look, but she just shrugged, fighting a grin. “She’s got evidence, Harrington. Can’t argue with the facts.”
He slumped back, groaning loud enough to draw side-eyes from the row in front. “Unbelievable. Surrounded by traitors.”
Robin and Jules exchanged a conspiratorial glance, their laughter overlapping against the roar of the crowd.
For Jules, tucked between Robin’s chatter and Steve’s mock sulking, the bleachers didn’t feel quite so sharp or foreign anymore.
The crowd spilled out of the bleachers in a messy tide, families herding kids toward minivans, players clattering toward the locker rooms with helmets tucked under their arms. Jules, Steve, and Robin drifted with the flow, Robin still buzzing like she’d downed a gallon of soda.
Up ahead, a cluster of band kids lingered near the fence, instruments slung over their shoulders. Vickie was among them — tallish, with long red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that still caught the light like copper when the sun broke through. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, freckles scattered across skin pale against the Hawkins green-and-orange jacket she wore over her uniform. There was a softness about her smile, the kind that made people lean in without realizing it.
She broke off from the group when she spotted Robin.
“You killed that solo,” Vickie said warmly, her voice light but sure. “I don’t think anyone in the bleachers even breathed while you were playing.”
Robin nearly tripped over her own boots, clarinet case slipping until she fumbled it back into place. “Oh, uh—yeah, thanks. I mean, it was just scales and squeaks and—” She coughed, forcing her voice lower. “Totally average, really.”
Vickie laughed, nudged her arm, and drifted back toward her friends. Robin stood frozen for a beat too long, then scrambled to shove her case higher on her shoulder like it weighed more than it did.
Jules caught the whole thing. The stammering, the way Robin’s eyes tracked Vickie even after she’d gone, the sudden overcorrection in her voice. Robin was always oddball, sure — but this was different. Jules tilted her head, lips twitching, and filed it away.
Steve, oblivious, was busy adjusting his sunglasses. “Honestly, Buckley, you should’ve milked it more. Like, throw in some jazz hands or something. Really seal the deal.”
Robin whirled on him, mortified. “Jazz hands? During Holst? You have the cultural IQ of a turnip.”
Steve shrugged, smug. “Still would’ve killed.”
“Please,” Robin groaned, stalking ahead.
Jules walked between them, smirking. Steve and Robin sparred like always, but Jules’ mind snagged on the flush in Robin’s ears, the quick glance back toward Vickie. She didn’t know the shape of it yet, but she could feel something there — a thread tugging that Robin didn’t want anyone pulling.
By the time they hit the lot, Steve was juggling his keys, grinning. “Not bad, right? Hawkins football in all its glory. Don’t say I never show you a good time.”
Robin still looked half-distracted, her ears pink for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold. Jules hid a small smile in her cocoa, but her eyes drifted past them.
Across the lot, near the fence where the crowd thinned, Eddie leaned against a lamppost, lunchbox dangling from one hand.
His gaze found hers.
Jules’ mouth curved — quick, secret.
Eddie’s grin flickered back, faint but sure, before the tide of people moved between them.
*********
Steve swung the BMW into the Hendersons’ drive with his usual flair, tires crunching against the gravel as if he’d just won a race. He leaned an elbow out the open window, smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Safe and sound. And don’t say I never do anything nice for you, Ambrose.”
Robin twisted around in the passenger seat, pointing dramatically at Jules. “Yeah, consider this a community service project. We’ve spent all day preventing you from turning into a hermit.”
Jules rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at her lips. “You two are the worst. Honestly, it’s a miracle anyone puts up with you.”
Steve tapped his temple. “Charm. Harrington secret weapon.”
“Delusion,” Jules shot back.
Robin barked a laugh. “Okay, that one goes on a T-shirt.”
Jules shook her head, but she was still smiling as she pushed the door open, stepped out, and leaned down to meet their eyes through the window, gaze flicking between the both of them. “Thanks. For dragging me out. Even if you’re insufferable.”
Robin leaned over Steve and gave her a two-finger salute. “Anytime. You’re stuck with us forever.”
Jules smirked, leaning back in through the open window. In one swift move she ruffled Steve’s carefully coiffed hair with both hands and pinched Robin’s cheek like a doting grandma.
Robin yelped, swatting her hand away. “How dare you!”
Steve jerked back, patting frantically at his hair. “Not the hair, Ambrose! Not the hair!”
Jules only laughed, already backing toward the porch. “Consider it my civic duty. Happy Thanksgiving, losers.”
Steve groaned loud enough for the whole street to hear, Robin muttering threats as she tried to fix her face in the mirror. Jules waved once, grin still tugging at her mouth as the BMW rolled off down the street.
********
The kitchen radiated warmth, thick with the scents Claudia had coaxed out all day — roasted turkey, butter glossing the rolls, cinnamon stitched into the pie cooling on the counter. Jules shrugged out of her jacket, rubbing her chilled hands together as Claudia finally slipped her apron off and draped it over the chair back.
“Just in time,” Claudia said with a tired but content smile. “Everything’s ready.”
Jules drifted past her, eyes narrowing on the pie’s edge where a glossy leak of filling had bubbled over the crust. She reached for it on instinct, but Claudia’s hand swatted hers away, gentle and practiced.
“Ah-ah. Dessert after dinner, young lady.”
Jules grinned, sheepish, tucking her hands into her pockets. “Worth a shot.”
The dining room table was already half-crowded with dishes. Dustin darted between them, laying out silverware like he was prepping an experiment, muttering about efficiency while sneaking rolls when he thought nobody was looking.
When they finally settled, Claudia smoothed the tablecloth — her ritual, like she was pressing the whole day into place. “Alright. Tradition’s tradition. One thing you’re thankful for before we eat.”
Dustin pounced first, eyes bright. “My shortwave project. I finally got the parts in. I’m this close—” he pinched his fingers together — “to boosting the range. We could probably pick up Chicago broadcasts. Maybe farther.”
The excitement in his voice tugged at Jules. She could almost hear Bob chiming in, grinning wide, already asking about circuits and solder. Bob would’ve turned the whole table into a Thanksgiving tech convention, Claudia groaning but smiling the whole time.
Claudia went next, folding her hands. “I’m thankful for this house being full. For food on the table. And for the two of you keeping me busy enough that I forget I’m getting old.” Her smile softened as she said it, eyes sweeping over them both.
Then all eyes tipped toward Jules. She stared at her folded hands, and the memory crept in uninvited: Chicago, years back. Her mom perched in the kitchen doorway, dark curls falling into her face as she hummed a ridiculous jingle under her breath. Bob at the counter carving the turkey, cracking jokes that had Claudia clutching her wine glass and laughing. Dustin younger and shorter, jabbing his toy soldiers into the cranberry sauce like they were storming the trenches. Isla had rolled her eyes, flicked her hair back over her shoulder, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. Bob had christened it “the Battle of Cranberry Hill,” and Claudia laughed so hard she nearly cried. For a moment it had felt like they were stitched together by something indestructible.
The ache of it pressed sharp against her ribs, but Jules lifted her head anyway. “I’m thankful for… this. For you guys. For keeping me together when it feels like everything else is falling apart.” Her voice wavered, but she managed a smile, softer now. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Claudia reached across the table, rested her hand over Jules’, warm and steady. “You won’t ever have to know, sweetheart. Not while you’ve got us.”
Dustin ducked his head, muttering about dust in his eyes, though his crooked grin gave him away.
The weight in Jules’ chest eased a fraction — not gone, but lighter.
Dustin bobbed his head, shaking it off. “Alright then. Plates up!” He lunged for the turkey knife, Claudia swatting his hand away with a glare she’d perfected, and the three of them slipped easily into bickering.
As the dishes passed, as laughter tumbled loose, Jules felt it — that strange braid of ache and joy. Bob and her mom lingered at the edges, but they didn’t blot out the light here. They lived alongside it.
For now, that was enough.
**********
The table sagged under the weight of empty plates, crumbs scattered like confetti across the cloth. Jules leaned back, half-dazed from turkey and potatoes, while Dustin groaned like he’d been mortally wounded.
“If I move too fast, I’m gonna explode,” he announced, clutching his stomach.
“Then don’t move,” Jules said dryly, nudging his ankle with her foot.
Claudia gave him a look as she stacked plates. “Or — wild idea — you could help me clean up instead of dying at the table.”
“Slave labor,” Dustin muttered, but he stood anyway, scooping up stray rolls into the basket.
“Careful, Dusty,” Claudia warned, wagging her dish towel as she entered the kitchen. “One more smart remark and you’re on dish duty alone. Jules and I will sit on the couch and watch you scrub.”
Jules snorted into her hand, grinning at Dustin’s glare as she got up to help.
They’d barely started clearing when Claudia reappeared in the doorway, her voice bright with sudden memory. “Oh! Almost forgot.” She set down her plates and plucked a colorful envelope from the counter, passing it toward Jules. “This came earlier. It’s for you.”
Jules frowned. Bright colors, glossy lettering — the whole thing screamed fan club.
Dustin’s eyes lit up. “Please don’t tell me you joined the Duran Duran fan club like every other girl in Hawkins.”
Jules slipped the envelope quickly into her pocket, arching a brow. “Takes one to know one, Dustbin. Don’t you still treat Bantha Tracks like gospel?”
His ears went pink. “That’s different. That’s Star Wars. That’s culture.”
“Sure it is, Commander Skywalker,” Jules said, smirking as she stacked silverware.
Claudia shook her head, sweeping more plates into her arms. “Both of you — enough. This isn’t Comic-Con, it’s Thanksgiving. Clear the table.”
She disappeared back into the kitchen, humming under her breath.
Dustin groaned dramatically but shot Jules a sidelong grin as they gathered dishes. When Claudia’s back was turned, he leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So… still on tonight?”
Jules smirked, slipping the last fork into the tub. “Of course. Keep your walkie close.”
“Always,” Dustin said, trying and failing to hide his excitement.
Jules shook her head, warmth curling in her chest at the thought of their secret plans. She straightened the stack of plates, the envelope heavy in her pocket, Claudia humming in the kitchen, and Dustin still buzzing beside her — stitched together in the afterglow of the day.
********
The last dish clinked into the drying rack, and Jules stretched before slipping down the short hall to the guest room. Claudia’s voice followed, warm but distracted: “Don’t forget to leave your jacket out if it needs washing!”
“Got it,” Jules called back, shutting the door softly behind her.
She pulled the envelope out of her pocket, bright and loud with bold font and a star logo stamped in the corner. Nothing more than cheesy fan mail to anyone else. Claudia probably thought it was about movie stars or some pop band.
Jules tore it open and unfolded the letter.
________
The Midwest Film & Music Fan Club
Dear Member,
We’re excited to let you know your membership application has been accepted! Processing is already underway, and most members can expect their welcome package within 4–6 weeks. Occasionally, additional autographs are required before the final mailing — if that applies, we’ll be in touch.
Until then, keep an eye on your mailbox for further updates. Patience pays off.
Sincerely,
The Club Coordinator
[a faint “S.O.” scrawled at the bottom]
________
Jules traced the neat lines with her thumb, reading them twice, then a third time. The words looked like fluff, but she heard the other voice layered underneath: application moving. approval weeks away. maybe more to sign. wait.
She folded the paper carefully, slid it back into the envelope, and tucked it under the stack of books by her bed.
Claudia and Dustin loved her, and she loved them — that wasn’t the problem. But Jules just felt like a paper boat, drifting from shore to shore, always landing, never anchoring. What she wanted was what she’d lost: Bob at the lake house, humming to himself while stringing up crooked Christmas lights, laughing at her stubborn sneakers, making space for her exactly as she was. That life. That anchor.
Maybe this letter was a step toward claiming something for herself. Something not borrowed.
She sat for a moment, fingertips resting on the nightstand, before Dustin’s muffled voice carried faintly down the hall — some rant about faulty wires and efficiency. Jules snorted, pushing herself up from the bed.
But Owens and his letter, she could manage that tomorrow. Tonight, there were other missions waiting, and one very impatient Henderson already making a mess without her.
********
The hours slipped by, the house quieting into its nighttime rhythm. Jules lay sprawled across her bed with A Wizard of Earthsea propped against her knees, though she kept reading the same paragraph for the past 5 minutes. Her ears tracked the sounds instead — Claudia moving around the kitchen, Dustin humming low through his bedroom wall, the slow wind-down of a holiday.
A gentle knock came at her door.
“Door’s not locked,” she called.
Claudia peeked in, hair let down for the night, her voice gentle. “Good night, sweetheart. Don’t stay up too late.”
“’Night, Claudia.”
The door clicked shut. Jules held still, waiting until she heard Claudia’s footsteps retreat, the bedroom door at the end of the hall shutting with a muffled thud.
Only then did she roll over, reach beneath her pillow, and pull out her walkie.
“Project Woodstock is a go,” she whispered into it.
Static fizzled before Dustin’s voice cracked through, too loud for stealth. “Confirmed. Rendezvous point in the living room. Don’t be late.”
Jules grinned, tugging on her sweatshirt before padding quietly into the kitchen, every creak of the floorboards making her pulse skitter.
On tiptoe, she pulled down the stash: toast she’d buttered earlier, hidden under foil on the counter; a bowl of jelly beans swiped from the cabinet; pretzel sticks rattling in a dish; popcorn sealed in a lidded bowl.
She crouched at the fridge next, easing it open slow enough that the hinges didn’t squeal. The cool air spilled over her as she reached for two cans of soda, the fizz shifting faint inside as she set them gently on the tray with the rest of the contraband.
The whole thing looked absurdly colorful under the dim kitchen light — popcorn, jelly beans, pretzels, toast, and sodas stacked like trophies. She balanced it carefully on her arms, rebellion disguised as a midnight snack.
The living room glowed faintly from the TV Dustin had already flicked on. He crouched at the VCR, holding up the tape with mock solemnity. “Sixth annual,” he intoned.
“Sixth annual,” Jules echoed, setting the tray down like contraband.
The screen bloomed into A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. They spread the mismatched feast across the coffee table — toast stacked crooked, jelly beans scattered like jewels, pretzels piled up, popcorn the centerpiece.
“Perfect,” Dustin declared, diving for the popcorn.
Dustin immediately started chomping too loud. Jules smacked his knee. “Shhh. Quiet, Dustbin. If Claudia catches us, we’re dead.”
“She won’t,” Dustin said through a mouthful, waving her off. “We’ve never been caught.”
“Yet,” Jules muttered, though her grin tugged wide.
Onscreen, Snoopy wrestled with lawn chairs. Dustin snorted so hard soda fizzed up his nose, and Jules dissolved into laughter, pressing a fist against her mouth to stifle it.
They leaned shoulder to shoulder, voices dropping now and then into quiet reminiscence — remembering the first time they’d tried this, how half the toast had burned, how Dustin had once spilled an entire soda across the carpet and blamed the cat.
What they didn’t know — what they never knew — was that Claudia had paused on her way back to bed. She stood in the hallway, just far enough in shadow to see the flicker of the TV and the two of them curled up together, conspirators in their silly tradition.
Her hand pressed lightly to the frame, her throat tight. They thought it was a secret. But she let them keep it. Watching the joy on their faces, the light that had been too rare in Jules these last weeks, she couldn’t bring herself to break the spell.
She smiled instead, small and private, before turning back toward her room.
The laughter carried after her, warm as the glow spilling through the crack in the living room door.
Notes:
This chapter was all about Jules finding her footing in the static. Bob’s still in the hospital, and life hasn’t magically smoothed out — but she’s starting to connect again, even in messy, imperfect ways. Writing this one felt like stringing wires: some connections sparked (Steve and Jules finally being honest, Eddie pulling her into his shadows), some tangled (her fight and make-up with Dustin), but all of them buzzing with life.
I wanted Thanksgiving here to be both heavy and hopeful — a table that feels too empty and yet still too full of love to ignore. Those little rituals with Claudia and Dustin, the quiet codes hidden in letters, and even the secret traditions Jules and Dustbin guard like treasure… they’re all proof she’s not drifting as much as she thinks.
And Eddie. Well. He’s still Eddie, grinning in the cracks, showing up where Jules least expects it. I loved writing their scenes under the bleachers — small moments that hit like voltage.
Thanks for sticking with this one. We’re closing out Season 2, but every circuit Jules reconnects now matters for what’s coming next.
Chapter 25: Escape Hatches
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Henderson’s guest room was quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the muffled buzz of Dustin’s workshop mutterings down the hall. Jules sat cross-legged on the bed, the yellowed phone book spread across her lap. Her finger hovered over the thin column of names, tracing line after line until it landed on the one she’d already checked three times.
Munson, W. Forest Hills Trailer Park.
Her stomach flipped, the way it always did right before a gymnastics routine — the second before her feet left the mat, before she knew whether she’d stick the landing or crash. Eddie had said anytime, had meant it if his grin counted for anything. But dialing was different than nodding in a trailer living room, different than banter under the bleachers. This meant stepping into his world uninvited.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, the phone cord already looped around her finger without her realizing it. If she called and he brushed her off, that would be it — no laugh to hide behind, no smirk to soften the blow. Just rejection through a crackling line.
Still, her hand moved before her mind caught up. She snatched the receiver off the hook, pressed the cool plastic against her ear, and dialed the number. Each ring rattled louder than it should have.
On the fourth, a man’s voice cut in, gruff and unfamiliar. “Munson residence.”
Jules froze. For a second, she considered slamming the receiver down. Instead, her voice stumbled out, higher than she meant. “Uh—hi. Is Eddie there?”
There was a pause, then the faint sound of a chuckle, warm but rough. “Who’s askin’?”
Her pulse jumped. “Jules. From school. A friend.”
“Hang on.” A palm muffled the receiver; she caught the scrape of a chair, the clank of something metal. Then: “EDDIE! Phone!”
A crash echoed through the line, something metallic clattering to the floor, followed by a muffled curse. Then Eddie’s voice, too close, a little breathless. “Yeah? Hello?”
“It’s… Jules.”
There was a beat — silence stretching so long she thought maybe she’d made a mistake — and then he laughed. Not mocking, but surprised, like she’d caught him off guard in the best way. “Ambrose. Didn’t think you were the dialing type. To what do I owe the honor?”
Her fingers twisted the cord tighter, digging into her skin. “You, um… still want to go to the comic shop today?”
“Absolutely,” he said without missing a beat. The smile in his voice was impossible to miss. “Best plan I’ve heard all week. Only thing is, I’ve got band practice at Gareth’s first. But after that? Comic book heaven.”
“Oh.” Jules pressed her thumb against the spine of the phone book. “Okay. Then… after practice?”
“Or…” Eddie drew the word out, playful, but something softer underneath, “you could come with. Witness the chaos firsthand.”
Her throat went dry. Band practice. With his friends. That wasn’t just a comic shop detour, that was stepping into his circle — the part of him she only saw from the edges.
“I don’t know if—”
“Come on, Tink,” Eddie cut in gently. “It’ll be fun. Loud, messy, borderline criminal levels of guitar distortion — but fun.”
Her silence stretched a second too long, her mind flicking between nerves and the memory of his grin under the bleachers. Finally, she let out a breath. “…Alright. For a little while.”
“Perfect.” She could hear his grin widen. “Give me the address. I’ll be there in an hour.”
She rattled off the Henderson’s’ street, stumbling over the last number like her tongue wasn’t fully cooperating.
“Got it,” Eddie said, triumphant. “Don’t chicken out on me now.”
“I won’t,” she answered quickly, though her pulse was hammering like she already had.
The line clicked dead a moment later, and she lowered the receiver slowly back into its cradle.
The room felt too quiet again, the faint hum of Dustin’s voice down the hall too far away. Jules stared at her reflection in the dark glass of the TV screen — her own wide eyes staring back, hair mussed, hand still tangled in the phone cord.
Eddie Munson. Band practice. Comic shop. Her stomach fluttered like she’d just signed herself up for something much bigger than an afternoon errand.
*********
Jules stood in front of the small dresser Claudia had stocked for her, drawer half-open, clothes spilling over like they all belonged to someone else. She tugged a flannel out, held it against herself, frowned, shoved it back. A sweater followed — too plain. Jeans? Too worn. Every choice landed in a growing pile on the bed, wrong the second she touched it.
It was ridiculous. She was only going to band practice and then the comic shop. Not prom. Not a date. But her stomach had been knotted ever since she’d hung up the phone, Eddie’s voice still circling her head. Now every shirt she tossed aside wound the spring tighter.
She caught her reflection in the mirror propped against the nightstand. Her curls frizzed at the edges from the dry heat, one lock refusing to sit where she pushed it. Green eyes stared back at her, sharp but unsure, and her fingers wouldn’t stop drumming against the dresser. Eddie wouldn’t care what she wore — hell, he’d probably show up in the same ripped jeans and band tee he’d worn yesterday. But that didn’t quiet the pulse hammering in her throat at the thought of showing up like she hadn’t thought about it.
She sat on the edge of the bed, sneakers dangling, the pile of discarded clothes glaring back at her: a faded flannel that smelled faintly of cedar, sweaters that stretched a little at the cuffs, jeans with hems she always had to cuff twice to hide the fray. Familiar, practical — and yet they all suddenly felt like costumes that didn’t quite fit.
Her hand hovered before finally landing on the patterned sweater at the bottom of the stack — oversized, loud in its stripes of rust and navy, swallowing her in warmth. She pulled it on, belting it down so it didn’t drown her completely, then rolled the sleeves back only to watch them slouch forward again.
