Chapter 1: The Girl who Dreams
Chapter Text
The Welcome to Hawkins sign looked smaller than Lottie remembered tilted a little to the left, as if the whole town had exhaled and slumped while she was gone. Heat shimmered above the road in a wavering film. Somewhere out past the trees a radio bled a pop song into cicada noise, and every breath tasted faintly like cut grass and gasoline.
Her father’s patrol car waited in the driveway, engine idling. The paint on the steps was chipped in the exact same place as when she was ten. He had left the porch light on it buzzed, steady as a heartbeat. The house smelled the same coffee and cigarette smoke sunken into worn wood, laundry soap, the ghost of last Christmas’s cinnamon. Time hadn’t bothered to move the furniture. The house was clean in the way that happens when no one’s really living in it. There was a single plate in the sink. A badge on the counter next to a half-empty cup of diner coffee. Even the stack of mail had the same slope as it always did, like a sand dune frozen mid-fall. “Look at you,” he said, opening his arms just long enough for her to step in and out again. “You grew.” He still smelled like coffee and gun oil.” “I’ve got the night shift,” he said, not meeting her eyes as he searched for his keys. “I’ll be back before breakfast. There’s leftovers in the fridge, and the lock sticks if you don’t slam it.”
Lottie smiled anyway. “Same as always.”
He tried to, too. “Yeah. Same.”
He was gone before the streetlights even warmed to orange. The sound of his cruiser faded into the hum of summer insects, leaving the house hollow and polite. She unpacked in silence faded shirts, notebooks with scribbled doodles done with dying ball point pens, the same mixtape she’d been dragging between homes for years. The blinds were half drawn. Dust motes drifted in slow constellations. Her room smelled faintly of old coffee and case files, his office newly exiled to the living-room corner, a quiet trade he hadn’t mentioned, proof he still tried in his own small ways.She sat on the edge of her bed, the house too still around her. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound, a low mechanical sigh.
She couldn’t stand it.Ten minutes later, the Beetle coughed to life in the driveway, headlights splashing against the mailbox. The air was thick and sticky, the kind that clung to her hair and made the world feel smaller. The radio picked up half of Take On Me before dissolving into static.
The road to Starcourt wound through darkness and fireflies, all the familiar trees leaning too close. Hawkins looked the same but felt stranger—like a movie set built from memory.
The parking lot glowed pink and blue when she pulled in. Neon reflected on puddles from an afternoon rain, shimmering like oil on water.
Robin Buckley was already outside, leaning against the glass doors of the mall’s side entrance in her Scoops Ahoy uniform, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Her hair was frizzing from humidity, her smile immediate and bright.
“Holy shit,” Robin said, flicking ash toward the curb. “You didn’t tell me you were actually coming back.”
Lottie grinned, climbing out of the car. “I thought it’d make for a better surprise.” Robin let out a low whistle. “Well, consider me surprised. You look the same maybe a little cooler. You got city-girl hair now.”
“It’s just humidity,” Lottie said, tugging at her ponytail, pretending the bow hadn’t been chosen for nostalgia’s sake. “Uh-huh.” Robin smirked, crushing the cigarette under her sneaker. “Come on. You’ve got to see the temple of late-stage capitalism we built while you were gone.” Inside, Starcourt was a cathedral.
The blast of air-conditioning hit first sharp and dry, carrying the ghost of buttered popcorn and perfume. The tile floors shone like wet marble, reflecting the kaleidoscope of neon signage that lined the upper balconies. Every sound echoed: the high whine of pop music from cassette kiosks, the squeak of sneakers, the syrupy laughter of teenagers circling the fountain. Storefronts gleamed like little stages mannequins frozen mid-laughter, endless rows of pastel clothes arranged by artificial color. A skylight crowned the main atrium, still freckled with raindrops that caught the pink light and fractured it like stained glass. “Welcome to the beating heart of Hawkins,” Robin said dryly, spreading her arms. “It’s like if a disco ball and a credit card had a baby.”Lottie laughed softly. “It’s definitely brighter than I remember.”
“Yeah, that’s what they’re counting on.” Robin’s sneakers squeaked against the tile as they walked. “You stare long enough and forget there’s nothing real under the polish.”
They passed the food court—half-empty now that the dinner crowd had thinned—where lights from the fountain danced across the floor in fractured blues and pinks. The air smelled like melted sugar and fryer grease, all sweetness layered over something sour.
Mannequins grinned out from window displays, their glassy smiles caught in a permanent summer. A janitor’s radio buzzed somewhere in the distance, cutting through the hum of fluorescent light.
“It’s weird, right?” Robin said. “How the town feels smaller but the mall feels like its own planet.”
“Yeah,” Lottie murmured, taking it in. “It’s… too clean.”
Robin laughed, pushing open a glass door with her shoulder. “Wait till you see my corner of the galaxy.” The sign for Scoops Ahoy glowed like a promise an anchor lit in electric blue, bobbing above the polished counters. Everything inside smelled like vanilla and chlorine, the sweetness so heavy it clung to her throat. “Behold,” Robin said with mock reverence. “My personal prison and the reason I smell like waffle cones.”
“Robin, you’ve been gone for like twenty minutes! Customers don’t scoop themselves!”
Robin groaned. “And that,” she muttered, flicking the end of her cigarette into the gutter, “is the melodious sound of my coworker losing his mind.”
Lottie laughed under her breath. “You said he was chill.”
“I lied.”
“I’m telling you,” a smaller voice piped up, “you could totally pull off the hat if you wore it right!”
Robin groaned under her breath as she pushed open the glass door. “Christ, he’s arguing with children again. Hold on, I’ve gotta go supervise the downfall of Western civilization.” Cold air rolled out like fog from a freezer. Lottie followed her inside, blinking against the neon light and the blindingly cheerful blue-and-red décor. Scoops Ahoy looked like a set built by someone who’d only ever heard rumors about boats.
Behind the counter stood a boy in the uniform bright navy, white piping, the red neckerchief slightly untied like he’d lost a fight with it hours ago. His curls clung damply to his forehead, his hat sitting slightly askew. “I’m serious,” the kid insisted. “You just don’t have the right attitude. You gotta, like, salute or something.”
The sailor boy let his head fall back with a groan. “Dustin, if I salute one more customer, I’m going to lose it.” The boy looked up his frustration melting into a grin when he saw her. “Finally. Do you know how many seven-year-olds came in demanding sprinkles? I’m one bad order away from snapping.”
“I keep telling you to embrace the chaos,” Robin said. “It’s part of the Starcourt experience.”
“That’s not chaos, that’s hell,” the boy behind the counter muttered, wiping his hands on a towel. “You left me with children.” Robin snorted, already stepping through the swinging door. “They’re your people.”
“They are not my people,” he said, voice pitching up. “One of them threw a spoon at me.”
“Character building,” Robin said breezily, looping her apron over her head. “Besides, you’re good with kids.”
“I’m good at surviving them,” he corrected, rubbing a smear of fudge off his sleeve. He looked up then, eyes catching on Lottie someone new, someone who didn’t fit into the fluorescent sameness of the mall. “Oh. You brought company.” Robin smirked, tying her apron back on. “Relax, it’s not another middle-schooler. See? Not all my friends are children.”
The boy blinked, mock-offended. “Wow, low blow.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, hanging her nametag back on her shirt. “You spend your weekends chauffeuring Dustin and his little nerd herd to the arcade. You’re basically the babysitter of Hawkins.”
“They’re my friends,” he protested.
“They’re thirteen.”
“Fourteen,” he said automatically, then grimaced when she grinned. “You’re the worst.”
“That’s what makes me interesting,” Robin said, sweeping behind the counter. “Anyway- this is Lottie Clark. She’s an old friend of mine, back in town and blissfully unaware that this place is the ninth circle of capitalism.” He straightened, grabbing the little navy hat off the counter like it was a prop he was determined to make work. “Right,” he said, slipping into the overly cheerful cadence of someone trying to convince himself this was normal. “Welcome aboard Scoops Ahoy, sailor! I’m your captain, and today’s voyage includes—”
Robin groaned loudly. “Please, for the love of God, don’t.”
“—choppy seas, high-quality service, and a strict no-refund policy,” he finished anyway, tipping the hat at Lottie before it immediately slid sideways over his curls.
Lottie laughed, hand over her mouth. “Is this… part of the bit?”
“Unfortunately,” Robin said, tying her apron. “Corporate-approved.”
He straightened the hat again, eyes darting toward the mirrored freezer door to check if it looked any less ridiculous. “See? It’s the hat,” he said, turning toward Dustin, who was leaning against the counter grinning like he’d been watching a sitcom. “Tell her it’s the hat.”
“It’s definitely not the hat,” Dustin said, delighted. “It’s the guy wearing it.”
Steve sighed, shoulders dropping. “I hate this job.”
Robin smirked. “No, you don’t. You love the attention.”
“From seven-year-olds,” he deadpanned.
“Hey, you work with what you’ve got,” she said, pulling open the freezer. “Cherry, right, Lottie?”
“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “You remember.”
“Of course I do.” Robin scooped a perfect swirl and passed it over the counter. “One Hawkins classic, on the house. Don’t tell corporate.”
“She’s lying,” Steve said. “They track everything. We’re basically under surveillance.”
Robin shot him a look. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Yeah, because you left me here for twenty minutes with children,” he said, turning back toward her. “Literal children, Robin.”
“You mean your peer group?” she teased, ducking around him.
“They’re thirteen,” he groaned.
“Fourteen,” she corrected instantly, grinning when he froze mid-sentence. “Gotcha.”
“You’re the worst,” he muttered, pointing the ice cream scoop at her like it was a weapon.
“That’s what makes me interesting,” Robin said, brushing past him to wipe down the counter. “Anyway—welcome back to Hawkins, Lottie. Enjoy your complimentary scoop of existential dread.” Lottie laughed softly, the sound catching in the hum of the freezers. “Thanks. It’s nice to feel so… welcomed.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Steve said. “She gets smug.” Robin smirked. “Only when I’m right, which is always.” She turned toward the back door. “Be nice to my friend while I go pretend to mop the stockroom.”
“You mean hide from work?” he called after her. “Semantics!” she shouted back, vanishing through the swinging door. The shop quieted. The air smelled like sugar and disinfectant, and the glow from the mall outside painted everything in watery shades of pink and blue. Steve adjusted the hat again, catching his reflection in the glass. “See? It’s definitely the hat,” he said, half to himself. Lottie tilted her head, pretending to study him. “I don’t know. I think it suits you.” He blinked, a little thrown. “You think this suits me?”
“The… enthusiasm,” she said, lips twitching. “The hat’s a bonus.” He laughed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, the grin softening into something a little sheepish. “You’re the first person who’s said that all summer.”
He grinned, crooked but easy. “So, you back for good, or just passing through?” She hesitated. The question hung there, heavier than he meant it to be. “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I guess it depends how long it takes for my mom to get bored of France… or her new husband.”
He nodded, not pushing it. “So, temporary Hawkins citizen. Got it.”
“Something like that.”
She smirked faintly. “And what about you? Did you stumble into a small town?”
He shook his head, lips twitching. “Nah. I’m a Hawkins original. Born, raised, tragically still here. I think the town’s got me under contract or something.”
“Lifetime supply of small-town charm?”
“Something like that. Only without the charm.”
She laughed quietly, the sound catching in the hum of the freezers. “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”
“More like… community service,” he rested his forearms on the counter, head tilted just slightly as he studied her. “So,” he said, voice warm and easy, “how do you know Robin, anyway? She just said you were ‘an old friend,’ but she says that about the lady at the pretzel stand too.”
Lottie smiled faintly, tracing a circle in the condensation on her cup. “We grew up next door to each other. Back when my parents were still together.”
He blinked, straightening a little. “Wait — you lived on Maple Drive?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Two houses down from hers. My mom used to bribe us with popsicles to stop digging holes in the yard.” He laughed, the sound surprised. “No way. I used to bike through there all the time. Red Schwinn, silver handlebars—” She tilted her head, recognition flickering. “You’re the kid who crashed into our mailbox.” Steve froze mid-grin. “Okay, wow. That’s not the story I was hoping survived.” She laughed softly, the sound like it had been tucked away for years. “You hit it hard. My mom ran outside because she thought there’d been a car crash.”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “It was a cat, alright? It jumped out of nowhere.”
“I remember it being a leaf,” she teased.
“It was a very fast leaf.”
She tried not to laugh but failed, hiding it behind a spoon. “You dented the whole thing. The mailman stopped delivering for a week.”
He stared at her, squinting like she’d just unearthed evidence of a crime. “How do you even remember that?”
She shrugged, the faintest hint of nostalgia in her smile. “It was a very defining moment for Maple Drive. My mom made me write you a get-well card.”
He groaned. “Oh my God. I still have that somewhere. It had stickers all over it.”
“Unicorns,” she confirmed. “Robin picked them.”
He laughed, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah, sounds about right. I remember opening it and thinking, ‘Great, now my mailbox victims are taunting me.’”
“That’s one way to interpret concern,” she said, taking another slow spoonful of her ice cream. Robin’s voice cut through the quiet like the squeak of her mop bucket. “Am I interrupting something?”
Steve nearly jumped, spinning around. “Do you ever make noise when you walk?”
Robin smirked at her. “He give you the ‘captain of customer service’ spiel yet? He practices in the freezer sometimes.”
“I do not,” Steve said, scandalized. “You’re making me sound unhinged.”
“Oh, honey,” Robin said sweetly. “You are unhinged. Just charming enough that nobody files a complaint.”
Lottie smiled, shaking her head. “I can see why you two work well together.”
“We don’t,” they both said in unison.
Lottie blinked, spoon frozen midair. “…Right. Totally convincing.”
Robin groaned. “Ugh, we sound like we share a brain cell.”
“You wish you had my brain cell,” Steve shot back. “Why would I want that?” Robin fired back immediately, resting her mop handle against the counter. “It’s probably full of hair gel and ego.” Steve’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me, this—” he gestured vaguely to his hair “—doesn’t happen by accident. It’s called effort. Lottie tried not to laugh and failed miserably, pressing her spoon to her lips to hide the grin spreading across her face. “Don’t encourage her,” Steve said, pointing at her like he’d just caught her in a crime. “I didn’t say anything!” Lottie protested, though her shoulders were shaking. Robin smirked, eyes glinting. “You didn’t have to. That’s the sound of someone who agrees with me.”
Steve groaned theatrically and dropped the scoop into the rinse well. “This is a hostile work environment.”
“File a complaint with corporate,” Robin said, deadpan. “I’ll countersue on behalf of the mop.”
Lottie’s smile wouldn’t quite go away. The three of them stood in a pocket of humming refrigeration and neon glow, the mall beyond dimming into closing-time blur. Somewhere out in the atrium, a security announcement crackled to life—last call for shoppers—and the fountain lights flicked from pink to a softer, sleepy blue.
“I should head out,” Lottie said, setting her empty cup on the counter, careful like the quiet might shatter. “Before the Beetle decides it doesn’t believe in reverse anymore.”
“Legendary,” Robin said, eyes bright. “If it dies, call me. We’ll push it, and by ‘we’ I definitely mean Harrington.”
“I lift with my mind,” Steve said solemnly. “And also my stunning charisma.”
“That explains the hat,” Robin muttered.
He rolled his eyes and—almost shyly—tugged the little sailor cap off, smoothing it once like a truce. “Uh—hey.” He fumbled under the counter, came up with a napkin, and a motel pen that said STARCOURT FAMILY FUN in flaking ink. He scribbled, then slid the napkin to her. “In case you… need directions. Or a decent mixtape. Or someone to file a formal complaint about my coworker.” Robin beamed. “I love being somebody’s first complaint.”
Lottie glanced at the napkin—numbers, a quick star doodle, a wobbly little anchor—and tucked it into the pocket of her jean jacket. “Thanks,” she said, and the word came out softer than she meant it to. “For the ice cream. And the… tour of the ninth circle.” She said nodding to him and Robin. “Anytime,” Steve said. He meant it, and it sounded easy in his mouth, like he didn’t overthink offering it. “Drive safe, Maple Drive.” Robin leaned her shoulder into the swinging door, smirk cocked. “Don’t be a stranger, Clark. Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to the food court nachos. It’s more of a cautionary tale than a meal.”
“Tempting,” Lottie said, backing toward the glass. The world beyond the threshold wavered—mall lights, her reflection, a slice of Indiana summer night like a held breath. She paused with her hand on the door. “Good night, Robin. Good night, Steve.”
“Night,” they answered together, perfectly in sync, then both grimaced at each other.
“Gross,” Robin said.
“We rehearse,” Steve lied.
Lottie laughed, and the sound trailed with her into the hall. Outside, Starcourt’s neon washed the tile in melting sherbet colors. She passed the fountain, a couple of bored teens, the closed gate of the record store. On the far doors, her reflection ghosted ahead of her: same ponytail, same jacket, same girl who’d left—except not quite. The night air met her like warm water when she pushed into it, cicadas sawing, asphalt still breathing heat.
In the Beetle, she sat for a second with the engine off. The napkin rustled under her fingers. Through the windshield, the sign glowed a pulse of blue—STARCOURT MALL—steady as a heartbeat. She could still taste cherry, faint and sweet, clinging stubbornly to the back of her tongue. The car coughed, Headlights opening a path over the puddled lot, oil-slick colors breaking and sliding away.
The road out of the Starcourt lot curved into darkness, past fireflies hovering low to the asphalt. Hawkins was asleep, mostly. The houses blurred past in their same-old quiet rows, porches sagging under the weight of summer air. When she reached the turn for Maple Drive, her fingers twitched on the wheel—but she didn’t turn. She hadn’t lived there in years. Someone else’s lights filled the windows now. The mailbox that used to bear her last name had been painted over.
Her dad’s new house sat on the far edge of town, past the old grain mill, where the air smelled like cut grass and diesel. The porch light buzzed above the front steps, moths flickering through its orbit. His cruiser was gone, just like he’d said. She kicked her shoes off by the door, the old floorboards giving a tired sigh under her weight. The refrigerator hummed from the corner, the only steady sound in the house. The walls were bare except for a few leftover nail holes and a small scuff where his filing cabinet must’ve stood. Her suitcase looked out of place against the empty desk. She sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled, rubbing her palms along her jeans.
The napkin came back out of her pocket. She smoothed it flat on her knee the ink faded in the center from where her thumb had pressed. Outside, a lone car passed on the road, headlights sweeping across the blinds before vanishing. The hum of the cicadas was thick enough to feel. She got up, cracked the window, and leaned against the sill. The air was heavy, warm, sweet with the smell of rain still caught in the dirt. She leaned against the window frame, the screen cool against her palms, watching the porch light buzz in the dark. The glow caught the curve of her car out front, the dull blue paint looking more gray under the thin halo of moths. The sound of cicadas pulsed through the yard, steady and loud, like the town’s own slow heartbeat. She sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, and stared at her shoes kicked half under the desk. There were so many ways Hawkins looked the same. Same cracked roads. Same houses with sagging porches. Same porch lights left on too late.
Tomorrow, she thought. She’d call Robin. Maybe she’d even call him, if she didn’t talk herself out of it first. She closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of a town that never really changed, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she didn’t feel like she had to leave.
Chapter 2: The House in The Dark
Notes:
My PS5 broke, so I’ve been living in this dream instead. Turns out writing haunting candlelit mansions is just as addictive as gaming. Buckle up — things are only going to get stranger. 🌹
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At first there was only darkness.
It wasn’t the blank kind that comes with sleep — it moved. It had weight. It breathed in and out around her, slow as a tide. Lottie couldn’t tell if she was standing or floating, only that something in the dark was listening.
Then, far ahead, a dim shape appeared. A door stood alone, untethered, impossibly tall. The wood was blackened with age, carved deep with patterns that might once have been vines. In the center, a stained-glass panel glowed blooming roses, petals the color of old wine, its stem traced in gold. Light pulsed faintly behind it, like a heartbeat trying to shine through. She took a step, and the void rippled underfoot like water. Another step, and the rose’s light grew brighter. When she reached for the handle wrought iron, cold and familiar, she thought she felt something stir on the other side, like breath meeting breath.
Her fingers closed around it. The world tilted as darkness folded back, blooming outward in a spill of amber light and she was no longer in the void. Ceilings arched impossibly high above her, disappearing into shadow; hundreds of candles hovered midair, their flames steady and gold, drifting like slow stars. The floor was black marble shot through with veins of silver that glimmered faintly when she moved. Every wall was dressed in dark wood paneling, gleaming like wet ink, carved with curling roses that seemed to shift and sigh.
The air smelled of wax and old rain, a faint sweetness underneath, like crushed petals steeped in smoke. Her reflection stretched across the marble, then broke apart as if the floor were liquid. At the end of the hall, a grand staircase curved upward, its banister twined with thorned vines cast in gold. The house rearranged itself with every breath hallways folding like ribbon, curtains breathing softly though no wind stirred them. Music drifted in from nowhere: a slow, hesitant piano, notes bending as if underwater. At the end of the corridor, a staircase spiraled upward through a haze of candlelight. Its railing was made of interwoven vines, golden thorns glinting between the leaves. The steps themselves shone faintly, dusted with something like pollen or starlight.
“Lottie.”
His voice was a breath more than a sound, carried on the candlelight itself.
She turned and there he was half-shadowed, half-light, his outline soft at the edges as though the world hadn’t finished drawing him. The candles leaned toward him, their flames bowing low. He descended one slow step at a time, the light gilding the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw, the pale of his shirt open at the collar. His eyes caught the glow and held it. He felt familiar like the shape of a memory she’d worn smooth from touching too often.
And yet, there was distance in him, too.
A softness that kept its secrets.
When he spoke again, the sound rippled through the air, warm and low, as if the house were listening. “You always find your way back,” he said. His voice carried the ache of an old song, something she might have heard once in passing, on a night she couldn’t quite remember.
“I didn’t mean to.” The words came out quieter than she meant, barely stirring the candlelight. He smiled slow, knowing, not unkind. “You never do.” The flames swayed with his breath, gold light spilling over his face until she could almost see him clearly. Almost. He was beautiful the way half-finished masterworks are beautiful not in what’s shown, but what’s missing.
She took a small step forward. The marble sighed under her bare feet. The air shimmered between them, threaded with drifting motes of dust and gold.
“Do I know you?” she asked. Something flickered in his expression something fragile, that was gone too fast. “Once,” he replied. “Maybe twice.” He tilted his head, as if weighing the truth against the light. “You were smaller then. You used to leave the door open behind you.”
Her brows knit. “The door?” He nodded toward the far end of the hall. The rose window shimmered there, faintly pulsing. “You were never afraid of what followed you in.” Her pulse stilled. “And was there something to be afraid of?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “There always is,” he said, voice soft as candle smoke. “It’s been quiet,” he said at last, his voice low and sure, echoing faintly through the vaulted space. “Too quiet since you’ve been gone.”
Each step he took seemed to wake the hall around him. Candles flared as he passed, casting ripples of gold across the marble; somewhere far above, the slow music stirred again—notes like glass breaking underwater. “The place remembers you,” he continued, descending slowly, one hand grazing the gilded vines of the railing. “It hums when you’re near. It sleeps when you’re not.”
“I don’t remember this house,” she said. “I’ve never been here.”
He smiled faintly, not in amusement, but in recognition. “You found it once,” he murmured. “Long ago. When the world outside was still loud.” Her throat tightened. “Found it?” He nodded, the motion gentle, like he was careful not to break the stillness. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.” His tone softened, almost kind. “You heard the music then, just as you do now. You stepped through and it made room for you.” He reached the final step and stood before her, the flicker of candlelight threading gold through his hair. His presence felt heavy and light all at once—comfort and warning, warmth and ache. “The halls remember the sound of your steps,” he said quietly. “Even when you forget the way back.” The music drifted closer slow piano chords, blurred and wistful. The walls shimmered faintly, their carved roses breathing in rhythm with the melody.