The jeans followed — high-waisted, sturdy, cuffed at the ankle. Sneakers scuffed pale gray at her feet. When she looked back in the mirror, she tugged one curl loose from behind her ear, tilting her head as though the angle might change everything. It didn’t. But the gesture carved out the faintest smile, just enough to steady her.
She grabbed her bag, fingers tight around the strap, and muttered to her reflection, “It’s just comics. Just Gareth’s garage. Not a big deal.”
Jules blew out a shaky breath, straightened her sweater like armor, and padded into the kitchen. The counters were still cluttered from Thanksgiving — pie tins stacked to the side; Claudia’s scribbled recipe card propped against the flour canister. She plucked an apple from the bowl, rolling it in her hands before biting down. Too tart. She chewed anyway, needing the distraction.
At the table, Dustin hunched over a mess of wires and graph paper, muttering to himself like a scientist on the brink of discovery. He glanced up when she walked through, pencil tucked behind his ear.
“You’re going out?” he asked, suspicious. “On a Saturday? Who even are you right now?”
“Don’t wait up, Dustbin,” Jules shot back, swinging her bag over her shoulder.
The rumble came first — low, uneven, the kind of growl that didn’t belong to any station wagon or sedan in Hawkins. Then the squeal of brakes, sharp enough to make Dustin’s head snap up.
“What the hell—are they sacrificing a goat out there?” He shot up, trying to crane for a look through the window.
Jules’ chest squeezed. She tugged her curls behind her ears, snatched her jacket off the chair, and moved fast toward the door. “It’s just a friend,” she said quickly, dodging Dustin’s stare.
“A friend?” Dustin pressed, already leaning sideways for a better angle. “What kind of friend shows up sounding like the apocalypse?”
She ignored him, pulse hammering in her throat, and slipped out the door before he could catch more than a glimpse.
Out front, the van crouched crooked in the Henderson’s drive, its paint dulled and music spilling out of the cracked window in a storm of guitars. Jules tugged her jacket tighter, pulse skipping as she crossed the yard. Eddie leaned out the driver’s side, one arm slung over the wheel, a grin already tugging at his mouth.
For half a second, his eyes flicked over her — sweater belted down, jeans cuffed neat, curls catching the light — and something shifted in his expression. Appraising, maybe even nervous. Then the grin widened, sharp and theatrical, and the moment disappeared.
“Well, well,” he said, voice carrying that mock formality he wielded like armor. “Ambrose decides to grace us mortals with her presence. Didn’t think you’d show.”
Jules raised a brow, gripping her bag strap tighter to keep her hands from fidgeting. “What, and miss you butchering ‘Stairway’ in Gareth’s garage? Not a chance.”
Eddie barked a laugh, tapping the side of the van with his rings. “Careful, Tink. Them’s fighting words.”
Before she could volley back, movement caught her eye. Dustin had plastered himself against the front window, face squished to the glass like some wide-eyed gargoyle. Jules groaned, slapped a hand over her face. “Oh my God.”
Eddie followed her gaze, smirk curving wicked. “That your watchdog?”
“More like a nosy little gremlin.” Jules dropped her hand long enough to glare at Dustin, who gave her an exaggerated thumbs-up before vanishing back inside.
“Cute kid,” Eddie said, chuckling as Jules climbed in.
“Don’t encourage him,” she muttered, fumbling with the seatbelt.
He leaned just slightly her way, watching her wrestle with the buckle until it clicked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She shot him a side-eye, but he only grinned, throwing the van into reverse with a flourish. Gravel clattered under the tires, the music kicked louder, and Eddie drummed a rhythm on the wheel like he’d been born behind it.
“So,” he said as the van lurched toward the road, “ready to meet the band?”
Her stomach flipped. She swallowed, aiming for steady. “Guess I better be.”
********
The van rattled out of the neighborhood, guitars thrashing from the speakers. Jules leaned her head against the cool glass, letting the engine’s undertow settle some of the nerves still coiled in her stomach. Eddie drummed the wheel with his rings, eyes fixed ahead, but every so often he’d sneak a glance her way like he was making sure she hadn’t vanished.
Jules toyed with the hem of her sweater, then blurted before she lost the nerve: “So… who was that on the phone earlier? The guy who answered?”
Eddie’s grin faltered for the briefest second, softening at the edges. “Wayne. My uncle.” He shifted his grip on the wheel, knuckles tapping in time with the music. “Old guy, works nights at the plant. Probably had a cigarette in his mouth even while talking to you. Classy introduction, huh?”
Jules smiled faintly, picturing it. “He seemed… nice. Surprised, but nice.”
“Surprised is fair,” Eddie said, huffing a laugh. “Phone doesn’t exactly ring off the hook at our place. If it does, it’s usually Gareth pretending to be Satan.” His mouth twitched, but there was something under it — pride, maybe, or loyalty. “Wayne’s… solid. Not much of a talker, but he’s the reason I’m not six feet under or god-knows-where else. Took me in when he didn’t have to.”
Jules glanced at him, the bravado slipping enough for her to see the truth in his eyes. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally said, softer: “He sounds like Bob.”
Eddie flicked her a sidelong look, brow quirking. “High praise. Hope Wayne never hears it or he’ll think he’s gotta start handing out butterscotch candies or some crap.”
Jules laughed, tension easing in her chest. “I’ll keep it between us.”
“Good,” Eddie said, grin sliding back into place as he nudged the volume just a hair. “Now — prep yourself. Gareth’s garage awaits, and once you step in, there’s no turning back. Chaos, feedback, possibly mild hearing loss.”
Jules shook her head, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. For the first time since leaving the house, the thought of where she was headed felt less terrifying.
********
The van rattled to a stop in front of a neat little two-story tucked behind a row of maples. The siding was pale, the kind of house that looked perpetually sun-faded, but the driveway was swept and a welcome mat with daisies sat squarely on the porch. It was worlds away from the sagging steps of Forest Hills.
Jules tugged her bag tighter against her side as Eddie killed the engine. Before she could even open her door, the garage door raised, a blur of motion spilling out.
Gareth stood there, sticks in hand, mop of brown hair shoved under a backwards cap. He grinned wide when he spotted Jules. “Well, well, Ambrose. Thought Munson was bluffing.”
Eddie threw his arms wide in mock offense. “You wound me. As if anyone would lie about bringing her to witness our genius.”
“Genius, huh?” Gareth leaned against the frame, smirking at Jules. “Translation: we’ve been butchering riffs since noon. Brace yourself.”
Jules laughed, shoulders loosening, though her pulse still skipped. “Guess I’ll grade on a curve.”
Eddie groaned. “Great, another smartass in the room. Just what I needed.”
From inside the garage came the faint clink of bottles, followed by smoke curling out into the cold air. Two lanky figures hunched near the amps — Frankie and Jeff, exactly the kind of guys who looked more at home behind a D&D table than leaning against walls.
Jeff — dark-haired, glasses slipping down his nose — was already stubbing out his cigarette like a kid caught by a teacher. “Uh, hey. Jeff. Guitar.” He gave Jules a quick, sheepish smile, pushing his frames back up. “You’re, uh, cooler than Munson described, so that’s… intimidating.” He fiddled with his pick, rolling it nervously over his knuckles like a die.
Eddie barked a laugh. “See? Even my own band doesn’t respect me.”
Frankie, sandy blond and broad-shouldered, flicked his butt into a soda can and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Frankie. Bass. Don’t let Jeff fool you — he’s just mad you’ll notice every time he misses a chord. Which is, like, all the time.” His grin was small, self-conscious, but it reached his eyes.
Gareth whipped a stick toward them, scowling. “And both of you better quit smoking before my mom comes out here again. Last time she nearly called Father O’Malley.”
Eddie leaned toward Jules conspiratorially, smirk curling. “See? Discipline. This is a well-oiled machine.”
The “machine” was a garage strung with mismatched Christmas lights and band posters thumbtacked crooked to the walls. An old rug sprawled under the drum kit, amps stacked haphazardly, wires snaking across the concrete. Off to one side, an old diamond patterned sofa sagged beneath the weight of years, its cushions permanently dented. A couple bean bags slumped nearby, one patched with duct tape, another spilling foam from the seam. Empty soda cans and chip bags littered the low table shoved in front of them, and a stack of D&D modules leaned precariously against a milk crate.
It was chaos, but it was alive. Not just a practice space, but a hangout — a place where hours blurred between riffs, dice rolls, and arguments over lyrics.
From the house, the side door opened and a woman’s voice called out, warm and bright: “Gareth? Do you boys want lemonade or some sandwiches?”
“Ma!” Gareth barked, mortified. “We’re fine!”
Eddie cackled, nearly doubling over. “Rock gods, fed by PB&J.”
Jules bit her lip, fighting a grin. The scene was ridiculous — Gareth scowling at his bandmates, Eddie basking in theatrics, Jeff fiddling nervously with his pick, Frankie shrugging off the chaos like it was normal. And yet… she felt the tug of belonging at the edges.
Gareth tossed her a wink as he stepped back behind his kit. “You staying, Ambrose? We could use the moral support.”
She folded her arms, leaning casually against the wall though her pulse was quick. “Guess you’ll have to earn my review.”
Eddie whooped, pointing at her like he’d just won a prize. “See? Knew she was the right audience.”
“Alright, Ambrose,” Gareth said, giving his drumstick a little twirl before pointing it at the bean bags. “That’s VIP seating. Don’t let Munson fool you — he doesn’t even let us sit there when we’re late.”
Eddie pressed a hand to his chest, feigning outrage. “Slander. My hospitality knows no bounds.”
“Uh-huh,” Gareth shot back, already dropping into his stool. He winked at Jules. “C’mon, claim your throne before Jeff spills Coke all over it again.”
Jeff, halfway through plugging in his guitar, turned red. “It was one time.”
Jules laughed, easing into the bean bag Gareth had pointed out. It swallowed her whole, sagging around her like it had been waiting. She tugged at her sleeves, pulse still quick from the drive over, but the grin tugging at her mouth came easier here.
********
The garage rattled as Gareth clicked his sticks together, shouting, “One, two—” before Eddie cut him off with a wailing riff that wasn’t even close to the count.
“Jesus Christ, Munson!” Gareth barked, nearly losing grip on his sticks.
Jeff groaned, adjusting his guitar strap. “We literally agreed on the tempo two seconds ago.”
Frankie just rolled his eyes, fingers already thumping out a bass line like he couldn’t be bothered with their drama.
From her throne of patched-up bean bag, Jules pressed a fist against her mouth to keep from laughing. It was chaos, pure and immediate, each of them stepping on the other’s noise. Gareth pounding like he was trying to crack the cement floor. Eddie shredding just to prove he could. Jeff fumbling to catch up, cursing under his breath. Frankie plodding along, unshaken, like if he just kept going maybe the rest of them would fall in line.
It was terrible. And feral. And alive.
“Hold the hell up!” Gareth shouted, throwing his sticks down with a clatter. “We sound like a herd of dying cats.”
“Correction,” Eddie said, tossing his curls with exaggerated flair. “We sound like a herd of metal cats. Ferocious. Legendary.”
Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, we sound like you forgot how to count to four.”
Jules lost it, laughter spilling out before she could stop it. All three turned to look at her — Gareth smirking, Jeff red-faced, Frankie quirking the corner of his mouth, and Eddie bowing like her laugh was the standing ovation he’d been waiting for.
“See?” he said, pointing his pick at her. “She gets it. That’s the sound of raw genius.”
“Genius?” Gareth snorted. “You mean noise pollution.”
But Gareth didn’t quit. He leaned back, twirled his sticks, and started again — slower this time, steady, almost like an invitation. Jeff’s chords caught it, clumsy at first but settling in. Frankie followed, the bass low and sure, filling the gaps.
And Eddie — for once — didn’t fight it. He slung himself forward, hunched over his guitar like it was the only thing tethering him, fingers bending into the rhythm instead of tearing it apart. Then he grabbed the mic stand, braced it like a weapon, and let his voice tear through the static.
“Rise from the ashes, burn in the fire,
Chains on my soul, but the flames climb higher.
Shadows are screaming, claws at the door,
I’m laughing louder—feed me more, more, MORE!”
The words scraped raw, sharp-edged and reckless. Jules startled at the force of it, the way his voice filled every crack of the garage, too big for the walls to hold. But then — against her will — her lips tugged into a grin. He was ridiculous. Over the top. And yet, in that moment, with the amps buzzing and Christmas lights trembling overhead, it didn’t feel like an act.
Jeff muttered under his breath, “Too much,” but his hands didn’t stop moving, and Gareth just kicked the beat harder, daring Eddie to keep up.
And he did.
“We’re the cursed and chosen, broken, alive,
Wolves in the dark who refuse to die.
Strike down the silence, rip through the night—
If hell wants a hero, I’m ready to fight!”
Eddie’s grin sharpened as the words ripped free, sweat slick at his hairline. But then, mid-line, his gaze skimmed the room — and snagged on her. Just a second. Just long enough that the performance cracked at the edges and something truer slipped through.
Jules’ breath caught. She shifted in the bean bag, heart thudding too fast, pretending to fuss with the fray on her sleeve. But her eyes stayed locked, unwilling to miss it — the rawness bleeding past the bravado, the way he suddenly seemed too human, too real, beneath all the noise.
The music clung to her bones like static. It reminded her of the way her skin prickled when her powers slipped — when energy built inside her until it pressed against her ribs, begging for release. That same restless buzz swirled now, except it wasn’t coming from her. It was pouring out of Eddie, unfiltered, and she couldn’t look away.
Eddie let the last note trail into feedback, guitar wailing against the amps, chest heaving. He threw his arms wide like he’d conquered the world, soaking in the chaos.
But when his eyes cut back to her, the showman grin bent softer. A twitch at the corner of his mouth, quick and quiet — a smile meant for no one but her.
The garage was loud, messy, alive — but Jules knew, in that moment, the thing rattling her most wasn’t the music at all. It was the realization that maybe Eddie Munson could see her. Not the mask. Not the armor. Her.
And that was far more dangerous than any power she carried.
Then Gareth broke in.
“Alright, Munson,” he said, twirling a stick before letting it clatter against the rim of the snare, “next time maybe wait for the count-in before you unleash the apocalypse.”
Jeff snorted, tugging his strap higher. “Yeah, dude. Pretty sure my ears filed for a restraining order halfway through.”
“Speak for yourself,” Frankie added, deadpan, his bass still thrumming low. “I think we just scared off every squirrel within a three-mile radius. That’s public service.”
The spell snapped. Jules laughed into her sleeve, grateful for the cover. Eddie rolled his eyes dramatically, slinging his guitar strap higher like he hadn’t been caught in anything at all.
“Philistines,” he declared, pointing his pick at the three of them. “You wouldn’t know art if it crawled up your asses and shredded a solo.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gareth muttered, resetting his sticks. “From the top. And this time, Munson, count with the rest of us before you try to summon Satan.”
Eddie shot Jules a look — playful, crooked, conspiratorial — before tossing his hair back and nodding to the beat Gareth started again.
And just like that, the garage roared back to life.
Gareth snapped his sticks together, Jeff muttered the count under his breath, Frankie locked in without fuss, and Eddie ripped across the top with a riff so loud the garage door trembled on its tracks.
Two songs slid into each other, then another. Jules lost track of where one ended and the next began. There were still slips — Gareth dropping a stick, Jeff grimacing at a sour chord — but instead of falling apart, they folded the mistakes back into the rhythm. Frankie smoothed the cracks with his steady bass, Gareth drove them forward with a sharp beat, and Eddie stitched it all together, reckless but sure.
It wasn’t polished, not yet. But it was good. Better than she expected. Heavy and alive.
Jules sank deeper into the bean bag, grinning despite the ringing in her ears. Her ribs vibrated with the rhythm, every beat carrying the weight of kids who actually knew what they were doing. There was chaos, yes — but it was the kind that made you lean closer, not turn away.
When they finally broke off, Gareth shook out his upper body relieving tension. Frankie drifted toward the fridge in the corner, Jeff crouched over his pedalboard with stubborn focus, and Eddie collapsed onto the sofa like he’d just coaxed a crowd into roaring back.
He leaned sideways, then snagged a can of soda from the table. With a lazy flick, he sent a can skimming toward her. It kissed the lamp’s edge before she snatched it.
It smacked Jules’ palms, heavier than she expected, and nearly slipped through her fingers. She saved it just in time and shot him a mock glare. “You’re lucky I’ve got reflexes. Otherwise, Gareth’s mom would be down here demanding blood money for her lamp.”
Eddie’s grin curled sharp as he sprawled deeper into the cushions, boots planted wide on the rug. His gaze flicked over her — quick but deliberate — before he tilted his head back with a theatrical sigh. “Worth it. Lamps come and go. Jugglers like you? Rare breed.”
Jules rolled her eyes, cracked the tab, the fizz cutting through the heavy air, and took a long sip.
Her sneaker nudged the milk crate near the sofa — pages spilling out, covered in scribbled lyrics, half-scratched lines, whole verses rewritten three times. “This your gospel?” she asked.
Eddie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. For a moment the smirk softened, something steadier flickering in its place. “Something like that. Cheaper than therapy. Louder, too.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “Pretty sure no therapist makes you rhyme ‘hell’ with ‘hero.’”
His eyes locked on hers. “Shows what you know. Maybe you just need the right kind of therapy.”
The words sat between them like static, heavier than his usual banter. Jules ducked back into the bean bag, soda sweating in her grip, pretending to study the posters crooked on the wall. Frankie cracked open a soda at the fridge and let it hiss loud, a casual sound that cut through the tension — but didn’t erase it. Because she could still feel Eddie’s gaze on her, tugging at something raw inside her, something she wasn’t ready to name.
When she finally looked back, his bravado was sliding into place again — smirk tugging, rings tapping idle rhythm against the sofa cushion — but she’d caught the flicker beneath it. And that was the part she couldn’t look away from.
He broke the moment, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You know the real event comes after this, right? Comics don’t buy themselves.”
Before she could answer, Gareth clapped his sticks together, smirking. “Oh, we know. Munson hasn’t shut up about his big post-practice adventure.”
“Adventure?” Jeff echoed, adjusting his glasses. “More like bailing on us.”
Frankie strummed a lazy bass note, deadpan as ever. “Date night.”
Heat pricked her neck.
Eddie sprang upright, theatrics sliding back into place. He swept his arms wide. “Gentlemen, I am a man of many duties — rock god, Dungeon Master, patron saint of wayward comic nerds. My calendar is packed.”
The others rolled their eyes, already drifting back to their instruments. But Jules caught it — the flicker beneath the grin when Eddie’s eyes darted to hers, like he was waiting to see if she’d bolt at the word date.
She didn’t. Her lips tugged, just faint, just enough.
And Eddie saw it. This time, his smile curved smaller, realer, meant just for her.
The garage hummed with the leftover chatter of amps and banter, but Jules only felt the current in her chest — sharp, restless, and alive. She told herself it was just the music.
But she didn’t believe it.
********
The last song on the practice roster unraveled into feedback, Gareth’s final cymbal crash rattling the garage door. He slumped forward, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, and let his sticks fall with a groan.
“Done. My hands are filing for divorce,” he muttered, flexing his fingers like they might just fall off.
Jeff crouched by his pedalboard, twisting a knob like it had personally offended him. “Pretty sure that last one shaved five years off my hearing.”
Frankie, unbothered, plucked one low, resonant note that hummed through the floorboards. “Sounded fine to me.”
Eddie was already unplugging his guitar, coiling the cable in messy loops across his arm. “Fine?” he scoffed. “That was transcendence, gentlemen. The kind of set that’ll echo through Hawkins lore long after we’re dust.” He popped the case open with a snap, sliding the guitar inside, still grinning. He hit the garage door opener and carried the case toward the driveway, opening the back doors of the van and disappearing.
Jules pushed herself out of the bean bag. Her knees ached from sitting so long, but the smile on her face felt easy as she wandered closer to Gareth. “Transcendence? He nearly toppled into the amp. I thought I was gonna have to fish him out.”
“Performance art,” Frankie deadpanned, without missing a beat.
That cracked Gareth up. He flipped a stick into the air, catching it with a grin. “See? The critics get it.”
Jules shook her head, still laughing. “If this is what counts as art, Hawkins is doomed.”
“Please,” Gareth said, pointing the stick at her. “Half this town wouldn’t know talent if it marched down Main Street with a brass section. At least you stayed.”
Jeff muttered, “Still not sure why,” but there wasn’t any real bite in it.
Jules smirked, leaning against the sofa. “Guess I was curious how much noise four nerds could make without collapsing the roof.”
“High praise,” Gareth shot back, but his grin didn’t slip.
The garage air was thick with heat and laughter, the kind that lingered even after the amps went quiet. Jules found herself folded into it — not a guest on the sidelines, but standing in the middle of the mess with them.
The van doors slammed and Eddie reappeared, hands dusted on his jeans. “Alright, freaks,” he said, lighter now, “that’s the set. Me and Ambrose have places to be. I’ll see you Monday.”
Gareth made a show of groaning. “Skipping out on the afterparty, huh? Figures.”
“Afterparty?” Eddie snorted. “You mean your mom’s leftover lemonade. Tempting, but the comics call.”
Frankie raised his soda in a casual salute. “Later.”
Jeff pushed his glasses up, giving Jules a small, awkward nod. “Good meeting you.”
“Likewise,” Jules said, and she meant it.
Eddie turned back to the guys, flashing a quick grin. “Don’t burn the place down without me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gareth said, twirling a stick before snapping it into its case.
Eddie shifted toward Jules, sweeping an exaggerated bow. “C’mon, Tink.”
The nickname hit different with an audience. Heat pricked at her cheeks, but the grin broke through anyway — she gave him a shove to the shoulder as she ducked past, half hiding, half teasing.
Gareth snorted. “Watch out, Ambrose. Let him give you a nickname once and he’ll be inscribing it on your tombstone.”
Frankie arched a brow, lips quirking like he was amused. Jeff blinked behind his glasses, mouthing it once like he was trying the taste of it.
“Tink?” Jeff echoed, baffled.
“Inside joke,” Gareth said, shaking his head, though he was still grinning.
“Not just a joke,” Eddie shot back, smug as ever. “It’s branding.”
Jules let out a huff, rolling her eyes in a way that didn’t quite hide her smile.
Jeff muttered something about Eddie branding everything, but the faint twitch at his mouth betrayed him. Frankie just tipped his soda can in her direction like a quiet welcome to the circus.
And then Eddie was already crossing the garage, into the driveway, swinging the van’s passenger door open with a flourish, ushering her out like he was announcing her entrance to a stage. Jules, still clutching her unfinished soda, hitched her bag higher, waved once to the guys, and followed Eddie out into the cool afternoon air. She glanced back at the garage — Christmas lights still trembling, laughter still spilling through into the outdoors — before climbing into the van.
She slid into the seat, the door thunking shut with a satisfying weight. Eddie climbed in after, turning the key, the engine rumbling alive under their feet.
“Next stop,” he said, throwing her a sideways grin, “the holy temple of Hawkins comics.”
And with that, the van rolled out of the driveway, the garage — and the laughter inside it — fading behind.
********
The van hummed as it left Gareth’s street behind, gravel spitting under the tires before the road smoothed into asphalt. The garage’s aftershock lingered in Jules’ bones — the amps, the laughter, the clash of sound stitched into something rough but whole. Even with the windows rolled up, her ears still rang faintly, a ghost of feedback threading her skin.
Beside her, Eddie slouched low into the seat, one wrist draped over the wheel, the other drumming an irregular rhythm against his thigh. He hummed to himself, tuneless at first, then dipping into something that almost sounded like the chorus they’d been mangling earlier.
Jules pressed her palms against her knees, sneakers scuffing the rubber mat, trying to sort out the buzz in her chest. It wasn’t just the volume — though her ribs still ached from it. She was used to throwing herself headlong into things, competing until her body burned. What caught her off guard was that she hadn’t needed to fight for a place. She’d walked in, sat down, and they’d made room for her like she was meant to be there.
She caught herself glancing sideways. “Your band,” she said, voice quieter than she meant, “they’re… good.”
Eddie’s head tipped, grin sliding lazy across his mouth. “Good?” He let the word drag like an insult. “Sweetheart, that was transcendence. Didn’t you hear Jeff’s pedal nearly combust? That’s the sound of history.”
Jules smirked, turning back to the window, but the truth slipped out anyway. “No, really. They’re good. And you—” she hesitated, fingers tapping the soda can in her lap, “—you looked like you belonged there.”
That cracked his grin, just a hair. He didn’t answer right away, just tapped the wheel in a stutter of beats before finally saying, “Yeah, well. Not everybody sticks around long enough to see that.” His voice was lighter than the words. Like if he said them with enough smirk, they wouldn’t sting.
Jules leaned her head against the cool glass, watching the blur of houses slip past — Christmas lights in windows, a dog barking at nothing. “They like you,” she said after a pause. “You can tell. And they’re… not what I expected.”
Eddie snorted, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “What’d you expect? Horns? Jeff reciting the Necronomicon between solos? Frankie levitating off the bassline?”
Her laugh came quick, easier than she planned. “Something like that.”
He grinned, sharper now, but underneath it she saw the flicker of something else. Pride, maybe. Relief. He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice lost some of its armor. “They’re misfits. Like me. Like…” His fingers drummed harder against the wheel before he shrugged it off. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, you didn’t bail. That’s more than most.”
Jules picked at the tab of her soda can, heart ticking faster. She thought of Robin testing her until banter turned into trust, of Steve only letting her in after they’d both bled for each other. And then of that garage — cluttered, stupid, loud in the best way — where no one had asked her to prove a thing. They’d just let her in. It felt reckless and easy at once, like stepping off the beam mid-routine and finding the air still held you.
The van’s blinker clicked as Eddie signaled, the sound too loud in the quiet. He cut a glance at her, grin crawling back into place. “Anyway, don’t get too attached. Corroded Coffin’s destined for the big time. Headlining the Indiana State Fair, say… 1991. We’ll need groupies to haul our amps.”
Jules snorted. “Groupies? That’s your plan? I thought you were aiming for roadies at least.”
“Roadies get paid,” he shot back, tapping the wheel like he was punctuating the point. “Groupies do it for the glory.”
Jules rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her. “Well, pencil me in for the pie contest. Maybe I’ll wave when you pass by.”
Eddie’s laugh broke loud in the small space, full-bodied, the kind that shook his shoulders and filled the van more than the engine’s growl. He thumped a quick drumroll against the dash, grinning at her like she’d given him the best encore of the night.
She looked away first, cheeks warm, but the corner of her mouth didn’t drop.
The van rattled on, Hawkins flickering by in strips of neon and shadow. And Jules felt like the road ahead wasn’t just pulling her away from something. It was carrying her toward.
*********
The bell above the door gave a tired squeak as Jules pushed it open, the smell of paper and ink wrapping around her like a blanket.
“Jules!” Mr. Kinney looked up from the counter, glasses perched at the end of his nose. His grin split wide. “Knew I’d see you sooner or later. Thought maybe you’d traded me in for that shiny new arcade.”
“Not a chance,” Jules said, already smiling. “This place actually has soul.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Secret Wars number eight just came in. Figured you’d want it.” He slid the issue from under the counter like it had been waiting only for her. Then his voice gentled. “Heard about Bob. Rough business. You tell him we’re pulling for him.”
The words hit sharp, but Jules smoothed her thumb over the plastic sleeve and nodded. “I will.”
Mr. Kinney’s grin returned, lighter now. “Go browse. There’s new X-Men in the racks, and a Thor special that’s got your kind of weirdness all over it.”
Jules tugged Eddie along the narrow aisle, already slipping into a rhythm that felt as natural as breathing. Her fingers skimmed the longboxes, sleeves crackling as she flipped through them.
Eddie trailed behind, hands shoved in his pockets, pretending nonchalance. “So, this is the holy temple, huh?”
“Holier than church,” Jules said, pulling out a Fantastic Four issue and holding it up to the light. Her voice softened, reverent. “These pages… they’re bigger than paper. They’re escape hatches. You open one and suddenly you’re not stuck in Hawkins anymore. You’re fighting Galactus or saving the multiverse or standing on a rooftop with the whole city under you.”
She tucked the comic back, eyes flicking to Eddie’s. “It’s like D&D, right? Except here the dice are already rolled. You just get to live it for a while.”
Something flickered across his face — recognition. He leaned against the shelf, watching her as she moved like she knew every title by touch. “So what’s my gateway drug? Which one makes me see the light?”
Jules grinned, digging into another box until she found what she wanted. She pulled out a worn issue of Doctor Strange, the cover a swirl of impossible colors. “This. Magic, monsters, portals — weird enough to keep up with you.”
Eddie raised a brow but took it when she offered. The corners were soft from too many reads, but Jules’ hands lingered on it a second longer before letting go.
“See?” she said, voice dropping to something near a whisper. “It’s not just stories. It’s proof. That even the freaks, the broken ones, get to be heroes.”
For once, Eddie didn’t crack a joke. He just turned the comic over in his hands, nodding slow, like he understood exactly what she meant.
The bell on the door gave another halfhearted squeak as someone ducked out, leaving the shop quiet but for the soft rustle of pages being flipped. Jules led Eddie toward the counter, comics cradled in her arms like treasure.
Mr. Kinney looked up again, smiling at the sight. “Find what you were hunting for, Jules?”
She slid Amethyst and Swamp Thing onto the counter, along with the Doctor Strange issue she’d pressed into Eddie’s hands. “And then some.”
Kinney adjusted his glasses, scanning the covers. “That Strange’ll scramble your brain in the best way. Good pull.” He tapped the corner of the sleeve with a finger, then reached beneath the counter. “And here—” He produced another sleeve, slipping it gently on top. “New Fantastic Four. Figured Bob would’ve wanted it. On the house.”
Jules froze, throat tight, then swallowed around the lump. She traced the logo with her thumb before meeting Kinney’s eyes. “Thanks. He’ll… he’ll like that.”
Eddie, standing a little awkward beside her, stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets. His usual quips were nowhere to be found, but when Jules glanced at him, he just gave a small nod, like he understood the weight of the moment.
Kinney bagged the stack, sliding it across. Then his eyes flicked to Eddie. “You’re new.”
“Eddie Munson,” Eddie said, straightening a little, grin flickering back into place. “Chauffeur. Occasional chaos merchant.”
Kinney chuckled. “Well, Munson, any friend of Jules is welcome here. Just don’t bend the covers and we’ll get along fine.”
Jules laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You hear that? Comic shop commandments. Respect the bag and board.”
Eddie leaned an elbow on the counter, flipping the Doctor Strange issue in his hand before sliding it into the bag. “Guess I’m officially baptized, then.”
“Trial membership,” Kinney said dryly, already returning to his ledger. “We’ll see if you make it past the first test.”
Eddie raised a brow. “And that is?”
“Remembering to come back.” Kinney gave Jules a pointed look. “She always does.”
Heat crept into her cheeks, but she only smiled, handing over the cash for the comics. “Don’t worry. I’m not letting him dog-ear the pages.”
“Atta girl,” Kinney said, handing her, her change.
Kinney’s ledger snapped shut with a soft thud. “Alright then. Don’t be strangers.”
Jules tucked the bag carefully under her arm, the weight of it grounding her as much as it lifted her. She gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Mr. Kinney. For everything.”
“Always, kid.” His voice softened, but he waved her toward the door like it was nothing. “Now get out of here before I put you to work alphabetizing back issues.”
That earned a laugh from Jules as she turned for the door. Eddie held it open with a mock flourish, muttering, “Saint Kinney, patron of geeks.”
“Watch it,” Jules said, but her grin betrayed her.
The bell squeaked again as they stepped into the fading light. The air outside was sharp and cool after the warmth of the shop, and Jules hugged the bag a little closer.
Eddie fell into step beside her, tapping the edge of it lightly with one ringed finger. “You really do treat these like relics.”
“Because they are,” she shot back, eyes glinting.
He smirked, but there was no edge to it this time — just curiosity, and maybe a little wonder, like he’d been let in on a secret.
They crossed the lot toward the van, Kinney’s bell giving one last tired squeak behind them before the door swung shut. The shop stayed warm in her chest, steady as the bag under her arm, as though she wasn’t just carrying stories out with her.
She was sharing them.
********
The van hummed along, Judas Priest still growling faintly from the tape deck. Eddie flicked the dial lower — not off, never off — just enough that the music sat under them like a pulse instead of swallowing the whole van.
Jules glanced sideways, one brow raised. “Didn’t think you believed in quiet.”
“Not quiet,” Eddie said, tapping the wheel in time with the muted beat. “Strategic volume management. Can’t have the vocals outshining you.”
Jules shook her head, but the corners of her mouth softened anyway. A small smile slipped, unguarded, before she turned her gaze back to the window. Her fingers traced the seam of the comic bag in her lap, like she was tucking his words away with the rest of her treasures.
“Hey,” she said after a beat, voice softer than usual. “Thanks.”
Eddie glanced over; one brow arched. “For what? Not crashing us into a ditch?”
Her smile deepened just a little. “For the shop. For band practice. I didn’t realize how much I needed that. The company, the chaos… it felt good.”
Eddie’s rings clicked against the wheel in a lazy rhythm. He didn’t fire back right away. When he did, his voice was lighter, but something in it carried weight. “Guess it’s about time you got drafted into the circus.”
Jules’ lips curved, faint but real. “Didn’t feel like I was just watching.”
“Nope,” Eddie said, eyes still fixed on the road, though the smile at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “You didn’t just sit in — you clicked. Band’s full of misfits. You fit right in.”
Her chest tightened, a warmth blooming that had nothing to do with the weak heater wheezing through the vents. She traced the outline of Secret Wars through the bag and let the quiet stretch, filled only by the low pulse from the deck and Eddie’s steady drumming on the wheel.
Headlights carved long beams through the dark. Eddie’s smirk tugged, but his voice dipped lower, almost tentative.
“You know,” he said, “if you keep talking like that, people are gonna think you actually like me.”
It was shaped like a joke, but Jules caught the edge beneath it — like he’d been waiting to see what she’d give back.
She meant to deflect, to shoot something sharp, but instead her mouth betrayed her. “Maybe I do.”
The words landed heavy in the small space, sharper for how unpolished they were. Her eyes went wide, fingers digging into the plastic bag like she could stuff them back inside. Heat crawled up her neck, and for a breath she wished the tape deck was loud enough to have drowned her out.
Eddie didn’t miss it. His hands stilled for a beat, then loosened back around the wheel. The grin that curved across his face wasn’t the broad armor he usually wore — it was smaller, crooked, and too soft to hide the truth underneath.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It stretched between them, warm and fragile, carried forward on the road and the low undercurrent of the tape.
The van growled low as Eddie eased it up to the curb, headlights washing over the quiet street. Jules gathered the comic bag from her lap, hugging it close as the engine idled. For a second, neither of them moved.
“Here,” she said finally, pulling the Doctor Strange issue free. The sleeve crinkled softly as she turned, holding it out to him. “This one’s yours now. Consider it… your initiation.”
Eddie blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to actually give it up. “You serious?” His voice came low, uncertain in a way that cut through the usual swagger.
“Dead serious.” Jules shifted closer, pressing the issue into his hand. “You’ll get it.”
Their fingers brushed; light as static. But it was enough — a spark snapped through her skin, racing up her arm. Eddie’s hand stilled around the comic, his rings cold against the back of her knuckles.
When she risked looking up, he was already watching her. That heavy, hooded look of his — part curiosity, part something sharper — pinned her in place.
Heat climbed Jules’ neck. She pulled her hand back quick, clutching the rest of the comics against her chest like a shield. “Goodnight, Eddie,” she said, quieter than she meant.
For a beat he didn’t answer, just held her gaze like he could stretch the moment longer. Then the corner of his mouth curled, softer than his usual grin. “’Night, Tink.”
The van’s headlights cast long beams up the walk as Jules slipped out, the door closing with a muted thud. She hugged the bag of comics tight to her ribs, the plastic edges digging in just enough to remind her it was real.
The night was cold, sharp against her skin after the close warmth of the van, and each step up the path felt heavier than it should have. At the door, she risked a glance back.
Eddie was still there. The van idled at the curb, windows fogged faintly, his silhouette framed in the glow of the dashboard. Doctor Strange rested in his lap like something fragile, and for once, he wasn’t moving — no drumming, no restless shift of limbs. Just stillness. Watching.
Heat flushed her cheeks, quick and traitorous. Jules fumbled with the key, slipped inside, and leaned her back against the door once it clicked shut.
The house was quiet — too quiet after the day’s chaos. Claudia’s curtains drawn, Dustin’s notes scattered across the table, all of it unchanged. But Jules wasn’t. The buzz hadn’t left her. It ran under her skin, the same restless hum that came when her powers slipped, except this wasn’t dangerous. This was something else.
Her gaze dropped to the comics in her arms, the glossy covers catching the porch light that still filtered in through the window. Proof, she thought. Proof that even misfits and outcasts could be more than what the world decided they were.
Her fingers still tingled where his rings had brushed hers. The spark had been small, but it lingered now like an echo, stitched into her chest.
She pressed the bag closer, shut her eyes, and let the warmth bloom — not the kind that burned, but the kind that promised. And beneath it all, she couldn’t shake the look he’d given her in the van: heavy, unguarded — like he’d seen something in her worth holding onto.
Notes:
This chapter felt like watching two kids finally pull each other into their secret hideouts and realizing, oh… you belong here too. Jules gets the chaos of Gareth’s garage; Eddie gets the reverence of Kinney’s shop. Both are messy, both are alive, both are sanctuaries — and together, they start to make something new.
The title Escape Hatches felt right, because that’s what this chapter is all about: places that let them breathe when the world feels too heavy. For Jules, comics have always been proof that misfits and outcasts still get to be heroes. For Eddie, the band is the same — noise stitched into belonging. Letting each other in on those spaces? That’s intimacy at its rawest.
Highlights for me:
• Corroded Coffin in all their chaotic glory (Frankie deadpanning, Gareth’s mom offering sandwiches, Jeff being tragically earnest).
• Mr. Kinney, absolute MVP, casually slipping Jules a Fantastic Four and baptizing Eddie into comic shop membership with a straight face.
• Jules giving Eddie her copy of Doctor Strange — the closest thing to a vow she’s capable of right now.
• And of course, that van scene. Honest words tumbling out before she can stop them. The spark when their hands brush. Eddie’s heavy look that says more than dialogue ever could.So yeah — soft chaos, dangerous honesty, and a promise neither of them knows they’ve made yet.
Tell me: which moment hit hardest for you? The chaos of the band, the warmth of the shop, or that unguarded look in the van?
Chapter 26: Where The Water Holds The Light
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Henderson kitchen glowed with thin winter sunlight, the kind that slipped pale across the frost on the windowpanes. The radio hummed low on the counter, half static, half melody, while Claudia moved briskly between stove and table, spatula in one hand, dishtowel tossed over her shoulder.
Jules sat at the table, chin balanced on her palm, stirring her orange juice with the tip of a spoon like it might give her answers. The comics bag leaned against her chair, a reassuring weight at her side, though her thoughts were nowhere near the breakfast table. They circled back instead — to a van humming under her feet, a spark leaping at the brush of rings against her hand, a look that felt heavier than words.
“Jules?”
Her head snapped up. Claudia was watching her, spatula paused midair, one brow raised. “You’ve been hypnotizing that juice for ten minutes. Something I should know about?”
Heat pricked at Jules’ ears. She set the spoon down, feigning innocence. “Just… thinking.”
Claudia’s brow lifted, but she didn’t press. Instead, she slid a plate of scrambled eggs onto the table with a practiced clatter. “Well, if your plans today involve more daydreaming, you could come with me into town. Grocery, post office, maybe the pharmacy. Could use an extra set of hands.”
Jules hesitated. The easy answer would be yes — tag along, help with bags, dodge Claudia’s gentle-but-pointed questions. But the comics in her bag anchored her decision. She shook her head. “Thanks, but… I’m going to see Bob today. I’ve got something for him.”
Claudia’s hand lingered on the back of a chair, her expression softening even more. There was a flicker there, like she wanted to say something else, but instead she only nodded. “He’ll like that,” she murmured, returning to the stove.
At the far end of the table, Dustin didn’t look up from his mess of wires and graph paper, pencil clenched between his teeth. “Hey, when you get back, I need your help.”
Jules smirked. “With what? Another explosion disguised as science?”
“Controlled experiment,” Dustin corrected, far too fast. “Mostly controlled. It’s possible — and I mean remotely possible — that something could… spark.”
Claudia spun from the stove, towel snapping like a whip. “Spark?”
Dustin flinched, pencil nearly falling from his mouth. “Tiny spark! Minuscule spark! Nothing major.”
Jules bit back a laugh, pressing her hand to her mouth. “Totally reassuring, Dustbin.”
Dustin grinned, unfazed. “You’re the only one with reflexes fast enough to keep up if something does happen. So, you’re recruited.”
“Recruited,” Claudia muttered, shaking her head as she slid toast onto a plate. “I swear, I should keep a fire extinguisher in every room of this house.”
The kitchen slipped back into rhythm — Claudia humming, Dustin scribbling equations, Jules poking at her eggs but mostly just tracing the comic bag with her fingertips. It was warm, ordinary, a little chaotic.
But Jules felt the day waiting beyond it: white hospital walls, the steady pulse of machines, the comics she’d bring like offerings. She blew out a quiet breath and told herself she was ready.
*********
The station wagon coughed to life under her hands, a low, steady hum that felt too quiet after yesterday. Jules tightened her grip on the wheel, the leather worn smooth from years of Bob’s palms, grooves that didn’t belong to her but still anchored her there.
It wasn’t like Eddie’s van — all rattling metal, thumping bass, and the wild beat of his fingers drumming out riffs against the dash. That ride had been alive, vibrating with chaos, loud enough to make her feel like the world was moving with her. Bob’s car was the opposite: still, measured, the kind of quiet that left too much space for her thoughts to circle back on themselves.
The road stretched long and gray, tires humming steady under her. She found herself glancing at the empty passenger seat, expecting his laugh, his off-key hum along with the radio, the way he’d tap her shoulder to make some dumb joke about the billboards on Main Street. But the seat stayed stubbornly vacant, her only company the paper bag of comics propped against it.
She flicked the radio on out of habit, static flooding the speakers before a syrupy pop ballad crept through. She let it play for a few seconds before killing it. The silence that followed felt heavier, like the car itself had sighed.
Her chest ached in the space where Eddie’s van had been all noise and momentum — a blur of laughter, headlights, and his voice cutting through the music just for her. Bob’s station wagon didn’t carry her forward the same way. It pulled her back, slower with every block, toward something she couldn’t outrun.
By the time the hospital came into view, squatting pale against the overcast sky, her knuckles had gone stiff around the wheel. She parked in her usual spot near the side entrance, the same cracked space she always seemed to find open. The comics shifted as she cut the engine, the bag crinkling like it was reminding her why she was here.
Inside, the halls of Hawkins General carried that same sharp scent of antiseptic and lemon cleaner, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Jules adjusted the bag against her ribs, sneakers squeaking faintly against the linoleum.