Her gaze lingered on him, drawn to the strange tenderness in his expression, to the way it faltered when she met it. “And you?” she asked. “Do you remember me?” He hesitated. The faintest shadow crossed his face. “I remember the door opening,” he said after a moment. “And the feeling that I had been found.”
He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his expression too gentle to be guarded, too measured to be free. Then his gaze drifted past her shoulder, to the long hall that stretched away in light and shadow. “It’s different now,” he said. “Quieter.” His voice softened, threaded with something almost wistful. “Would you like to see what’s changed?” Lottie hesitated. The question wasn’t a command, but it carried weight, as if he were offering her more than a tour, an invitation into something she’d half-forgotten.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m not sure I belong here.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s never stopped you before.”
He extended his hand, palm open and patient, light pooling across his skin. After a breath, she placed her fingers in his. The contact was warm but unfamiliar, as though they were shaking hands across a dream. The air shifted, the candlelight brightened, and the hall began to unfold ahead of them—each archway opening into another, the shadows bending away as if to clear a path.They walked together in silence. The floor glimmered faintly underfoot, and the light from the chandeliers bent across the marble like ripples of water. Roses, carved into the paneling, gleamed softly as they passed—petals traced in gold leaf, thorns dulled by time.
“It feels emptier,” she said quietly.
“It is,” he answered. “Things fade when no one looks at them.”
She looked up. The high windows were latticed with color—stained glass in deep blues and muted amber. Behind the glass, light wavered as though the sky outside were full of slow-moving water. “When was I here before?” she asked. He glanced down at her, his smile flickering like a candle’s edge. “When you still believed the door would open both ways.”
Her chest tightened. “And it doesn’t?”
His gaze drifted forward again. “Not easily.”
The words fell between them like dust, soft and final. For a moment, they simply stood there two figures in a corridor that seemed to stretch forever. The music was still playing, faint and liquid, seeping from somewhere beyond the walls. It sounded almost like it was trying to remember itself.
She looked up at him. “What’s on the other side?”
His eyes flickered toward her, the light catching in them. “That depends,” he said. “Sometimes morning. Sometimes nothing at all.” Her lips parted, but no sound came. The question she meant to ask scattered before it could leave her mouth. He stepped closer instead, his presence gentle but absolute, as if he were part of the architecture itself — carved from the same candlelight and shadow. “Come,” he said softly. “You’ll see.” They moved again, side by side. The air felt heavier now, thick with warmth and perfume. The scent of roses deepened, sharper, less like petals and more like memory.
The corridor began to change. The walls widened, stretching into a vaulted gallery. Candles hovered higher here, reflected endlessly in the marble until they looked like constellations adrift beneath their feet. A faint breeze stirred the hanging drapes, though the air was still. He stopped at the center of the room. “Here,” he said, almost to himself. Lottie’s eyes adjusted slowly. The space opened before her like a secret a ballroom drowned in candlelight. Chandeliers hung low, their crystals dripping gold and glass. At the far end, a wide mirror spanned floor to ceiling, its surface clouded with age.
Her heartbeat slowed. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was,” he murmured.
He didn’t elaborate, and somehow that said more than if he had. They walked on. The corridor curved gently, tapering into a smaller passage lined with mirrors. Each one reflected candlelight at a different angle, making it seem as if a hundred small suns flickered and followed them. In some panes, their reflections lagged behind by a breath; in others, they moved too quickly, outpacing their real selves.
Lottie slowed, her hand brushing the frame of one. The glass was warm to the touch, as though something living pulsed beneath its surface. “This isn’t how I remember it,” she murmured.
He didn’t look at her. “Memory has poor eyesight,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, the faintest glimmer of humor or sorrow in his eyes. “It sees what it can bear.” The answer wasn’t cruel, but it settled in her chest like a weight. She followed him anyway. The hall widened again into a great room she couldn’t recall crossing the threshold into. The air changed cooler, touched with the scent of something metallic, like rain striking stone. Curtains draped the walls in velvet, a deep crimson that seemed to swallow sound. The ceiling was so high it faded into dark, but here and there, faint motes of gold drifted like dust catching starlight.
In the center of the room stood a fountain. Its basin was carved from the same black marble as the floors, and water spilled from its tiers in threads of silver. The sound was soft, almost human—like someone whispering beneath their breath.
Lottie moved closer. “I don’t remember this either.”
“Few do,” he murmured.
He joined her by the edge of the fountain, his reflection rippling beside hers in the water. The candlelight turned their faces strange—half real, half imagined.
“What is this place?” she asked, her voice barely above the trickle of the fountain. He looked down into the water. The surface trembled where a droplet fell from somewhere unseen, spreading rings of silver light across their mirrored faces. “A threshold,” he said finally. His tone carried no mystery, no performance—just quiet fact. “Between what was and what isn’t anymore.” The words made the air feel colder. Lottie watched the reflections blur and reform. The ripples gathered small images for a heartbeat at a time—branches, moonlight, faces she thought she almost knew—then broke them apart again.
She tried to laugh softly. “That doesn’t explain much.” He almost smiled. “It’s not meant to. Explanations don’t work well here.” The fountain’s sound deepened, turning rhythmic, hypnotic. Water ran down in thin silver ribbons that caught the candlelight and split it into hundreds of trembling threads. She leaned closer, drawn to the shimmer. Beneath the surface something moved—slow, deliberate, the color of smoke seen through glass. Her hand hovered above the water.
He spoke again, a little sharper now. “Careful.”
“What happens if I touch it?” He didn’t answer at first. The candlelight slid across his face, gold catching on cheekbone and throat, and for a beat he only watched the water as if it might decide for them. “If you touch it,” he said at last, “it will touch back.” Her fingers hovered another inch lower. Cool rose-scent rose from the basin, sweet enough to sting. The surface went darker, like night concentrating.
“Show me,” she whispered. He reached and, without quite taking her hand, placed two fingers under her wrist—light as breath. “Let me show you something else instead.” She didn’t pull away. The water shivered, disappointed, and in that tremor she thought she saw a flicker of neon drowned beneath the surface—pink and blue gone murky, a blur of glass and rain. The image thinned to silver threads and bled apart. He guided her back a single step. The whispering in the fountain softened, like a lullaby forgetting its words. They stepped beneath the arch and the floor changed underfoot: marble giving way to old flagstone, warm and irregular, the seams furred with moss that drank the candlelight. The ceiling rose and then dissolved into tracery, a lattice of ribs and vines; between them the night wasn’t sky so much as a slow-breathing blue, as if water hung there instead of air.
A garden waited, walled by hedges high as cathedral walls.
Roses climbed everywhere—along the arches, through the ironwork, over statues whose faces had been softened by time. Some blooms were flesh-soft and pale as moonmilk; others were glass, petals thin as spun sugar, catching the light and breaking it into rose and amber. Thorns showed like ink strokes. Where the path bent, lanterns hung in the vines—no flame inside, only a pearly glow like trapped moth-light.
“Is it always night here?” Lottie asked.
“Only when it wants to be looked at,” he said.
They walked. The path curled like ribbon, leading them past a sundial whose numbers ran backward and a stone bench warmed by invisible sun. A white moth swam through the air beside them, its wings dusted with a faint aurora; when it settled on a rose, the petals breathed and opened wider. At the garden’s heart, a small pavilion of iron thorns cupped a second fountain, this one hardly more than a bowl. Its water was dark until a petal fell; then ripples skated outward, silvering the surface in thin rings. He did not take her hand again, but he stayed near, as if the distance were a string he held gently, never letting it pull taut. Beyond the pavilion, two archways opened in the hedge: one bright with lantern-milk and the scent of fresh rain, the other dim and rose-dark, a deeper thicket where the light gathered low and warm.
“Where do they go?” she asked.
“Left is gentle,” he said softly. “Right is true.” His eyes didn’t quite meet hers. “Neither is wrong.”
She laughed under her breath, though nothing about the sound felt amused. “You’re not going to tell me which one I choose.”
“I never have.”
A breeze braided through the arches, carrying different notes: on the left, lilting piano, the hush of silk; on the right, a slower three-beat pulse that set something aching under her ribs, like the first step of a waltz she hadn’t danced yet.
She looked back at him. He stood as if carved from the same dusk as the garden—familiar in the way of a song she knew the words to but not the verses, a stranger in the way the chorus still surprised her.
“If I get lost?” she asked.
“You won’t,” he said, and then, honest: “Or if you do, I’ll find you.” She stepped toward the right-hand arch. The light there was low and honey-warm, the perfume sharper, more like memory than flower. As she crossed beneath the thorns, the roses brushed her shoulders and left cool color on her skin—smear of garnet, breath of gold.
The path narrowed. Overhead, the vines knitted together until the night showed only in small, breathing patches. Petals littered the stone like confetti after some careful celebration. From somewhere ahead came the faintest chime—glass on glass, gentle as a promise.The chime ahead drew her forward — faint, crystalline, the kind of sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The path narrowed beneath her feet, stone veined with gold, petals gathering like small breaths around her steps. The air shimmered, too warm for night, too quiet for morning.
The vines above arched lower, forming a tunnel of shadow and light. Roses opened as she passed, their petals glinting faintly with dew or maybe starlight. The scent was dizzying — sweet and sharp, like something remembered from long ago.
Behind her, he stood still among the lanterns, half lost to the glow. The distance between them stretched, thin and humming, as if the whole garden were holding its breath. She didn’t look back. The chime rang again closer now, and through the web of vines ahead she glimpsed it: a faint light, pulsing slow and soft like the heartbeat of the world. Each step seemed to pull her deeper into the sound, her reflection flickering briefly on the glassy stones underfoot.
Her fingertips brushed a curtain of hanging roses. The petals were cool, damp, impossibly real.
Another step—and the world broke. The light fractured, bleeding white through the dark. The ground vanished beneath her. The scent of roses collapsed into clean air and silence. Lottie’s eyes flew open. Morning. The ceiling was close and dull, the gray of early light. The hum in her ears was only the refrigerator in the next room. She lay still, breathing hard, her hand outstretched toward nothing. The warmth of the dream was already fading, the weight of candlelight and perfume slipping through her fingers.
The room around her was ordinary.
Notes:
If you’re reading this, congratulations — you made it out of the mansion alive. I can’t say the same for my PS5.
Chapter 3: Daylight in Hawkins
Chapter Text
The fan above her turned in a slow, complaining circle, pushing the air around without really moving it. Someone’s mower droned faintly outside, the sound thinning as it crossed the fields and the road and the space between her and the rest of Hawkins. No candles. No rose-scented dark. No boy carved from shadow and gold. Just the old house and the subtle smell of coffee her father hadn’t remembered to turn off. Lottie lay there for a moment, fingers still half-curled like they were expecting petals to brush against them. The feeling of the garden clung to her skin the cool ghost of night, the soft drag of roses at her shoulders burned off by dull morning light.
She pushed herself upright. The sheets had tangled around her legs, twisting her into the corner of the mattress. The alarm clock on the milk crate that served as a nightstand blinked 11:32 in an insistent red that felt too bright. She’d slept later than she meant to. Her father was probably already buried under a blanket after his night shift. The house hummed with the peculiar emptiness of a place that only learned how to be quiet after everyone left.
The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. When she opened her door, the hallway met her with the same faded runner rug with faded ivy leaves. The same framed photograph of her mother at the county fair caught mid-laugh, cotton candy in one hand, the Ferris wheel a blur behind her. Someone, probably her father, had dusted around the frame instead of taking it down; a faint halo of clean wood circled it on the wall. In the kitchen, the coffee pot had boiled itself down to something dark and tar-like. She clicked it off and dumped what was left into the sink. The smell of it rose up, sharp and bitter. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was candle smoke instead.
The house felt too still in daylight like everything in it existed one layer to the left of where it should be. Her father’s boots were by the door, laces undone, his jacket tossed over the back of a chair. Evidence of a night shift lived in every corner: an empty mug, the lingering smell of stale coffee, the bedroom door shut tight. She kept her footsteps soft out of habit but hallway creaked anyway. She passed his door, pausing the way she always had as a kid, listening for his breathing. Slow. Heavy. Exhausted. She didn’t knock. She never did when he slept, not after years of him stumbling in at sunrise and collapsing into bed like something hunted.
She grabbed her denim jacket from the hook by the door, slipping her arms through it carefully so it wouldn’t brush against the walls. She opened the front door slowly, the hinges giving a soft, tired groan. Warm air rushed in immediately thick, summer-heavy, the kind that stuck to the back of her neck. The sunlight outside was too bright after the dim interior, turning the dust on the porch into dancing gold flecks.
The screen door clattered behind her as it shut, louder than she meant it to. She flinched, glancing back instinctively toward her father’s room, but the house stayed still. No footsteps. No shift of blankets. Just that steady, exhausted breathing through the cracked door down the hall. She stepped off the porch, her shoes crunching lightly against the gravel drive. The cicadas were screaming in the trees an insistent, buzzing chorus that filled the whole yard. The grass smelled sun-warmed and slightly sour. A dog barked a few houses over, quick and high-pitched, then fell silent again. Lottie shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, rolling her shoulders as if she could shrug off the remnants of the dream still clinging to her skin. The garden. The candlelight. Him. It all felt like something she’d stolen from a book she wasn’t supposed to be reading.
She didn’t want to think about it. She needed movement. Noise. People. Something ordinary. Robin’s shift would be ending at Scoops Ahoy in a few hours. The mall would be crowded by then bright, loud, dizzying in a way that made it impossible to think too deeply. Exactly what she needed. Lottie crossed the yard toward the driveway, gravel crunching under her shoes. Her burgundy Beetle sat beneath the line of patchy shade cast by the maple tree, still dusty from the drive back into town. Sunlight caught the curve of its fender, turning the paint a warm wine-red. She’d forgotten how small it looked parked in front of this house like a visitor instead of something that belonged.
The metal door handle burned her palm when she pulled it open. The heat inside the car hit her like a wave, thick and stale, smelling faintly of old upholstery, strawberry lip gloss, and the pine-tree air freshener she’d bought at a gas station somewhere between Indianapolis and here. She cranked the window down before even starting the engine, letting the heavy summer air rush in. Her keys jingled softly as she turned them the house receded in the rearview mirror, still and sunlit, nothing out of place. She rolled the window down farther, letting warm wind whip through the car and rattle the loose receipts in the cupholder. The radio crackled when she flicked it on, landing somewhere between static and a pop song she recognized from a month ago.
Starcourt Mall rose ahead like something out of a catalog all pastel panels catching the sun, glass doors gleaming, the massive sign arching over the entrance in shades of pink and blue that didn’t exist anywhere else in Hawkins. Even from the lot, she could hear the distant thump of music leaking through the walls, a steady pulse of mall noise already awake for the afternoon. Lottie locked her Beetle behind her and stepped into the flow of people heading inside. A group of teenagers clustered near the entrance, comparing mixtapes and sunburns. A mom herded two sticky-fingered kids toward the food court with the patience of someone who had already given up for the day. The air smelled faintly of pretzels and something sugary, like cotton candy that had melted hours ago.
The doors slid open, and Starcourt washed over her in a cold rush. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Arcade sounds drifted from down the hall electronic chimes, digital explosions, a chorus of game-over bleeps. Somewhere, a blender screeched inside Orange Julius. Scoops Ahoy sat tucked into its corner of the food court, red and navy banners snapping slightly in the air conditioning. The ship’s wheel behind the counter gleamed under the lights, and rows of colorful tubs shone behind the glass like a melted rainbow. Robin was behind the counter, elbow propped dramatically on the register, sailor hat pushed crooked on her head as she stared down a customer with the dead-eyed determination of someone who had been at work far too long already. She handed off a cone to a little girl, waited until the family drifted away, then let her shoulders drop in a long, silent exhale.
When she glanced up and saw Lottie, her expression shifted not dramatic, just a small spark of recognition that softened the tiredness in her eyes. “Well,” she said, a smile edging into her voice, “look who decided to rejoin civilization.” Lottie stepped closer, the cool air spilling from the open freezer brushing her calves. “It was either here or stare at the wall until my brain melted.” Robin snorted under her breath. “Good choice. Starcourt’s bleak, but at least it’s… moving.” She gestured vaguely at the swirl of people in the food court kids with trays, a couple sharing a pretzel, two teens arguing over a map of the mall like it was a national crisis.
“How’s your first full day back?” Robin asked, leaning her hip against the counter. The question was casual, but her eyes tracked Lottie with something more careful. Lottie drew in a slow breath. “It’s been… quiet,” she said. “Like everything’s waiting for me to catch up.” Robin nodded once, like she understood that more than she’d ever admit out loud. “Yeah. That tracks.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the stockroom, then back again, lowering her voice a little. “So—good timing on your part. Steve’s letting me go early.”
Lottie blinked. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” Robin said, lifting one shoulder. “Apparently he has ‘important evening plans.’ His mysterious date on Friday or something. And I may or may not have already promised to cover his shift for it.” Her mouth tightened into a dry line. “Which he is now using as leverage to release me early. Like he’s doing me a favor.” Lottie felt the corner of her mouth lift. “But you’re off now?”
Robin tapped the countertop with two fingers, decisive. “I’m off now.” She set the scooper in the rinse bin, wiped her hands, and grabbed her backpack from under the counter. Her sailor hat stayed crooked, her hair escaping around the edges, but she didn’t bother fixing it.
Robin slipped her backpack onto one shoulder and glanced around the food court like she was already halfway done with the place. Then her eyes cut back to Lottie, something bright and decisive sparking there. “Before we do anything else,” she said, “we’re going across the street.” Lottie tilted her head. “Where?”
“The record store,” Robin answered, as if that explained everything. “The little one with the crooked OPEN sign and the window full of sun-bleached album covers? I’ve been going there a lot lately.” She stepped around the counter, wiping her hands on her shorts out of habit even though she wasn’t holding anything. “I’ve been wanting to take you,” she added, more quietly. “I kept thinking about it when I heard you were coming back.” Lottie blinked, unsure what to say.
Robin filled the space for her. “Remember how we used to sit on your floor and listen to your record player?” she said, her voice softening at the edges. “How we’d stay up way too late flipping through whatever your mom had left behind? Fleetwood Mac, Joni Mitchell… all that stuff you swore sounded better at night?” A small smile pulled at Lottie’s mouth. “It did sound better at night.”
“Exactly.” Robin’s eyes warmed. “So I found this place. And it has the kind of records you would’ve lost your mind over. Stuff you can’t get at Starcourt—things that feel… lived-in.” She nudged the door open with her hip, letting the sunlight spill across the tile. “I figured you should see it. First.” The heat outside wrapped around them immediately, thicker and brighter than the mall’s air conditioning. They crossed the lot together, Robin walking just a little ahead, talking with her hands like she couldn’t help it. “You’re going to love it,” she insisted over her shoulder. “The guy who runs it buys everything secondhand. Half the sleeves look like they’ve been carried around in someone’s backpack for years. The good kind of worn.” Across the street, the little shop sat tucked between a barber shop and a travel agency that had never once updated its posters. The record store’s door was propped open with a cinderblock, music drifting faintly out something old and warm, the dusty crackle of a needle finding its groove.
Rows of crates stretched across the narrow room, each overflowing with vinyl some with glossy new covers, but most with worn edges and smudged corners, the art softened by years of hands flipping through them. The walls were lined floor to ceiling with shelves, every inch filled. A small fan in the corner clicked every time it rotated, barely moving the air.
Robin’s shoulders dropped, her whole posture settling into something comfortable like she belonged here. “See?” she said quietly, glancing sidelong at Lottie. “Doesn’t look like much from outside, but once you’re in…” Lottie nodded slowly. “It feels like someone’s attic.”
“In the best way,” Robin agreed. A man with wire-framed glasses and a ponytail glanced up from behind the counter, gave Robin a polite nod of recognition, then returned to pricing a stack of singles with careful, deliberate motions. Robin guided Lottie toward a crate near the back, nudging it with the toe of her Converse. “Start here,” she said. “This is where the good stuff hides.” Lottie crouched down, fingertips brushing the edge of a record sleeve—soft from age, cool from the shade of the shop.
She slid the first album forward.
Fleetwood Mac.
A different pressing than the one her mother had owned. Something in her chest tightened not painful, just… familiar. A thread pulled taut between then and now. Robin watched her face, her voice low. “I thought you’d like that one.” Lottie swallowed. “I do.” The bell above the door jingled again as someone entered, letting in a brief gust of hot sunlight. It faded as quickly as it came, swallowed by the calm, warm quiet of the shop and the steady, comforting crackle of the record still spinning somewhere in the back.
And for the first time all day, Lottie felt something like her breath settle slow, steady, grounding. Robin nudged her shoulder lightly, grinning. Robin nudged her shoulder lightly, grinning, then dropped down onto the worn rug beside the crate with a soft thud. “My legs are already giving out,” she said, folding herself cross-legged. “Might as well commit.” Lottie lowered herself beside her, the floor warm from the sun that slipped through the front window. The rug had flattened over years of customers sitting the same way, a faded geometric pattern soft under her palms. From the back of the store, the record spun on—low, steady, a little warbled, like it had lived a life before ending up here.
Robin leaned her back against the edge of a shelf, letting her head fall back with a soft sigh. “God,” she murmured, eyes drifting half-closed, “I forgot how good it feels to just sit somewhere that isn’t fluorescent.” Lottie smiled faintly, flipping through another small stack of records. “You’re acting like Scoops is a coal mine.”
“It might as well be,” Robin muttered, but her voice was soft, unworried.
Lottie paused on a sleeve Joni Mitchell this time, the corners frayed. “We used to hide all the time,” she said. “In my room. With the player on low so my dad wouldn’t hear.” Robin’s knee nudged against hers. “You’d fall asleep halfway through the second side and refuse to admit it the next day.”
“I didn’t ‘refuse,’” Lottie protested quietly. “I just… didn’t remember.” Robin’s grin widened, eyes brightening from the memory. “You’d curl up with one of the blankets from the couch the ugly one your grandmother made—and mumble along to lyrics like you were underwater.” Lottie huffed a breath of laughter, soft and surprised. “I forgot about that blanket.”
“Oh hold on,” she said, already scrambling to her feet. “Stay right there.” Lottie blinked as Robin darted behind a tall shelf near the register. There was a rustle, something sliding out from behind a stack of boxes, and then Robin reappeared with both hands behind her back, trying and failing to look casual.
She plopped down cross-legged again, barely containing a grin. “Okay,” she said, voice soft with excitement. “I was saving this. I really was. I thought, you know…this would make a great christmas gift.” Lottie smiled cautiously. “Robin… what did you do?”
Robin exhaled, then pulled the record out with a flourish earning a groan from the other girl. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh my god. Robin.” Front and center was Rick Springfield, shirt half-unbuttoned, guitar slung low on his hip, his name exploding across the top in neon-pink lettering. His feathered hair looked like it had been styled by angels. Robin beamed. “Remember him?”
“Unfortunately,” Lottie muttered, covering her mouth. “I cannot believe this exists.”
“Oh, it exists,” Robin said proudly. “There were at least three copies in the bargain bin. Most of them had lipstick on the sleeves.” Lottie’s face burned. “This was a childhood thing.”
“A big childhood thing,” Robin corrected. “You made me watch General Hospital just so you could see him show up as that doctor for two minutes.”
“I was eleven!”
“And in love,” Robin added matter-of-factly. “You had his poster on your closet door. Remember that one? The tight red shirt? The one your dad threatened to take down because it was ‘too much chest for a minor’?” Lottie buried her face in her hands. “Please stop.” Robin laughed, but it wasn’t mean—just delighted. She softened after a moment, leaning her shoulder gently against Lottie’s. “I wanted you to have it,” she said. “I found it months ago and hid it behind the jazz section so no one else would grab it. Figured it’d make you laugh when you finally came home.” Lottie let her hands fall away from her face, staring down at Rick Springfield’s dramatic, over-the-top pout. A reluctant smile pulled at her lips.
“He looks ridiculous.”
“He always did,” Robin agreed. “That was the appeal.”