“Morning, Jules,” one of the nurses at the station called, her smile warm but careful. Another leaned over the counter to wave. “Back to see your dad?”
The word still tugged sharp at her chest, even if she hadn’t quite managed to use it herself. She nodded, her throat too tight for much else, and offered them a small smile in return.
They didn’t press. They knew her by now — not as a visitor, but as Bob’s girl. The one who always came.
She kept moving, each step slower the closer she got to his room. The door stood half-shut, an invitation and a warning all at once.
The door creaked softly as Jules nudged it open. Joyce sat at Bob’s bedside, elbows resting on her knees, her hands clasped like she was holding herself together. Her eyes were fixed on Bob, her lips pressed thin, the faintest crease pulling at her brow.
Jules hesitated on the threshold, unsure if she should back out and circle the hall until Joyce was gone. But Joyce looked up at the sound, her expression softening as soon as she spotted Jules.
“Hey,” Joyce said, voice low, gentle in the way people spoke in hospitals. “I didn’t mean to hog him.”
Jules shook her head quickly, stepping inside. “No, it’s okay. I just—” She lifted the bag in her hands, the plastic sleeve of Secret Wars gleaming faintly under the fluorescent light. “I brought him something.”
Joyce’s gaze flicked to the comic, and her mouth curved — not quite a smile, but close. “Of course you did.” She sat back in the chair, folding her arms loosely. “He’d love that.”
Jules hovered by the bed, her throat tight as she looked at Bob. He was still, his chest rising and falling with the steady help of the machines, his face too pale against the hospital-white sheets. She blinked hard and turned toward Joyce instead.
Joyce was watching her carefully, like she was weighing something. Finally, she let out a long breath. “You know… sometimes I don’t know what to do with all this. With him. I sit here, and I talk, and I remember, and then I get so angry I can hardly breathe. Angry at the world, at Hawkins, at—” She stopped herself, pressing her fingers against her forehead. “At him. For being here instead of… home.”
The words sat heavy between them. Jules tightened her grip on the comic bag, the plastic crinkling.
“I get that,” she said quietly. “I’m mad too. At the lab. At Hawkins. At…” Her voice thinned, and she forced herself to keep going. “At him, sometimes. For being too good to us. Like—like the world saw it and decided to punish him for it.”
Joyce’s gaze snapped to her, eyes bright with unshed tears. And then, slowly, she nodded. “Yeah. That’s it exactly.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It carried the weight of two people who loved the same man in different ways, both unwilling to let go.
Joyce pushed herself to her feet, brushing her hands over her knees. “I’ll let you have some time with him. He’s probably sick of my voice anyway.”
Jules shook her head. “No. He’d never be.”
But Joyce only gave her a sad little smile, squeezing Jules’ shoulder as she passed. “He’s lucky to have you, Jules. Don’t forget that.”
And then she was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
Jules lowered herself into the chair at Bob’s side, the comics settling in her lap. For a moment she just sat there, listening to the hum and beep of the machines, steady as his breathing.
Her throat tightened, but her words filled the stillness. “Radio Shack’s a mess without you. Total disaster. I think they’d start selling toaster ovens as VCRs if I wasn’t there to tell them no.” She let out a soft huff of air, not quite a laugh. “They don’t know what they’re doing without you, Bob.”
Her eyes flicked to the comic, then back to him. “And I missed you at Thanksgiving. Claudia made too much food, Dustin kept trying to sneak extra pie, and I… I just kept waiting for you to walk through the door. Kept thinking you’d sit down and tell us one of your dumb jokes about cranberry sauce or mashed potatoes.”
She pressed her hand lightly over his, careful with the IV line, the weight of her palm steady against his skin. “So I’m bringing you the jokes. And the comics. And everything else until you come back and tell them yourself.”
The machines hummed on. Bob didn’t move. But Jules stayed anyway, her voice threading through the quiet, stubborn and steady, filling the room with the life he’d once brought to hers.
Jules eased the comic out of its sleeve with careful fingers, the plastic crinkling in the hush of the room. She smoothed it open across her lap, the glossy pages catching under the fluorescent lights.
“Alright, Bob,” she whispered, settling back in the chair. “Secret Wars, number eight. You’re not gonna believe what Spider-Man’s wearing now.”
Her voice lifted as she read the panels aloud, slipping into the rhythm of dialogue balloons and narration boxes. When she reached the reveal — Peter Parker’s sleek new black suit — she held the page up for Bob, like he might crack an eye open just to see it.
“Can you believe this?” she asked, grinning faintly. “They just toss it at him like, ‘Here you go, kid, try this alien fashion experiment on for size.’ No warning label, no return policy. You’d be furious. You’d be ranting about continuity and poor editorial planning.”
The laugh that bubbled up was thin, but it filled the space. Jules leaned closer, tracing the panel with her thumb. “But you’d admit it looks badass. Admit it, Bob, you’d be buying doubles — one to read, one to keep sealed.”
She flipped the page, voice softer now, commentary weaving with the dialogue. “You always said heroes weren’t heroes because of their powers. It was because they kept showing up, even when they were scared, even when they didn’t think they could win. That’s the part you loved.”
Her throat thickened. She set the comic down on the blanket near his hand, the colors stark against the white sheets. “That’s what I keep trying to remember. That showing up counts. Even when I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Her fingers curled into the blanket. For a long moment she just listened to the machines, steady and relentless, the kind of rhythm that almost sounded like a heartbeat if she let herself believe it.
Then, softly, words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I think I like someone.”
The room didn’t react. Of course it didn’t. But she kept going anyway.
“His name’s Eddie. He’s… ridiculous. Loud, dramatic, messy. But then he’ll say something, or look at me a certain way, and it’s like he’s not pretending at all. Like he actually sees me.” She bit her lip, glancing at Bob’s still face. “And that scares the hell out of me. Because what if he’s just another person I lose?”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She pressed her palm over the comic, grounding herself. “You’d tell me not to run from it. You’d say people are worth the risk. Even when it hurts. I know you would.”
Jules sniffed, swiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater. She straightened the comic again, smoothing the corner with her thumb. “So I’m reading this to you, okay? Until you can argue back. And when you wake up, you’re gonna tell me all the reasons this suit is the worst editorial decision of 1984. Deal?”
She leaned back in the chair, the comic open in her lap, her voice steady as she slipped into the next page. The machines hummed around her, steady and unchanging, but she filled the silence anyway — with Spider-Man’s words, with her own, with all the pieces of herself she couldn’t say anywhere else.
********
Time bent strangely in hospital rooms. The tick of the wall clock never seemed to match the steady beep of the monitors, and the light never shifted enough to tell her how long she’d been there. At some point Jules’ head had dipped forward onto her folded arms, cheek pressed against the scratchy blanket. The comic she’d been reading lay open under her elbow, Secret Wars mid-battle, Spider-Man’s new suit gleaming under the fluorescent light like it was waiting for Bob’s verdict.
A hand brushed her shoulder, gentle. Jules blinked awake, disoriented until the soft voice of a nurse filtered through. “Hey, Jules. Sorry, sweetheart — we need to clean him up. You’ve been here a while. Might be time to head home for today.”
Jules pushed herself upright, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. The imprint of the blanket was pressed into her skin, but it was the ache behind her ribs that hurt more. Her eyes darted to Bob — still, pale, chest rising and falling with the measured help of machines. Exactly as he had been when she arrived.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Just… give me a minute.”
The nurse nodded, stepping back to give her space. Jules leaned forward, resting her hand lightly over Bob’s. His fingers were cool, IV taped to the back of his hand, but she curled hers around them anyway, anchoring herself there.
“You’d be yelling at me right now,” she whispered, voice rough with sleep. “Falling asleep on the job. Letting the nurses catch me snoring.” A ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth, faint but real. “You’d have some terrible joke about overtime or union breaks. I can hear it.”
She moved Secret Wars to the bedside table, propped open like she’d left it on purpose for him to finish. After a beat, she dug into her bag and pulled out the Fantastic Four issue Mr. Kinney had pressed into her hands the day before. She hesitated, thumbing the bright logo, remembering how Kinney had said Bob would’ve wanted it.
She set it carefully on the table beside Secret Wars, stacking the two so their covers faced the bed. “There,” she said softly. “Your pull list’s up to date. No excuses about falling behind.”
Her thumb lingered on the edge of the sleeve. The comics looked wrong against the hospital-white sheets and the sterile gray walls, but in another way they looked exactly right. Bright, stubborn, waiting — like they were holding his place until he came back.
Jules’ throat tightened. She leaned closer, her voice low but steady. “I’ll be back. Don’t start reading without me.” Her smile wobbled, but she pushed through it. “And don’t even think about spoiling the ending before I get here.”
She pressed her palm gently against his again, just for a heartbeat, and then drew back. The nurses waited quietly at the door, their smiles soft, careful — the kind that said they’d seen her like this before and knew better than to hurry her.
Jules shouldered her bag and stood. She gave Bob one last look — the comics bright against the dim, his stillness framed by machines — and whispered, “See you soon.”
Then she slipped out, the door clicking softly behind her. The sound echoed in her chest all the way down the hall.
********
The Hendersons’ garage smelled faintly of motor oil and sawdust, the kind of lived-in clutter that made every corner feel like it had a history. Dustin crouched at the workbench, wires spilling out of a cracked walkie-talkie, his tongue poking out in fierce concentration as he prodded at the circuit board with a screwdriver.
Jules leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You know, when you said ‘help me with my new invention,’ I didn’t think it meant standing here watching you electrocute yourself.”
“I’m not going to electrocute myself,” Dustin said, indignant. Then the tip of the screwdriver sparked against the metal contact, and he yelped, jerking his hand back.
Jules bit back a grin. “Totally safe. Got it.”
“Okay, okay,” Dustin huffed, shaking his hand. “That was… minor. All part of the process.” His eyes lit up again, the sting already forgotten. “But seriously, I do need you. I can’t solder and hold this coil in place at the same time. My arms don’t bend like that.” He gave her an exaggerated look, as if her gymnastics training made her the obvious candidate for human pretzel work.
Jules sighed, but she stepped closer, dragging a milk crate over with her foot so she could perch beside him. “Alright, professor. Where do you want me?”
“Here.” Dustin pressed a small copper coil into her hand and pointed to the open walkie casing. “Hold it steady against this contact. Perfectly still. If it slips while I solder, the whole thing fries, and we’re back to square one.”
She arched a brow. “No pressure.”
“Exactly,” he said, already grinning smugly as he snapped on his safety goggles.
Jules leaned in, her fingers braced carefully against the fragile wire. The metal smelled sharp as Dustin heated the tip of the soldering iron. He worked with surprising precision for someone so excitable, muttering calculations under his breath as he guided the bead of silver into place.
“Why are we doing this again?” she asked, keeping her voice steady so her hand wouldn’t shake.
“Because,” Dustin said, voice pitched like it should be obvious, “the current range on these walkies is pathetic. If we’re going to keep in touch when things get weird—”
“When,” Jules echoed dryly.
“—we need stronger signal boosters. This coil will extend our transmission radius by at least half a mile. Maybe more.” He leaned back, blowing gently on the cooling solder joint, then flashed her a triumphant grin. “Boom. Science.”
Jules eased her hand back, flexing her fingers. “So basically you roped me into being your third arm.”
“Fourth, technically,” Dustin said, peeling off his goggles. “But you were great. Natural talent. You could have a future in electronics.”
“Please,” she said, shaking her head. “I can barely change the batteries in the TV remote.”
“Exactly,” Dustin said, as though she’d just proven his point. “That’s why you’re perfect for the grunt work. The genius brains do the hard thinking, and the sidekicks—”
“Excuse me?”
“—the vital assistants,” he corrected quickly, hands raised, “keep the genius from frying himself.”
Jules smirked, reaching out to ruffle his curls until he batted her hand away. “Sidekick, huh? Careful, Dustbin. Without me, your big invention would’ve ended with you lighting the garage on fire.”
Dustin’s eyes sparkled with mock offense, but there was warmth under it — the easy kind of banter that came from years of orbiting each other’s worlds. “Fine. Partners. Happy?”
“Better,” Jules said, nudging the milk crate back with her foot. “Just don’t blow us up before dinner.”
He grinned wide, turning back to the workbench with renewed vigor. “Deal. But if I do, at least we’ll go down in the name of progress.”
Jules shook her head, leaning back against the wall, but the smile that tugged at her mouth didn’t fade.
Dustin leaned back from the bench, goggles fogging slightly, and puffed up his chest. “There. Extended range, reinforced coil, perfectly stable. Hawkins isn’t ready for this level of genius.”
Jules arched a brow. “You sure about the stable part?”
“Absolutely.” Dustin reached for the dial, grinning. “Now we test.”
He flipped the switch. The walkie gave a promising crackle, then a sharp pop! snapped through the garage. Sparks spat across the bench and smoke curled upward, stinging Jules’ eyes.
She shot back on her stool, swatting the air. “Dustin!”
“I meant to do that!” he yelped, already yanking the soldering iron out of harm’s way.
“You meant to almost set the garage on fire?” Jules coughed, fanning the smoke with her sleeve.
“It’s called stress-testing.” He fumbled with the walkie, patting it down like it might burst into flame. “Totally part of the process.”
Jules raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so near-death experiences are just… step three?”
He grinned sheepishly, goggles still askew. “All great scientists have explosions. You think Edison nailed the lightbulb on the first try?”
“Pretty sure he didn’t almost blow his sister’s face off.” Jules tugged her hair back from her cheeks, glaring — though the corner of her mouth twitched.
Dustin smirked, catching it. “You held that coil perfectly, though. Couldn’t have tested the boost without you.”
“Wow,” Jules deadpanned, brushing ash off her sweater. “What a glowing epitaph. Here lies Julienne Ambrose: held the coil perfectly before perishing in smoke inhalation.”
That cracked him, laughter bursting out, bright and unashamed. He wheezed for breath, wiping his goggles with the hem of his shirt.
Jules tried to look stern, but the sound tugged her smile free. She slumped back onto the stool, nudging the scorched bench with her sneaker. “Fine. Partners in crime. But next time, you’re explaining the scorch marks if Claudia asks.”
Dustin grinned wider, already reaching for another wire. “Deal. But when this baby works, and we’re talking to Mike from across town? You’re gonna want your name in the credits.”
Jules shook her head, muttering under her breath. “Pretty sure I want my name off the casualty list.”
But she leaned in anyway, taking the pliers he shoved toward her. Smoke still clung to the rafters, the faint scorch mark on the workbench proof of their disaster. And yet, under it all, the two of them were grinning — conspirators in chaos.
********
By the time the smoke cleared and Dustin had scrawled three new “fixes” on a scrap of notebook paper, Jules had managed to air out the garage and wipe the worst of the scorch marks from the bench. Dustin was still buzzing, already planning their next test, but Jules’ head had drifted elsewhere — to the quiet hum of the hospital, to Bob’s still hand under hers.
The rest of Sunday blurred into chores, Claudia’s humming in the kitchen, and Dustin’s endless tinkering. By evening, Jules found herself stretched on the couch, the drone of the TV flickering against her half-formed thoughts until sleep pulled her under.
*********
Monday came fast. Jules twisted the last braid into place, fingers quick as she tied it off and tucked the ends under her sweatshirt collar. Her gym bag sagged against the dresser, stuffed with her leotard, sweats, slippers, and sneakers laced together by the tongues. First practice since Bob’s coma. The thought made her stomach clench, but she zipped the bag anyway, like maybe if it was packed, she’d have no excuse to skip.
The house moved around her with Monday rhythm. Claudia’s radio murmured from the kitchen, the tinny melody bouncing between cupboards, while Dustin had already thundered out the door, tires squealing on the frosted driveway as his bike rattled toward school. Jules grabbed her jacket from the chair and plucked an orange from the bowl, rolling it between her palms like a talisman.
Claudia spotted her on the way out, scarf looped loose around her neck, coat already half buttoned. “You’ve got practice today?”
“Yeah,” Jules said, adjusting her bag higher. “First one since… y’know.”
Claudia’s hand paused on the strap of her purse. Her gaze softened, lingering just long enough that Jules squirmed under it. But instead of saying what hovered on her tongue, Claudia only gave a small nod. “Good. You’ll feel better moving again.” She crossed the kitchen and pressed Jules’ scarf into her free hand. “Tell Steve hi for me. And remind him speed limits actually mean something.”
Jules smirked, tugging the scarf on. “Like he listens to me.”
“Then tell him anyway.” Claudia’s smile pulled just a little, fond but tired. She brushed her coat sleeve straight and headed toward the door. “Drive safe, Jules.”
The horn blared outside — not sharp, not impatient. Just a quick, bright note that could only belong to Steve Harrington. Jules stuffed the orange into her pocket and tugged her jacket zipper up against the cold.
The maroon BMW crouched at the curb, paint gleaming despite the thin frost clinging to the windows. Jules jogged down the walk, breath puffing white, boots crunching over the salted patches of driveway.
Steve leaned across the passenger seat to shove the door open, sunglasses on even though the sky was more gray than blue. “C’mon, Ambrose. Don’t make me look like the creep loitering outside Henderson’s place.”
Jules rolled her eyes but climbed in, the leather cold against her legs. The car smelled faintly of aftershave and winter air. Steve flicked the heater up a notch before settling back behind the wheel.
“Claudia says hi,” Jules offered, tugging her seatbelt across. “Also says you should obey the speed limit.”
Steve snorted, easing the car into gear. “Of course she does. Claudia’s got a sixth sense for mom stuff.” His mouth ticked into a grin. “Tell her I’m the safest driver in Hawkins.”
Jules arched a brow, peeling her orange with careful fingers. “Uh-huh. Safest driver who’s already pulled out halfway before checking his mirrors.”
“Details,” he said breezily, drumming the wheel with his fingers. “Besides, you want me to be cool or cautious?”
“Alive,” Jules deadpanned, popping an orange slice into her mouth.
That cracked him. Steve’s laugh filled the car, warm in a way that pressed against her chest like sunlight through glass. For a moment, it almost felt normal — like this was just another ride to school, no coma, no hospital, no spark still prickling against her skin from the night before.
Jules leaned her forehead against the window, watching Hawkins blur by in patches of frosted lawns and Christmas decorations. “Thanks for the ride,” she said after a beat, softer than before.
Steve glanced at her, the grin dimming into something gentler. “Anytime, Ambrose. You know that.”
The heater rattled, the car hummed steady beneath them, and for a few quiet blocks, Jules let herself breathe like it was just another Monday.
*********
The BMW rolled into the Hawkins High lot with a low purr, the maroon paint catching what little winter sun managed to break through the clouds. Students clustered in knots near the entrance, breath puffing white, the chatter of a Monday morning buzzing across the pavement.
Steve swung into a space with practiced ease, one hand drumming the wheel. “Showtime,” he muttered, slipping his sunglasses onto the dash.
Jules slung her bag over her shoulder and tugged her jacket tighter before climbing out. The cold bit sharper here, the wind funneled between rows of cars, but the smell of exhaust and asphalt was grounding in its own way. She fell into step beside Steve, his stride easy, practiced — the kind of gait that came with knowing all eyes would follow anyway.
Inside, lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Jules let the noise wash over her, half a shield, half a test. Could she walk steady, breathe even, act like nothing had shifted since Saturday? Because everything in her felt tilted now.
Not the exact memory of the van — not the brush of his rings or the look he’d given her. That was too raw to replay. What lingered was the question that came after: what now? How was she supposed to face Eddie in the hall, or sit near him at lunch, or even catch his eye, knowing she’d said it — Maybe I do — and meant it?
Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t slept much, kept waking like she’d missed a step, jolted by the memory of her own honesty. She’d never been reckless with her words before. Deflection, sarcasm, masks — those were safe. But this? This was bare skin. And now she was walking into a building where she might see him any second.
By the time she slid into English, her shoulders ached from holding so much tension. Robin had already sprawled across her desk chair, hair mussed like she’d wrestled it into place that morning and lost. She was mid-rant, words spilling at machine-gun pace as she gestured with a pencil like it might stab the point home.
“—and then my cousin actually had the nerve to tell me I should ‘smile more,’ like she’s suddenly the CEO of family charm or something. Meanwhile, her brother’s outside chucking rocks at the neighbor’s dog, and I’m the problem? Thanksgiving at Casa Buckley: where irony goes to die.”
Jules managed a smirk as she dropped into the desk beside her. “Sounds… festive.”
Robin peeled one eye open, grimacing. “Imagine a room full of cousins who think sarcasm is an Olympic sport, and all of them competing for the gold. And when that failed, they argued about which pie was more ‘patriotic.’” She thumped her forehead against the desk. “It was a nightmare.”
“Hmm, survival of the fittest,” Jules said, propping her chin on her palm. Her pen spun restlessly between her fingers, her knee bouncing under the desk.
Robin narrowed her eye, then cracked a grin. “Barely. Next year I’m staging a coup. Turkey Day Revolution. I’ll lead the charge with mashed potatoes and a ladle.”
“Terrifying,” Jules murmured, shaking her head. But her smile came soft, unforced, grateful for Robin’s noise filling the space where her thoughts kept circling back.
The teacher cleared his throat at the front of the room, chalk squealing across the board. Robin sighed, slumping low, muttering “Back to the grind” as Jules cracked her book open.
But the words blurred. Her pen stilled. All she could think was that Eddie might be just a hallway away, and she didn’t know which was worse — the idea of him pretending nothing had happened, or the idea of him not pretending at all.