Lottie bumped her shoulder lightly into Robin’s. “I hate how well you remember middle-school me.” Robin grinned. “Middle-school you was unforgettable.” Lottie rolled her eyes but her smile stayed. She set the record gingerly in her lap, tracing the glossy cover with her thumb.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll play it when you come over.”
Robin let out a triumphant little puff of air. “Knew it.” They sat there a moment longer knees touching, vinyl piled between them, the air warm and humming with the soft crackle of music before Robin reached for another dusty sleeve, and the afternoon stretched out easy and golden around them.
. The record in the back crackled and shifted tracks, a warm, steady pulse through the small store. “God,” she murmured, “I could live in here. Just curl up under that shelf and haunt the place.”
Lottie smiled faintly. “You’d make a very annoying ghost.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’d mess with the alphabetization. Hide ABBA in the metal section. Total chaos.”
Lottie laughed, the sound small but real. Robin’s grin grew at that—like she’d been waiting for it.
They sifted through a few more crates, their shoulders brushing now and then, each moment dipping them further back into old rhythms. It felt oddly like reclaiming a language they both still remembered how to speak.
At one point, Robin leaned her head back against the shelf and exhaled dramatically. “Okay. My legs are numb, this floor is made of concrete lies, and if I stare at one more tracklist I might fuse with the carpet.”
Lottie raised a brow. “So…time to go?”
“Time,” Robin declared, pushing herself to her feet in one graceless motion, “to re-enter the neon hellscape.” Lottie rose too, brushing dust from her jeans. Robin gathered the stack of records they’d chosen Fleetwood, Joni, Rick Springfield the Menace and brought them to the counter. The man with wire-rimmed glasses rang them up without commentary, though the faint upward twitch of his mouth suggested he’d clocked the Springfield album. Outside, the heat hit them full force again, buzzing and bright. Robin winced. “God, it’s like being slapped by the sun. Okay. Milkshakes. Immediately. Preferably by someone who owes me and can’t say no.”
By the time they crossed the lot and stepped back through Starcourt’s glass doors, the cold air felt almost violent. Lottie sucked in a breath on instinct, the temperature shift sinking into her skin. The mall was even louder now—kids shrieking near the fountain, someone dropping a tray in the food court, the mechanical hum of the escalator rolling endlessly upward.
Scoops Ahoy was still busy. Steve stood behind the counter, one forearm braced on the register, reciting flavors to a customer with the calm, dead-eyed patience of a man doing penance. Robin didn’t bother hiding her approach she slammed her palm onto the counter. “Harrington. We require sugar.” Steve flinched, then exhaled when he saw them. “Jesus,” he said. “You can’t just… appear.”
“That’s exactly what I can do,” Robin replied. “I used to do drama club. I know all the entrances.” She pointed to the milkshake machine. “Two chocolate. And no complaining.” Steve looked between them. “This is about the Friday shift, isn’t it?” Robin nodded. “You are correct. And powerless.” He sighed, but with that familiar, put-upon affection. “Fine. Fine.” He grabbed the metal cups. “But I expect emotional support in return.” Robin leaned across the counter. “What you’re going to get is me not telling your date about the time you cried because the slushie machine jammed.”
Lottie blinked. “Wait, what—”
“Robin,” Steve hissed. “Oh relax,” she said. “I didn’t say which slushie machine.” Steve groaned, turning his back on them to scoop ice cream. Lottie stifled a laugh behind her hand. He moved with the tired efficiency of someone who could do this half-asleep—metal scoop scraping against frozen tubs, milk sloshing into the silver cups, the whirr of the machine kicking on. Over the counter, Lottie could see the edge of Robin’s reflection in the metal paneling, her sailor collar slightly askew, her mouth tipped up in a smug little curve.
Steve slid the first milkshake across the counter, then the second, both topped with a careless swirl of whipped cream that still looked weirdly perfect. “There,” he said. “Bribery complete. Now you’re morally obligated to tell me if my date shirt makes me look desperate.” Robin took both cups before Lottie could reach for hers. “You were already desperate before the shirt,” she said, handing one to Lottie. “The shirt is just documentation.”
Steve pressed a hand to his chest. “I am surrounded by cruelty.”
“And dairy,” Robin said. “Don’t forget dairy.”
Lottie wrapped her fingers around the cold paper cup, the chill biting pleasantly into her skin. “Thank you, Steve,” she added, a little softer. He glanced at her, the put-upon mask slipping for a moment into something easier. “Yeah,” he said. “Anytime.” Robin tipped her head toward the cluster of empty tables. “Come on,” she said to Lottie. “Before he starts asking for feedback on cologne, too.” They found a small two-top near the edge of the food court, half-shadowed by a plastic palm tree. The vinyl seat wheezed quietly when Lottie sat down. From here, she could see almost the entire sprawl of Starcourt the fountain throwing up glittering water beneath the skylight, the neon signs winking from every direction, families and teenagers and bored employees all caught in the same slow orbit.
Robin dropped into the chair across from her, nudging Lottie’s foot under the table as she took a long pull from her milkshake. “Okay,” she said, exhaling like someone coming up for air. “That’s criminally good.”
Lottie took a sip of her own. The chocolate was thick and sweet, cold enough to make her teeth ache. It tasted like summers before everything got complicated—sticky movie nights and parking lots and the hum of cicadas outside her open window. “You’re right,” she said. “Dangerous.”
“I’m often right,” Robin replied. “People don’t appreciate that about me.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The noise of the mall blurred into a steady backdrop, forks scraping against plastic trays, a kid whining about not getting another pretzel, the distant electronic shriek of some poor soul losing at Dig Dug in the arcade. Robin toyed with her straw, tracing a slow circle in the whipped cream. Robin dragged her spoon along the inside of the milkshake cup, scooping up a ribbon of half-melted chocolate like she was performing surgery. She didn’t look up when she said, “Okay. I’ve been sitting on something. Mall gossip. Grade-A, Hawkins-certified.”
Lottie raised a brow. “Since when do you sit on gossip?”
“Since I wanted dramatic timing.” Robin finally met her eyes, leaning in across the tiny table until her sailor collar nearly dipped into her milkshake. The absurd fake palm tree above them cast a shredded-looking shadow across her face, all jagged edges and stripes of neon. “Jonathan Byers,” she whispered. “Is dating Nancy Wheeler.”
Lottie froze mid-sip. For a second the sounds of Starcourt—the fountain’s rhythmic splash, kids shrieking near the arcade, the hiss of an Orange Julius blender—blurred into nothing.
“…No he isn’t.”
Robin’s grin spread slow and smug. “Oh, but he is.”
“Robin.”
“I have sources,” she said, sitting back and tapping the table like she was signing a contract. “Multiple. Visual confirmation. Steve almost walked into a ‘Wet Floor’ sign about it.”
Lottie blinked hard, trying to fit the image together. Jonathan, all soft eyes and camera straps and quiet, next to Nancy—pressed skirts, perfect posture, a brain like a steel trap. “How does that even… work?” Robin shrugged, stirring her milkshake lazily. The straw clinked against the cup. “I don’t know. Maybe she grades his essays. Maybe he brings her tragic mixtapes. Maybe the universe just likes chaos.”
Lottie’s lips curled. “Nancy Wheeler with a Byers boy. That’s… kind of cute?”
“Depending on your tolerance for earnestness, yeah.” Robin raised her milkshake for a toast. “To wildly unexpected pairings. Honestly,” Robin added, swirling a ribbon of whipped cream with her straw, “I don’t even know what’s next. Dustin’s claiming he has a girlfriend in Utah, so place your bets.” Lottie grinned into her cup. “A girlfriend in Utah?”
“Apparently she sings like an angel, is a genius, and writes letters in cursive.” Robin raised a brow. “So naturally, I believe every word.”
“I missed this,” Lottie murmured. Robin’s eyes softened, and for once she didn’t cover it with a joke. She nudged Lottie’s foot under the table, gentle. “Yeah. Me too.” The fountain sparkled behind them under the skylight, neon buzzing, kids running, teenagers flirting, the whole mall shifting in its noisy, shimmering orbit around their little table.
“Well, well, well,” Steve said, leaning a hip against the edge of their two-top like he owned it. “If it isn’t my favorite pair of deserters enjoying the fruits of my labor.” Robin lifted her eyes only long enough to deadpan, “Oh look. A nuisance.” Steve ignored her with the serene determination of someone who’d built up immunity. He slid into the chair beside Lottie without asking, folding his arms on the table like this was a conference he’d scheduled. “You’re not supposed to be on break,” Robin said. “And you’re supposed to be scrubbing the mop sink right now,” Steve shot back. “But here we both are. Funny how life works.” Robin rolled her eyes. Lottie hid a smile behind her milkshake. Steve exhaled, cleared his throat, and pointed decisively between them. “Okay. Important question. Very important. Potentially transformational for your summer.”
“God,” Robin muttered. “He’s pitching something.”
Steve ignored that too. “There’s a party on Saturday.”
Lottie blinked. “A party?”
“Not just a party,” Steve said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “The party. Tommy’s cousin’s place by the quarry. Big backyard. Actual stereo. A grill that won’t collapse if you look at it wrong. And—and—” he lifted a finger dramatically, “no parents.” Robin groaned like she’d been stabbed. “Absolutely not.”
Steve frowned. “Can I finish?”
“I already know it’s a terrible idea,” Robin said. “The answer is no.”
“Not your answer I’m asking her.” Steve turned back to Lottie, eyebrows raised in earnest hope. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Everyone’s going.” Lottie hesitated. “Everyone?”
“Yeah,” Steve said. “Nancy and Jonathan, Tommy’s cousin’s weird band friends, probably half the senior class—” Robin made a face like she’d bitten into a lemon. “Oh yeah. Nothing screams ‘fun’ like warm beer and boys named Clint.”
“His name is Clay,” Steve corrected.
“Even worse,” Robin said.
Lottie tried not to laugh. The noise of Starcourt swelled around them—the arcade shrieking, the blender at Orange Julius screeching, the mall PA buzzing with a distorted announcement about lost keys. The air smelled like popcorn, plastic, and sweet syrup melting on the tile. “This could be good for you,” Steve said, softening his voice. “You’ve been… you know.” He gestured vaguely. “Settling.” Robin’s foot tapped sharply under the table. Not at him toward Lottie. A silent pulse of caution. A friend’s instinctive brace.
Lottie wrapped her hands around her milkshake. “Settling isn’t bad.”
“No,” Steve agreed quickly. “It’s not. I just mean… being back here is weird. I get that. But the party could help. Ease you in. Let people say hi without it being a big thing.” Robin snorted. “It’ll be a big thing no matter what.” Steve shot her an annoyed look. “Why are you like this?”
Steve’s hand lifted in a helpless little gesture, trying to shape his words into something that wouldn’t spook her. “Look, it doesn’t have to be a big commitment,” he said, leaning forward like he was letting her in on classified intel. “Just… show up. Say hi. Grab a drink. Exist in the general vicinity of fun.” Robin snorted into her straw. “You sound desperate.”
“I am desperate,” Steve shot back, but there was a soft sincerity beneath the dramatics when he turned back to Lottie. “I’m serious. It might be good. And if you hate it?” He pointed between her and Robin. “You two can bail. Immediately. No questions asked. I’ll even pretend it wasn’t incredibly rude.” Robin kept her face flat, but her foot nudged Lottie’s under the table — a tiny, conflicted tap that wasn’t outright warning, just cautious. A do what you want kind of touch. Lottie’s fingers tightened around her milkshake cup. The cold seeped into her palms, grounding. The mall hummed around them — neon buzzing, fountain splashing, a child crying over dropped Dippin’ Dots somewhere across the court. Her heartbeat felt loud in her ears, like Starcourt itself was waiting for her answer.
“Just… show up?” she asked carefully. “Exactly,” Steve said, brightening instantly. “Show up. Hang for ten minutes. Fake a bathroom emergency. Robin invents a medical condition. Whatever you need.” Robin muttered, “I refuse to fake a medical condition,” but she didn’t actually look upset. Lottie drew in a slow breath, her chest loosening with the smallest, unexpected warmth — the good kind, the kind that meant she wasn’t alone in this. She glanced at Robin, who raised her brows in meaningfully pointed I’m not thrilled but I love you solidarity. “…Okay,” Lottie said finally. “I’ll go.” Steve’s relief was immediate and enormous. “Yes! Perfect! Great! I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“I’m not going for you,” Lottie said, though she couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from lifting. “You’re going for the experience,” Steve insisted, pointing at her like she’d just won a prize. “And again—if it sucks? If a guy named Clay tries to talk to you about his car for twenty minutes?” He tapped the table like stamping a deal. “You and Robin are out. I’ll even cover your escape.” Robin sighed, but her smile slipped out anyway. “We’ll leave him behind in a heartbeat.”
“Wow,” Steve said, wounded. “Okay, that felt targeted.” Lottie laughed soft but real. And that was that. She was going. Saturday. A party by the quarry. Ten minutes, maybe. Or longer, if the world didn’t swallow her first.
Chapter 4: Welcome to the quarry
Notes:
guys my laptop charger broke im so sad and doing this on my phone was a struggle but heres the next chapter enjoyyyy <3
Chapter Text
By early evening the little bedroom felt close, almost too still, the old box fan rattling in the window as it tried to push heavy summer air into something breathable. Outside, a game show theme drifted from a neighbor’s TV, tinny and distorted. A dog barked somewhere down the block. Someone’s sprinkler hissed in a lazy arc over a patchy yard. Lottie stood in front of her mirror, tugging the sleeves of her cardigan straight. The mustard turtleneck she’d chosen hugged her ribs, warm and familiar. Her fingers smoothed the deep green skirt, brushing down the sides to check the hem. She slipped her hands along her legs, making sure her plain black tights sat evenly, no snags, no twists. Her oversized striped cardigan hung comfortably around her, sun-faded reds and blues pooling past her wrists like it had been waiting in her closet for her to come home. It wasn’t a party outfit, it was a comfort outfit.
She tugged the sleeve of her cardigan back and winced. A neat, thin scratch curved across the inside of her elbow. It hadn’t been there earlier. She checked the seam, expecting a rough thread or hidden tag.
Nothing she brushed her thumb over the mark. It stung sharp, exact, like a thorn. “Nope,” she muttered. “Absolutely not thinking about that.” Lottie stepped into the hallway, smoothing her cardigan one last time, and expected the living room to be dark—her dad usually slept straight through the early evening after a long shift.
But soft light spilled across the floor. Her dad was awake, he sat on the couch in his off-duty clothes: grey sweats, a Hawkins Police Department T-shirt that had seen better days, and socks that didn’t match. His police utility belt, keys, and radio were piled neatly on the coffee table—heavy items placed with the deliberate care of someone who’d carried too much weight all day and finally set it down. He’d showered recently; his hair still had that damp, combed-back look he only ever had when he wasn’t exhausted. A half-empty can of Coke sweated onto a coaster beside him, and the muted TV flickered across his face.
“Well,” he said, voice warm, low, and already amused, “don’t you look… grown.” She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself. “It’s just clothes.”
“Mhm.” He shut the TV Guide in his lap. “And where exactly are those clothes taking you tonight, Miss Dressed-Nicely-For-No-Reason?” Lottie swallowed. “Robin and I are going to a party.” He blinked. “A party,” he repeated, drawing the word out like he was translating it.
His eyebrows climbed higher. “At the quarry?” She nodded. Her dad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, Coke can dangling loosely from his fingers. He gave her a long, slow once-over—not judgmental, just… surprised. Fond and a little blindsided. “Since when,” he said, genuine disbelief wrapped in warmth, “are you and Robin into parties?”
Lottie let out a tiny laugh, tugging her sleeves down. “We’re not. Steve invited us. We’re only staying for a few minutes.” He sat back again, rubbing his jaw his cop habit, something she’d seen him do while writing reports or listening to dispatch. “Feels like yesterday,” he muttered, “you two were begging me to drop you off at the library so you could ‘research’ backyard fairy kingdoms.” His mouth curved softly. “And now it’s—” he gestured vaguely toward her skirt and cardigan, “—quarry parties.”
“It’s not like that,” she said, but her voice was gentler now. “Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “I know.” Then, softer: ““I’m allowed to notice it.” He spoke with that quiet gravity cops got when they saw too much, too often—when every year felt both long and terribly short. “You look nice,” he added. “Really nice.” Lottie hadn’t expected that. A warm flush crept up her throat. He lifted a finger, suddenly all Dad again, not Officer Clark. “Just—do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Stay away from the edge of that cliff. I’ve pulled too many teenagers out of stupid situations over there.”
“I won’t go near it.”
“And,” he continued, pointing the can at her for emphasis, “if Harrington tries to show off or impress you? Walk away. Immediately.” She laughed. “He has a date tonight.”
“Oh God,” her dad muttered. “Poor girl.” Lottie tried to hide her smile behind her cardigan sleeve. He stood up, joints cracking quietly, and came closer. His presence was steady, grounding—broad shoulders, the faint scent of clean soap, and that underlying edge of someone whose job was keeping other people alive. He rested a hand on her upper arm “Seriously. Call me if you need anything. I mean anything.”
“I will.”
“Good.” Lottie leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He squeezed her elbow gently careful, and protective. “Have fun,” he said with a nod toward the door. “Or, you know… try to.” The porch door clicked closed behind her, and warm summer air rushed around her ankles like a welcoming tide. Fireflies blinked near the hedges Her burgundy Beetle waited where it always did tucked just beneath the lone maple tree, half in shadow, half caught in the amber wash of the porch light. The dings in the fender glimmered faintly in the warm glow, reminders of parallel-parking lessons gone wrong and late-night grocery runs after her dad’s shifts. A cicada droned somewhere close by. The air smelled faintly of cut grass and the lingering warmth of the day settling into night.
Lottie crossed the short path to her car, her cardigan brushing against her sides. The gravel popped under each step, familiar and grounding. The Beetle’s handle burned her palm when she opened it, hot from soaking in the last of the sun. Inside, the air was thick and oven-warm. She rolled the window down immediately, letting a gust of night breeze sweep through, rustling the old receipts in the cupholder. She set her keys in the ignition but didn’t turn them her dad’s voice echoed softly in her head:
“Since when are you and Robin into parties?”
“Stay away from the edge of that cliff.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
She hadn’t expected the moment to feel so heavy like leaving the driveway was somehow stepping into a different version of herself he hadn’t entirely caught up with yet. She blew out a slow breath and twisted the keys. The Beetle sputtered to life with the familiar uneven rumble, headlights splashing across the gravel and the low line of hedges. She backed out carefully always carefully, the way her dad taught her and turned onto the road as the porch light glowed behind her like a watchful eye. As she drove, the gravel beneath her tires faded into pavement, the houses thinned out, and the sky darkened into rich, velvety blue. The radio crackled before settling on a song she barely remembered from middle school summers something airy, repeating, nostalgic in a way that hurt if she let herself think too hard.
Streetlamps flickered by. Fields blurred into shadow. The road to the quarry opened in front of her like a long dark ribbon guiding her forward. She tightened her grip on the wheel. Ten minutes. Fifteen if Steve insisted. She turned onto the narrow pull-off beside the quarry and immediately saw cars lined crookedly along the edges hoods still warm, doors flung open, windows fogged from too many people leaning out to talk. A couple of bikes lay in a heap near the treeline. Someone had draped a string of lanterns between two trees, their light swaying softly with the breeze.
Lottie eased the Beetle into an open pocket of dirt and gravel, the headlights illuminating dust in thick swirling clouds before she shut the engine off. The sudden silence pressed against her ears for a moment before the party noise seeped in again.
She sat with her hands on the steering wheel. She stepped out, adjusting her cardigan sleeves. The bonfire glow washed across the clearing in waves orange and lively, painting silhouettes that moved like memories. “Lottie!” Robin’s voice cut through the noise she jogged toward her, hair pulled half-up, half falling loose, wearing jean shorts and a faded band tee that looked like it had gone through at least three different teenage owners. She looked… casual. Comfortable. Sharp-eyed as ever.
“There you are,” Robin said, grabbing her hand with the urgency of someone rescuing a friend from a burning building. “I was about one minute from assuming you’d ditched me for a quiet night.” They pushed through soft knots of people spread around the bonfire. Someone roasted something unidentifiable over a stick. Someone else argued about who stole whose mixtape. A couple was making out near someone’s car like the world might end tomorrow.
Heat rolled off the flames, sticky and comforting. Steve spotted them before they spotted him. He practically materialized, hair perfect in the chaotic way only he could pull off, expression bright with relief. “There you are,” he said, breathless like he’d lost her in a crowd. “I was starting to worry you got kidnapped.”
“By who?” Robin asked dryly. “Tommy’s cousin’s terrible band?” Steve ignored her. He looked at Lottie, eyes softening. “Glad you came.”
“Thanks,” she said, tucking hair behind her ear. He was about to say something else, absolutely something embarrassing when someone behind him yelled for help with the grill. Steve groaned, muttering something about “not tonight,” and rushed off. Lottie had barely turned when she nearly bumped into someone seated on the back of a nearby pickup.
A boy. Someone she had never seen before. He sat casually, legs dangling, the heel of one yellow Converse tapping lightly on the tailgate. His curls caught the firelight dark and soft at the roots, glowing gold at the ends. A pretzel stick hung loosely from his fingers. His brown shirt was faded in that lived-in way. He startled slightly at almost bumping her, looking up with warm, apologetic eyes. “Oh I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, shifting just enough to give her space. “Didn’t mean to sit right in the way.”
“It’s okay,” Lottie said, quietly. “I wasn’t looking.” He gave a small smile hesitant, gentle and nodded before turning back to the conversation happening beside him. His laugh was soft, unassuming, swallowed quickly by the night. Robin tugged her deeper into the party. “Come on. Harrington is seconds from setting himself on fire trying to impress a girl.” Robin tugged her deeper into the crowd, weaving them through pockets of teenagers sprawled across coolers, the ground, the hoods of cars. The bonfire roared high, spitting sparks into the night sky. Music thumped from a boombox someone had wedged into a milk crate.
“Okay,” Robin muttered, “brace yourself. He’s… short-circuiting.”
“Who?” Lottie asked.
Robin didn’t answer with words.
She just angled her chin toward the section of clearing by the logs.
There he was — the boy who’d invited them — standing far too close to the flames, smiling like he’d been electrocuted, hands moving in frantic little half-circles. And standing across from him was a girl Lottie had never seen before.
The girl was striking in the way pastel candy is striking.
Her honey-brown hair curled softly around her shoulders. She wore a blue and yellow letterman jacket, but not Hawkins colors brighter, sharper, newer. Another school somewhere probably bigger, maybe. Somewhere with an actual budget. Beneath it was a pale pink top, tucked neatly into a mint skirt, all soft edges and roller-rink fantasy. Her sneakers were bubblegum-pink, high-tops she’d drawn daisies on with pen. A pink portable cassette player clipped to her hip glinted every time she shifted her weight.
She blew a bubble.
It popped delicately.
She laughed — warm, sweet, sugary.
Lottie didn’t know her.
But she fit the scene like a postcard.
The girl held out a stick of gum.
He fumbled it.
It dropped into the dirt.
Robin made a soft choking noise. “Oh my god. He’s imploding.”
Lottie covered a smile with her cardigan sleeve. “Should we—help?”
“No. We let nature take its course.” Robin nudged her forward before she could stare too long. “Come on,” she whispered. “If we stay here any longer he’s going to rope us into moral support and I don’t have the emotional strength.” They slipped out of the cluster of kids circle-watching the awkward flirting and moved toward a quieter patch of grass near the edge of the bonfire light. Lottie let her eyes drift around the crowd—faces half-lit by flame, shadows rising and falling across cheeks and jawlines. The night hummed like an engine below everything, warm and restless. Someone tossed a frisbee too close to the fire. Someone yelled about lighter fluid. A girl tripped over a log and laughed until her friends shushed her.
Lottie tried to let herself sink into it. But even as Robin rambled about someone’s terrible mixtape, something else pulled at the corner of her awareness. A soft current running underneath everything, low and humming and not part of the party at all. A scent—roses and wax something warm and sweet, like the inside of a candle shop after closing. It brushed past her cheek like breath.