********
The bell shrieked overhead, metal on metal, and the shuffle of notebooks and chairs swallowed up the last of the lesson. Robin muttered something about “academic torture” under her breath as she stuffed her books into her bag, already spinning a new rant. Jules only half-heard her. The knot in her stomach had tightened again, nerves buzzing as the tide of students swept them into the hall.
Lockers slammed, chatter echoed off the linoleum, the whole building vibrating with restless energy. Jules hugged her books to her chest, head down, moving with the crowd.
Robin peeled off toward her next class with a two-finger salute and a breezy, “Don’t die in gym.” Jules managed a weak grin in return, then shifted her strap higher on her shoulder and kept walking.
That’s when the voices cut through — bright, sugar-sweet on the surface, but sharpened to a blade underneath.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Ambrose.”
Amber leaned against the trophy case like it was her stage, Melissa and Kayla flanking her. Their matching smiles glinted sharp in the fluorescent light.
Jules’ pace faltered, just enough for them to notice.
Melissa twirled a strand of hair, voice carrying across the hall. “Funny. Couple months ago you couldn’t walk down this hallway without every guy drooling. Now? Nothing. Not even your uncle wants to look at you.”
Kayla giggled, the sound crueler than it should have been. “Guess the shine wore off fast. Maybe your uncle’s the lucky one — doesn’t have to wake up and see what’s left.”
A laugh rippled between them, too bright, too brittle. Students passing by slowed just enough to catch it, then quickened their steps, eyes averted.
Jules’ chest burned hot, her grip tightening until the corners of her books dug into her arms. She knew exactly why Amber had started this — back in September, Jules had overheard Amber’s crush talking in the cafeteria about “how hot Ambrose looked in gymnastics practice.” Amber had never forgotten it. And now, with Jules’ life in shambles, she had her opening.
The sting wasn’t just the words. It was the way the boys who had looked at her before now didn’t. Not since Bob’s coma. Not since whispers about “the freak accidents” around Hawkins had started to stick to her name. It was easier for them to look away, to move on.
Everyone except Eddie.
Her throat locked. She stared straight ahead, forcing her feet to move. If she stopped, if she cracked, they’d win.
Further down the hall, Chrissy Cunningham lingered by her locker, books clutched close. Her gaze flicked to Jules, then to the cheerleaders. For a breath she hesitated — lips parting, shoulders shifting like she might step forward.
She didn’t.
The cheerleaders’ laughter followed Jules down the hall, sharp enough to nick bone, but she didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking back.
********
The locker room smelled faintly of chlorine and old sneakers, the usual funk amplified by the cold air seeping in from the cracked windows. Jules moved through the motions on autopilot — boots swapped for gym shoes, sweater peeled off and tucked into her locker — but the sting of Amber’s words still echoed sharp under her skin.
Her braid tugged tight against her scalp, sneakers squeaking too loud against the tile, each step heavier than it should have been. She kept her chin up anyway, shoulders squared like armor, even as laughter trailed after her like a shadow she couldn’t shake.
By the time she pushed through the double doors into the gym, the class was already scattering across the bleachers. Coach prowled near the net, whistle bouncing against his chest as he barked instructions.
Jules tugged at the end of her braid, making sure it was secure before she crossed the court.
She spotted Steve first. He was leaning against the ball rack, maroon sweatband keeping his hair back, looking every bit the reluctant king of gym class. When his eyes cut across the room and landed on her, his expression shifted instantly — shoulders straightening, jaw tightening.
He knew.
“Hey,” he said as she walked up, voice casual but his eyes sharp. “You good?”
Jules forced a smile, tugging at her sneaker laces. “Yeah. Fine.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. His gaze flicked toward the cheerleaders lounging near the bleachers, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny. He looked back at Jules, softer now. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Jules said quickly. Too quickly. She bent lower, fussing with her laces even though they were already tied. “Just… Monday.”
Steve crouched a little, trying to catch her eyes. “Jules.”
She shook her head, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Seriously, Steve. I’m fine. You’ve got enough to deal with without worrying about me.”
For a second, he didn’t move. His jaw worked like he wanted to push harder, to press until she admitted it. But finally, he straightened, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. But if somebody’s giving you crap—” His eyes slid toward the cheerleaders again, dangerous in their focus. “—I’ll handle it.”
Her chest pinched. She reached out, tugging his wrist lightly before he could storm off. “Don’t. Please. Just… let it go.”
Steve looked down at her, the fight still flickering behind his eyes, but he nodded slowly. “Okay. For now.”
The whistle shrilled, calling them to their sides of the net. Jules jogged to her spot on the back line, Steve taking up position a few feet away.
Across the gym, Billy Hargrove leaned against the far wall, arms folded, hair damp with sweat. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t prowling for a fight. His eyes flicked over Steve, then Jules, and then slid away, unreadable. Still, when Amber’s voice rose above the others, his gaze cut back for just a moment before shifting off again.
The whistle shrilled. Balls flew.
Jules bent her knees, palms stinging as she bumped a serve back into play. The ball arced higher than she meant, but Steve was there, leaping just enough to tip it over the net. He shot her a grin when he landed, the kind meant to steady her more than celebrate.
Her pulse eased a fraction. Maybe she could get through this.
But the cheerleaders clustered near the bleachers hadn’t missed a beat. Their laughter carried sharp over the echo of the game, their whispers pitched just high enough to reach her when the ball dropped dead at her feet.
“…guess her shine wore off.”
“…not even worth the look anymore.”
“…better off invisible.”
Amber’s voice cut through the rest — syrupy, deliberate. “Funny how fast the guys stop noticing once they figure out what you really are.”
It was a different kind of spotlight now — not the lingering stares in September, not the whispers about how pretty she was. Those had burned out fast, and in their ashes came this: laughter sharp as glass, cutting her down to something invisible.
Jules’ jaw tightened. She stooped, scooping the ball and sending it back into play with more force than necessary, her knuckles buzzing from the sting.
Steve’s eyes caught hers as the volley continued. He didn’t say anything — not here, not with Coach’s whistle primed and ready — but the set of his jaw told her he’d heard enough.
Jules forced herself to focus on the ball, on the rhythm of serve and return, anything but the laughter snaking from the sidelines.
One point at a time. One breath at a time.
********
The cafeteria roared with its usual noise — trays clattering, sneakers squeaking, the smell of overcooked tater tots hanging heavy in the air. Jules trailed Steve through the line, hugging her tray close like it might shield her. She’d spent the morning brushing off the sting of gym class, but Steve’s jaw had stayed set, tight as a clenched fist.
They slid into their usual table across from Robin, who was already halfway into a rant, pencil waving like a conductor’s baton.
“You will not believe this one,” Robin announced, eyes wide. “Shelly Hoyt and Jimmy Nelson? Done. Like, nuclear meltdown done. She caught him flirting with some sophomore by the vending machines, and boom — she chucked her pom-poms at him in the parking lot. Actual weapons-grade pom-poms.”
Steve frowned, halfway through his milk carton. “Who?”
“Shelly. Cheerleader. Loud. And Jimmy, football player, thinks Axe is a personality trait.” Robin rolled her eyes. “They’ve been grossly attached at the lips since September. Guess the honeymoon phase expired.”
Jules managed a smirk, stabbing at her tater tots. “Romantic.”
“Tragic,” Robin corrected, biting into a carrot stick. “But also hilarious. I give it two weeks before they’re back to slobbering all over each other behind the bleachers.”
Steve snorted. “High school relationships are a joke.”
“Thanks, Dr. Love,” Robin shot back.
But even as the banter swirled, Jules’ eyes kept skimming the cafeteria. Eddie wasn’t there — not sprawled in his usual corner, not tilting back on two legs of a chair, not making a show of being the loudest person in the room. The hollow where he should’ve been gnawed at her, equal parts relief and disappointment.
Robin barely looked up, pencil tapping a steady rhythm against her notebook. “What’s with the brooding bodyguard act?”
Jules forced a smirk, aiming for casual. “Ignore him. He’s just mad his hair isn’t cooperating today.”
Steve’s head whipped toward her, eyes narrowing. “That’s not—”
She cut him a sharp look, pleading without words. Don’t.
His jaw worked, but after a beat he exhaled hard through his nose and leaned back. “Fine. Yeah. My hair’s the problem. Huge crisis.”
Robin squinted between them, suspicion prickling. “Uh-huh.”
Jules ducked her head, focusing on rearranging fries she wasn’t hungry for. The silence stretched too long before Steve leaned closer, voice pitched low just for her. “You want me to wait after practice? Give you a ride?”
She shook her head fast, grabbing her milk carton just to have something to hold. “No. I’ll walk. Clears my head better.”
Steve frowned, deep enough that she felt it in her chest, but he didn’t push. “Fine. But I’m holding you to dinner tomorrow.”
Her throat tightened, but she forced a smile. “Deal.”
Robin, finally cluing into the tension, sat up straighter. “Okay, what is this? The dramatic sighs, the secret glances — you two planning an after-school special without me?”
Jules shot Steve a desperate look: Don’t say it. Please.
He rolled his eyes, groaning like the cover was physically painful. “Relax, Buckley. She’s just moody ‘cause Coach made us run suicides in gym. Nearly killed us.”
Robin narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but eventually shrugged. “Fine. But if you two are hiding something, I’m suing for emotional damages.”
Jules let out a shaky breath, sinking lower in her seat. Steve caught it, jaw still tight, but he let it go — for now.
She didn’t touch the rest of her lunch. Not with Eddie’s absence gnawing at her, and not with the fear of what would happen when she finally did see him again.
The lunch bell shrieked, sending trays clattering and chairs screeching against tile. Robin stuffed the rest of her carrot sticks into her mouth like ammunition, muttering something about surviving one more period of history, while Steve lingered just long enough to catch Jules’ eye. His look was sharp, protective, but she shook her head before he could say anything else.
“I’ll see you later,” she murmured, shouldering her bag.
He didn’t look happy about it, but he let her go.
The hallways churned with the usual tide of students — lockers slamming, voices rising and falling in bursts of gossip and laughter. Jules kept her head down, braid swinging against her back as she pushed through the crowd. The echo of Amber’s voice still clung to her ribs, heavier than she wanted to admit. She tugged at the strap of her bag like the weight might ground her.
She passed Eddie’s hallway without meaning to. His locker sat a few doors down, plastered with the usual mess of stickers and marker scrawls, loud even when he wasn’t there. Her chest tightened at the sight, and for half a second she slowed — half-hoping, half-dreading he might appear, curls wild and grin sharp.
But the space stayed empty. She picked up her pace, pulse skittering, and didn’t look back.
By the time the last bell rang for the day, Jules was already in the locker room, the smell of chalk and disinfectant sharp in the air. The rest of the team was pulling on leotards, chattering about teachers and weekend plans, but Jules kept quiet, tugging her sleeves straight, tucking the ends of her braid into an elastic like she could hold herself together by sheer force of will.
When Coach’s whistle blew, the chatter cut off, the sound of slippers and mats filling the gym. Jules jogged onto the floor, knees tight, shoulders stiff. Practice had begun, and there was no hiding now.
********
The gym smelled faintly of chalk and sweat, layered with the rubber tang of mats rolled out across the floor. Voices bounced off the rafters as the rest of the team stretched, tugging hair into ponytails, swapping holiday stories that rose and fell with laughter.
Jules slipped in quieter than usual. A few heads turned, and then smiles broke across familiar faces.
“Jules! You’re back,” one of the girls called, waving her over.
Another leaned up from her stretch, grinning. “Coach said you’d be here today. We saved your spot.”
Warmth pricked, unexpected but steadying. She managed a small smile, rolling out her shoulders as she joined the circle. It almost felt normal — chatter folding her in, stretches tugging her muscles loose.
The sharp blast of Coach Finley’s whistle cut the noise. He strode across the mat, clipboard tucked under one arm, expression measured but not severe. His eyes landed on Jules, and for a second the sternness eased.
“Ambrose,” he said, voice carrying across the gym. “Good to see you back.”
Jules straightened, pulse quickening. “Good to be back, Coach.”
He gave a brisk nod. “We’ll keep you on a lighter load today. No sense in pushing you off a beam your first time back. But I want to see you working a routine, even if it’s short. Get your rhythm back under you.”
“Yes, Coach,” she said, though her stomach knotted.
“Don’t just nod at me.” His eyes sharpened, but his tone stayed even. “Show me you’re still in this. You’ve got too much talent to coast. You understand?”
Jules swallowed, then nodded again — this time firmer. “Yes, Coach.”
“Good.” His whistle shrilled again, calling the rest of the girls to their stations. “Pair off for warm-ups. Ambrose, take the floor line. Walk it clean before you run it. Let’s see where we’re starting."
She jogged out, braid bouncing against her back, the spring of the mat familiar under her feet. The other girls clapped her on the shoulder as they split off, encouragement quiet but present.
She stood at the edge of the line, pulling in a breath. The cheerleaders’ whispers still ghosted at her back, and the memory of the hospital hung like a shadow, but here — on this floor, under the steady gaze of Coach Finley — there was no hiding. Only forward.
The gym settled into its rhythm — feet squeaking on the mats, the muted thump of landings, Coach Finley’s whistle slicing the air at steady intervals. Jules flexed her fingers, brushing chalk dust across her palms until it bit into her skin. The braid down her back felt too heavy, like it carried every set of eyes in the room with it.
She stepped onto the line. The strip of tape running down the mat seemed impossibly narrow, though she’d walked it a thousand times. Her muscles remembered even if her thoughts lagged behind.
“Ease into it,” Finley called from across the room, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Don’t force it. Just show me control.”
Jules nodded, rolling her shoulders back. She inhaled, let the air settle, and began. Toes pointed, arms out, each step clean, deliberate. The mat flexed beneath her weight, springy but steady, and for a moment her body carried her like it always had.
She dipped into a cartwheel, palms pressing sharp against the mat before she snapped upright. The braid swung with her momentum, the air catching sharp against her cheeks. It wasn’t perfect — her landing stuttered, toes catching for half a second — but she recovered quickly, pressing forward.
“Better,” Finley called. “Again. Commit to it.”
She launched into another, then into a back handspring, her spine arching, palms smacking the mat in a rhythm she knew by heart. Her legs didn’t hit full extension — 85%, maybe — but the motion was there, the core strength steady even if her focus wavered.
“Good!” Finley’s voice cut across the chatter of the other girls. “Now build it. Give me a run-through, start to finish. Don’t think. Just move.”
Her chest tightened, nerves prickling under her skin. A full routine. First time since… before. Since the hospital, since Bob, since everything had slipped sideways.
But she nodded anyway, jogging back to the line. She crouched at the start, palms brushing her thighs. The girls along the wall watched, quiet but not unkind. Jules fixed her gaze forward and ran.
Round-off. Back handspring. Another. Into a layout — her legs straining for the full height she used to find so easily. She landed a fraction low, knees bending harder than they should, but she stuck it. The spring hummed through her calves, pushing her toward the next element.
She pivoted into a turn, arms slicing clean, then rebounded into a front tuck. Her braid snapped across her back as she landed, breath ragged, sweat prickling along her hairline. Not flawless — her arms faltered for balance, and her chest tipped forward too far — but the mat held her, and so did her body.
When she straightened, the silence broke into scattered claps from her teammates. A couple of the girls whistled low, not mocking but impressed.
Finley gave a sharp nod. “That’s more like it. You’ve got the foundation. Strength’s there. Now polish it.” He jotted something on his clipboard, then glanced up again. “And Jules — don’t hold back because you’re afraid of slipping. You will slip. Everybody does. What matters is what you do after.”
Her throat tightened, but she nodded, pulling in another breath. Her pulse hammered, her legs ached, but beneath it all was the faint, flickering relief of movement. Her body hadn’t abandoned her — not completely.
She turned back to the line, resetting.
This time, she told herself, she’d hit 90.
The second run-through hit harder. By the time Jules snapped into her final layout, her calves burned and her arms trembled just enough to betray how long it had been since she’d trained like this. She landed heavy, knees absorbing more shock than they should, and staggered a step before righting herself.
Scattered claps echoed again, but this time Finley didn’t call for another set immediately. He studied her with the sharp eyes of someone who had seen every variety of stumble, pause, and recovery a gymnast could make. Then he gave a single sharp whistle.
“Water. Break it down. Then back here.”
Jules jogged off the mat, breath ragged, braid damp against her neck. She collapsed onto the bench near the wall, her teammates sliding over to make space. A couple nudged her shoulder or bumped her knee in quiet solidarity — the unspoken welcome back. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to loosen the knot in her chest.
She sipped from her water bottle, staring at the chalk marks smudged across her hands. Her muscles ached, her lungs burned, but under it all was a glimmer of satisfaction. She was back in motion. Back in the circle.
“Ambrose.”
Her head snapped up. Finley stood a few feet away, clipboard tucked under his arm, his expression unreadable. He jerked his chin toward the far corner of the mat. Jules capped her bottle and followed, heart knocking hard against her ribs.
When they reached the quieter end of the gym, he planted his hands on his hips, eyes still sharp but not unkind. “That routine — eighty-five percent. You know it, I know it. But I’m not here to remind you what you lost. I’m here to remind you what you’ve still got.”
Jules bit the inside of her cheek, unsure if she should look at him or at the scuffed floor between them.
“You’ve been gone a while,” Finley continued, voice lower now, steady. “I didn’t expect perfection. What I wanted to see was fight. And you gave me that. Even when you slipped, you fought to stay in it. That counts.”
Her throat tightened. She forced herself to nod, eyes stinging.
“But listen—” his tone sharpened, but it wasn’t cruel, “—this isn’t charity. You don’t get a free pass because things are hard. I’ll push you, because you’re capable. You’ve got the bones of something great here, Ambrose. Don’t waste it second-guessing yourself.”
Her breath came shallow. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear it until the words landed.
“Yes, Coach,” she managed, steady as she could.
He gave her a curt nod, but his eyes softened just a fraction. “Good. Now hit the bars. I want to see your swing before practice ends.”
And just like that, he turned, whistle bouncing against his chest as he headed back toward the others. Jules stood for a moment longer, letting the weight of his words sink in. Her legs still trembled, her chest still ached, but for the first time in weeks, she felt something close to solid.
She rubbed her palms against her thighs, chalk dust ghosting the air, then squared her shoulders and stepped toward the uneven bars.
Time to climb.
Jules dusted her palms with chalk until the skin felt dry and ready, then reached up for the lower bar. The metal was cold against her hands, but familiar. Muscle memory tugged her body into motion before her nerves could catch up.
Her swing started small, shoulders tight, but soon her rhythm stretched long and fluid. Hands regripped, legs snapped together, breath synced with each arc. She shifted to the high bar, pulling into a kip that wobbled at first but held. Her braid whipped behind her as she built momentum — swing, release, catch.
For a moment, the ache in her muscles and the sting of the cheerleaders’ words vanished. There was only air, and the bar, and the thrill of sticking each move.
She finished with a layout flyaway, heart hammering as her feet slapped the mat. The landing wasn’t perfect — a tiny hop, balance teetering — but she pulled herself steady, arms raised.
Finley’s whistle cut the air, calling practice. “Hit the showers!”
“That’s good for today, Ambrose,” he called, voice even but approving. “You’re getting back into rhythm. We’ll polish the routine this week.”
Relief and pride tangled in Jules’ chest as she stepped off the mat, chalk dust ghosting the floor. She reached for her water bottle—
And froze.
Someone was clapping. Slow, easy, unhurried.
Her eyes snapped to the far wall, where Eddie leaned against the cinderblock, curls damp from the cold outside, leather jacket slouched casual over his frame. His grin was lopsided, applause echoing faint against the rafters.
“Well damn, Tink,” he said, pushing off the wall. “Didn’t know I was getting front row seats to Cirque du Jules.”
Heat shot up her neck before she could stop it. She tugged her braid over one shoulder, fingers fumbling with the end like she needed something to do with her hands. “You—you weren’t at lunch.” The words tumbled out faster than she intended, like she’d been holding them in all day.
Eddie’s grin crooked wider. “Busted. Mr. Andrews had me stay back — apparently if you skip three history classes in a row, he makes you reorganize the entire map cabinet as penance. Thrilling stuff. But, lucky me, it means I get to catch you playing Spider-Woman on the bars.”
Her teeth caught her lip, betraying her nerves. His eyes flicked down, sharp as a spark catching tinder, and lingered there before lifting back to hers.
“You, uh… need a ride back?” Eddie asked, voice casual but gaze anything but.
Jules’ chest tightened. “Sure,” she said, quieter than she meant. She shifted her water bottle in her hands. “I just… need to shower and change first.”
“Take your time.” Eddie stepped back, giving her space. But his eyes stayed, steady as gravity.
Her teammates were clocking the whole thing — the way Eddie leaned against the wall like he owned the space, the way Jules’ voice dipped softer around him. Whispers skated just loud enough for her to catch: Is that Munson? … Did he just clap for her? … They’re actually talking?
Jules kept her chin high, braid swinging behind her like a rope she couldn’t pull back up, and crossed into the locker room. The noise of showers and slamming doors rose around her, but her pulse was louder still. Eddie was waiting. For her. And no matter how much the fear twisted in her gut, another truth coiled just as strong beneath it: she wanted him to.
********
The locker room was still buzzing behind her — showers hissing, laughter bouncing sharp off tile — when Jules stepped out, hair damp and braided back tight again, gym bag tugged high on her shoulder. The chill of the gym hit her skin instantly, goosebumps rising beneath her sweater.
And there he was.
Eddie hadn’t moved much, still propped against the cinderblock wall like the place belonged to him. Jacket slouched low on his shoulders, rings catching faint under the fluorescents, he looked like every rule the school pretended to care about breaking. His eyes flicked up the second she appeared, and that grin — crooked, knowing — slid into place like it had been waiting just for her.
Jules’ grip on her bag straps tightened. Her fingers itched to fuss with her braid, but she forced them still.
Eddie pushed off the wall in one smooth motion when she reached him. “Thought maybe you’d ditched me.” His voice dipped quieter as he leaned in, his grin softer around the edges. “Would’ve broken my poor little heart.”
Her mouth went dry. She bit her lip before answering — and regretted it instantly when his eyes tracked the movement like he’d caught it under a spotlight.
“I said I’d be quick,” she managed, steadier than she felt.
“Here.” He reached for the strap before she could protest, his rings brushing the back of her hand as the bag slid easily off her shoulder. He slung it over his own like it weighed nothing, cocking a brow. “What kind of guy lets you haul this around after practice?”
Heat crept up her neck. “You didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t want to stand here looking useless,” Eddie cut in, light on the surface but his grin not as sharp as usual.
Behind her, the muffled chatter of the locker room spilled into whispers skating just loud enough to catch: Is that Munson? … He’s still waiting for her? … Did you see him take her bag?
Jules’ shoulders stiffened, but Eddie didn’t even glance their way. His focus stayed locked on her, like the rest of the gym had gone silent.
“Ready?” he asked, tilting his head toward the doors. No theatrics, no flourish — just simple, steady.
She nodded, the words caught in her throat. They crossed the gym floor side by side, whispers following like static until Eddie shoved the heavy doors open with his free hand.
The hallway stretched long and mostly empty, lockers gleaming dully under the fluorescents. Their footsteps echoed louder than she liked, her damp braid tapping against her back with every stride. She matched her pace to his without meaning to, too aware of the bag still on his shoulder.
Finally, Jules risked a glance sideways. “Why were you waiting for me at practice? You could’ve just… gone.”
Eddie shifted the strap higher, eyes fixed ahead. For a beat she thought he’d dodge with a joke, the way he always did. Instead, he hesitated, then let the words out low, almost shy. “Didn’t want to.”
Her stomach flipped. “What do you mean?"
He glanced at her, mouth tugging crooked but his eyes serious. “Wanted to talk. Hang out. Just… be here.”
The words hung between them, heavier than the squeak of their shoes or the hum of the lights. Jules bit down on the inside of her cheek, pulse climbing fast, like she was teetering on the beam again with no mat beneath her.
By the time they pushed through the exit doors, the cold hit sharp, cutting through the heat prickling under her skin. Their breath fogged pale in the air. Eddie angled toward his van, her bag still hooked on his shoulder like it belonged there.
Jules followed, her pulse refusing to steady.
********
The van rattled to life with its usual growl, the dashboard vibrating as Eddie twisted the key. Jules slid into the passenger seat, damp braid trailing over her shoulder, sweater sleeves tugged down to her knuckles. Her gym bag thunked softly onto the floorboards where Eddie had set it, like he’d been careful not to drop it too hard.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The heater coughed lukewarm air against the windshield, Dio humming low from the tape deck — Ronnie James’s voice rising big and strange against the thrum of the engine. Jules pressed her palms against her knees, letting the vibration settle into her bones until the worst of her nerves stopped clawing.
“Heading to the Henderson’s?” Eddie asked finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. His tone was casual, but his fingers drummed against the wheel like he was more keyed up than he wanted her to see.
Jules hesitated, then shook her head. “Can we… drive by the lake house instead? Just for a little.”
His brow arched, but he didn’t press. “Lake house it is.” He flicked the turn signal, guiding the van toward the outskirts of town without another word.
The road stretched dark and long, winter-bare trees flickering past in the headlights. The silence wasn’t heavy now, though — more like a pause, the kind that left room for something else.
“You always braid your hair that tight after practice?” Eddie asked suddenly, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Looks like it could cut glass.”
Jules tugged lightly at the end of the braid. “Better than letting it turn into a frizz ball. You should try it sometime. Might tame the curls.”
“I’ll have you know,” Eddie said, clutching at his chest like she’d stabbed him. “These curls are my brand. You’d put half the junior class in mourning if I showed up tamed.”
She snorted, relaxing back against the seat. “Pretty sure no one would notice but your band.”
“Please,” he shot back. “Gareth would write an entire concept album about it. The Tragic Straightening of Munson’s Mane. Double vinyl. Limited release.”
The image cracked a laugh out of her, the sound loosening the last of the tension in her shoulders. Eddie glanced sideways, grin softer now, like her laugh had been the only answer he’d been fishing for all along.
The lake came into view at the bend of the road, its surface glassy under the gray evening sky. Eddie eased the van onto the gravel shoulder. He cut the engine, leaving only the faint lapping of water against the shore. Out the windshield, Lovers Lake stretched flat and dark, the last scraps of daylight painting the horizon in muted orange and pink.
Jules stared out at the water, her chest tight. “First time I’ve been back here since…” Her voice faltered, but she pushed it out. “Since Bob’s accident.”
Eddie didn’t fill the silence. Just waited, steady, like he was giving her room.
She turned slightly, her braid brushing her shoulder. “You want to sit? Watch the sunset before I head back?”
He nodded without hesitation, and they headed down the worn path toward the dock. The planks creaked under their weight, the boards warped with years of water and weather, one split clean near the edge where a patch job had failed. Jules lowered herself onto the wood, legs dangling above the lake, the cold breeze brushing her skin. Eddie dropped beside her, boots braced, jacket collar turned up against the wind.
Jules’ lips curved faintly. “That stupid board. Bob used to warn me about it every single time, like I’d forget and end up swimming with the carp. This past summer he tried fixing it with duct tape, swore it was good as new. First step on it — crack. He went down so fast he didn’t even have time to curse.”
She laughed, soft but real. “I thought he broke his leg. He just laid there, soaked and sputtering, and the first thing he said was, ‘Told you it was dangerous.’”
Eddie chuckled, leaning back on his hands, curls haloed gold by the fading sun. “Classic Bob. Bet he still managed to turn it into a lesson.”
Her head tilted, curious. “You knew him?”
“Not well,” Eddie admitted, eyes on the lake. “But I used to drag my busted gear into Radio Shack when Wayne couldn’t figure it out. Half the time I didn’t have the cash to actually pay for repairs, but Bob… he’d walk me through it anyway. Told me if I learned how to fix it myself, maybe I’d stop blowing out amps every other week.”
Jules blinked, surprised. She hadn’t known.
Eddie’s grin was small, wistful. “Didn’t matter if I was some loud freak taking up space in his store — he still treated me like I was worth the time. That stuck.”
Something warm pressed hard against her chest. She swallowed. “Yeah. That’s him. Always finding a way to make you feel… safe.”
For a while, they just listened to the lake — the hush of water beneath the dock, the boards creaking soft under their weight, a bird calling once before settling quiet in the trees.
Then Eddie spoke again, quieter. “Wayne’s like that. He’s my blood uncle, sure, but he didn’t have to raise me. Could’ve let me end up anywhere. Instead, he showed up. Worked nights, came home dead on his feet, still made sure I had food on the table. Bought my first guitar with a week’s pay. Never asked for anything back.”
Jules turned, studying him in the fading light. He wasn’t looking at her, not yet — his gaze stayed on the horizon, like it was easier to aim the words there.
“You don’t realize until you’re older,” he went on, voice rougher, “what it means. Someone choosing to stay. To carry you, even when they didn’t have to.”
Her throat caught. “Yeah.”
He finally looked at her, and the weight in his eyes was different than usual — not sharp, not teasing. Heavy. Honest. “I’d do anything for him. Protect him, same way he did for me.”
The words landed deep, anchoring somewhere she couldn’t name.
Her gaze dropped briefly to where their arms brushed on the dock. This time, she didn’t pull away. “That’s how I feel about Bob. Doesn’t matter what happens… I owe him everything.”
For a long moment, neither spoke. The sun slipped lower, painting the water in streaks of fire and shadow, until the two of them sat side by side in a silence that wasn’t empty at all.
Eddie leaned back, curls falling loose, his rings glinting faint as the last light slid away. “Guess that makes us the lucky ones,” he said softly.
Jules let the words settle before she answered, almost a whisper. “Yeah. Lucky.”
The lake shimmered under the last flare of daylight, holding their reflections together. And in the shifting water, Jules couldn’t tell if it was the fading light or the boy beside her that steadied her more.
Notes:
This chapter was a heavy one to write — Jules at the hospital with Bob, the quiet moments with Joyce, Dustin roping her into his “controlled” chaos in the garage, the mess with the cheerleaders, and then Eddie waiting for her after practice. I wanted it to feel like Jules is carrying so many pieces of her life at once: grief, loyalty, fear, and the tiny sparks of something new with Eddie.
The lake scene at the end is especially close to my heart. Putting Jules and Eddie side by side — both kids raised by people who chose to love them — felt like such an important mirror. Bob and Wayne aren’t the same, but they share that quiet strength, and it’s a thread Jules and Eddie both hold onto. Writing that conversation on the dock honestly broke me a little (in the best way).
I know this story takes its time, but that’s the point — Jules isn’t rushing through her grief, or her feelings for Eddie, or her place with the Hendersons. Every chapter is her figuring out how to keep moving forward, even when it’s messy. If you made it all the way here, thank you for sticking with her (and me). Your comments and kudos mean more than I can say. 💜
Chapter 27: O Spite, O Hell, O Christmas Tree
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday slid by in uneven beats.
Homeroom was a blur of frost-rimmed windows and muffled announcements. In English, Robin performed a dramatic reading of her cousin’s breakup letters so over the top it nearly got them both kicked out; Jules snorted into her sleeve until her ribs ached. Chemistry was tolerable only because the Bunsen burners took the chill off the room.
At lunch, noise swelled around their table — Robin waving a carrot stick like a gavel, Steve needling her with mock-serious commentary. Across the room, Eddie tilted back in his chair, arms spread wide as he launched into some story for his friends. The punchline hit, his table erupted, and when Jules glanced up, their eyes caught. Just for a second. He grinned — quick, crooked — and she found herself smiling back before she could stop it. Then the moment broke, both pulled back into the chatter of their own circles.
The rest of the day blurred past. Last bell, then the locker room: the thud of lockers, the elastic snap of ponytails, chalk dust rising as girls clapped their hands. Coach kept things brisk — form drills, passes on the floor, a short rotation on bars. Jules wound her hair into a bun, chalked up, and pushed her body through the rhythm. She landed most of her sets clean, wobbled on a couple, but by the end Coach gave her a firm nod and sent her off with, “Better. Keep working.”
By the time she peeled out of her leotard and tugged on sweats, the sky had dipped to early-winter blue. Jules slung her bag over one shoulder, legs sore but buzzing, and stepped into the cold.
The parking lot hummed under the sodium lights. Parked near the back row was the familiar BMW, windows fogged faintly. As Jules drew closer, she spotted Steve tipped back in the driver’s seat, music humming through the glass. His mouth hung open just enough to betray him — a glossy line of drool sliding toward his chin.
Jules grinned despite herself, knuckles rapping twice against the window.
Steve startled awake, blinking blearily as he wiped at his face. Too slow.
“Wow,” Jules said, tugging her bag higher, lips twitching. “Real ladies’ man move, Harrington. Drool and all.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Oh no, it’s burned into my brain now.” She leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “Hawkins High’s resident heartthrob, conquered by gravity and saliva.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, fumbling for the ignition. “I’m never gonna live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance.” She slid into the passenger seat, buckling in as he turned the heater up.
The BMW hummed onto the main road, streetlights flicking past in warm intervals. For a few minutes they fell into rhythm — radio low, heater rattling, her legs stretched out as she slouched comfortably in the seat.
“So,” Jules said, side-eyeing him. “What’s on the menu tonight? I should brace myself. Enzo’s? Pizza Hut? Hawkins’ finest Chinese takeout?”
Steve tapped the wheel, glancing over with a crooked grin. “Actually… I was thinking no takeout tonight.”
Jules raised a brow. “No takeout?”
“Yeah,” he said, trying for casual but failing to hide the little spark in his voice. “I figured we could, you know, cook. Something real. Like chicken pot pie.”
That earned him a full-on stare. “Chicken pot pie? You?”
He smirked, but his fingers drummed restless against the wheel. “Don’t sound so shocked. I can handle a recipe card.”
“You burn water,” Jules reminded him.
“Minor incident,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’m not saying it’s gonna be gourmet, but… pot pie’s comfort food. Thought maybe it’d hit the spot.”
She blinked, caught between disbelief and something warmer. “You’re really serious about this.”
“Dead serious,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth again. “So don’t laugh when you see me wield a rolling pin, alright?”
Jules snorted, shaking her head as she leaned back into the seat. “This I’ve gotta see.”
*********
The Harrington kitchen looked more like a magazine spread than somewhere people actually lived. Black marble countertops reflected the recessed lighting in sharp, cold lines, stainless steel appliances stood like museum pieces, and the bowl of waxy apples sat too perfectly centered, untouched. Jules dropped her bag by the door and tugged her sleeves up, surveying the sterile gleam with raised brows.
“Feels like we’re trespassing in a furniture showroom,” she muttered. “Where’s the clutter? Half-empty ketchup bottles? Something human?”
Steve cleared his throat. When she turned, he was holding a thick cookbook like it might explode in his hands. A faint layer of dust coated the cover, his thumb smudging a clean streak down the spine.
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t tease. Not when his ears had gone a little pink. Instead, she nodded toward the counter. “So. What’s first, Chef Harrington?”
He cracked the book open, flipping through stiff pages. “Uh… crust. Flour, butter, salt.” His voice wavered, then steadied. “Simple enough.”
Jules drifted closer, peering over his shoulder. “We can do that.” She nudged him lightly with her elbow, a gentle reassurance. “I’ll measure, you mix.”
Relief eased the set of his shoulders. He grabbed a mixing bowl, and she dug through drawers until she found a brand-new measuring cup set, still rattling in plastic packaging. The sound was absurdly loud in the showroom-clean space.
They settled into rhythm — her sifting flour into the bowl, him working butter in with the edge of a fork. For a few minutes, only the scrape of metal and the hum of the oven fan filled the air.
Then Steve broke it. “This is weird.”
Jules glanced up. “What is?”
He kept his eyes on the bowl. “I’ve never actually… cooked before. Like, a real meal. From scratch.”
She stilled, spoon halfway to the sugar jar. “Never?”
He gave a short laugh, not amused. “My parents don’t cook. They’re barely here long enough to remember what room the stove’s in. It’s always restaurants, takeout, or whatever the maid stocked. When I was a kid, she’d make chicken pot pie sometimes. Best food I’ve ever had. But when she moved, that was it. After that… TV dinners. Frozen lasagna. Styrofoam trays. Not exactly a crash course in knife skills.”
The admission lingered heavier than he probably meant it to. He worked the fork like he wanted to drown the butter in crumbs.
Jules leaned her hip against the counter, softening her voice. “That sucks. Food’s supposed to be more than… fuel.” She let her gaze drift toward the bowl. “My mom used to sneak me cookie dough when Bob wasn’t looking. And Bob…” her mouth tugged faintly, “he’d turn grilled cheese into a whole performance. Humming, flipping the pan like he was auditioning for TV. Even when he burnt them, it was still an event.”
Steve huffed out a laugh, softer this time. “Sounds better than a housekeeper who thought salt was exotic.”
“Way better,” Jules agreed. She tapped the cookbook with her spoon. “But hey, you’re making one now. That counts.”
For a moment he just looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide between smiling or brushing it off. Finally, he nodded. “Guess so.”
They slipped back into rhythm. Jules moved to the cutting board, chopping carrots, while Steve rolled out the dough with the intensity of someone handling a bomb. The smell of butter and onions slowly replaced the kitchen’s showroom chill, curling warm around them.
“Hey, careful with the carrots,” Steve said after a while, pointing his spoon at her like a referee. “They’re supposed to be diced. Not… whatever that is.”
Jules froze mid-chop, one eyebrow arched. “Whatever that is? These are textbook carrot cubes.”
“Those are carrot chunks,” Steve corrected, smirk spreading. “This is pot pie, not beef stew.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jules shot back, knife in hand. “I didn’t realize Julia Child had joined us tonight.”
“Julia Harrington,” he deadpanned. “Get it right.”
She groaned, dropping another “chunk” onto the board with extra force. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless with root vegetables.”
Before she could snap back, a carrot flew across the island and bounced off her sweater, rolling into the sink with a hollow clink.
Her jaw dropped. “You did not.”
Steve’s grin widened. “Evidence says otherwise.”
Peas rained across his chest before he could duck. He yelped, batting them down as they scattered across the marble.
“Those were for the pie!”
“You started it,” Jules laughed, reaching for another handful.
The Harrington kitchen came alive — laughter ricocheting off marble, the ping of peas against stainless steel, Steve’s dramatic yelps paired with Jules’ sharper aim.
Finally, Steve threw up his hands, breathless. “Truce! Or this pie’s just gonna be a sad bowl of cream sauce.”
“Fine,” Jules said, grinning as she swept peas into her palm. “But only because I actually want to eat.”
By the time the crust was filled and slid into the oven, the worst of the chaos was cleaned up. Steam fogged the glass, butter and herbs perfuming the air. Jules leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the pie settle into heat.
Steve joined her, spoon tapping against his palm, quieter now. “Not bad. For my first attempt at… being a real adult.”
Jules glanced at him, catching the faint vulnerability behind his words. She smiled softly. “Could be the start of something.”
His grin slipped, steadier this time. “Yeah. Could be.”
********
By the time the oven timer dinged, the kitchen looked less like a showroom and more like the aftermath of a food lab experiment. Flour dusted the black counters, rogue peas lurked near the fridge, and Steve had streaks of butter along one sleeve. But the smell—rich, buttery crust and herbs—made it all worth it.
Steve slid the pie out carefully, arms braced like he was carrying a newborn. The golden crust glistened under the light, steam curling from the vents they’d cut. He set it on the counter with exaggerated triumph.
“Behold,” he said, sweeping a hand. “Domestic greatness. Harrington pot pie.”
Jules clapped slowly, lips twitching. “Shocking. It’s not burnt.”
“Have some faith, Ambrose.” He grabbed two plates from the pristine cabinet and a knife that gleamed like it had never been used. “Moment of truth.”
The crust cracked satisfyingly as he sliced, though filling spilled out a little too fast. Jules bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Looks… edible,” she said diplomatically.
“Edible?” Steve scoffed, sliding a heaping portion onto her plate. “Try world-class.”
They dug in, forks clinking against china.
Jules took another bite, slower this time. The sauce was a little too buttery, the peas just shy of tender, but it didn’t matter. It was warm, hearty, the kind of food that filled more than her stomach.
She leaned back, fork tapping the edge of her plate. “Okay. I’ll admit it. This is… really good.”
Steve beamed, slumping into his chair with exaggerated relief. “Knew it. Hidden talent unlocked. Next stop: Harrington’s Home Cooking.”
“Please,” Jules said, laughing. “If this is your hidden talent, I don’t even want to know what your obvious ones are.”
His grin turned sly. “Oh, you’ve seen the hair.”
She rolled her eyes and scooped another bite. “That doesn’t count. That’s witchcraft.”
Steve barked a laugh, nearly choking on his next forkful. “Witchcraft. That’s a new one.”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” she shot back, smirking over her plate.
For a while, the only sounds were laughter and the scrape of forks. The pie disappeared faster than either of them expected. Jules slowed halfway through, setting her fork down and just… looking at it. At him. At the ridiculous effort he’d put into this.
He caught her staring and raised a brow. “What? Got pastry on my face?”
“No.” She shook her head, softening. “I just…wasn’t expecting this.”
Steve shrugged, trying to play it off, but his ears went pink. “Figured it was time to try. I mean, pot pie always used to make me feel better when I was a kid. So… why not?”
Jules’ chest tightened. He’d said it so simply, but she felt the weight under it — the boy who grew up in a house that never cooked, deciding to try for her. Not with a takeout menu, not with some easy fallback, but with effort. With care.
She didn’t say thank you. Instead, she picked up her fork again, broke off a flake of crust, and nudged it across the table toward his plate. “Trade. That’s the good corner. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
Steve blinked, then grinned, taking the bite like it was a prize. “You’re welcome, by the way. For introducing you to world-class Harrington cuisine.”
“World-class,” Jules echoed, laughing again. “Sure. Let’s see if you can repeat it next time before I believe you.”
His grin widened. “Next time, huh?”
Jules smirked, spearing another bite. “Don’t push it.”
Steve rolled his eyes, but his grin tugged wider as she dug in again. For a while, the only sound was forks scraping against porcelain, the occasional muffled laugh when the filling oozed too fast or the crust shattered messily. The Harrington kitchen, always too pristine, finally felt alive — not showroom-perfect, but warm, cluttered with their fingerprints.
The night wound down easy after that, laughter lingering in the air long after the plates were empty.
*******
The laughter from Harrington’s kitchen lingered in Jules’ chest long after she’d made it home. The night had been silly, messy, and warm in a way she hadn’t expected — like Steve had cracked something open she hadn’t realized she needed.
By morning, that glow had dulled into Hawkins’ usual grind. Lockers slammed, chalk squeaked on boards, and the art room smelled like acrylics and turpentine. Every table was cluttered with palettes and cloudy water jars, the low buzz of chatter muffled under the hum of radiators.
Jules bent over her canvas, brush dragging careful strokes of shadow across her still life. Beside her, Gareth was already finishing his — textbook shading, pear and vase taking form with near-photographic precision. He’d been steady all semester, quiet but focused, and Cartwright had learned to mostly leave him alone.