She blinked. At first she thought it was the bonfire, or someone’s cheap body spray, or a trick of the wind—but it was too familiar. Too specific. It was the scent of the garden from her dreams. A prickle crawled across her skin, slow and deliberate, settling along the scratch on her elbow. The mark warmed under her sleeve, like something remembering her.
“Hey,” Robin said, cutting through whatever Lottie’s face was doing. “You’re doing it again.” Lottie blinked. “Doing what?” Robin squinted at her. “Like you just remembered you left the oven running or something.” A short, breathless laugh escaped her. “I’m fine,” Lottie said. “I just… need some air. Real air. Away from the bonfire and Steve’s emotional combustion.”
Robin’s mouth softened. “You want me to come?” Lottie shook her head. “No. I’ll be right back. If I’m not, you can assume I joined a traveling circus.”
“That is not funny,” Robin said, but she let her go. “Stay where I can see you. And do not go near the cliff, or your dad will personally arrest me.” Lottie lifted a hand in a vague promise and slipped away. She kept her dad’s warning in her head like a line she could feel with her toes. She didn’t go near the edge. She stayed well back, where the ground still felt solid and flat and ordinary.
Lantern light from the trees bled only a little way into the dark, leaving most of the space ahead of her painted in soft, inky blue. The sky stretched huge above the quarry, scattered with faint stars struggling against the glow of fire and cars. She exhaled slowly. Out here, the air felt different. Cooler, thinner, like it had less to fight through. The smoke from the bonfire didn’t sit as heavy on her lungs. She could almost imagine she was somewhere else entirely somewhere quiet, where the night didn’t have edges.
Then the scent reached her.
Roses.
Wax.
That warm, sweet note beneath it, like honey melted into hot candlelight. It slipped past her like someone walking by just close enough to brush their shoulder against hers. The scratch under her sleeve pulsed, heat blooming in a narrow crescent along her skin.
A sound broke through the quiet.
Tick.
Soft.
Mechanical.
Rhythmic.
Like a pocket watch being wound by unseen hands.
She froze.
Another tick followed. And another. Slow, steady, deliberate. The air tightened around her, thinning to a single held breath.
“Robin?” she whispered.
No answer. She turned not toward the cliff, but toward the line of parked cars scattered along the clearing’s edge. Their metal surfaces caught faint reflections from the fire and lanterns, warped in curves of chrome and dusty windows. The ticking grew louder, clearer. She took a step closer. One of the car windows the backseat glass of a rusted blue sedan—held just enough of the fire’s glow to show her reflection faintly: cardigan, hair, the slope of her shoulders. And behind her reflection standing where there should have been empty air was him.
Tall. Still. Shadow-soft edges. Eyes lit faintly gold in the glass. A silhouette more than a body, details shifting like smoke. She gasped and spun around.
But there was nothing. Just grass and darkness and the distant party lights. The ticking stopped. The scent lingered. Roses brushing her cheek and was warming her throat. Her scratch pulsed again once, then twice like something tapping back from beneath her skin.
“Hey?” She jerked, breath catching. But it wasn’t the boy from the garden it wasn’t anyone like him. It was the boy from earlier the one with yellow Converse and curls that caught the firelight. He stepped closer slowly, hands tucked into his pockets, brows drawn in gentle worry. “You good?” he asked. “You kind of… wandered off and then just froze. Like you heard a math problem.”
She forced a breath. “I’m fine. I just—thought I heard something.” He glanced toward the dark treeline, casual, unbothered. “Probably just someone messing around,” he said. “Or a raccoon. This place is basically raccoon heaven.” She tried to laugh but I came out thin and forced.
He studied her a little longer. “Or,” he added softly, “you felt lightheaded again? ‘Cause you still look kinda… pale.” Her pulse hitched. Somehow, that normal kind of worry simple, human, real felt like a rope thrown into water. “I’m okay,” she said. “Really.”
He nodded, but doubt flickered across his expression. “I’ve got water actual water. In the truck, if you want.” He gestured with a thumb. “Seriously. It’s not weird. I’m just… prepared.” Despite herself, she smiled. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, relieved. “Cool. I’ll grab it.” Robin reappeared before he got far, twin cups in her hand. She stopped mid-step, eyes flicking between him, Lottie, and the way Lottie’s shoulders were still stiff. She stopped mid-step, eyes flicking between him, Lottie, and the way Lottie’s shoulders were still a little too tight.
One eyebrow arched, slow and sharp. “Oh,” she said, voice slipping into that dry, amused register she saved for truly important discoveries. “So you’re making new friends without me.”
Heat crawled up the back of Lottie’s neck. “I’m not—”
Robin tipped her head, studying them both like they were a very interesting science project. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re out here, what, hydrating with mysterious boys in yellow sneakers? Wow. Betrayal.”
The boy’s mouth pulled into a small, startled smile. “I, uh—just offered her water,” he said. “Didn’t mean to steal anyone.”
“Oh, she ditched me,” Robin said immediately. “It’s fine. I’ll recover. Eventually.” She shifted her gaze back to Lottie, eyes gleaming. “Could’ve at least warned me you were ducking out to flirt.” Lottie choked. “I was not flirting.” Robin’s lips twitched. “Right. You just wandered off into the dark, left me with Steve’s slow-motion romantic collapse, and picked up a boy on your way back. Totally innocent.”
The boy looked like he was trying not to laugh and also trying not to be rude about it. “I can, um, go get that water now,” he offered. “Let you two… sort out your custody arrangement.” Robin made a little shooing gesture with her cup. “Go on, Converse. We’ll be right here having a very calm, very normal discussion about loyalty.”
He dipped his head in a half-nod, half-bow that somehow managed to be both shy and a little amused, then backed away toward the truck. The second he was out of earshot, Robin turned fully on Lottie. “So,” she said, drawing the word out. “That looked suspiciously like you ditching me to flirt.” Lottie stared at her. “I went to get air. I thought I heard something.”
“And instead you found… him.” Robin wiggled her fingers in the direction of the pickup. “Congratulations, that’s the opposite of air.”
“He was just being nice,” Lottie insisted. “I nearly ran into him earlier. He - he was checking I wasn’t about to pass out.” Robin’s expression softened for half a second at that, worry cracking through the teasing. “You’re not about to pass out, right?”
“I’m fine,” Lottie said. “Just… weird night.”
“Uh-huh.” Robin’s gaze flicked briefly toward the rusted blue sedan in the shadows, then back. “Well, if you are going to start making new friends and abandoning me to deal with Steve’s cologne choices alone, I reserve the right to be dramatic about it.” Lottie huffed a quiet laugh. “You were dramatic before this.”
“Exactly,” Robin said. “Now I have material.” Before Lottie could answer, Robin’s eyes flicked back toward the pickup. Yellow sneakers, curls, soft laugh. He’d climbed onto the tailgate again, but his gaze kept drifting over in their direction like a moth that hadn’t quite decided whether the porch light was worth it. Robin followed the line of it, then made a quiet, triumphant sound in her throat. “Oh yeah,” she murmured. “Absolutely not wasting this.”
Lottie frowned. “What are you—”
“Come on.” Robin hooked their elbows together and started steering her across the dirt. “If you’re going to ditch me to flirt, we’re at least doing it with introductions. I refuse to be the anonymous best friend in the background of your epic love story.”
“Robin—” Lottie dug her heels in a little, but not enough to really stop her. “Please don’t—”
“Too late,” Robin sing-songed under her breath. “Social interaction has been initiated. There’s no going back now.” The closer they got, the more the noise of the boys clustered by the truck sharpened snatches of jokes, the rattle of an empty can nudged with a shoe, someone complaining about how long it took to get out here. Yellow sneakers noticed them first. His shoulders straightened almost imperceptibly, conversation around him softening as a couple of his friends drifted away, sensing something else about to happen. “Hey,” Robin called, friendly, like she was already mid-conversation. “Converse!”
He turned fully, one hand braced on the tailgate. Up close again, the firelight picked out the warm brown of his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he smiled—gentle, a little unsure, like he was waiting to see if the joke landed before laughing.
“Yeah?” he said. “Everything… okay?”
“Medically?” Robin said. “TBD. Socially? We’re correcting an injustice.” She jerked her chin toward him. “You brought my best friend water and I don’t even know your name. Where’s your sense of decorum?” He blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s Danny,” he said. “Sorry. I should’ve said that earlier.”
“Danny,” Robin repeated, like she was testing it for structural integrity. “Great. Solid. No complaints.” She shifted, presenting Lottie like she was unveiling a prize on a game show. “This is Lottie. My best friend, recently re-imported from the glamorous world beyond Hawkins. Freshly back in town and, I cannot stress this enough, single for as long as I’ve known her.”
Lottie made a strangled noise. “Robin.”
Robin ignored her. “She has excellent taste in music, will absolutely judge your cassette collection, spends an alarming amount of time in tiny vinyl shops that smell like dust and regret, and reads fantasy books so thick they could be used as murder weapons.”
Danny’s smile widened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That… sounds like a pretty good endorsement, actually.”
“Oh, we’re not done,” Robin said, lifting a finger. “Her favorite flavor is cherry slushies, lollipops, anything and she refuses to wear any bandages that don’t have cartoon dogs on them.”
Lottie stared at her, horrified. “That is not information he needs.”
“It’s crucial,” Robin countered. “It tells him you’re whimsical and committed to a brand.” Danny’s gaze slid to Lottie’s face, searching, amused but not mocking. “Is that… true?” he asked, gentle. She considered denying it out of sheer self-preservation. But his expression was open, not sharp, and something about the way he asked curious, not teasing knocked the lie right out of her. “…Yes,” she admitted. “The regular ones are ugly.” He laughed, soft and honest. “Yeah. They kind of are.”
Robin folded her arms, satisfied. “Anyway,” she said. “You’re welcome.” Lottie shot her a look. “Can you not?”
“What?” Robin said innocently. “I’m just facilitating human connection. You’re the one who went off to have a mysterious moment in the dark and came back with a boy and a water bottle.” Danny glanced between them like he’d walked into the middle of a long-running bit and was trying to catch up. “For the record,” he said, “I did not mean to steal her. I’m not, like, poaching party guests.”
“Oh, you can have her for a little while,” Robin said breezily. “She ditched me first. Fair’s fair.” Lottie glared at her, but it didn’t have much teeth. “I did not ditch you.”
“You emotionally abandoned me with Steve,” Robin corrected. “Same thing.” Danny’s gaze flicked toward the bonfire, where Steve was still very visibly trying to be charming at the girl in the blue-and-yellow jacket. “Is that the guy who keeps almost dropping the grill tongs?”
“That’s the one,” Robin said. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Mostly.” Danny’s eyes drifted toward the bonfire again, tracking Steve’s near-disastrous attempt to juggle grill tongs and charm at the same time. He winced. Then pointed almost apologetically with his pretzel stick. “…I’m pretty sure that guy,” he said slowly, “is the one my sister’s here with tonight.” Lottie blinked. “Your sister?”
“Yeah.” He tilted his chin toward the pastel girl in the blue-and-yellow jacket, the mint skirt, the bubblegum pink high-tops, the honey-blonde curls lit up in the firelight. “Donna. She begged me to bring her tonight. Like, legitimately begged. Promised she’d do my chores for a week if I drove her.” Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait, that’s why you’re here?” Danny nodded, resigned. “Yep. I’m the designated driver.”
He lifted his empty hands like a man displaying evidence. “Haven’t had a single drink. Haven’t even smelled one. She said if I didn’t come, she’d ‘perish in social agony,’ so here I am. Perishing.” Robin made a strangled, delighted noise. “God, I love siblings.” Danny sighed, but smiled a little. “She’s harmless. Just… dramatic. I think she’s known that guy—Steve? for a week. Maybe. Hard to tell with her. She gets excited fast.” Lottie followed his gaze to Donna, who was currently poking Steve in the shoulder with her straw while he talked too quickly, too loud, hands flailing in nervous orbit.
“They look… sweet,” she offered. Danny shrugged. “Yeah. I guess. I’m just here to make sure her cassette tapes don’t get stolen and she doesn’t lose her jacket.” His voice softened into something wry. “I’m, like, the least fun participant at this whole thing.”
“You brought pretzels,” Robin said. “That’s fun.” He held up the single remaining pretzel stick. “This was all I had.” Lottie found herself smiling again, small but real. “So you didn’t actually want to come?” Danny hesitated, then tilted his hand side to side. “I mean… not really my natural habitat.” He nodded toward the bonfire where someone was now trying to shotgun a beer and failing miserably. “I’m more of a ‘quiet corner, decent music, not tripping over logs in the dark’ kind of person.”
Robin snapped her fingers at Lottie. “Oh my god, weird, that sounds exactly like someone I know.” Lottie shot her a look. “I am not tripping over logs. Yet.”
“Give it time,” Robin said. Then, to Danny, “For the record, she’s here under protest too. Harrington guilt-tripped us. Well- guilt-tripped her. I just came to watch him self-destruct.” Danny’s mouth curved. He looked at Lottie, really looked this time, like he was putting puzzle pieces together. “So we’re all here against our will,” he said lightly. “Good to know I’m not alone.”
“You have Donna,” Lottie said. “That seems… fun.” She nodded toward the fire, where Donna was now laughing so hard she’d doubled over, her hand on Steve’s arm for balance.
He huffed out a soft laugh through his nose. “Donna has Donna,” he said. “And she hasn’t even glanced my way since we got here. He hopped back up onto the tailgate, then seemed to remember something and twisted around, reaching behind him. Lottie only noticed the cooler when he popped the lid one-handed the cheap plastic creaked, a little puff of cold air drifting up, fogging faintly in the warmth. Ice clinked softly as he rummaged.
“Offer still stands, by the way,” he added, looking over his shoulder at her. “For the water. I wasn’t just saying that to sound responsible.” Robin made a quiet, approving hum. “Designated driver and hydrated? Be still my heart.”
Danny snorted under his breath, then fished out a bottle. Condensation beaded along the plastic in fast little rivulets, catching the lantern light as he turned back around. He hopped down from the tailgate again, closing the small distance between them with careful, unhurried steps, like he didn’t want to startle her.
“Here,” he said, offering it out. Up close, Lottie could see the chill fogging over the label, the way his fingers had gone pink from digging through the ice. For some reason, that detail lodged in her chest—the quiet fact that he’d actually brought a cooler to a quarry party where no one else had planned that far ahead.
Her own hand felt too warm when her fingers brushed his. Just a quick drag of knuckles against knuckles, but it sent a tiny jolt up her arm, like static. He noticed; she could tell from the way his gaze flicked up to her face, quick and searching, before sliding away again so he didn’t make it weird.
“Small sips,” he said lightly. “Or you’ll give yourself a brain freeze from the inside.” Lottie huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Is that… medically accurate?”
“Probably not,” he admitted. “But it sounds convincing, right?”
She raised the bottle in a tiny mock-toast and took another sip, slower this time. The cold threaded down behind her ribs, washing some of the tight, buzzing feeling out of her chest. The night didn’t feel quite so close anymore; the noise of the party settled into something she could stand to sit inside of, instead of something pressing against her from every side.
Robin watched her for a second, the corners of her mouth tipping up when a little color came back into Lottie’s face. “See?” she said. “Look at us. One designated driver, one emotional support best friend. You’re basically invincible.”
“Please don’t say that at a quarry,” Danny murmured, eyeing the vague direction of the cliff.
Robin snapped her fingers. “Right. Right. Retracted. You are very fragile and we are treating you like a priceless antique.”
Lottie made a strangled sound into the mouth of the bottle. “That’s somehow worse.”
Danny’s grin flashed, quick and crooked. “Could be worse,” he said. “Donna calls me ‘her chauffeur with benefits.’”
Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not touching that sentence.”
He flushed, realizing how it sounded, and rubbed the back of his neck. “She means, like… I get to pick the music sometimes. And I get free gum. Not—” He broke off, grimacing at himself. “Wow. That didn’t help.”
Lottie’s shoulders finally loosened on a small, helpless laugh. “I assumed she wasn’t paying you in… whatever that sounded like.”
“Thank you,” he said, pointing the pretzel stick at her like she’d just saved his life. “Somebody here believes I’m not completely weird.”
“Oh, I didn’t say that,” Lottie replied, a little surprised to hear the joke come out of her own mouth. “You brought a cooler to a quarry party. That’s at least mildly weird.”
He pressed a hand over his heart, delighted. “Okay, that’s fair. But it’s, like, practical weird. Strategic weird.”
“Functional weirdo,” Robin said. “My favorite subtype.”
From the fire, Donna’s voice lifted above the rest of the chatter, calling his name once, then again when he didn’t react fast enough. Danny glanced over his shoulder automatically. She was waving something pink and plastic in the air—her cassette player, dangling from its strap as she pointed dramatically at it, then at him, like she was mid-rant about its batteries.
Danny sighed through his teeth. “That’s my cue.”
“Battery emergency?” Lottie asked.
“Probably,” he said. “Or she wants me to hold it so she can dance without dropping it. Or she’s decided this is the moment she needs to tell me all her life plans in front of everyone.” He shrugged, helpless and fond. “Could be anything, honestly.”
Robin lifted her cup. “Go. Fulfill your sacred sibling duties. We’ll be here, judging everyone’s outfits in your absence.”
He took a step back, then hesitated, looking at Lottie again like he didn’t want to just… leave her standing there with the echoes of whatever had shaken her a few minutes ago. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, softer now that Donna couldn’t hear him. “If you start feeling weird again, I’m parked right here. You can sit in the truck or steal more water. I won’t tell.”
The scratch on her arm gave a quiet, ghostly pulse, but the panic that had come with it before had thinned to something she could manage, dulled under the steady hum of normal conversation and the cool weight of the bottle in her hand. She nodded.
Donna called his name again, longer this time, stretching the syllables into a dramatic wail. Danny winced. “That’s my five-minute warning before she comes over here and drags me by the jacket. I should…” He hooked a thumb toward the fire. “Go do my job.”
“Chauffeur with benefits,” Robin reminded him, sing-song.
He groaned. “Please never repeat that in public.”
“No promises,” she said.
He retreated a few steps, then turned back once more, walking backwards for a moment. “It was nice to meet you,” he said to Lottie, and it didn’t sound like a throwaway line. “If you need anything… cooler, truck, earplugs…” His mouth twitched. “I’m around.”
“Nice to meet you too,” she managed. It came out softer than she meant it to, but it felt true in her chest in a way that startled her. He nodded, satisfied, then spun around and jogged toward the bonfire, his yellow Converse flashing in and out of the shadows. Donna met him halfway, already talking, cassette player waving wildly between them. Robin watched him go, then leaned sideways, nudging Lottie’s shoulder with her own. “So,” she said quietly. “On a scale from one to ‘this is a John Hughes B-plot,’ how much are you into the designated driver?”
Lottie’s thumb rubbed absently along the condensation on the bottle, tracing half-moons into the cold plastic. Somewhere out by the cars, the wind shifted, carrying the faintest whisper of roses and wax before it thinned out again under the smell of smoke and pine and someone’s cheap beer. Her arm prickled under her sleeve, the scratch warming, then cooling as the night air brushed over her skin.
“I just met him,” she said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. Robin’s mouth pulled into a knowing little smile. “Mhm,” she said. “And?” Lottie kept her eyes on Donna’s bright jacket and Danny’s patient, lopsided smile as he took the cassette player from her and pretended to examine it. The bonfire threw their shadows long against the quarry floor, stretching them into something taller, stranger, almost storybook.
“And…” She took another sip of water, letting the cold settle her thoughts. “He has good timing.” Robin made a low, impressed sound. “Good timing,” she echoed. “That’s one word for it.” Lottie didn’t answer right away. She just rolled the cool bottle between her palms, letting the condensation slick her fingers, letting the noise of the party swell and settle again around them. Donna’s laugh rang bright over by the fire, Steve gesturing wildly with his hands as if volume alone could make him more charming. Danny stood just off to the side of them now, hands in his pockets, head ducked to listen.
“Okay,” Robin said finally, nudging her shoulder. “Here’s the deal. We give Harrington”—she checked an invisible watch on her wrist—“fifteen more minutes to humiliate himself. Then we go get milkshakes and pretend we were never here.”
“Fifteen?” Lottie repeated. “Ten if he drops the tongs again,” Robin amended. “I’m flexible.”
Chapter 5: Suspiciously, Silent.
Chapter Text
Robin had just finished checking her invisible watch when Steve’s voice cut through the noise. “There you guys are!”
His shout rode over the music and the crackle of the bonfire, a little too loud, like he was trying to make sure the entire quarry knew he’d found them. Lottie didn’t have to turn to know he was weaving his way through the crowd—she heard the scuff of his sneakers in the dirt, the slosh of whatever was left in the red cup he was carrying, the breathy half-laugh he did when he was nervous and pretending not to be.
Robin groaned under her breath. “Spoke too soon.” Lottie turned anyway. Steve was heading toward them, cheeks pink from heat and embarrassment, hair still stupidly perfect even in the smoky air. Beside him, Donna walked with the easy bounce of someone who’d never once tripped over her own feet in public. Her mint skirt swished just above her knees, the blue-and-yellow letterman hanging open to effortlessly. The cassette player at her hip caught little flares of firelight every time she moved. Up close, she looked even more like Nancy.
Not exactly Nancy was sharper lines and darker eyes but there was something in the small, decisive tilt of Donna’s chin, the careful gloss on her smile, the way she seemed to carry color with her like a halo. Lottie felt the comparison land in her ribs like a pebble dropped into a full glass.
Steve skidded to a stop a few feet away, breathless. “Hey,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair like it might rearrange his whole life. “Uh. Good. You’re still here.”
“Tragically,” Robin said. “I was just about to call your time of death.”
“Be nice,” Lottie whispered, though her stomach doing a weird, slow flip.
Donna laughed at that, bright and easy. Up close, her lip gloss smelled like strawberries. “You must be Robin,” she said, shifting her cup to her other hand so she could wave without spilling. Her bracelet clinked softly against the plastic.
Robin blinked. “I- what?”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Donna barreled on, eyes going wide with earnest excitement. “Steve will not shut up about how you’re the only reason the scoops hasn’t spontaneously combusted from mismanagement.” Steve made a strangled sound. “I did not say it like that,” he said quickly. “I said she’s uh—very organized. And mean. In a good way.” Robin’s mouth twitched despite herself. “Wow,” she said. “High praise.”
Donna smiled like she meant it. “I love your shirt, by the way. I had that tape and my brother sat on it and broke it and I cried for, like, three days.” Lottie watched Robin try, and fail, not to soften at that. “Then your brother is a monster,” Robin said. “But you have excellent taste.”
Steve seized the opening like it was the last life raft on the Titanic. “Right, okay, so—” He shifted his weight, almost bounced on his heels. “This is Donna. Donna Bennet.” He gestured too wide and nearly sloshed his drink, then corrected at the last second. “She, uh she goes to Lincoln. In Roane County. They’ve got this this insane cheer squad and she—” Donna nudged him in the side with her elbow, cheeks going pink. “Steve.”
“I’m just saying,” he insisted, grinning. “She did this flip thing in the parking lot earlier and I thought I was gonna have to call an ambulance. For myself.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Donna said, but she looked pleased. He turned to Lottie like suddenly remembering he was supposed to be hosting. “And this,” he said, his voice doing that little drop it did when he got oddly sincere, “is Lottie. Charlotte Clark. The one I was—”
He cut himself off, jaw snapping shut like he’d caught the words with his teeth.
“The one you were what?” Robin pounced.
“Nothing.” Steve’s eyes flicked to Lottie and away again, too quick. “Just. The one I was saying is back in town. My—uh. Friend.”
“Hi,” Donna said, stepping forward with that postcard-ready smile. “It is so nice to meet you. Steve said you grew up here and then escaped.”
“‘Escaped’ seems strong,” Lottie said, automatically tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Okay, ‘temporarily relocated,’” Donna corrected. “Still impressive. I’ve only been here, like, a week and I already feel like the diner is going to trap me in a loop.”