Eddie, on the other hand, had abandoned still life entirely. His charcoal pear now sprouted wings and teeth, smoke curling from its jagged mouth. He leaned back in his stool, twirling the charcoal stick between his fingers like the act of pretending was half the art.
Mr. Cartwright shuffled through the aisles, corduroy jacket brushing easel legs, tie crooked, a smudge of cadmium red streaked across his knuckle. “Remember, my darlings,” he said, voice sing-song, “art is ninety percent observation and ten percent bravery. Unless you’re Dalí — then it’s mostly mustache.”
He stopped behind Eddie, squinting at the dragon-pear hybrid. “Munson. Perhaps — and this is only a suggestion — the pear should look like a pear before it breathes fire?”
Eddie only grinned, unbothered.
The door creaked open then, cutting through the noise.
A woman stepped inside, balancing a roll of blueprints under one arm and a tote bag sagging with fabric. She was younger than most teachers — mid-twenties, maybe — with sharp, lively eyes and dark curls pinned into a glossy twist that let a few strands fall artfully loose. Her blouse was tucked neatly into a pencil skirt, lipstick a bold red that didn’t belong in Hawkins, and the bright scarf knotted at her throat made her look like she’d stepped out of someplace bigger, brighter.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, voice clear, warm.
Cartwright blinked, tugging his tie straighter. “Ah! You must be the new hire. Drama department?”
“That’s me.” She smiled around the room. “Ms. Quinn. I’ll be directing the winter play — A Midsummer Night’s Dream. We’re short on hands for set painting and props. I was hoping to borrow a few students.”
Whispers buzzed immediately. Gareth’s pencil hovered mid-stroke. Eddie’s grin sharpened, his gaze flicking toward her with a spark of interest he didn’t bother hiding.
Jules caught both of them in her periphery. Without looking up from her canvas, she smacked Gareth lightly on the back of the head and flicked her brush handle against Eddie’s arm.
“Pick your jaws up,” she muttered. “Before you drown in your paint water.”
“Ow,” Gareth grumbled, rubbing his temple.
Eddie smirked, rubbing the faint mark on his sleeve. He didn’t argue, but his eyes lingered on Ms. Quinn a second longer — subtle, but enough to jab something sharp under Jules’ ribs. She pushed it down, rolling her eyes and focusing on her shading. She had no business feeling anything about where Eddie Munson aimed his attention.
Cartwright clapped his hands together, scattering a puff of chalk dust. “Cross-pollination of the arts! Brilliant. Let’s see… Ambrose, Emerson, Clarkson, Nguyen — you’re ahead of schedule. Off you go. Extra credit awaits!”
Jules blinked, then traded a look with Gareth, who grinned like he’d just been handed a hall pass.
“What about me?” Eddie sprawled in his seat; grin cocky. “I was born for backstage glory. Give me a roller, I’ll turn plywood into Picasso.”
Cartwright arched a brow. “Munson, when your pears resemble pears, then we’ll discuss destiny. Until then — stay.”
Eddie sighed, raking a hand through his curls, though the smirk never left his mouth.
As Jules gathered her brushes, Eddie leaned close enough for only her to hear. “Relax, Ambrose. She’s not even in the same league.”
The words were tossed casual, lazy — but they landed with weight anyway.
Jules scoffed as she slung her bag over her shoulder. “Good to know you’re the authority on leagues now.”
But when she turned, ears hot, she caught the flicker in his grin: he meant it.
********
The theater smelled like sawdust, wet paint, and the faint tang of dust baked under stage lights. The cavernous space buzzed with motion — kids lugging plywood flats across the stage, others bent over sewing machines in the wings, someone wobbling up a ladder to hang a crooked paper moon that looked one good sneeze away from crashing down.
Jules trailed in behind Gareth, clutching the brushes and trays Cartwright had shoved at her like it was a prize instead of punishment. Their footsteps echoed down the center aisle, wood groaning beneath their sneakers, the noise around them bouncing sharp off the rafters.
“Welcome to bedlam,” Gareth muttered, balancing his paint can like it might blow if tipped wrong.
On stage, Robin Buckley paced in tight circles, script in hand. Her wavy hair was clipped back in a barrette already slipping loose, her voice ringing sharp over the din:
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind-”
“Robin, you’re about to step into the glue gun!” a drama kid yelped.
“I’m rehearsing,” she snapped without missing a beat. But when she spotted Jules, her whole face cracked into a grin. “Ambrose! No way. Cartwright actually handed you over to the theater kids?”
Jules hefted the brushes in proof. “Apparently my brush skills are in high demand.”
Robin twirled her script like a baton. “Good. You’re looking at the next Helena.”
“Helena?” Gareth asked, setting his can down on a tarp with too much flair. “Hot one or tragic one?”
Robin smacked him with the rolled-up script. “Funny one, genius. Try reading sometime.”
“Pretty sure Shakespeare would’ve written you in just to heckle everyone else,” Jules said, smirking.
Robin bowed low, then darted off to spar with kids over costumes.
At the back wall, Ms. Quinn stood with her scarf slashed bright against the dim curtains, curls pinned neat, presence instantly magnetic. She clapped her hands, voice steady. “Backdrop crew — you’re on forest duty. Big strokes, think shapes. Trunks, leaves, branches. We’ll add detail later. Make it bold, make it alive.”
Jules and Gareth dropped to their knees on the tarp, unrolling canvas across the floor. Brushes clattered into trays, sleeves shoved up to elbows. Gareth dragged the first broad brown trunk up the blank sheet, slow and careful. Jules followed with arcs of green, branches blooming around him. The hiss of paint on fabric was oddly soothing, the blank slowly giving way to color.
“This is almost peaceful,” Gareth admitted, leaning back on his heels, admiring his tree.
“Until you dump that can over your shoes,” Jules warned, eyeing the wobble in his grip.
He grinned. “Chaos is always an option.”
Before she could fire back, a sly flick of his wrist sent brown droplets across her sleeve.
“Gareth!” she yelped, swiping at the spot.
“Adds character,” he said innocently, already retreating like he knew payback was coming.
She dipped deep into the tray, then carved a thick green swipe right across his perfect trunk.
He gasped, clutching his chest. “Ambrose! That was art!”
“Art my ass,” she shot back, grinning. “That was bark.”
The next flick landed across her jeans. She shrieked, laughing as she lunged in with her own brush. Within seconds, they were both speckled — arms, shoes, even a splash on Jules’ cheek where she ducked too late.
“Guys!” a drama kid wailed as flecks peppered Titania’s cardboard throne. “You’re ruining it!”
Another hugged a foam mushroom to their chest like a casualty.
Robin, circling the stage with her script, pointed dramatically. “Cankerblossoms! Absolute cankerblossoms!”
“Improvisation!” Jules declared, dragging a streak down her own arm like war paint. “Cartwright would call it bravery!”
Gareth was laughing too hard to argue, brush slipping in his hand as Jules used the paint tray like a shield. Around them, the “forest” turned more battlefield than backdrop, streaked and wild but alive.
By the time Ms. Quinn strode over, scarf trailing and hands on hips, both were dripping paint. Jules had streaks on her cheek, Gareth’s elbow glowed green.
“What,” Ms. Quinn said slowly, cutting the noise flat, “have you done to my forest?”
Jules bit her lip, trying not to laugh. Gareth raised a guilty hand, grin wide. “Abstract… expressionism?”
The sting of Ms. Quinn’s glare faded into the scrape of brushes as they started over. Shoulder to shoulder, Jules and Gareth bent to the canvas, quiet this time. Brown trunks took shape under Gareth’s steady strokes, Jules’ greens curling above them into leaves. Their laughter thinned into silence, replaced by the swish of paint and the clamor of the theater around them — sewing machines humming, a hammer too loud in the wings, Robin’s voice rattling lines like the rafters depended on it.
By the time Quinn clapped dismissal, Jules’ jeans were stiff with drying paint, Gareth’s elbow still stained, and the forest backdrop looked passable — if you squinted.
They carried their trays to the utility sink behind the stage, where the faucet sputtered alive. Water hissed, paint swirling down in ribbons of brown and green.
“At least we didn’t get detention,” Gareth said, shaking out his brush.
“Yet,” Jules muttered, scrubbing at the smear on her arm until pale skin peeked through.
The space was narrow, shoulders bumping as they traded spots at the sink. Gareth leaned an elbow on the porcelain, watching as she tried to rub a streak from her cheek with her palm. “You’ve got a little…” He motioned vaguely.
She sighed and bent forward, splashing water onto her face until it dripped cold down her neck. When she straightened, damp hair clinging to her temple, Gareth was still grinning.
“So,” he said, too casual to be casual. “What’s the deal with you and Munson?”
Jules blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. Eddie doesn’t bring girls to practice. Ever. But you? He sat you down like you were already part of Corroded Coffin.” He cocked a brow, teasing, curious. “That’s new.”
Heat crawled up Jules’ neck. She wrung the towel harder than necessary. “It’s not—” She exhaled. “Nothing official. I just… like being around him. He’s…” She searched for the right word. “Different.”
Gareth didn’t press. He nudged her shoulder, easy. “Different’s not bad. Just saying — if Munson’s making space, it means something.”
Jules smirked, deflecting. “What are you, his translator now?”
“Please,” Gareth scoffed, flicking a bead of water at her. “If I did PR for him, he’d kick me out.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she set the brushes aside. Safe. That’s what Gareth was — steady ground while everything else shifted. A friend who noticed more than she thought he did.
The brushes clinked against the edge of the sink as Jules set the last one down to dry. Gareth grabbed the paint can with a theatrical groan, balancing it against his hip
“Alright,” he said with a theatrical groan, hoisting the paint can. “Let’s return these casualties before Ms. Quinn bans us from the stage for life.”
Together they hauled their trays and supplies down the hall, sneakers squeaking faintly against the waxed tile. The closer they got to the art wing, the quieter the noise of the theater faded — replaced by the faint hum of a record player Cartwright always had spinning somewhere in the room.
Jules nudged the art-room door open with her shoulder. “Supplies returned. No fatalities. Except maybe Gareth’s dignity.”
“Lies,” he said. “I was a hero.”
A low whistle drifted from the back of the room. Eddie leaned against one of the long tables, boot propped on the rung, arms folded. His hair was half-tied back, a smear of charcoal still dusting his knuckles like he’d been working.
“Hero, huh?” Eddie smirked. “Pretty sure Cartwright said you painted a forest, not fought a war in it.”
“Every great artist suffers,” Gareth declared, thudding the can onto the counter. “Mine involves green paint and near-death experiences.”
Eddie’s eyes flicked to Jules, lingering just long enough to make her pulse hitch before he arched a brow. “And you? You look like you lost.”
“Abstract expressionism,” Jules said, flicking at the faint streak on her cheek. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Mm.” His grin crooked wider. “Maybe you’ll have to explain it over lunch.”
For a beat, the three of them stood in the easy noise of Cartwright’s cluttered room — canvases stacked in corners, the smell of turpentine clinging sharp in the air. Then Gareth clapped his hands together.
“Lunch sounds good. My stomach’s been rehearsing soliloquies for the last hour.”
Eddie pushed off the table, snagging his jacket off the chair. “Guess that makes it a party.”
They spilled back into the hallway together, Jules tucked between them, Gareth already making jokes about Shakespearean cafeteria food, Eddie rolling his eyes but smiling anyway. By the time they hit the stairwell, the three of them had fallen into rhythm — familiar, a little chaotic, but oddly steady.
********
The rest of Wednesday blurred. Thursday drifted by, steady and unremarkable, which felt like a small mercy.
By Friday, the pulse changed. The December cold bit sharp outside, but the gym hummed with its own heat. Chalk dust floated like snow under fluorescents, bars rattled with each release, muted thuds echoed in the rafters. Jules cinched her leather grips tight; each buckle a reminder: this was hers.
Across the mat, Mallory Torres chalked up — small and wiry, brown hair escaping every elastic, freckles scattered like constellations. She didn’t look like she could launch with force, but Jules knew better. She’d spotted her for a year, cheered her through stumbles, watched her prove people wrong.
“Alright, Mal — you’ve got this,” Jules called, palms on her thighs, leaving chalk prints.
Mallory grinned, nerves flashing and fading. She mounted with a swing, legs slicing sharp, kipped up into rhythm. Not flawless — a wobble on a cast, a breath of hesitation at release — but she pushed through and snapped her dismount.
“Yes!” Jules whooped, clapping once, loud. “That’s it.”
Mallory’s smile cracked wide. “Finally. I’ve been eating mat all week.”
“Doesn’t matter. You nailed it now.”
Mallory jogged off, still buzzing, and Jules stepped forward for her turn. She’d been grinding the same sequence every night this week, stealing hours after school until her shoulders ached. Coming back after time away felt like starting from scratch, but the move she’d been drilling — the one she used to own — was finally within reach again.
She chalked her grips, the powder settling into her lines, and vaulted up. The bars hummed under her weight, her swing building clean and strong. For a few breaths, it felt easy, muscle memory slotting her body into its old rhythm like a key sliding into the right lock.
Then — too much momentum on the release. Her arc went wide.
For half a second, panic lit in her chest. The old fear whispered that she’d lost it, that she wasn’t the girl she used to be.
But instinct kicked in before fear could spread. She twisted tighter through her core, shoulders snapping square, hands reaching and finding the bar again with a solid, echoing grip. The sting tore through her palms, a raw burn against the leather, but she held. Swung through. Reset.
Her dismount hit sharp, heels biting the mat, knees absorbing the shock. No stumble. No fall. Just a clean stick.
The air rushed back into her lungs. Applause rippled faintly from somewhere behind her. Mallory’s voice rose above the din, bright and proud: “Yes, Jules! That’s it!”
She laughed — shaky, breathless, real. Sweat dampened her hairline; muscles trembled. But she’d corrected, controlled, finished. Anchored, for the first time since she’d been back, in the body she knew — the one built on chalk, bruises, repetition. The one she could trust.
Small, maybe. But the spark glowed steady and sure.
********
The cold bit at Jules’ cheeks as she cut down Maple, boots scuffing the sidewalk in time with the music pulsing from her Walkman. A riff spilled through the headphones — one Eddie had once raved about, eyes bright like it was the only song that mattered.
Her smile came easy, unbidden.
It didn’t take much to summon him. A snatch of music, the scuff of boots in a hallway, the scrape of his rings against a desk. She’d catch him sometimes — bent over his notebook, hair falling forward as he scribbled furiously, tongue poking just slightly at the corner of his mouth. Or the way his grin softened when Gareth landed a dumb joke.
Maybe it was just the small things she liked — the ones nobody else seemed to notice. How he’d tilt his head when he listened, like every word mattered. How he’d carry her bag without making a show of it. How his voice dipped softer when he teased her, as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
The thought warmed her more than the jacket zipped to her chin. The Walkman hummed, her breath fogged in soft clouds, and she let her steps fall in rhythm with the music. Hawkins was already dimming into early-winter dusk, shop windows glowing faint along Main, the streets quiet in that particular way they always seemed before snow.
By the time she turned onto Piney Wood Drive, the sky had bruised to deep blue. The Henderson’s porch light glowed steady against the dark, the curtains drawn tight, shadows of movement shifting behind the glass. Jules slowed a little at the familiar sight, the lightness in her chest carrying her the last few yards home.
*******
Saturday morning crept in quiet and pale, the kind of cold that pressed against the windows and left frost feathering the glass.
Jules padded down the hall, boots in hand. Dustin’s door was cracked just enough for her to glimpse him hunched over Yurtle’s tank, murmuring like the turtle was a general receiving top-secret orders.
“There you go, buddy,” he whispered, sprinkling food into the water. “Power pellets for strength, lettuce for agility. Don’t let me down.”
Yurtle paddled lazily toward the surface, snapping at a leaf. Dustin grinned, satisfied, already scribbling something on a notepad like he was keeping track of stats.
Jules rolled her eyes but bit back a laugh, slipping past before he noticed her watching.
In the kitchen, Claudia sat at the table in her robe, coffee steaming beside the newspaper. Her reading glasses had slid halfway down her nose as she hummed softly, circling something in red pen.
“You’re up early for a Saturday,” she said, glancing up. “Want some breakfast before you head out?”
Jules tugged on her jacket. “I’m eating at Robin’s.”
Claudia pushed back her chair and moved to fuss with her collar before Jules could escape. “At least put your beanie on. It’s freezing out.”
“Claudia—” Jules groaned, but let her tug the knit cap snug over her curls anyway.
“There.” Claudia smoothed a stray curl from her cheek. “Now you don’t look like you’re asking for frostbite.”
Jules smiled despite herself. “I’ll survive. Promise.”
“Mm-hm.” Claudia tapped her arm, not convinced. “Back by four. We’re picking out a tree tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Jules said, kissing her cheek before slipping out the door.
The cold slapped her instantly, breath puffing white. She shoved her hands into her pockets, beanie pulled low, and started down toward the Buckley’s.
*********
The Buckley house sat a few blocks over, paint peeling around the shutters but warm light spilling through the front windows. Jules stamped the frost off her boots on the porch and knocked.
The door swung open to Melissa Buckley, hair tied back in a scarf, streaks of cobalt paint across her wrist like she’d already been elbow-deep in a canvas. “Julienne! Come in, come in—don’t freeze on my steps.”
Jules smiled, stepping into the wash of incense and brewed coffee. The Buckley home was a patchwork of color — mismatched rugs, plants climbing every window, a half-finished canvas propped against the wall.
“Kitchen!” Melissa called, already sweeping past her with an energy that seemed stitched into her bones.
The smell of butter and frying batter grew stronger as Jules followed. Richard Buckley stood at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing corduroys and a faded Woodstock T-shirt under an open cardigan. A stack of pancakes teetered dangerously high on a plate beside him.
“Ah, our guest of honor,” Richard said without turning, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. “Blueberries or chocolate chips?”
“Both,” Melissa answered for her, plucking a mug off the shelf and sliding it across the counter. “She’s a growing girl, Rich.”
Jules laughed, settling into her usual spot at the cluttered table. A dozen little details reminded her she’d been here often enough to belong: the paint-splattered chair leg she always nudged with her shin, the flowered mug Melissa always gave her, the way Richard’s copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance lived permanently under a stack of mail.
“Eat before Robin devours it all,” Richard warned as he brought the plate over. “She’s got the appetite of three lawyers and a poet combined.”
As if summoned, Robin barreled into the kitchen, hair askew. She dropped into the seat next to Jules, stealing a pancake straight from the stack.
“Rehearsal fuel,” Robin declared around a mouthful.
Richard raised an eyebrow. “If this house ends up echoing in Shakespearean verse all week, I’m billing the school for damages.”
“Better than listening to you practice cross-examinations in the mirror,” Robin shot back, smirking.
Melissa topped off Jules’ cup and nudged the syrup bottle closer. “Don’t let her father undersell you — he makes the best pancakes this side of the county fair.”
Richard sniffed, mock offense in his voice. “I’ll have you know, Jules, I once won second place in a church breakfast contest. Rigged, of course. The Methodists bribed the judges with hash browns.”
“Scandal,” Melissa said, deadpan, and passed Jules the butter dish.
Jules spread it across her pancake, biting back a grin. “Guess that makes me the tie-breaker.”
Richard leaned his chin into his hand. “Careful. If you don’t say ‘better than Enzo’s lasagna,’ I’ll have to sue for defamation.”
“Dad,” Robin groaned, still chewing. “Stop trying to lawyer breakfast.”
Melissa reached over to tug Robin’s plate back an inch. “And stop inhaling them. Let Jules have some before you eat the paint off the walls.”
Robin yanked it back with a scowl, though she shot Jules a conspiratorial grin. “See what I live with?”
“Saintly patience,” Jules said, sliding another pancake onto her plate before Robin could snatch it.
The kitchen clattered with forks and easy laughter, the kind of noise that felt like it had a rhythm. Jules didn’t need to think about where to set her cup or how to join in — she just belonged here, folded neatly into the Buckleys’ morning ritual.
Melissa nudged Jules’ wrist as she reached for the fruit bowl. “Don’t let her fool you — Robin’s been up since dawn pacing the living room, muttering lines like a madwoman.”
“I was rehearsing,” Robin shot back, cheeks full. “Ms. Quinn says you have to live the role.”
Richard raised his fork. “If the role is Helena, does that mean you’ll spend the next week being witty and lovesick?”
“Better than the time you posed as Santa with a sitar while mom painted you,” Robin said, smirking.
Melissa laughed into her coffee, and Jules nearly sputtered her own.
Robin slammed her fork down with mock drama. “Alright, that’s it. Pancakes demolished; reputation intact — rehearsal upstairs before Dad compares me to a Supreme Court justice.”
She grabbed Jules’ wrist and hauled her up from the table. Melissa called after them, “Don’t knock over the easels!” at the same time Richard shouted, “And remember, Helena doesn’t talk with her mouth full!”
She hauled Jules upstairs two steps at a time, muttering about “Shakespeare-induced ulcers.”
Her room was its usual brand of chaos: textbooks stacked sideways, index cards with scrawled lines pinned crooked on the corkboard, a sweater dangling from the bedpost like it had surrendered halfway to the hamper.
“You’d think a hurricane rehearsed in here,” Jules said, nudging a sock out of the way with her toe.
Robin scooped her script from the tangle of blankets and flopped dramatically onto the bed. “Hurricane? Please. This is art in progress.”
Then she sat up, eyes narrowing at the script. “Alright, witness my humiliation.”