Lottie couldn’t help a soft huff of a laugh at that. “It does that.”
Steve relaxed a fraction at the sound, shoulders loosening. “She worked at the pool,” he told Donna, like that explained everything. “The—uh the public pool. Before. She was the only one who could get Dustin to stop cannonballing during senior swim.”
Robin snorted. “Incorrect. The only thing that stops Dustin during senior swim is the promise of free food.” Donna’s gaze flicked between the three of them, antennae up, catching all the threads. “So you guys all know each other from work?”
“Robin and I do,” Steve said. “She abandoned us for higher education,” Robin said solemnly. “And now she’s slumming it with the Hawkins masses again.”
“I just— went with my mom for a couple years, now I’m back” Lottie corrected, heat creeping up her neck. “Which is fun,” Steve jumped in. “Fun for us. Because, you know.” He floundered. “More people at the party.” Robin tilted her head at him. “Wow. Poetry.”
Donna bumped her shoulder lightly against Steve’s. “He’s been very excited you’re here,” she told Lottie, in the confidential tone of someone sharing harmless gossip. “He kept checking his watch earlier and, like, craning his neck every time a car pulled up.” Lottie felt the words land, strange and warm and complicated. “Did he,” she said, stealing a quick glance at Steve.
Steve’s ears went pink. “Okay,” he said. “Someone’s cut off from gum for the rest of the night.” Donna gasped. “You would never.” Steve clapped a hand over his heart. “Oh, I absolutely would,” he said. “There are lines, Donna. Some things are sacred.”
“Your gum supply is not sacred,” she shot back, but there was fondness tucked under the fake outrage. Robin watched them volley, her mouth doing that little sideways twist that meant she was recalibrating. “Wow,” she said softly to Lottie, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “Harrington found someone who argues with him in complete sentences. I’m both impressed and deeply concerned.”
Lottie hid a smile in the rim of her bottle. “Be nice,” she murmured again, though the weird, slow flip in her stomach hadn’t quite settled. It was one thing seeing Steve flustered from across the clearing, all flailing hands and dropped gum. It was another thing up close, with Donna’s strawberry lip gloss and Nancy-adjacent hair and the way he kept unconsciously angling his shoulder toward her like he’d forgotten there was a right way to stand.
Donna looked between them, completely sincere. “I’m really glad I got to meet you,” she said. “Both of you.” And the thing Lottie expected the sting, the comparison, the ache didn’t land the way she braced for.
Lottie blinked at her, caught off guard by how earnest Donna looked. No competition in her expression. No edge. Just bright, almost childlike sincerity. “Yeah,” Lottie said softly. “Me too.”
Donna’s smile brightened, warm and uncomplicated. She shifted her weight, the cassette player at her hip bumping lightly against her skirt. “I was nervous,” she admitted. “Coming here tonight. I don’t really know anyone except my brother and—well.” Her eyes flicked shyly toward Steve. “Him.”
Steve made a strangled noise. “Me? Why?” Donna elbowed him lightly. “Because you’re the only person who knows where anything is. I’d get lost going to the bathroom.” Robin raised a hand. “Okay, that tracks. Harrington is like a Labrador. He forms a bond and suddenly you’re in his pack forever.”
Steve threw her a betrayed look. “Do you even like me?”
“Unfortunately,” Robin said. “In a distant, begrudging way.” Donna giggled behind her cup, and Steve tried failed not to look pleased. Robin shifted her stance, leaning into her hip as she scanned Donna again, slower this time. Something about the initial resistance in her face softened at the edges. “Alright,” she said. “I’ll admit it—Steve could’ve done a lot worse.” Donna brightened instantly. “Is that… approval?”
“Don’t push it,” Robin warned, but the warning didn’t have teeth. Donna’s beam flickered into something small and real, like it actually mattered. Donna tucked a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear, the bracelets on her wrist sliding with a soft metallic chime. “Sorry,” she said lightly, though her voice didn’t quite match the brightness she tried for. “I know I talk a lot. My brother says I’m like… uh…” Her nose scrunched adorably. “A radio stuck on one station.”
“Could be worse,” Robin said, deadpan. “You could be the station that only plays polka.” Donna laughed a little too hard at that like she’d been waiting for Robin to jab her and was relieved it wasn’t sharper. “It’s a good station,” Lottie added gently. “I like it.” Donna’s eyes flicked to her, wide and grateful. “Really?” Lottie nodded. “Really.”
Something inside Donna unclenched, just slightly. Her posture shifted from try-hard perfect to simply… present. She rocked back on her heels, breath fogging faintly in the warm air, and for the first time all night she looked less like a postcard and more like a person trying to land somewhere that might feel like home. Steve noticed the shift too. Lottie could tell by the way his smile eased not that bright, frantic thing he used when he was performing, but the softer version he saved for when he felt safe.
“Well,” he said, hands awkwardly hovering at his sides, “this is… nice.”
“Suspiciously nice,” Robin corrected. Steve shot her a look. “Can you just let something be good for five seconds?” Robin considered before shaking her head. “No.” Donna laughed again smaller this time, quieter. “I like you guys,” she said, almost shyly, like she was worried she was saying it wrong. “I mean I didn’t know what to expect, but… you’re not scary.”
Robin blinked, visibly offended. “I try to be.”
“I mean scary in the ‘don’t talk to us’ way,” Donna clarified quickly. “Not the horror movie way.”
“Oh.” Robin relaxed. “Then yes. We’re terrifying.” Donna grinned, relieved, and for a brief, quiet moment the four of them just stood there in a loose circle, the bonfire throwing soft gold across their faces. The night felt warmer here, away from the loudest parts of the party. Easier. Like they’d stepped into a gentler pocket of summer.
Lottie let her gaze drift over the clearing: the way sparks popped upward like tiny fireflies; the blur of teens sprawled across car hoods; someone yelling about how they definitely knew how to start a grill; the boombox buzzing through a song she half-remembered from middle school.
And for the first time since she’d parked her Beetle, she didn’t feel out of place. Steve rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight, the embers catching soft amber in his hair. “Uh… do you guys maybe want to sit?” He gestured toward a log a few feet away, not quite looking at Lottie but not quite not looking at her either. “It’s y’know loud out here.”
“It’s loud everywhere,” Robin said, but her tone wasn’t mean. She stretched her shoulders. “Sitting sounds good.” Donna perked up. “Yes. Please. My feet are going to riot.” Steve blinked. “You’re wearing sneakers.”
“Cute sneakers,” Donna corrected. He rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself, and led the way toward a fallen log near the outer ring of firelight close enough to feel warm, far enough that the smoke didn’t smother. The ground crunched softly under their shoes as they moved.
Robin took one end of the log, Donna plopped gracelessly onto the middle, and Steve hovered awkwardly, waiting to see where Lottie would sit before choosing his spot. Lottie’s chest tightened at the tiny gesture old familiarity wrapped in something newer and more careful. She slid onto the far end of the log, tugging her cardigan closer around her ribs. The wood was warm beneath her, pulsing faint heat through her tights.
Steve settled beside Donna, leaving just enough space between himself and Lottie that it felt polite, but not cold. Robin rested her elbows on her knees, glancing around the clearing like she was cataloguing every disaster waiting to happen. Donna took a long sip of her drink, sighing like she’d finished a marathon. “Okay,” she announced. “This is officially my favorite part of the night.”
Robin scoffed. “The sitting?”
“Yes,” Donna said confidently. “The sitting. And the… talking. And the not getting hit by a frisbee.” She shuddered. “Someone nearly decapitated me earlier.”
“That was Tommy,” Steve said immediately. “He has terrible aim.”
“You think?” Robin muttered. Lottie smiled into the rim of her bottle. The sound of them Robin’s dry bite, Donna’s airy warmth, Steve’s awkward eagerness it braided together into something that felt almost nostalgic, even though Donna was brand new and everything else was quietly rearranging itself.
Steve let out a slow breath, rubbing his hands together once. “I’m really glad you guys are here,” he said, quieter than before. No theatrics. No volume. Robin nudged him with her shoulder. “Don’t get sappy.”
“I’m not,” he said. He absolutely was. Donna leaned into him playfully. “I like sappy.”
“We know,” Robin said. Lottie traced a thumb along her bottle’s condensation, the coolness grounding her. Her chest was still doing that strange, fluttering tightness but not out of jealousy. Not out of discomfort. Something else. Something she didn’t want to name yet. She glanced at Steve. And for once, he didn’t immediately look away.
His expression was soft, open in a way she hadn’t seen in a long time maybe since that summer at the pool when she’d been the only one patient enough to listen to him rant about Dustin’s goggles or Mrs. Krell’s terrible sunscreen. The fire crackled, stealing her attention before anything could settle too deeply. Robin yawned exaggeratedly, stretching her arms above her head. “Okay, I’ve decided,” she declared. “Fifteen more minutes. Twenty if Lottie doesn’t pass out. Then we leave this hellscape and buy milkshakes.”
Donna perked up. “Milkshakes?”
“From Benny’s,” Robin said. “The only good thing in this godforsaken town.”
Lottie exhaled a laugh. “Deal.”
Steve’s face brightened. “I’ll drive.”
“No,” Robin said instantly.
Donna giggled. “He’s a good driver.”
“He’s an okay driver,” Robin said. “And he listens to terrible music.”
“I do not—” Steve started. Lottie looked past them toward the treeline, where the lanterns strung between the branches swayed softly in the breeze. Something eased deep in her chest—the strange tension, the tight held breath. It felt… manageable now. Smaller..
For the first time tonight, her dad’s warning didn’t echo like a threat—just a gentle memory. “Stay away from the edge of that cliff.” Robin nudged her knee with her own, subtle. “Hey,” she said quietly. “You holding up?”
Lottie nodded. “Yeah.”
“You sure?” Lottie looked at her, then at Steve, then at Donna, all three of them framed by firelight and dust and summer heat. Her cardigan sleeves brushed her palms as she tightened her grip around the bottle. “Yeah,” she said again, steadier this time. “I’m good.” Robin let out a long breath like she’d been waiting for that. “Alright. Then let’s get out of here soon.”
Chapter 6: Visiting the Threshold
Chapter Text
She closed the door with her shoulder, kicking off her shoes, and wincing when one ricocheted off the wall. Her legs were jelly-warm from the drinks. The bonfire smoke clung to her hair, her cardigan, and inside lining of her throat. She dropped her keys onto the counter missing only for them to clatter to the floor she whipped her head around checking to make sure she could still hear the soft snores of her dad before glancing back down to the keys. Whatever she’d get them in the morning. Her legs felt wobbly, warm, like gravity had loosened its grip on her just a little. She didn’t even bother turning on the overheads. The house was dim, not dark, washed in the soft amber glow from the small lamp from outside. She tugged her cardigan off, draped it blindly over a chair, and stood in the quiet for a second, letting the silence settle around her like a blanket.
She could feel her pulse in her fingertips and the weight of the room around her. Her eyes drooped before snapping open, only to drop again. She blinked and the ceiling blurred not vanishing. The edges softened as as took one slow breath.
Two.
The third came out heavier than it should have. The pillow beneath her head softened melted and then- She fell. Not like a nightmare drop, more like someone gently tipped her backwards into warm water. Her body sank into the bed as her ears filled with a low hum.
And the world clicked.
She was standing.
Barefoot. In the atrium. There was no confusion this time about how she’d gotten here. The shift was too smooth, too total. One second she was in her bed, skin warm under the blankets. The next she was upright, toes pressing into cool marble tiles. Moonlight streamed in from the high windows—too silver, too bright to be real. The plants towered higher than they should’ve, their leaves stretching like they were breathing. The walls hummed faintly, as though aware of her presence.
Lottie exhaled shakily. The sound echoed back, delayed by a heartbeat the air behind her tightened. A ripple, before it bent, like the atmosphere took a breath. Her skin prickled. She turned her head— she watched the shadows behind her fold inward, like a curtain being drawn across the world.
First a silhouette then shoulders, then the crisp white of a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. Then the deep brown vest, fitted perfectly to his frame. And finally his face. Sharp and pale. Eyes too bright in the dim but absent of warmth. His hair fell softly, catching the strange moonlight. He stepped fully out of the air as if it were simply another room he had been standing in.
He didn’t speak at first, his eyes tracked over the height of her once as he folded his arms behind his back. Her heart thudded. “You…” He tilted his head slightly—one smooth, elegant motion. He looked older than any boy she had ever met, younger than any man should be, and entirely out of place in the way dream-people always were. “Are very hard to reach.” He said finally.
“These halls have been very quiet. I was hoping you’d find your way back sooner.” Lottie’s heart jolted so hard it nearly hurt. He wasn’t surprised to see her, he wasn’t confused. He wasn’t anything except… expectant.
“You’ve been waiting?” she breathed. He dipped his chin once, elegant and deliberate. “Of course.” The way he said it wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t pleading, wasn’t even emotional. It was simply true.
The atrium seemed to lean toward him as he moved shadows stretching, moonlight brightening in thin silver veins along the floor. Even the stained-glass roses caught the glow, red petals blooming brighter in the dream-light. Lottie took a step back, toes curling against the cold marble. “I didn’t know I could come back.”
“Your last visit ended abruptly.” She swallowed like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar . “I woke up.”
“So you did.” His eyes traced her face, the way her breath trembled. “It was… inconvenient.” She stared at him. “Inconvenient?” He tilted his head slightly, the clean line of his jaw cutting through the moonlight. “You left before I could understand you properly.”
His voice held no accusation, only observation.
As though he’d been watching the way she moved through the world, collecting her habits like artifacts.
Lottie’s breath hitched. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly aware of how bare she felt in this place even though she was still in her sleep shirt, even though nothing physically had changed. The air in the atrium shifted again, the temperature dropping just enough for goosebumps to rise on her forearms. He took one slow step toward her. “Do not misunderstand me,” he said softly. “Your leaving is inconvenient. Not unwelcome.”
“Unwelcome?” she echoed, breath unsteady. “What would that even mean?” His eyes flickered not with confusion, but with amusement so faint she doubted herself. “Do you truly want an answer to that?”
Her throat tightened.
No.
Yes.
She didn’t know.
The stained-glass roses pulsed with faint light behind him, a heartbeat of red and gold glowing through the glass. And the shadows around the baseboards seemed to crawl inward, gathering closer, as if listening. Lottie found her voice, thin and shaking. “You said you wanted to- to understand me.”
He nodded once, the motion precise. “Correct.”
“Why?”
He regarded her for a long moment too long—like he was reading the shape of her soul through her face. “Because,” he said at last, “you do not belong here.” Her breath caught.
“In this house?”
“In this dream,” he clarified. “In this threshold between your world and mine.” His gaze lowered, tracing the tremor in her hands, the flush at her throat. “You drift where you should not. Reach where you should not. I find that… interesting.” The word “interesting” landed in her chest like a cold stone.She took a shaky step back. “So I’m… trespassing?” For the first time since he appeared, something like emotion crossed his face a soft tightening around his eyes, a tiny crease in his brow. “No,” he said quietly. “You are visiting.”
“Visiting,” she repeated, the word fragile on her tongue. “Yes.” His voice was soft, almost indulgent. “A guest who does not yet understand whose threshold she stands upon.” Her heartbeat stumbled. He stepped toward her slow, deliberate, careful in a way that felt less like caution and more like calculation. The marble didn’t dare echo under his steps. The shadows peeled back as he moved, as though making room for him to pass. Lottie swallowed, her throat tight. “I didn’t mean to visit.”
“You did.” He said it with a certainty that brooked no argument. “As surely as you meant to breathe.” Her lips parted, but nothing came out. He studied the flicker of confusion on her face, the instinct to deny, and the way she always folded into herself when she felt exposed.
“You think intention must be conscious,” he murmured. “But so much of you is made of things you refuse to look at.” The words curled around her spine like cold fingers. Lottie’s arms dropped a little from where she’d been hugging herself. “You- you’re talking like you know me.” The corners of his mouth softened not a smile, but the shadow of something like it.
“I’m learning you,” he said again, quieter this time. “Even if you do everything in your nature to make it difficult.” Her heart thumped painfully. “And what is my nature?” she whispered.
For a moment, he only watched her, not blankly or coldly. But, as if weighing something behind his eyes the cost of answering, the consequence of not answering. His gaze dipped once to her trembling hands, then rose again to her face. It looked almost like he was about to speak.
Then he didn’t.
A faint crease formed between his brows thoughtful, deliberate. “That,” he said slowly, “depends.”
“Depends on what?” Her voice cracked, too raw, too hopeful. “On who asks.”The response knocked the breath from her chest. “That’s not- that’s not a answer.” Lottie’s breath wavered. “I wasn’t asking… someone else. I asked you.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “And yet you want an answer that does not belong to you alone.”
Her stomach dropped. “I don’t understand.”
“I know.” He said it without pity. The air shifted around them cool, then warm, then cool again like the room inhaled and exhaled in perfect time with him. “You ask for your nature,” he murmured, “as if it is a fixed point. A stone. An object I could simply hand to you.” His eyes drifted over her face again, lingering at the corner of her mouth, the flush on her throat studying her in ways that felt both tender and terribly precise. “But you are not a stone, Lottie.”
“Then what am I?” she whispered. He blinked once, slow, thoughtful and instead of answering, he stepped closer so close the faint warmth of him touched her bare forearms. “What you are,” he said softly, “changes each time you return.” Her breath caught. “That’s not that’s still not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed, almost indulgent, “because you keep asking the wrong question.” She stared at him, shaking. “Then what’s the right question?” He paused tilting his head to the side.His eyes softened softened, but in a way that felt dangerous, like a window opening onto a drop she couldn’t see the bottom of. “I cannot tell you that.”
“So you’re refusing to tell me.”
“I am,” he said simply.
“But not forever. You are waking,” he murmured, his voice suddenly close, warm, steady. “It is too soon.”
“Wait—” she reached for him, instinctive, unthinking. His fingers brushed hers — a whisper of contact and then the dream snapped. She fell backward into her bed, into darkness, into the stifling silence of her room.
Chapter 7: Cold Coffee Doesn’t Help
Chapter Text
The headache hit first. A dull, thick pressure behind her eyes that felt like it had settled there overnight and gotten comfortable. Lottie blinked hard at her ceiling, trying to remember how many drinks she’d actually had and whether the dream had come before or after the dizziness. Morning light stretched in from the window in soft rectangles. The house was quiet, except for the distant hum of her father’s old oscillating fan in the hallway.
She pushed herself upright slowly. Her limbs felt heavy, like the warmth from the dream clung to her skin even now. When she flexed her hand, a small, strange ache pulsed along her wrist nothing visible, nothing real. Just pressure. Or maybe she was imagining it. Probably that.
She showered, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and jeans, and scrunched her damp hair into a claw clip. Her reflection looked pale and unfocused, like she’d slept with her eyes open. She grabbed her wallet and keys, the headache still thumping steadily, and headed out. She drove to the café on Main the only place open early that wasn’t the diner. She parked beside a familiar row of beaten-up trucks and station wagons. The moment she stepped out of the Beetle, she felt it again: the faint prickling at the back of her neck, like someone had been standing just a little too close behind her a second ago.
She turned. The parking lot was empty except for a stray grocery cart tipped into the grass. “Get a grip,” she muttered under her breath. When she opened the café door, the bell chimed overhead a soft two-note sound that made her heartbeat skip in a way she couldn’t explain. It wasn’t anything like the dream. It was just a bell. But her stomach pulled tight anyway.
Inside, the café smelled like roasted espresso and warm pastries. A few people sat scattered at tables Mrs. Kline reading yesterday’s paper, a pair of high school kids sharing homework. The normalcy grounded her for half a second.
The café door chimed as Lottie stepped inside, a soft two-note ring that settled uneasily at the base of her spine. She told herself not to read into it. It was just a bell. Just Hawkins. Just morning.
She kept her head down as she got in line, rubbing slow circles into her temple with her thumb. The smell of espresso and cinnamon rolls hit her in a wave warm, comforting, almost enough to convince her she hadn’t dreamed anything strange at all. Her turn came quick “One medium iced latte,” she murmured, her voice thinner than she meant. The barista nodded without looking up, tapping the register, the mechanical click-click nestling sharply under her skin. Lottie exhaled and moved aside to wait. A moment later her drink slid onto the counter, cold condensation pooling around it. She wrapped both hands around the cup, grounding herself in the shock of the cold.
She turned to find a seat and the door rang again, sharper this time. Nancy fumbling in balancing a million different things. Her hair was slightly at the ends, her blazer wrinkled in a very un-Nancy way, and she carried a manila envelope stuffed with papers that looked like it had been living under someone’s passenger seat. She didn’t even glance around just made a beeline for the counter with a tight press of her lips.
“Hi, welcome—” the barista began. “Sorry,” Nancy cut in, polite but visibly strained, “I need a twelve-coffee carrier. All hot. All different. I have a list.” The barista blinked at the aggressively folded paper Nancy passed across the counter.
Lottie sank into a booth near the window, sipping her drink, watching Nancy with something between amusement and sympathy. Nancy pulled her blazer straighter, exhaled through her nose once, and immediately winced like she remembered she was in public. God, she looked exhausted. Her foot tapped the floor impatiently. The barista read back the list slowly—too slowly and Nancy closed her eyes for a brief second, looking like she was praying for patience.
Lottie didn’t mean to stare but Nancy caught her anyway. Her eyes widened in recognition. “Lottie?” Lottie lifted her cup in a small wave. “Hey.” Nancy blinked like she wasn’t sure she was seeing her right. Then her features softened still tight from work, but warmer now and she made her way over, juggling the envelope under one arm.
“I didn’t know you were back already,” Nancy said, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was polite, but the edges were frayed like she’d used up most of her patience on the drive over. Lottie shrugged, lifting her iced latte. “Got in a few days ago.”
“Right,” Nancy said, nodding. She gestured vaguely with her envelope, looking annoyed all over again. “I’m running errands for the office. Again.” Lottie gave her a sympathetic look. “Twelve coffees? That’s brutal.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Nancy sighed, her jaw clenching. “We have an intern. An actual intern. And yet somehow I’m the one who gets sent.” Lottie huffed a laugh. “Sounds like a fun morning.”
“It’s barely nine and I’ve already had one guy spill his coffee on his press badge,” Nancy said, shaking her head. “And he asked me if I could ‘run it under a dryer.’ I don’t—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. Her eyes drifted over Lottie’s face again. “Sorry. I’m ranting.”
“No, you’re fine,” Lottie said. “I kind of needed to hear someone else having a worse morning.” Nancy’s brows lifted interested, but not nosy. “Late night?” Lottie hesitated, thumb rubbing a small, frantic circle into her cup’s condensation. “Yeah. I just… didn’t sleep well.” Nancy’s gaze sharpened in that way she had the reporter instinct, the quiet perceptiveness that made her seem older than she was. Not judgmental. Just… observant. “You look pale,” Nancy said honestly. “And tired.”
Lottie snorted before she could stop herself. “Gee thanks.” Nancy’s mouth opened, then closed, her expression softening into something almost apologetic. “I didn’t mean it like well, I did, but only because I’m concerned, not judging.”
“It’s fine,” Lottie said, tugging the sleeve of her T-shirt down her wrist. “I know I look like death warmed over.”
“You look like someone who hasn’t slept,” Nancy corrected. “Trust me, I’ve seen that face in the mirror plenty of times.” Lottie tried to smile at that, but the headache thudded again behind her eyes, dull and insistent. She lifted her cup for another sip, letting the cold seep into her palms.
Nancy was still watching her, that reporter’s gaze softened into something almost… sisterly. Not pity just recognition. Sympathy from someone who’d had too many sleepless nights of her own.
“You sure you’re okay?” Nancy asked again, gentler this time. “Like… actually okay?”
Lottie opened her mouth to answer, but a sudden throb behind her eyes made her flinch. “Yeah,” she said, even though it sounded unconvincing. “I will be.”