She launched into her lines, words tumbling too fast, then slowing, then breaking altogether halfway through.
“O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent / To set against me for your merriment—” Robin stopped, groaned, and dragged a pillow over her face. “Nope. I sound like a Victorian ghost choking on tea.”
Jules leaned against the desk, suppressing a grin. “That’s one way to stand out at auditions.”
“Don’t encourage me,” Robin mumbled into the pillow, then flung it aside. She stood, pacing, script clenched like she was ready to strangle Helena with her own monologues.
She tried again, sharper this time, but her voice cracked on the word “asunder.” She scowled and threw her hands up. “Ugh! Helena talks in paragraphs, Jules. Who even argues in iambic pentameter?”
“Shakespeare?” Jules offered.
Robin glared. “Traitor.”
She collapsed back onto the bed, script limp in her hands. “I can’t do this. She’s supposed to be witty and tragic and all I hear is… me, but louder.”
Robin sat cross-legged on her bed, script limp in her lap.
“‘O spite! O hell!’” she tried, pitching her voice high, then low, then somewhere in between. She broke off, groaning. “Nope. Garbage. I sound like a chipmunk having an existential crisis.”
Jules snorted. “That’s specific.”
Robin tossed the script onto the bedspread, arms flopping wide. “Seriously, who talks like this? Nobody in Hawkins has ever said ‘spite’ unless they’re ninety and shaking a cane.”
She sat up again, grabbed the script, and tried once more: “‘O spite! O hell!’” This time it came out nasal and whiny. She winced, then buried her face in the pages. “Congratulations, I’m the least sexy Helena in history.”
“You’re not supposed to be sexy,” Jules pointed out.
“Tell that to Ms. Quinn,” Robin groaned. She clutched the script to her chest, then mocked herself in a falsetto: “‘Oh Demetrius, love me, pity me! Also, please don’t trip over my two left feet while you’re at it.’” She collapsed backward onto the pillows; voice muffled. “I’m doomed.”
Jules leaned her chin into her palm, watching her friend unravel with a mix of sympathy and amusement. Robin could spiral like it was an Olympic event, and normally Jules would let her burn herself out. But this was starting to veer into full meltdown territory.
“You know what this is?” Jules said finally, voice steady. “It’s like beam.”
Robin peeked at her through her hair, suspicious. “Beam? Like… balance beam? The thing you fling yourself off of for fun?”
“Exactly.” Jules leaned forward in the chair. “You don’t get up there and overthink every muscle in your legs or how you’re going to land. If you do, you freeze. You fall. You’ve got to get out of your head and just… perform.”
Robin narrowed her eyes. “So, Helena’s basically a back handspring?”
“More like a whole routine,” Jules said with a grin. “There’s technique, sure. But when the music hits? You sell it. You breathe with it. You become it.”
Robin snorted. “Except I don’t have music. I’ve got Elizabethan word salad.”
“Then make it yours.” Jules hopped up, pacing across the carpet like she was walking onto a gym floor. “‘O spite! O hell!’” she bellowed, throwing her arms out like she was launching into a tumbling pass. “You don’t whisper those words, Buckley. You spit them out like they burned you.”
Robin cracked a laugh despite herself.
“Come on,” Jules urged, tossing the script back. “Don’t think about the words. Think about Helena. She’s pissed. She’s heartbroken. She’s sick of being ignored. That’s what you’ve gotta pull out.”
Robin straightened, rolling her shoulders. She took a breath, eyes narrowing.
“O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent—”
The words rang sharper this time, pulled from somewhere deeper. Jules clapped once, sharp. “There! That’s it. You felt it.”
Robin’s grin split wide, relief pouring out. “Okay, coach. Maybe you’re onto something.”
“Damn right I am,” Jules said, flopping back onto the chair. “Now again. From the top. And sell it like you’re sticking the landing.”
Time slid by almost unnoticed. What started as Robin tripping over Helena’s lines turned into a rhythm — Robin pacing, script in hand, voice rising and falling, while Jules circled the room, tossing out jokes when Robin tightened up, nudging her into trying again when she faltered.
The first hour was full of giggles, Robin collapsing backward on the bed after every over-the-top attempt, Jules making faces and staging mock fainting fits. But little by little, Robin’s voice started carrying with more weight, her shoulders squaring, her gestures sharper.
“You hear that?” Jules said at one point, perched backward on the desk chair. “That was almost scary. Like, actually Helena-scary.”
Robin beamed, cheeks pink, before diving back into her lines.
By the second hour, the room looked like rehearsal had exploded. Index cards scattered across the floor, mugs abandoned on the nightstand, Robin’s socks kicked somewhere under the desk. Jules sprawled on the rug now, tapping the beat of an imaginary routine with her fingers while Robin stomped across the carpet.
“‘I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you!’” Robin shouted, throwing herself to her knees in mock devotion.
Jules whistled, clapping like she was at a meet. “There we go! That’s selling it. That’s sticking the landing.”
Robin flopped onto her side, groaning but grinning. “If I crash and burn at auditions, I’m blaming you.”
“Please,” Jules said, tugging a card closer. “If you crash, you’re taking me with you. Coach’s reputation’s on the line now.”
By the time the winter light outside had begun to fade to a pale gray, Robin’s voice was hoarse but steady, the lines coming smoother, her movements more natural. The nerves that had been buzzing under her skin that morning had worn down into something steadier, anchored.
Melissa poked her head in once to deliver a plate of apple slices and crackers, muttering something about “feeding the thespians,” and Richard shouted up the stairs at one point about noise ordinances, though his laughter gave him away.
When Jules finally checked the clock, her stomach dropped. Nearly three-thirty. She shoved her arms back into her jacket, tugging her beanie from her pocket.
Robin leaned against the doorframe, still clutching her script, a crooked smile on her face. “Hey. Thanks. I was… all over the place this morning.”
“You were,” Jules teased, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Then, softer: “But you’ve got this. Really.”
Robin’s grin widened. “Don’t go getting all Helena on me now.”
Jules rolled her eyes and shoved her playfully before heading down the stairs, Melissa’s voice following her with a cheerful, “Back soon, sweetheart?”
“Yeah!” Jules called, tugging the front door open against the evening chill. “Tree shopping night.”
The cold air bit at her cheeks, but it couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of the Buckleys’ house — Robin’s laughter, Melissa’s paint-streaked wrists, Richard’s pancake lectures. Jules tucked her chin into her scarf, grinning to herself as she headed down Piney Wood Drive.
********
The Christmas tree lot glowed under tangled strings of colored bulbs, each one haloed by foggy breath and frost. The air smelled of pine sap and damp earth, with the faint smokiness of someone burning wood in a nearby barrel. Rows of evergreens leaned against wooden stakes like tired soldiers, their branches glittering faintly with ice. Somewhere, a tinny speaker warbled out “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” the sound skipping every few beats.
Claudia tightened her scarf and marched forward with purpose, her purse strap clutched tight against her shoulder. “Remember,” she said over her breath, her tone already brisk, “we’re here for something reasonable. Not too wide, not too tall, and definitely not another one that scrapes the ceiling.”
“Reasonable?” Dustin scoffed, darting ahead with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. “This is Christmas, Mom. Reasonable doesn’t exist. We need epic. Legendary.”
“Legendary is just code for vacuuming pine needles until Easter,” Claudia muttered, pulling her gloves snug.
Jules trailed behind, her cheeks stinging with cold, the knit beanie low on her ears. She hid a grin behind her scarf. “I don’t know, Dust. I think we could wedge a twelve-footer in if we angle it through the door just right.”
“Thank you!” Dustin spun on his heel to point at her, triumphant. “Finally, someone who understands vision.”
“Julienne,” Claudia groaned, already pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
Jules only smirked and shrugged, letting her eyes wander across the rows. Trees loomed in all shapes — squat and wide, tall and spindly, some leaning like they’d had one too many eggnogs.
Dustin made a beeline for a monstrous spruce near the back. The thing had to be twelve feet tall, with branches jutting out like elbows. He patted the trunk as if it were a noble steed. “This! This is the one!”
Claudia stopped dead. “That tree won’t even fit in the house.”
“It’ll fit,” Dustin insisted, circling it like a salesman. “We’ll tilt it through the door, set it by the couch—perfect sightline from every angle.”
Jules squinted, pretending to appraise. “Needle density’s pretty solid. Branch distribution’s not bad either. Honestly, it’s… majestic.”
“Exactly!” Dustin crowed, slapping the trunk. “She gets it.”
“Majestic,” Claudia repeated flatly, her voice going sharp with disbelief. “Majestic is also code for knocking over my lamp and leaving sap stains in the carpet until kingdom come.”
Dustin puffed his chest out. “Worth it.”
Before Claudia could launch into her rebuttal, Dustin tugged at the trunk to show how “manageable” it was. The tree swayed precariously, and then toppled like a felled giant. Jules leapt forward, grabbing a branch to help, but not before Dustin disappeared under the heap, his muffled laughter rising from the pine-scented avalanche.
Sap smeared across Jules’ sleeve as she hauled it upright. Dustin emerged, needles sticking out of his curls like he’d sprouted antennae. “See? It wants to come home with us.”
Jules bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing outright, adjusting the tree until it leaned against its stake again. “Gotta admit, Claudia, it seems pretty committed.”
“Julienne!” Claudia’s voice climbed an octave, though her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Stop egging him on.”
“Egging him on?” Jules said innocently, brushing sap off her sleeve. “I’m just supporting Christmas spirit.”
Claudia groaned, muttering something about divine punishment, while Dustin beamed like he’d won a battle.
They tried three more trees — a squat one Dustin claimed had “character,” a lopsided one Jules praised for its “unique angles,” and a perfectly symmetrical fir Claudia argued for with mounting desperation. In the end, compromise arrived in the form of a mid-sized fir, still taller than Claudia preferred and crooked enough to make her sigh, but modest enough to survive her veto power.
As the lot owner roped it to the top of Claudia’s station wagon, Jules leaned against the car, grinning at the sap streaks still clinging to Dustin’s hair. Dustin hummed “O Christmas Tree” off-key, substituting lyrics about conquest and destiny. Claudia stood a few feet away, her patience clearly worn thin but her eyes soft with reluctant amusement.
“Next year,” Claudia warned as she tugged Jules’ beanie down tighter, “we’re getting a fake one.”
“No way,” Dustin said instantly.
“Never,” Jules echoed, bumping Dustin’s shoulder with hers.
Claudia shook her head, laughing under her breath despite herself, as she herded them both into the car. The tree loomed crookedly overhead, their breath fogging the windows as they drove off — Dustin victorious, Jules smug, and Claudia already planning the vacuuming schedule.
********
The Henderson living room looked like the aftermath of a festive explosion. Strings of lights looped unevenly across the walls, boxes of ornaments gaped open on the carpet, and pine needles scattered like confetti across the rug. The tree itself — stubbornly crooked despite Claudia’s repeated attempts at straightening — leaned in its stand with an air of defiance, branches thick with sap and smelling sharp, clean, almost wild.
Dustin was in charge of lights, which meant he had already tangled himself in them twice, muttering under his breath like he was defusing a bomb. “If I can calculate armor class, I can conquer a string of lights,” he grumbled, wrestling with a knot as bulbs blinked erratically.
“Sure you can,” Jules said, flopping onto the arm of the couch with a grin. “Totally inspires confidence.”
She made no move to help — not because she couldn’t, but because egging Dustin on was half the fun. Every time he huffed louder, Claudia’s patience thinned.
“Dustin Henderson, if you break another set, you’re paying for it out of your allowance,” Claudia snapped, hands on her hips as she supervised the tree’s tilt for the third time.
“I don’t even get an allowance!” Dustin shot back, muffled by the strand looped around his shoulder.
“Then you’ll work it off doing dishes,” Claudia said firmly.
Jules hid her laugh behind her hand, biting the inside of her cheek. She loved watching the tug-of-war play out, nudging Dustin’s socked foot with her own just to spur him on.
By the time the lights finally blinked in steady rows, the ornaments came out — glass baubles from Claudia’s childhood, handmade crafts from Dustin’s earlier years, one glittered star that had clearly lost a battle with time. Jules hung hers higher than necessary, stretching on her toes, while Dustin squawked that she was stealing all the “prime branch real estate.”
Claudia sighed loudly, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth. “You two are hopeless.”
“Hopelessly festive,” Jules corrected, tucking a silver bell snug against a thick cluster of needles.
When the star was finally hoisted to the top — crooked, of course — Claudia declared victory with her hands on her hips. The tree leaned, sagged, but glowed.
They collapsed onto the couch in a heap, Dustin still muttering about the structural engineering of trees, Claudia swatting pine needles from her sweater. Jules leaned back, chest still warm from laughter, watching the lights blink their steady rhythm.
Claudia returned with steaming mugs of hot cider, rich with cinnamon. Dustin took his with a grunt of thanks, Jules cradling hers between her palms until the heat seeped into her skin.
On the TV, A Christmas Carol flickered to life. The ghost of Marley appeared, chains rattling in the dark, his voice low and ominous. Dustin grinned, eyes glued, declaring, “Best part — total nightmare fuel.”
Claudia raised her brow. “Nightmare fuel? It’s supposed to teach compassion.”
“Same thing,” Dustin said, curling under the blanket.
Jules sipped, watching the shadows of the tree dance across the walls, mingling with the glow of the screen. The story unspooled — regret, ghosts, second chances — and for a while, the three of them were just a family caught in the warm pocket of a December night.
********
Sunday morning crept in pale and hushed, the kind of quiet that wrapped Hawkins in frost and left the windows feathered in white. The house was still, too still — no Dustin bellowing about dice, no Claudia humming in the kitchen.
Jules padded down the hallway, socks whispering against the cool linoleum. The table caught her eye first: a tin wrapped in cheerful red paper sitting squarely in the center, a folded note tucked under its lid.
She pulled the note free, Claudia’s tidy loops neat against the lined paper:
Dropped Dustin at Mike’s. Running to church and errands. Be back by noon. Don’t forget these for the nurses. Love, Claudia.
Jules smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth tugging despite the weight in her chest. Classic Claudia — steady, thoughtful, always leaving a trail of care behind her.
She peeled back the lid. Inside, neat rows of oatmeal cookies nestled in wax paper, cinnamon drifting up warm and sweet. It smelled like comfort, like the kind of kindness that had its own gravity. She set the tin gently into her bag, the metal clinking against the zipper.
For a moment she just stood there, leaning against the counter. The silence of the kitchen pressed in, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the faint tick of the clock above the sink. She poured herself a glass of orange juice, its tang sharp on her tongue, grounding her in the morning’s stillness.
Her gaze lingered on the clock. Too early to head straight to the hospital. But the thought had already planted itself: Bob’s favorite bakery.
She pictured him instantly, grinning over a banana nut muffin, declaring it the “superior choice” because it was practically health food. She could almost hear his voice, teasing, warm, talking around crumbs. Her own favorite had always been a cinnamon roll — gooey, sticky, sweet enough to glue her fingers together.
The idea rooted deep.
Jules zipped her jacket to her chin, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped out into the cold. The air slapped her awake, breath puffing white as she pulled her beanie low.
Bob’s car sat stubbornly under a crust of ice, its paint dulled but familiar. She slid into the driver’s seat, the vinyl stiff with cold, and coaxed the engine alive with two pumps of the gas. The radio sputtered, coughed static, then caught on a ballad fading in and out between stations. She left it low, more hum than melody, as she steered onto the road.
Hawkins on a Sunday morning was half-asleep. A few cars trailed exhaust clouds down the two-lane, storefronts still shuttered, church bells carrying faintly over Maple. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel, not from nerves but to chase warmth into them.
The bell over the bakery door jingled as she stepped inside. Morning Glory was alive already — ovens hissing, glass fogged with heat, counters dusted in flour. A chalkboard menu leaned against the wall, its smudged letters listing specials in uneven strokes. Behind the glass, trays gleamed with cinnamon rolls glazed thick, muffins fat with fruit, danishes curling golden at the edges.
The line moved quick, warm air soaking into her jacket until her shoulders loosened. When it was her turn, she stepped forward, voice steady. “Banana nut muffin. And one cinnamon roll.”
The girl at the counter tucked them into a paper bag, grease blooming in faint stains almost immediately. Jules pressed crumpled bills into her palm, then cradled the bag close, breathing in the buttered sweetness as if it could anchor her.
Outside, the cold bit sharp again, but the bag steamed faintly in her gloves, heat seeping through until it felt alive against her palms. She carried it carefully back to the car, setting it on the passenger seat beside the cookie tin. The scent of banana and cinnamon filled the cabin, warm and sweet against the brittle December air.
The cookies were Claudia’s offering for the nurses. But the muffin? That would be hers for him.
********
The hospital loomed gray against the flat winter sky, its windows dull mirrors catching what little light there was. Jules eased Bob’s car into a space near the back, the engine coughing once before it gave in to silence. She slipped out, clutching the cookie tin Claudia had wrapped and the paper bag from Morning Glory, the warmth of the muffin seeping faintly through the grease-stained bottom. Cold air stung her nose as she crossed the lot.
The sliding doors parted with a sigh, trading frost for heat that smelled of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Fluorescents hummed overhead. Jules shifted the bag in her grip as she walked up to the desk.
“Morning, Jules,” Marlene said without looking up from her clipboard. Her scrubs were a cheery blizzard of snowflakes, the kind of thing Jules suspected she wore just to fight back the sterile sameness of the ward.
“Claudia made cookies,” Jules said, setting the tin on the counter. “Strict delivery orders.”
That pulled Marlene’s gaze. She popped the lid, inhaled the cinnamon, and grinned. “Tell her she’s saving lives in more ways than one. I’ll get these to the break room before the vultures descend.”
Jules smirked, gave a nod, and continued down the hall. The rhythm was familiar — vending machine with the stuck seven button, bulletin board with its faded flyers, the low whine of a floor buffer further down. She didn’t have to think about where to go; her hand found the right door automatically.
The faint beep of machines greeted her first, steady as a metronome. The room was dim, monitors throwing soft green light across the walls. Bob lay still, framed by tubing and wires, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt at once steady and unbearably fragile.
Jules shut the door with her heel, set the bag and tin on the chair, and drew a breath. “Brought reinforcements,” she murmured, lifting the bakery bag like an offering. “Banana nut. Your favorite. Cinnamon roll for me, but I’ll share if you ask nice.”
She placed the muffin on the rolling tray at his bedside, arranging it like a forgotten breakfast. The cinnamon roll she kept, resting it in her lap as she sank into the chair. For a moment she only listened — the hiss of the ventilator, the quiet hum of the machines, the steady rhythm of him.
“They fought over Christmas trees yesterday,” she told him softly. “Dustin wanted one that could’ve doubled as the Rockefeller Center tree. Claudia nearly fainted. I stayed out of it—mostly. You would’ve laughed. The thing was so tall it would’ve punched right through the ceiling.”
Her smile tugged wider as another memory surfaced. “And you’d have loved this, too. Mr. Conway was giving his big Newton’s laws lecture — waving chalk around like he was curing cancer — except he drew both arrows on his diagram pointing the same way.” She shook her head, grinning. “I raised my hand and asked if Newton had been drunk when he wrote it. The whole class lost it. Conway turned so red I thought his head might pop. Fixed it in a hurry, but you’d have roasted him for weeks. Probably would’ve written a whole sketch about it. Newton’s bar tab, starring Bob Newby, Science Cop.”
Her laugh broke into the quiet, light but brittle, and faded. She leaned forward, brushing her fingertips across the blanket near his hand without quite touching. Her voice thinned. “It’s weird, you know. I still save these things for you. Like you’re gonna sit up any second and laugh with me.”
The muffin sat untouched on the tray, smelling faintly of banana and sugar. She stared at it until her throat went tight.
The knock was soft but firm, and before Jules could answer, the door eased open.
Dr. Harris stepped inside, his coat crisp against the dim glow of monitors. He was middle-aged, with graying hair that curled just slightly at the temples and a face lined more from listening than frowning. His smile — the one he always seemed to carry — was the kind that soothed and unsettled at the same time, like it had practice in both comfort and bad news.
“Morning, Jules,” he said, his voice low, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet of the room. “Marlene told me you were here.” He glanced at the untouched muffin on the tray, then back to her, a small flicker of understanding passing across his eyes.
He moved a step closer, hands clasped loosely in front of him, as though the wrong posture might tip the balance. “I won’t keep you long, but… do you have a few minutes to talk?”
Jules felt the air shift, thin and heavy all at once, the rhythm of the machines seemed louder all of a sudden, their steady beeps filling the silence that stretched in the space between them.
Notes:
Notes:
** "A cankerblossom." This is a particularly vicious insult from A Midsummer Night's Dream, referring to a destructive caterpillar that eats the flower bud. It can be used for someone who causes ruin and trouble to everything they touch.
Authors note:
This chapter was so much fun to write — it’s a messy, cozy bundle of paint wars, pancake debates, Shakespeare meltdowns, and Christmas tree chaos. Jules gets dragged into Robin’s Helena crisis, Gareth turns set-painting into a battlefield, Steve tries his hand at cooking (with more peas on the counter than in the pie), and the Hendersons… well, let’s just say their tree-shopping tradition should probably come with a disaster warning.
My goal here was to show the lighter side of things — those small, chaotic moments of joy that make found family feel so real. I love writing Jules caught in the middle of it all: egging Dustin on just to watch Claudia’s patience fray, finding a way to help Robin click with Helena, or watching Steve try way too hard in a kitchen that’s never seen a rolling pin.
Thank you for sticking with the story! I hope this chapter made you laugh and left you feeling warm.
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