Nancy didn’t push, but her eyes narrowed just slightly, as if cataloging the tiny tremor in Lottie’s hand, the way she kept rubbing her wrist, the pale tiredness sinking beneath her skin. Lottie had forgotten Nancy Wheeler notices everything. The barista slammed a lid onto a cup, making Nancy and Lottie both jump. Nancy sighed, shoulders slumping.
“That’s me,” she muttered. “My glamorous life as the office coffee mule.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Lottie said. “What, coffee duty?” Nancy huffed a humorless laugh. “Trust me, it’s better than some of the assignments I’ve been getting lately. At least this way I get out of the building.” She pressed her lips together, gaze shifting downward. “It’s… been weird there lately.”
“Weird how?” Lottie asked before she could stop herself. Nancy hesitated like she hadn’t intended to say that out loud. “Nothing,” she backtracked quickly. “Just work stress. Long hours. Stuff people don’t really talk about.” Lottie nodded, though a faint chill crept up her spine. She told herself it was nothing the café was just cold, she hadn’t slept, her imagination was still tangled up in dreams. The bell chimed behind them someone else coming in and she startled again, her shoulders jolting. Nancy’s eyes flicked to her, concern deepening. “Lottie… are you sure you’re alright?” she asked, quieter than before, almost careful.
“Yeah,” Lottie insisted too fast. “Just… tired. Really tired.” And she was bone-deep. Like her body wasn’t fully awake, like part of her hadn’t returned with the rest of her when she opened her eyes this morning. Nancy didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. She straightened her blazer, squared her shoulders like she was bracing herself, and nodded toward the counter where her overflowing tray waited. “Well,” she said with a tired smile, “if you crash later, make sure it’s on something soft.”
Lottie snorted. “I’ll do my best.” Nancy lingered for a moment just long enough to look like she wanted to say something more. Something she didn’t quite know how to phrase. Then she only said, “It was good to see you.”
“You too,” Lottie said softly. And she meant it.Nancy stepped away, gathering the tray with both hands. She turned just before she reached the door.
“And Lottie?”
“Yeah?”
“If anything feels off…” Nancy paused, searching for the right words. “Call me. Okay?”
Lottie blinked, caught off guard. “Why would anything feel off?” Nancy’s mouth curved into a small, tired smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just a hunch.” Then she pushed open the door.
The bell chimed bright, sharp, harmless. But the sound sliced right down Lottie’s spine anyway, making her pulse trip over itself. Nancy didn’t notice. She balanced the tray, walked to her car, and disappeared into the sunlight. Lottie exhaled, shaky, clutching her cold latte like it was the only thing tethering her to the ground. She watched the door swing shut, watched the light flicker across the glass, watched her own faint reflection staring back.
Chapter 8: An invitation for First Mate
Chapter Text
She sat in her parked car outside the café for a few minutes after Nancy left, iced latte sweating in her hand, headache pulsing behind her eyes like something trying to get out. The quiet unnerved her. The stillness even more. She didn’t want to be alone. Not yet. So she drove. Starcourt loomed up in the bright morning sun, its colorful signs faded, its parking lot mostly empty except for a few early-shift employees. She parked close to the main entrance—habit—and headed inside, letting the mall’s cold air wash over her.
Morning at Starcourt felt wrong. Not bad or dangerous. Just… hollow. Like someone had turned the volume down on everything. Her footsteps echoed softly as she walked past dark storefronts and metal gates. Scoops Ahoy was one of the only places with the lights already on. She pushed the door open, Th bell signaling her entry.
“Lottie?”
Steve was behind the counter pulling lids off the ice cream tubs, He looked… soft. Rumpled and half-awake, hair slightly deflated under the stupid sailor hat he’d shoved on crooked. He had one hand braced against the counter, a slow smile spread across his face. “Hey,” he said, voice too loud at first, then quieter. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”
“I was… in the neighborhood,” Lottie said, which wasn’t technically a lie. “Uh-huh,” he said, leaning his weight on the counter. “In the neighborhood.” Lottie’s cheeks heated. “I was.” Steve held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. Just this is a very specific neighborhood.” He gestured around them at the empty mall. “Unless you had, I don’t know, urgent business at RadioShack.” Lottie snorted despite herself. “I didn’t.”
“Right,” he said, laughter in his breath. “So you came here. To see Robin.” His tone was casual, but the way he flicked the scoop from one hand to the other gave him away. His tone was casual, but the way he flicked the scoop from one hand to the other gave him away nerves, or maybe just the habit of someone who hates silence more than he’ll ever admit. Lottie opened her mouth to deflect, but he beat her to it. “She’s not here,” he said, slipping the scoop back into the tub. “Band camp. First week of it. She’s gone every morning and every afternoon. Pretty much the whole week, actually.”
“Oh,” Lottie said, trying not to let the disappointment feel obvious. There was a beat of quiet, not uncomfortable, but suspended, like the air inside Scoops wasn’t sure who was supposed to speak next.
“So it’s just you?” she asked finally. A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and boyish. “Yep. Captain of the ship. King of the cones. Master of… none of it, actually.” His eyes flicked over her expression the tiredness, the faint pinch in her brow. “You can hang out if you want,” he added, more softly. “I mean—since you’re already in the neighborhood.” Lottie felt something loosen in her chest at the offer. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
Steve’s face brightened not dramatically, just enough to soften the worry line between his brows. He nodded toward the counter stool. “Cool. Take a seat. The… uh… ship is your ship. Or whatever.” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how ships work.”
He leaned against the counter, studying her face for a moment he definitely thought was subtle. “So…” he said, trying for casual, “how’re you feeling? After last night?” Lottie blinked. “Last night?”
“The party,” he clarified, “Uh,” Lottie said. “Fine. I think.” Steve gave her a look that translated roughly to I know when you’re lying, thanks. He drummed his fingers lightly on the counter, thinking for half a second before admitting, “Because I woke up with a migraine. Like—full-on skull-cracking level. I thought I was dying. Or dehydrated. Or cursed.”
Lottie let out a weak snort. “Maybe you just can’t handle two beers.”
“Okay, rude,” he said, pointing at her with the ice cream scoop. “I can handle like—three. Minimum.” She shook her head, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Steve noticed, of course he did. He always had this annoying, infuriating knack of noticing her too much and too easily. “Seriously though,” he said, softer. “You don’t look so hot.”
Lottie groaned. “Why is everyone telling me that today?”
“Because,” he said, shrugging, “it’s true? And also because I care? And because I’m used to people telling me I look like a disaster, so this is a nice reversal.” She rolled her eyes, but something in her chest fluttered annoyance, affection, or the adrenaline spike that kept sneaking up on her all morning. She couldn’t tell “I’m fine,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair back. “Really.”
He didn’t argue. Not out loud. But his eyebrows definitely did. He leaned a little closer over the counter, voice dropping like he was worried about startling her. “You sure? You kept doing that thing with your shoulders. The little flinch.” He demonstrated a very inaccurate version of it a weird twisty shrug that looked like he was trying to remove his own spine. Lottie let out a soft groan and buried her face in her hands for half a second. “Please don’t reenact it.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Just… you look jumpy.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted. She straightened, lifting her chin just enough to look convincing. “I’m just getting used to being back, that’s all.”
“Back… how?” he asked gently. Lottie exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Hawkins is quieter than I remember. At night, I mean. When I lived with my mom, there were cars and sirens and neighbors yelling at each other through the walls.” Steve’s expression softened into something warm and earnest, the loud edges of him smoothing out. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I get that. First time I spent the night alone in my place after my parents left for, like, a month? I thought the house was haunted.”
“Was it?” she asked. He shrugged one shoulder. “Probably. Everything in Hawkins is haunted a little.” She snorted, and some of the tension loosened in her shoulders. “See?” he said, nudging the counter with his hip. “That’s better.” She shook her head, but she didn’t deny it.
He turned back toward the freezer. “Okay, stay right there. I’m making you uh—something. Something good. Something… ice cream.”
“That narrows it down,” she muttered. He shot her a toothy grin over his shoulder. “It’s early. My brain hasn’t clocked in yet.”
He started rummaging in the freezer with exaggerated flair, knocking a metal scoop against the edges of tubs like he was playing a xylophone. Lottie huffed a small laugh and settled into the stool, resting her elbows on the counter. The headache pulsed behind her eyes again—dull, thick, like a bruise forming under her skull.
Steve popped back up with a cup and shook a bottle of sprinkles triumphantly. “Okay. This is my masterpiece. My magnum opus. The reason people flock to Scoops Ahoy from far and wide.”
“People do not flock here,” she said dryly. “They could,” he argued, scooping something pale into the cup. “If they had taste.” She rolled her eyes, but the familiar banter steadied her, grounding her back into the fluorescent-lamplit normal of Scoops Ahoy. Then the overhead lights flickered again just once, but more sharply this time. Steve didn’t even pause but a chill scraped down the back of Lottie’s neck. But she forced herself to swallow it down, to breathe slow, to keep her eyes on Steve and not the dark corners of the mall outside the shop.
He slid the cup toward her with both hands. “Here. Don’t ask what’s in it. Just trust the process.” She took the spoon, hesitated a second longer than she meant to, then tasted it. Steve watched her with the eager expectation of a dog waiting for validation.
“…It’s good,” she admitted. He smacked the counter triumphantly. “See? That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“The minimum wage bucks,” she corrected. She shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. Her shoulders finally lowered, sinking into something like comfort until that prickling returned. Like static crawling over her skin. Like eyes on her back.She tensed her shoulders reaching her ears.
Steve caught it immediately. “Lottie?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Sorry.” He opened his mouth, probably to ask more, but closed it again. Instead, he propped his chin in his hand and gave her that gentle, squinty-eyed look he only used when he was worried and trying not to scare her off. “You know you can tell me stuff, right?” he said, voice softer.
Lottie stabbed another spoonful just to keep her hands busy. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Okay,” he said, in that very not-okay voice. Steve hesitated for a second, drumming his fingers lightly on the counter. His eyes flicked over her face again not prying, just worried in that annoying, honest way he had. Then he straightened suddenly. Almost like a thought had hit him mid-sentence. “Oh. Uh- hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… remember when I said I’d give you that Hawkins tour? You know, drive around, see what changed, what didn’t, show you where not to step because tetanus is real and alive in this town?”
Lottie blinked at him. “Yeah,” she said quietly.
Steve nodded once, too fast. “Right. Well, I get off at noon today.” He paused, trying and failing to look casual. “If you… still want the tour. I mean, if you’re not busy. Or tired. Or sick. Or—”
“Steve,” she cut in, one eyebrow raised. He stopped talking immediately. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, eyes dropping to the cup he’d made her. “I’d like that. The tour.” Steve blinked in pure relief, the kind he didn’t even bother hiding. “Yeah? Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she said.
His grin spread slow and boyish across his face. It softened him the sailor hat, the dumb vest, the faint migraine behind his eyes all of it falling into place like it was meant to be there.
“Cool,” he said, nodding again, gentler this time. “Cool. Great. Noon works.I’ll… clock out and grab my keys and we’ll go.” Lottie felt something in her chest unwind at his enthusiasm. “That sounds nice,” she said honestly. He rocked back on his heels, suddenly buzzing with too much energy to stand still. “Awesome. You can hang out until then. Or tour the mall, but honestly it’s depressing before lunch.”
She rolled her eyes, but it came with a small smile. The tight coil in her chest started to loosen again. “I think I’ll stay here,” she said. “I don’t really feel like wandering around.” He nodded like he’d been hoping she’d say that. “Good. Because if a customer comes in, I’m gonna need moral support. You can be my first mate.”
“I thought you were the captain.”
“I am. Obviously.” He planted a hand on his hip. “But every good captain needs someone to… I don’t know. Hold the map.”
“Steve, you don’t have a map.”
“Metaphorically, Lottie.”
Chapter 9: Burgers and Bragging Rights
Chapter Text
Steve clocked out with all the dramatic flair of someone escaping a collapsing building, then disappeared into the tiny back room of Scoops with a muttered, “Two seconds, don’t move.”
Lottie stayed perched on the counter stool, spoon lingering between her fingers, listening to the faint thud of him bumping into absolutely everything back there.
A moment later the door swung open and Steve reappeared hair free from the sailor hat, cheeks a little pink from rushing, and wearing a short-sleeved navy shirt with thin white stripes across the chest. It was soft-looking, vintage, slightly worn-in, the kind of shirt that made him look younger…in a boyish next-door way.
“That shirt’s vintage,” she said, because it was the first thing that came to her mind. “Vintage?” He scoffed. “It’s from, like, sophomore year. I found it in the bottom of my drawer. Smelled fine, so that’s a win.” He grabbed his keys off the hook by the sink, then pointed them at her.
“C’mon. Let’s get out of here before someone walks in and makes me scoop something.” They stepped out of Scoops, the mall still half-asleep around them. When they reached the parking lot, Steve automatically went to the passenger door first and unlocked it, swinging it open for her like it was muscle memory
“Hop in,” he said. “The AC works when it feels like it, so if we die of heat, that’s on the car, not me.” Lottie climbed in, settling into the sun-warm seat. Through the window she watched Steve jog around the front of the car, the navy shirt catching the light, sleeves slightly rolled without him realizing he’d done it. He slid into the driver’s seat, buckled up, and smacked the dashboard twice. The engine coughed to life like it needed encouragement to keep going. Steve patted the steering wheel like a horse he was trying to soothe.
“Good girl,” he muttered. “Don’t embarrass me.”
Lottie hid a smile behind her hand.
He pulled out of the Starcourt lot, one elbow hooked over the window, the other hand tapping on the wheel like he couldn’t decide on a rhythm. The morning sun was bright but soft, glinting off the hood of the car and turning the dust motes inside the cabin gold.
“So,” Steve announced, straightening a little, “welcome to the official Harrington Tour of Hawkins. First stop-”
“The gas station?” Lottie asked as he immediately turned right toward it. He huffed. “Okay, yes, because we need gas if we don’t want this car to explode on us. But THEN—first stop.” She shook her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched. As he pulled into the small station, Steve glanced sideways at her, trying to read her without being obvious about it.
So, uh…” he said, tapping the brakes too gently, “when we get lunch… what’re you in the mood for?” Lottie blinked. “Lunch?”
“Yeah,” he said quickly, like he hadn’t already mapped out seven options in his head. “You know. Food. Eating. Sustenance. Human stuff.” He winced immediately. “Wow. That… that came out weird.” She bit back a smile. “What are the options?” He drummed his fingers anxiously on the wheel, eyes narrowing at her like he was trying to decode her entire personality from her outfit alone. “Well,” he said, pretending to think even though he clearly already had a list prepared, “I figured maybe something… good?Or, like—not diner food. Unless you like diner food. Do you like diner food? You probably don’t. You look like someone with taste.”
“If you say burgers, it means you’re chill. If you say salad, it means you’re hiding something. If you say sushi, it means you want me to suffer because the closest place is forty-five minutes away.”
She laughed under her breath. “You put a lot of pressure on lunch.”
“I’m just trying to take you somewhere good.” The sentence slipped out before he could catch it unguarded, honest. His ears went faintly pink. Lottie looked out the window, trying to hide the way her chest tightened at the softness of it. “I’m not picky,” she said lightly. “So pick whatever you like.”
“Whatever I like?” He blinked, offended. “I can’t just pick for you. That’s like… a big responsibility.”
“It’s lunch, Steve.”
“Yeah, but it’s, like our lunch.” He groaned into the steering wheel. “Oh my god. Why am I talking. Okay, fine. Burgers?” he asked. “Because I’m thinking burgers. And fries. And maybe a milkshake if you wanna continue the theme of me giving you too much dairy today.”
“That sounds good,” she said. His shoulders dropped in visible relief, like she’d just passed a test he definitely made up. “Great,” he said, nearly beaming. “Perfect. Burgers it is. You are officially a chill person. Congratulations.” Lottie shook her head, smiling despite herself. Steve stepped out of the car to pump gas, muttering something to himself as he went mostly about how he needed to “get it together,” but the grin on his face made it clear he wasn’t upset.
Lottie watched him through the windshield, leaning against the sun-hot metal of the car as he fumbled with the old gas pump like it personally offended him. Every few seconds he glanced back at her quick, barely-there flicks of his eyes, like he didn’t mean to check but couldn’t help it. When he caught her looking once, he pretended the nozzle was suddenly very interesting. She bit back a smile. He finished pumping, shook the handle twice with unnecessary flair, and jogged back around to the driver’s side. The moment he slid in, the car filled with the faint smell of his cologne something warm, clean, familiar in a way she hadn’t expected.
Steve clicked his seatbelt and cleared his throat in that over-casual way that meant he was flustered. “Okay,” he said, tapping the steering wheel. “Fuel? Acquired. Burgers- pending.”
Steve nodded to himself like he was checking items off a secret list, then pulled out of the gas station with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually near the radio, fingers tapping to a beat only he knew. Lottie sunk slightly into her seat, the warm air drifting through the half-open window as Hawkins rolled past in sun-faded colors. Old storefronts. Familiar telephone poles. The same crooked stop sign that had been there since middle school.
“So…” Steve said, glancing her way with exaggerated nonchalance, “next phase of the tour is the ‘scenic route,’ which is code for ‘the roads I know how to get to the burger place from.’” Lottie let out a soft laugh. “You could’ve just said you don’t know where you’re going.”
“I do know,” he insisted, lifting his chin proudly. “I just don’t know all the ways.” They drove in a comfortable stretch of quiet. Comfortable for him. For her, it was… something warmer. Softer. Something she wasn’t ready to name. Steve glanced over at her again, quicker this time, like he wasn’t giving himself enough time to think about it.
“You know,” he said, adjusting his grip on the wheel, “I’m really glad you came by today.” Lottie looked at him. “Because you wanted someone to hold the metaphorical map?”
“No,” he said immediately then winced, like he hadn’t meant to sound so sure. “I mean—yes. But also… you’re close with Robin, and Robin thinks you’re cool. And she’s rarely wrong about people. So I guess I just wanted you to… y’know…” His hand fluttered vaguely, like he was shooing away invisible bees. There was something underneath it, though. Something he didn’t name. She felt it like a second heartbeat in the car.
Lottie turned toward the window, trying not to let the corners of her mouth lift too much. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she said softly. “Well, I wanted to,” he answered too fast, then immediately realized what he’d said. He cleared his throat, straightened in his seat, and flicked on the blinker even though there wasn’t a single other car on the road.
“Oh look, uh, that’s Henderson’s street.” Lottie looked as they rolled past a row of modest houses with chain-link fences and overgrown hydrangeas. “He still lives there with his mom,” Steve went on. “You can tell which one’s his because he convinced her to put up these… wind chimes that sound like a robot dying.He says it’s ‘ambient.’ I say it’s a cry for help.”
They rolled farther down the quiet neighborhood road. Sunlight cut through the trees in broken strips, dappling across the hood. Steve tapped the wheel, glancing at her like he was trying not to stare. “So this,” he said, nodding up ahead, “is the edge of the woods. Big scary Hawkins forest. You know, Where Fun Goes to Die.” Lottie raised an eyebrow. “Since when?” “Since always,” he replied. “People keep hiking in like it’s a national park. But, uh word of advice?” He tossed her a quick, careful look. “Don’t go back there alone. Seriously.”
She blinked. “Why?” Steve shrugged one shoulder, but he wasn’t joking. “Well… they’ve had some weird animal stuff lately. Like… wolf attacks, supposedly.”
Her brow furrowed. “Wolves? Hawkins has wolves?”
“Hey,” he said, “I’m not trying to freak you out. Just Hawkins being Hawkins. But if you ever do need to go out there, you call me.”
Lottie snorted softly. “Why? So you can yell at the wolves?”
“No,” he said, affronted, sitting up straighter in his seat. “So I can bring my bat.” She gave him a look. “Steve.”
“What? I’ve got a mean swing.” He tapped the steering wheel twice, as if punctuating the claim. “Ask anyone. Henderson. Sinclair. Actual monsters. I’ve got range.” Her lips twitched. “You’re bragging.”
“I’m warning you,” he corrected, pointing at her like she was missing something obvious. “If something tried to chase you in those woods? I’d go full MLB. Like home run. Outta the park. Wolf never walks again.”
“Steve,” she said again, shaking her head. “They’re probably just stray dogs.”
“Anyway,” he said, flicking on the radio even though it barely worked, “there’s your PSA. Hawkins Forest: do not enter. Bring a friend. Or a very handsome guy with a bat.”
“A very humble guy with a bat,” she corrected. “I can be both,” he insisted. “You can’t.”
“I can absolutely—” He cut himself off as they turned into a gravel lot. A faded sign out front read Mick’s Burgers - Since ’62, half the bulbs dead, the remaining ones buzzing like lazy fireflies. Steve parked with a triumphant flourish, then looked at her with that crooked grin she was starting to recognize equal parts nervous and proud. “Behold,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the building. “The finest gourmet dining Hawkins has to offer. Don’t let the sign fool you. Or the smell. Or the sticky floors. It’s good, I promise.” Lottie opened her door, stepping out into the warm air. “And you’re sure this place is safe from wolves?” Steve locked the car and slung his keys around one finger.
“If any wolf shows up,” he said smugly, “I’ll introduce it to my swing.” She shook her head but followed him toward the door anyway. “Milady,” he said, like he was some kind of medieval knight leading her into a burger joint that smelled faintly like fryer oil and lost dreams.
Lottie rolled her eyes, stepping inside. The air was cool, humming with an old ceiling fan that wobbled with every rotation. The place was exactly the kind of retro-dingy that felt timeless: red vinyl booths patched with duct tape, a jukebox in the corner that probably hadn’t worked since ’78, and a counter lined with napkin dispensers that had definitely seen things. “Wow,” she said, glancing around. “A true Hawkins classic.”
“Hey,” Steve protested, coming up behind her, “this is sacred ground. I have had life-changing fries in here.” She raised an eyebrow. “Life-changing?”
“Okay, fine, they’re greasy.” A waitress with a name tag that said LINDA waved them toward an open booth. Steve let Lottie slide in first, then sat across from her, stretching out his long legs under the table and immediately bumping her foot.
He froze.
She froze.
He pretended he didn’t freeze, clearing his throat and pulling the paper menu toward himself like it might shield him from embarrassment. “So, uh,” he said, flipping it over even though it had like eight items max, “they’ve got… burgers. And, get this—burgers.”
“Shocking.”
“I know, right? Really pushing the boundaries of cuisine.” Lottie looked at him over the top of her menu, soft amusement tugging at her mouth. Steve, for once, didn’t try to fill the silence. He just stared back, his expression loose and fond in a way he didn’t seem aware of. Linda appeared with two waters. “What can I get you kids?”
Steve immediately straightened like he was being evaluated for a scholarship. “Uh—ladies first.” She hid a smile and handed her menu back. “I’ll do the double cheeseburger platter. Fries. And… strawberry milkshake.”
Linda scribbled, then looked to Steve.
He let out a breath he probably didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I’ll do the same. But chocolate.” He paused. “And, uh, if the fries are burned I’m sending them back. I’m a man of principle.” Linda snorted and walked off.
Steve leaned back against the vinyl, exhaling through a crooked smile. “Okay,” he said, tapping the salt shaker once with his fingertip, “not to brag, but I think I’m doing pretty good at this whole ‘tour of Hawkins’ thing.” Lottie raised an eyebrow. “We’ve driven around and ordered burgers.”
“Yeah,” he said confidently, “and I’ve nailed both.” She shook her head, tracing her finger along the condensation on her glass. The ceiling fan above them wobbled lazily, its soft clicking sound filling the space between their breaths. Steve stretched his legs under the table long, careless movement and his foot brushed hers again. This time he didn’t yank back. He froze, just for a second, then shifted barely an inch to try and play it off. Linda returned with two milkshakes, setting them down in front of each of them without much ceremony. “Food will be up in a few,” she said.
The second she walked off, Steve pointed at Lottie’s glass. “Taste test. Very important. Make or break moment of the Harrington Tour.” She narrowed her eyes at him but took a slow sip. Cool, sweet, thick.
“Well?” he pressed. “It’s good.” He breathed out a little too obviously, leaning back like that answer had been holding his whole spine hostage. “Perfect. Okay. Great. Mick’s is still undefeated.” She couldn’t help it she smiled at him, soft and a little wide. His eyes flicked to her mouth, just for a second, before he jolted his attention back to his shake like it had personally offended him.
Their burgers arrived a moment later hot, stacked, dripping just enough to look promising. Lottie picked hers up, fingers brushing the warm bun. Steve watched her, not in a weird way, but in a way that made it obvious he cared about her reaction more than the food. She took a bite.
Steve’s breath hitched. “Well?”
“It’s good,” she said, and her smile widened. His relief came out as a tiny exhale he definitely tried to hide. “Yeah,” he said, biting into his own, “they still got it.”
Chapter 10: Tour Guides Code
Chapter Text
The ceiling fan hummed above them, stirring the faint smell of fry oil and summer sweat drifting in through the propped-open door. For a while, they ate in an easy kind of quiet—the kind that doesn’t need filling. Every so often, Steve glanced up mid-bite like he was checking that she was still there, still real, still sitting across from him with strawberry milkshake foam on her straw. Halfway through her burger, Lottie set it down and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “You’re staring,” she said without looking at him. Steve choked.
“Me? I- I’m not staring.”
“You’re absolutely staring.”
“I’m doing… observational driving prep.”
“We’re not even in the car.” He fumbled, turning red in a way that traveled from the collar of his shirt to his ears. “Okay, wow, so I’m just being attacked in Mick’s today. Cool.” Lottie hid her smile behind her milkshake. “Just observing.” He squinted across the table at her, then shoved another fry into his mouth like he needed the physical act to keep himself from saying something reckless. When he spoke again, his voice had softened by accident.
“It’s just… you look happy,” he said. “Like, actually happy. I wasn’t sure if today was gonna be…” He waved his hand like he was shooing bees again. “…awkward. Or weird. Or if you even wanted to hang out.”
“I wanted to,” she said simply.
His eyes flicked to hers and stayed there for a beat too long. Something warm and startled flickered behind them—like that one sentence hit him harder than it should’ve.
Before he could ruin it with a joke, Linda arrived with two tiny paper baskets of extra fries. “We made too many,” she said flatly, which was obviously a lie. It was a sympathy gift, the diner version of a wink. “Eat up.”
Steve lit up like a Christmas tree. “Linda, you’re gonna get a incredible tip.” Linda didn’t even pause as she slapped two ketchup packets onto the table. “Kid, you’ve been tipping me well since ’84. Don’t make it weird.” Steve’s mouth fell open like she’d personally exposed a state secret. “Linda! C’mon, you can’t just.” But she was already halfway across the diner again, leaving Steve sputtering in her wake. Lottie bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
“She’s right,” she said.
Steve turned back to her, affronted. “About what?”
“You make everything weird.” He pointed a fry at her like it was a weapon. “Okay, no. I don’t make things weird. Things around me become weird. I’m like—like a weirdness magnet.”
“That’s not a defense,” Lottie said, picking up another fry.
“It is if you’ve lived in Hawkins long enough.” He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to expose classified intel. “Speaking of which, do you want the gossip? Because oh boy, there is gossip.”
Lottie raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Always.”
Steve grinned, settling back in the booth with the smug energy of someone about to deliver a TED Talk titled The Feral Lore of Hawkins, Indiana. “You don’t believe me?” Steve leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to expose classified documents. “Fine. Let me remind you of the absolute circus that was Hawkins High last year.”
Lottie set her milkshake down, amused. “Go on.”
“Oh, I’ll go on,” Steve said, counting on his fingers. “Starting with the biggest one remember Tyler Maines? Prom King Tyler? He got caught trying to bribe the voting committee with coupons to the video store.
“It is extremely true. I know because I had to explain to Keith that accepting bribes is, like, morally questionable.”
She laughed, shaking her head.
“And then,” Steve continued, warming up, “Cheer captain auditions? Absolute bloodbath. Chrissy Cunningham did three back handsprings in a row, nailed them, and then Nikki Hayes tried to one-up her and knocked over the stereo.”And don’t even get me started on Homecoming. Amanda Price’s heel snapped on the bleachers and she took out four people on the way down. Like bowling pins. They had to pause the music.”
Lottie wiped at her eyes, laughing.
“See?” Steve said, triumphant. “You think I’M weird? No. I’m a victim of the Hawkins High ecosystem.”
She shook her head, smiling so wide he stared again before remembering he was supposed to play it cool.” Linda appeared again, dropped the check on the table like it offended her, and muttered, “Don’t spill anything on the way out.” Steve saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
Once she was gone, he immediately grabbed the check before Lottie could reach for it. “Nope. I got it.”
“Steve—”
“What? You let me take you on the Official Harrington Tour. This is part of the experience.” He slipped a couple bills inside, patting it with the confidence of a man who absolutely did not check the total.
Lottie slid out of the booth, and waited by the table while he scooted out behind her. They stepped into the heat outside, the door jingling shut behind them. The warm air hit immediately, thick and bright, buzzing with cicadas from somewhere behind the building.
Steve fished his keys from his pocket, tossing them up and catching them with a small flourish that surprised even him. “Okay,” he said, popping the car doors open, “you ready for the next stop?”
Lottie leaned one shoulder against the car, raising an eyebrow. “You still haven’t told me what it is.”
“That’s because it’s a surprise.” He lifted his chin, smug. “A classy surprise.”
“Is it another burger place?”
“No,” he gasped, offended. “I have range.” She laughed softly as she slid into the passenger seat, the fabric warm from the sun. Steve jogged around to his side, still buzzing with that jittery energy he got when he felt proud of something and tried not to show it. He started the engine it coughed in protest, as always and he gave the dashboard two comforting pats. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t embarrass me in front of the girl.” Lottie glanced over at him, amusement tugging at her mouth. “You talk to your car more nicely than you talk to people.”
“Yeah, well, my car actually listens.” He backed out of the gravel lot, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the radio with a casualness that looked unplanned but very much wasn’t. “So,” Lottie said, tapping the window gently as the wind rushed in, “are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope,” Steve said, the corner of his mouth lifting. “But it’s not far. And it’s not wolves. And it’s… kind of special.” He looked at her briefly, eyes warm. “You’ll like it.” Hawkins blurred past in sun-washed colors brown fields, quiet side streets, telephone poles standing crooked like they’d given up years ago.
After a minute, Steve cleared his throat and flicked on the turn signal, even though they were the only car for miles. “Okay,” he announced dramatically, “I know you’re dying to guess.”
“I’m really not,” Lottie said, watching a row of mailboxes blur past.
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m”
“You’re absolutely dying to guess,” he insisted, eyes forward, grin already forming. “I’m really not,” she repeated, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
Steve pointed at it immediately. “There. There. That’s your curious face.”
“I don’t have a curious face.”
“You absolutely do. It’s the same face you made in tenth grade when Robin brought that mystery Tupperware to lunch and nobody knew if it was soup or science.”
Lottie laughed. “It was science.”
“Exactly. And this.” he gestured vaguely at her expression without taking his hand off the wheel “—is the same face. You’re dying to know.”
She shook her head, looking out at the passing tree line. “Or maybe I’m enjoying the suspense.” Steve’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. Oh, so we’re playing mind games now?”
“If you say so.” The car dipped off the pavement, tires crunching over gravel. Trees grew taller and closer, branches stretching overhead like fingers weaving together. The shadows cooled the car, sunlight breaking through in slow, drifting patches. Steve slowed, one hand loose on the wheel. Somehow the quiet felt different out here lighter, but also deeper. He cleared his throat, a little softer this time. “We’re… almost there.”
They rolled down a narrow dirt path lined with tall summer grass, golden and swaying. The air changed cooler, damp with the faint hint of lake water. A second later, a shimmer of blue peeked between the trees. Lottie sat up a little, hand resting against window. Not saying anything, but watching.
Steve slowed the car even more, letting the clearing unfold. The lake opened up in front of them quiet, still, a soft reflection of sky and trees. The old dock stretched out toward the center, sun-worn and slightly crooked. He pulled the car into a patch of flattened grass and killed the engine. Silence washed in a quiet hum of cicadas, the soft ripple of water.
Steve sat back, exhaling. Then, tentatively, looking sideways at her: “Okay,” he said lightly, “now you can be curious.”
Lottie blinked, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “Lovers Lake?” Steve’s lips curved. “Bingo.” He hopped out before she could say anything else, jogging around the front to open her door not in a dramatic way, just… because he wanted to. The heat pressed warmly around them when she stepped out, sunlight painting everything gold. Grass brushed her ankles, the lake stretching wide and calm ahead of them. Steve shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking once on his heels.
Lottie glanced out over the water, quiet for a moment. The lake glittered under the sun, still and glassy, broken only by the occasional lazy ripple. The worn boards of the dock creaked in the wind, swaying just a little. It felt tucked away from everything , private, but soft around the edges. “It’s pretty,” she said finally.
“There’s a spot at the end,” he said, pointing. “Boards aren’t totally rotten. So, y’know—watch your step but don’t fear for your life.”
She snorted. “Comforting.”
“I try,” he said lightly.
They walked side by side, the grass whispering against their legs. When they reached the dock, Steve stepped onto it first, testing a plank with the ball of his foot. It protested with a long groan.
He froze.
“Okay… that one’s dramatic, but stable.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“It is! You’re safe with me,” he said, immediately cringing at himself. “I mean. with the dock. Safe with the dock. Just walk carefully.” Lottie laughed softly, stepping behind him. The wood bowed slightly under her weight, but Steve hovered close enough that she’d swear he was ready to catch her if anything so much as wobbled.
They reached the end of the dock, where the boards were warmer, sun-bleached to a pale silver. Steve sat first knees bent, arms draped over them like he’d done this a hundred times. Because he had. He gestured beside him. “Best seat in Hawkins.” Lottie lowered herself onto the sun-warmed boards beside him, tucking her legs to the side. The wood radiated heat through her skirt, the lake breeze brushing cool across her cheeks. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Steve leaned forward slightly, forearms resting loosely on his knees, eyes on the glittering water. When he spoke, his voice was a little lower, softened by the stillness around them. “People say this place is haunted,” he said casually.
Lottie glanced at him. “Haunted?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, squinting out over the lake. “By, like romance. Or whatever.” He made a vague gesture. “Couples would come out here, leave their initials carved in the trees, kiss at the end of the dock. Robin says it’s peak teenage cliché.”
“And you brought me to the cliché spot?” she teased. Steve blinked, suddenly flustered. “No. I mean, yes—but not like that. Not like… that.” He waved his hands, mortified. “It’s just it’s nice out here. Quiet. Nobody bothers you. And it’s, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s part of the tour. Obviously.” Lottie hid her smile in her shoulder. “Obviously.”
Steve cleared his throat, desperate to redirect. He reached down beside him, slipping a pebble between his fingers. He tossed it lightly into the lake. It hit with a soft plip, sending gentle rings across the water.
“So,” Steve said eventually, rolling another pebble between his fingers, “this is the part where you give the tour a rating.” She turned her head. “A rating.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, like this was a legally established rule. “Like at the end of a ride at Disney. ‘Did the employee smile at you? Did the air conditioning work? That kind of thing.”
“The AC did not work,” she pointed out.
Lottie pretended to consider it, gaze drifting back over the water. “Mm. Scoops, burgers, near-death experience with your car, possible haunting by teenage romance… I’d say… three stars.”
“Three?” His head snapped toward her. “Out of what, four?”
“Ten.” He made a wounded sound. “Wow. Harsh critic.”
“I’m factoring in the risk of tetanus from this dock,” she said lightly. Steve looked down at the boards under them like they’d personally betrayed him. “This dock is a Hawkins landmark.”
“This dock is one strong wind away from retirement.” He huffed, but his mouth was twitching. “Okay, okay. What bumps it up, then? What’s your five-star criteria?” She shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen the rest of the tour yet.” He stared at her for a beat like he was trying not to look too pleased with that answer, then tossed the pebble again, farther this time. It skipped once before sinking. “Not bad,” she said.
Steve straightened up a little, like the compliment had physically lengthened his spine. “Thank you. See, this is the kind of positive feedback I was hoping for. Stone-skipping: five stars.”
“Very specific skill set.”
“Hey, if this whole Scoops Ahoy thing goes under, I need a backup plan.” He picked up another pebble, weighing it in his palm. “Think I could make a living as, like… a professional lake guy?”
Lottie huffed quietly. “What does a professional lake guy do, exactly?”
He squinted at the horizon, like he was really thinking about it. “Dunno. Supervise the ripples. Judge people’s cannonballs. Yell at kids for feeding bread to ducks. Very demanding position.”
“Sounds like you just want an excuse to sit around all day.”
“Exactly,” he said, unbothered. “I’m crafting my dream job.”
She shook her head, a smile tugging at her mouth. A breeze swept across the water, cool against the heat, fluttering the hair at her temples. For a second, the only sounds were the creak of the dock and the distant, lazy buzz of insects in the trees.
Then Steve leaned a little closer, bumping her shoulder with his. “You wanna try?”
She looked down at his hand, at the smooth flat stone resting there. “At what? Becoming a professional lake guy?”
He huffed a laugh. “Skipping one. I can’t, in good conscience, end this tour without offering you the full hands-on experience.”
“Wow,” she said, deadpan. “What an honor.”
“Yeah, yeah, come on.” He held the pebble out to her, palm up. “Tour rules.”
She took it, letting her fingers brush his for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The stone was cool and faintly damp against her skin.
“So?” she asked. “What now, sensei?”
He made a face. “Okay, never call me that again. But.” He shifted, angling his body toward hers, one knee bent between them as he tried to demonstrate without knocking her off the dock. “You gotta throw it sideways. Like this. Low to the water. Little flick of the wrist.”
He pantomimed the motion, arm swooping forward in a practiced arc.
Lottie watched, unimpressed. “I have thrown things before, you know.”
“Yeah, but this is different. This is an art.” He tapped the underside of her wrist with his knuckles, gentle. “Here. You wanna—?”
He didn’t finish the sentence, just hesitated, giving her a very clear out.
She didn’t take it.
“Show me,” she said.
Something flickered across his face—quick and pleased. He shifted closer, half behind her now, one hand hovering near her elbow without quite closing the distance.
“Okay,” he said, voice unconsciously quieter. “So, you’re gonna angle it like this.”
His fingers brushed the back of her hand, nudging it downward. Warm. Careful. The air between them tightened, just a little.
“And then,” he went on, pretending very hard that this was just a stone-skipping lesson and not the most focused he’d been all day, “you twist from here.” His hand ghosted over her shoulder, indicating the movement. “Not all arm. Kinda… all together. Like you’re about to sass someone and throw evidence at their feet.”
She snorted. “That’s a specific example.”
“Very real-world application,” he said solemnly. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, eyes tracking the water ahead as she mimicked the motion he’d shown her. His hand dropped away, leaving behind the ghost of warmth on her skin. “Alright, Harrington,” she murmured. “If this sinks immediately, you’re losing another star.”
“Wow. High stakes.” She drew her arm back, twisted like he’d shown her, and let the stone fly. It struck the surface skippjng once, twice, then disappeared with a neat little splash.
Lottie blinked, surprised. “Oh.” Steve let out a triumphant shout, immediately cutting it off like he remembered the lake had ears. “See? See? Natural talent. I am an incredible instructor.”
She tried very hard not to look too proud of herself. “Beginner’s luck.” He settled back beside her again, shoulders nearly touching, feet dangling over the dark water. “Just so you know,” he said after a moment, “if you’d totally whiffed it and dropped it straight in, I would’ve lied and told you it skipped.”
Lottie turned her head. “You would’ve?”
“Obviously,” he said. “Tour guide code. Also, I’m not trying to get downgraded to two stars because of basic physics.” Her smile turned softer, something almost shy in it. “Good to know.”
Chapter 11: When it rains
Chapter Text
The breeze off the lake shifted cooler now, brushing across the back of Lottie’s neck like a warning, but the sky was still mostly blue, just a thin stretch of gray gathering low on the horizon. Not enough to worry about. Steve stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, palms braced behind him on the warm wood. He exhaled, long and slow, like being here drained the static out of him.
Lottie rested beside him, toes dangling just above the water. Steve picked up a pebble, rolling it between his fingers. Not to skip it, just to keep his hands busy. He stared out at the lake the way people stare at bonfires: like something in it was pulling thoughts out of him he didn’t normally let surface.
“You’re thinking,” she said quietly, eyes still on the water. He made a face. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. Steve snorted, but the amusement faded almost immediately. He tossed the pebble into his other hand, back and forth, back and forth. His knee bounced once, then stilled. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer.
“My parents are out of town again.” Lottie turned her head a little not enough to make him self-conscious, but enough to show she was listening. “Hm?” she asked.
“They flew out last week. Or wait, no-.” He frowned. “It might’ve been the week before. I don’t… actually remember.” He laughed once, but it wasn’t a real laugh. More like the awkward puff of air someone makes when they’re trying not to look disappointed in their own life.
“They’re always traveling,” he said. “Meetings, conferences, or whatever they feel like calling it.” The breeze nudged a loose strand of hair across Lottie’s cheek. She tucked it behind her ear, waiting for him to go on. “You know what’s stupid?” Steve continued, still looking at the lake. “I was trying to think about the last time we had dinner together. Like… an actual dinner. Half the time it’s just frozen TV dinners now a-days. And they haven’t…” He swallowed, eyes drifting back to the water. “They haven’t been to a basketball game in… I don’t even know how long.” Her heart dipped a little at that.
He cleared his throat, pretending it didn’t matter. “They used to come sometimes. Or at least pretend they were gonna. But lately…It’s just me and the kids now. Dustin, Lucas, Mike. They show up. They’re loud and obnoxious and eat all the concession stand candy, but ” His mouth twitched. “Hey they show up.” Lottie smiled softly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not with what he’d said lingering between them.
Steve rubbed his palms on his jeans, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t think I’m gonna join the team this year.” The words came out rushed, like they’d been waiting somewhere behind his teeth for a long time. She turned a little more toward him. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I just… don’t think anyone would notice.” He paused, then added more honestly, “Or care.” The breeze shifted again, cooler this time, brushing over the back of Lottie’s arms. Not enough to shiver, not yet. Just enough for her to feel it. Enough to tell her the storm was inching closer. She watched him for a moment longer, watched the way he dug the heel of his sneaker into the wood like he was grounding himself. Then she exhaled slowly.
“Growing up’s weird,” she murmured. “You start realizing people don’t… always show up the way you expect them to.” Steve glanced at her soft, curious, like her words were something he wanted to hold onto. The sky overhead dimmed another shade, the stretch of gray low on the horizon pulling itself wider. A soft, distant rumble threaded through the air far off, barely a whisper.
“What about you?” he asked, voice lower than before. “Was it… better in Chicago with your mom?” Lottie blinked, caught off guard. Not by the question, but by the sincerity in it. By the way he was asking because he wanted to know her, not because he needed something to fill the air.
She wet her lips, eyes drifting back to the lake as she gathered her thoughts.
“It was… small,” she said at last. “Our apartment, I mean. Tiny, actually. You couldn’t stretch your arms out in the kitchen without hitting both walls.” Steve smiled—soft, not teasing this time. “Cozy?”
She huffed a quiet breath. “Cozy is just what realtors say when a place is cramped.” Steve let out a small laugh under his breath. “Yeah, okay. Fair.” Lottie drew one leg up onto the dock, wrapping an arm loosely around it. Her gaze drifted out over the lake again, the surface now darker at the edges where the clouds were thickening. “It was also loud,” she added quietly. “We lived right across from subway. It rattled the windows when it went by.”
Steve’s eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she said with a faint smile. “At first I hated it. Thought I was gonna lose my mind with how often it shook. But eventually…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Eventually it became this… background comfort. Like the city was alive or something.” Steve didn’t speak for a moment. He just watched her, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes. As if he was seeing a version of her he hadn’t realized existed one shaped by noise and movement and anonymity, not quiet Hawkins streets.
“So it was just you and your mom?” he asked. “For a while,” she said. He caught the shift immediately the slight flattening in her voice, the way she pulled her arms a little closer around her leg.
“For a while?” he echoed gently.
“Till she started seeing marvin.” She let out a breathy, almost embarrassed laugh. Lottie plucked at a splinter on the dock with her thumbnail, eyes fixed on the lake. “He wasn’t awful,” she said. “I don’t want to make it sound like that. He was just… there. All the time.”
Steve nodded, encouraging her to keep going without pushing.
“He’d leave stacks of graded essays on the counter,” she continued. “Or use our table for lesson planning. Or talk about symbolism over dinner. Like everything was some grand metaphor.” Her mouth twitched, half amusement, half exhaustion. “He meant well. He always meant well.” She drew in a slow breath through her nose. “And my mom… she liked him. Really liked him. And she deserved to like someone. But it didn’t feel like home anymore. Like there wasn’t space for me, wherever they were going.” Lottie pulled in a breath, her fingers stilling on the worn wood.
“They started planning this… trip,” she said, voice quiet. “A big one. Backpacking across Europe. France, Italy, Switzerland just everywhere.”
Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Just the two of them?”
She nodded. “Just them. They were excited about it. Really excited.” Her voice softened, the edges of it fraying. “My mom kept talking about hostels and train passes and which boots she needed. Marvin kept checking out guidebooks at school and leaving them all over the apartment.” She rested her chin on her knee trying to hide a dry swallow. “I’d come home and there’d be maps spread out on the floor,” she went on. “Circles around cities, little arrows, notes in the margins. And they’d be sitting side by side, planning out months of their lives like it was… nothing. Like it didn’t affect anyone.”
The wind skimmed across the lake again, colder now, enough that Lottie instinctively rubbed her hands over her arms. Steve’s gaze flicked to the motion, worry threading through his expression, but he didn’t cut her off. “They offered to let me come,” she said. “Once. In passing. Like it was a line they were obligated to say.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “Did they mean it?”
“I think,” Lottie said slowly, “they wanted to mean it. But… no. Not really. They were planning a life that didn’t have room for a third person. Not in hostels, not on night trains, not in tiny rented rooms. So she arranged for me to stay with my dad.” The words came out small, almost swallowed by the thickening air. Lottie kept her eyes on the lake, watching the ripples darken under the gray that was steadily pulling across the sky.
Steve’s breath caught, subtle but there. “She decided that? Not you?” Lottie nodded once. “She called him before she even told me. Asked if he had space. If he could… take me, I guess.” She let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Like I was another suitcase she needed to send in the right direction.”
Steve didn’t smile. His face shifted into something gentler, something weighted. “Lottie…”
“She meant well,” Lottie said quickly, cutting him off before sympathy could land too hard. “She really did. She thought Hawkins would be good for me. That Dad would be good for me. She said she didn’t want me waiting around while she was—” She gestured weakly toward the imagined horizon of Europe. “off chasing whatever this new life was supposed to be.” The wind blew stronger then, tugging strands of hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ear, but her hands were starting to shake not from emotion, but from the cold she never liked. The cold that seemed to be creeping toward them from the sky. Steve noticed immediately. His brows knit, and he angled closer, blocking the wind without making a big show of it.
“So you left,” he said softly.
“I left,” she echoed. “Packed what I could carry. My record player, a box of vinyls, clothes, a few books. That was it.” She shook her head slightly. “It was weird how easy it was. How little I actually had to take.” Steve swallowed like he was on the receiving end of something heavier than boxes.
“And Dad—?” he asked carefully.
“I love my dad.” She responded before sighing, “He buys me the same brand of toaster waffles and orange juice I used to inhale when I was a kid.” Steve huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “That sounds like him.”
“It is,” Lottie murmured, pulling her sleeves down over her hands. “He tries. He really does.” A faint, fond smile flickered across her mouth. “He even cleared out his office and stuffed it into a corner so I’d have a proper room.” Steve snorted softly. “That also sounds like him.”
Lottie nodded, eyes drifting over the lake. The sky had darkened noticeably blue fading into a heavy gray, the clouds thickening like wet wool. Another low rumble crawled across the water. “He’s a good dad,” she said finally. “But he’s still… married to his badge.” The words left her lips with a gentleness that wasn’t judgment. She let her eyes drift out over the lake again, tracking the way the clouds had pulled fully over the sun now. The water had gone from pale blue to a deep slate, catching the shapes of the moving sky.
“He keeps the scanner on in the kitchen,” she murmured. “Even when he’s making breakfast. I think he wanted it to be different when I came back,” she added quietly. Her oversized T-shirt hung off one shoulder, soft and worn from a hundred washes, the hem brushing her thighs whenever the breeze lifted. It wasn’t warm enough for the dropping temperature, and she instinctively curled inward, arms wrapping around herself.
A single drop of water hit the dock between them. Lottie blinked, glancing up.
Another drop landed on her bare knee. Then another. Then another—soft at first, like the sky was testing the idea, seeing if it wanted to commit.
“Well,” she said under her breath, a small frown forming. “That’s not good.” Steve looked up just as the clouds split open. A sudden, cold sheet of rain came down not gentle, not passing, but a full-on downpour that smacked against the lake and dock in loud, echoing bursts. Lottie gasped, arms flying up to shield her head.
“Oh my god—Steve—!”
“Come on!” he barked over the roar, already scrambling to his feet, slipping a little on the wet wood before grabbing her hand without thinking. “Run!” She stumbled after him, oversized shirt plastering cold and clingy against her skin as the rain hit harder. Her feet slapped against the dock, hair soaking instantly, vision blurring as they bolted toward the parking lot. The storm swallowed everything the lake, the sky, their laughter as they sprinted blindly until Steve yanked the passenger door open and practically shoved her inside.
Steve was hunched forward, elbows on the steering wheel, chest rising and falling fast. His hair was plastered to his forehead, soaked through. Water dripped off the end of his nose.
Then he let out a breathy laugh—half disbelief, half exhilaration. “Well,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “That escalated.” Lottie snorted because she couldn’t help it. “You think?” Her voice shook involuntarily from the chill. She rubbed her hands along her bare thighs, trying to restore feeling, but her oversized T-shirt clung cold and damp to her skin, not doing her any favors.
Steve noticed immediately.
“Oh—hold on. here. ” He fumbled blindly behind him, reaching into the backseat until he tugged out the one thing he always had in his car: a hoodie. Gray, soft, worn-in at the cuffs, smelling faintly like detergent and whatever cologne he used that always faded too fast.
He held it out to her. “You’re freezing.”
Lottie blinked, raindrops still sliding down her cheeks like delayed tears. “Steve, you’re literally soaked.”
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging, “but you hate the cold.” She stiffened for a second not because he was wrong, but because she hadn’t realized he’d noticed. She took the hoodie from his hand slowly.
“Thanks,” she said softly. “No problem,” he murmured, staring straight ahead, like looking at her while she tugged it over her head might kill him.
Chapter 12: The Night the Air went cold
Chapter Text
By the time the storm let up, the worst of it had already passed over Hawkins. Steve pulled into the Starcourt lot, windshield wipers squeaking across glass that didn’t even need them anymore. The lot was mostly empty just a couple of dark storefront windows reflecting the wet pavement and Lottie’s little burgundy punch buggy sitting two rows down, looking like it had never been part of the chaos.
“Thanks for the hoodie,” she said, fingers tightening around the sleeves. It smelled faintly like him not ice cream or work or anything artificial. Just clean detergent, rain, and a soft, boyish cologne that had faded into the cotton from being worn so often. Warm in a way that lingered even when the hoodie was cold. Steve gave her a lopsided grin. “Just bring it back whenever.” She nodded, tugged the hood up for warmth, then jogged across the lot. The pavement was slick, puddles catching flashes of neon as she splashed through them. She unlocked her car, slid in, and shot Steve a small wave through the windshield before he drove off in the other direction.
As soon as she shut her door, the quiet settled in different from the lake, heavier somehow. The kind that makes you suddenly aware you’re alone again. She started the engine the buggy sputtered once, then steadied like it always did, and she drove home with the heater blasting and the rain drying slowly in her hair.
The drive back to her dad’s house was short, but the closer she got, the quieter the world seemed to become. The roads were slick, streetlights humming faintly overhead, water still dripping from power lines and tree branches. By the time she pulled into the driveway, the storm had fully passed—the air damp and cool, the sky that strange washed-out gray-blue that comes right after heavy rain.
Her dad’s cruiser wasn’t there.
Of course it wasn’t. Lottie killed the engine. For a moment she just sat there, hands still on the wheel, hoodie sleeves pulled over her knuckles. The warmth from the car’s vents faded quickly, leaving her with the faint chill of her still-damp T-shirt clinging to her shoulder blades.
The house greeted her with that familiar, lonely stillness. Not eerie, not unwelcome just empty. The kind of quiet that wrapped around her ankles like fog. She flicked on the kitchen light, draped Steve’s hoodie over a chair to dry, and stood there for a moment, blinking at the hum of the refrigerator. She dug through the pantry, found a dusty can of Spaghettios, and heated it on the stove. She ate leaning against the counter, the spoon clinking lightly against the bowl. The artificial tomato smell lingered in the warm air, filling up the silence just enough.
When the bowl was empty, she rinsed it, set it in the sink, and headed down the hallway. Her bare feet whispered across the cool wood. She flicked on the light in her room, tossed her damp T-shirt onto the chair, and crawled into bed wearing just the oversized sleep shirt she kept for nights like this. The blankets were cold at first, but they warmed quickly, and the rhythm of the rain dripping from the gutters outside lulled her deeper into the quiet.
A soft thump somewhere down the hallway. Not the kind of sound made by settling beams or cooling pipes this one was too intentional. Too weighted.
Lottie’s eyes blinked open in the dark. The room had changed just barely, but unmistakably. The air felt colder, enough that she could see a faint blur of white when she exhaled. Her blankets suddenly felt paper thin. She pushed herself upright, rubbing her arms.
“Dad?” she whispered.
No answer.
Only that hollow stillness stretching down the hallway, dense and unmoving. Lottie swung her legs out of bed, the floor shockingly cold as her feet touched it. Her breath puffed in front of her again thin, ghostlike. Something was wrong. Not scary wrong yet. Just… off. She stood, the hem of her oversized sleep shirt brushing her thighs as she padded toward her door. The temperature dropped another degree the closer she got to the hallway. Her fingers curled around the doorframe before she stepped out, almost like she needed permission from the darkness.
“Dad?” she tried again, barely louder.
The house swallowed her voice whole.
She took one step into the hallway.
The overhead light flickered once, twice—and then steadied at a sickly dim glow. It cast long shadows under the baseboards, stretching them farther than they should’ve gone.
Lottie’s pulse stuttered. A faint sound whispered from the opposite end of the hall. A soft, dragging noise like a heel or fingertips brushing along the wall. She stiffened. The cold bit into her skin, enough to raise goosebumps along her arms.
“Okay,” she whispered under her breath, trying to steady herself. “It’s probably nothing. Probably the house. Or the storm messed with the power.”
Another sound closer this time. Lottie pressed her palm to the side of her thigh, grounding herself. Then she noticed it. The air it wasn’t just cold it felt… heavy. Like breathing through damp wool. She took a step back toward her room, but something above her shifted.
Dust except it wasn’t falling from the ceiling. It was rising. Drifting up in tiny specks, caught in some invisible pull toward a corner of the hallway ceiling like the air itself was bending. A low groan echoed through the walls. Not a human groan. Not the house. Something deeper, some distant rumble that vibrated through her ribcage. The darkness at the end of the hallway twitched again.
Something scraped softly against the wall slow, deliberate, far too tall to be human. Lottie’s lungs locked, panic pressing tight against her ribs. The temperature kept dropping, her breath coming out in shaky white plumes as the lights above her flickered violently.
Keeping her eyes on the hallway shadow, she backed up step by step, her bare feet silent against the cold wood. When her shoulder hit the corner near the living room, she turned sharply and hurried toward the front door.
The hallway groaned behind her, the ceiling cracking open in a slow, crawling line like something was forcing its way through the beams. She fumbled with the lock, breath shaking, her fingers slipped once, then found it.
Click.
The door gave under her hand and she yanked it open but the world outside wasn’t Hawkins. Not the Hawkins she’d walked into. Not the one she’d driven home through. Not the one with puddles on the driveway and the hum of streetlights and the lingering smell of rain.
Her front porch was intact, but everything beyond it—inverted.
Rotten.
Dead.
Silent in a way that pressed against her skull. The cul-de-sac was gone, swallowed by blue-black fog that curled around skeletal trees. Vines like veins writhed along the pavement, pulsing faintly with dull red light. The air smelled like metal and mildew, thick enough she could taste it on her tongue.
“What… what is this?” Lottie whispered, her voice barely audible against the thick, oppressive air. Her breath fogged instantly, hanging in front of her face before dissolving into the cold. The temperature outside was even worse than inside; it slapped her skin, clawed down her spine. She wrapped her arms instinctively around herself, the thin cotton of her sleep shirt doing nothing to keep the chill away.
“Dad?” she called again, louder this time. “Dad! Are you out here?”
Her voice didn’t travel. It fell flat, swallowed immediately by the heavy air, the fog absorbing the sound like a sponge. Nothing echoed. Nothing returned to her. Even her own breathing sounded muted.
Then—
A shape moved in the fog only for a low roar to roll through the fog deep, guttural, carrying no resemblance to any animal she had ever heard. It vibrated through her ribs, shaking something loose in her chest. Lottie slammed the door her trembling hands locking the deadbolt. Then the chain and finally the bottom lock.
Chapter 13: Mall Mascots
Chapter Text
She blinked awake to her bedroom ceiling, the one in her dad’s house, still weirdly empty on the walls because she hadn’t decided what to put up yet. Half her stuff was still in boxes on the floor, the corner of a record sleeve poking out of one like it was trying to escape.
Her alarm clock blinked 10:42. Her shift started at eleven. She stared at the numbers for a full second, brain empty, before pure panic surged through her body.“Oh my god.” She shot upright so fast the bedsprings squealed. She tripped over the duffel bag, caught herself on the wall, then grabbed her uniform off the back of her desk chair. The crisp red-and-white striped dress looked aggressively cheerful compared to her current near-death energy.
At least she remembered how to do this.
She’d worked at her uncle Ray’s diner since she was fourteen refilling ketchup bottles, wiping counters, serving the regulars who always tipped exactly eighty cents. The old location had wobbly stools and a jukebox that only played half of “Blue Suede Shoes” before cutting out. It smelled like burnt coffee and nostalgia.
But this summer was different. Ray had landed a spot in Starcourt Mall, and now the diner was neon-lit and retro-themed, with shiny vinyl booths and a dress code that her uncle Ray insisted gave the diner “charm.” She dragged the dress on, wrestling with the zipper as her straight-across bangs stayed perfectly in place annoyingly cooperative compared to the rest of her. She tied the apron in a crooked knot and shoved her feet into her sneakers. No makeup. No time. Just lip balm and frantic hope.
The hallway was dim, the house heavy with that specific quiet that came from her dad sleeping after a night shift. She crept past his closed bedroom door on her tiptoes, wincing at every creak in the floorboards. The last thing she needed was waking up a man who’d worked twelve hours and had a headache built into his DNA. She moved through the kitchen as silently as she could, grabbing her keys and the least stale granola bar she could find. The fridge hummed. A police radio crackled faintly behind her dad’s door. Everything smelled like coffee that had been brewed at 5 a.m. and forgotten.
She didn’t breathe again until she was outside. The heat hit instantly, thick and humid. Her burgundy buggy sat in the driveway like it had been waiting to judge her. “Please,” she whispered as she slid in. “Not today.”
The engine hesitated because of course it did then finally sputtered to life. She backed out carefully, trying not to make enough noise to wake the entire house, then sped down the street the second she hit the road. The mall rose in the distance like something from another universe bright, loud, impossible to ignore. She swerved into the parking lot, and her car came to a stop so crooked she could practically hear her dad’s voice in her head: “Lottie, straighten out the wheel next time.”
And of course—because the universe had perfect comedic timing—that’s when she saw him.
Steve Harrington.
Standing outside Scoops Ahoy, keys twirling around his finger, hair looking offensively good for someone awake before noon. He wore his uniform pants but a faded navy tee on top, like he hadn’t fully transformed into a sailor yet. Lucky him.
He looked up just in time to witness her chaotic parking job.
His smile spread slow and amused.
Lottie closed her eyes.
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
She grabbed her bag and launched out of the car, apron strings flapping behind her like a wounded flag. “Morning, Lane!” Steve called, way too chipper for someone who’d definitely seen her commit vehicular embarrassment. “Solid parking job. Super professional.” She didn’t slow down. “I will cry on the floor of your workplace. Don’t test me.”
His laugh echoed behind her warm, stupid, unfairly nice and she felt it all the way between her shoulder blades. Her bangs stayed perfectly straight as the rest of her hair flew in chaotic waves around her face. Inside Starcourt, the blast of AC nearly knocked her back a step. It smelled like popcorn, too-strong cinnamon buns, and whatever fake tropical scent those clothing stores pumped out to convince teenagers they were on vacation.
Her sneakers squeaked frantically on the tile.
And then she saw it.
Ray’s Diner.
Right across from Scoops Ahoy.
Close enough that she could practically feel Steve watching her like a sitcom laugh track wasn’t far behind.
The diner took up the entire corner unit — chrome accents catching every bit of fluorescent glow, glossy red vinyl booths lined up like stage props, black-and-white checkered floors so polished they reflected the overhead lights. A giant neon milkshake flickered above the entrance, casting soft pink light across the hall.
She ducked inside, the door chiming faintly behind her.
The air smelled like bacon grease, pancake batter, and that brand-new mall smell that tried (and failed) to hide under everything. The grill sizzled from the back, and—
“There you are!”
Her uncle’s voice bellowed from the kitchen window, the little rectangular cutout above the counter. Ray’s elbows rested on the ledge, spatula in one hand, hair sticking up from heat and stress. His face was part annoyance, part affection, part “I love this kid but she’s killing me.”
“You’re late, kiddo!” he called, eyebrows jumping. “Again!”
“I know,” she said breathlessly, tying her apron as fast as she could. “I woke up in a fight with time.”
Ray snorted so loud she heard it over the grill. “And time won! As usual!”
She reached for an order pad — but then the doorway behind her shadowed, and Ray’s expression changed instantly. His eyebrows lifted. His mouth twitched. His eyes darted directly behind her like he’d spotted a circus animal loose in the mall.
She turned and there he was leaned in the diner doorway. Still in that navy shirt.Still unfairly golden in the pink neon light. Still looking like he’d woken up having a “good hair day” just to spite her. Keys dangled from his fingers. He raised one hand in a wave that was far too casual.
“Wow,” he said, slowly letting his eyes travel from her shoes to her apron to her bangs. “Look at you. Ready for the big leagues.”
“Oh my god,” she murmured. “Do you hover? Is that what you do?”
“I work across the hall,” he said, pointing a thumb toward Scoops. “So technically, I stroll.” Ray let out a long, knowing hum from the kitchen window. “Harrington,” he said loudly, like announcing a celebrity. “Didn’t expect to see you before noon.” Steve grinned. “Didn’t expect to see Lottie driving like she stole her own car, but here we are.”Ray choked on a laugh.
“Shouldn’t you be scooping something?” she said, already praying he’d go. “Robin’s covering,” Steve shrugged. “I saw you sprint by and figured I should make sure you didn’t pass out in front of RadioShack.” Ray leaned so far out the window she swore he was going to climb through it. “So thoughtful,” he said, smirk spreading. “Very… attentive.”
“Uncle Ray,” she hissed, but he was already disappearing back into the kitchen with the smuggest energy known to man. Steve rocked back on his heels, smile softening just a little not teasing, not smug just… warm.
“I like the uniform,” he said. Her breath stalled for half a second and Steve must’ve seen it because the softness flickered in his eyes, and then he immediately backpedaled with a crooked grin, hands lifting in surrender. “I mean— y’know,” he added quickly, gesturing between them. “We’re both dressed like we lost a bet. Me in stupid sailor pants. You in…” He motioned vaguely at her retro diner dress. “Vintage… uh… milkshake chic?”
She blinked. “Milkshake chic?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding like it made perfect sense. “We’re basically matching. A couple of mall mascots.” She stared at him. He stared back, proud of this logic. From the kitchen window, Ray barked out a laugh so loud she nearly dropped her order pad. “Oh, he’s good,” her uncle hollered.
Steve winced, shoulders tensing like he feared Ray might climb through the window.
Lottie pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
“‘Matching’ isn’t really the word I’d use,” she said, finally turning to grab two empty cups from the dispenser. Steve took a single step inside the doorway, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Come on, Lane. You’re telling me you don’t feel thematically united?” She threw him a look over her shoulder. “We are absolutely not thematically anything.”
“Right,” he said, nodding like he agreed even though he clearly didn’t. “Totally. Absolutely. No theme here.” Ray’s spatula hit the grill behind them. “I HEARD THAT!” he called. “AND YES, THERE IS A THEME!” Lottie groaned. “Uncle Ray.”
“Hey, for the record,” he said, leaning back toward the door, thumb hooking through his belt loop in a way she tried very hard not to notice, “I fully embrace looking ridiculous. I’ve already accepted that this”—he tugged at his uniform pants—“is my life now.”
“And the hat,” she reminded him. He flinched. “Don’t.”
“You have to wear it eventually.”
“Lane,” he said gravely, “please.”
Her lips twitched. “It’s part of the theme.” His eyes narrowed playful, warm, and a little dazzled. “Go scoop something,” she said on instinct, sharper than she meant. But Steve only laughed, soft and breathy, like he’d expected it. Maybe even liked it.
He pushed off the doorway, tossing her a lazy salute. “Yes, ma’am~”
She watched him retreat only long enough to make sure he was really leaving this time, then forced herself to turn back toward the counter. She reached for the stack of menus, trying to settle into the rhythm of starting her shift — paper, pens, napkins — normal things.
But something in the air shifted.
Like someone else was watching the same exit she had been.
Lottie glanced up.
Robin stood just outside Scoops Ahoy, one hand on her hip, the other dangling his sailor hat by the brim. Her brows were pulled together in a narrowed, thoughtful look not angry, not annoyed, just… observant.
She was staring after Steve. In a ‘What were you doing over there?’ Type of way. Robin’s gaze slid toward the diner for a single second a quick sweep across the entrance, across Lottie — as if she was looking for something. But Robin’s eyes didn’t linger on her. There was no judgment, no curiosity. Just… a glance. And then her attention returned right back to Steve’s retreating figure.
Lottie found herself pausing mid-step, menu halfway tucked under her arm. Something about Robin’s expression made her stomach tilt just slightly — not in a dramatic way, just enough to register. Because Robin looked…Suspicious.
Of what, exactly?
Or who?
Lottie couldn’t tell.
She watched Robin’s lips move a quiet mutter to herself before Robin rolled her eyes skyward in a very Harrington, what did you do now? kind of way.
Ray slammed something onto the grill behind her. “Kiddo! Table four!”
“Right,” she said quickly, forcing her legs to move. As she dropped menus at the booth, she couldn’t help glancing across the hall again. Through the big Scoops window, she caught a glimpse of Robin leaning across the counter, arms braced, speaking low. Steve had his head ducked, shoulders tight, talking fast in return. Robin pointed vaguely toward the diner. Lottie looked away before she could accidentally make eye contact with either of them.
Lottie straightened the menus, smoothed her apron, and inhaled slowly through her nose. Work. She needed to be at work. Not watching whatever interrogation Robin was undoubtedly putting Steve through.
“Hi there,” she said to table four, a pair of grandparents sharing a crossword and a single pair of reading glasses between them. “What can I get you two?”
The woman didn’t look up from the puzzle. “Coffee,” she said. “Strong as sin.” Her husband nodded toward Lottie’s uniform with a warm smile. “New here?” Lottie let out a small laugh. “No, just… relocated.”
“Well,” the woman said without glancing up, “you look like you know what you’re doing.” It shouldn’t have meant anything, but it steadied her in a way she didn’t know she needed. She took their order, grabbed two mugs, and moved behind the counter. The coffee pot was already half empty, and Ray’s “Morning Survival Fuel” handwriting was sharpied across the glass in crooked letters. She poured, slid the mugs onto a tray, and headed back out.
The hum of the mall drifted through the diner’s open doorway kids whining for pretzels, the distant thump of a radio from Gap, footsteps echoing across polished tile. Every so often a familiar laugh, low and warm and unmistakably Steve’s, drifted across the hall. She pretended not to hear it every time.
The shift picked up quickly. Table two needed extra napkins. Table five asked for pickles and then immediately changed their minds. A toddler in table seven spilled an entire strawberry milkshake across the booth, and Lottie spent two full minutes wondering how the hell she was going to clean it up without making a bigger mess on the floor.
She dropped to her knees with a damp towel, dabbing at the sticky puddle before it could spread any farther. The floor tiles were cold through the thin fabric of her tights, sugar and fake-fruit smell wrapping around her like a cloud.
From the kitchen window, Ray stuck his head out. “Oh no. Oh, that’s a war crime.”
“Don’t you dare say anything about the mop bucket,” she warned, scrubbing at a streak of pink near the table leg. He considered. “I was going to say you’re a hero, actually. But now I kinda want to talk about the mop bucket.” She threw him a look over her shoulder. “I will walk out.” He snorted and disappeared again, the grill hissing like it was laughing with him. She finished blotting up the worst of it, swapped the rag for the mop, and settled into the mechanical rhythm of swish, wring, swish. When she straightened, her knees popped in protest.
“You good?” a voice called lightly. Robin stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame. The sailor hat was now jammed on her head at a crooked angle, like it had lost a fight. A roll of paper towels dangled from one hand. “Thought you might need the heavy artillery,” she said, lifting it.
Lottie wiped the back of her wrist across her forehead. “You are a blessing.” Robin stepped inside, tearing off a few sheets and handing them over. Her gaze flicked once toward the milkshake incident, then swept the rest of the diner quickly one, two, three tables like she couldn’t help assessing the whole situation.
Then, almost casually, her eyes slid back across the hall. Scoops Ahoy was busy again, a small cluster of kids pressed to the counter, Steve behind it in full sailor uniform now, hat and all. He was mid-gesture, clearly in the middle of an animated story, hands moving, customers laughing. Robin inhaled quietly through her nose. “He put the hat on,” she muttered, like she was still processing it. “Huh.” Lottie pretended to focus on the milkshake stain. “Peer pressure works wonders.”
“Oh, I know,” Robin said dryly. “I’m the peer.” She stepped all the way inside, crouching beside Lottie without hesitation, like getting strawberry milkshake on her knees was a perfectly normal part of their daily routine. It kind of was. “You missed a spot,” Robin pointed out, tapping the floor with her paper towel.
“You always say that,” Lottie muttered. “Well,” Robin said, “you always miss a spot.” Lottie elbowed her lightly. Robin elbowed her back, harder. They cleaned in practiced silence for about ten seconds just enough time for two best friends to pretend they weren’t itching to talk. Then Robin said, “Soooo. Harrington.”
Lottie groaned. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You said ‘Soooo. Harrington.’ That’s something.” Robin sniffed. “Okay, well, I didn’t realize acknowledging someone’s existence was against the law.”
“You had a look,” Lottie said. “You know the look. Your ‘I’m about to say something I shouldn’t but will’ look.” Robin pressed a hand to her chest. “Lottie Lane, I am offended. Deeply. Wounded, even.” Lottie raised an eyebrow. “Okay yes,” Robin admitted, “fine, maybe I had a look.”
“Mhm.” Robin sat back on her heels, paper towel still in her hand, eyes tracking Scoops Ahoy like she was trying to solve a crime scene across the hall.
“He was being weird,” she said simply. “Like—extra. And you know he’s already extra.”
“I didn’t notice,” Lottie lied. Robin scoffed. “You’re a terrible liar. It’s embarrassing. I should give you lessons.”
“I don’t need lying lessons.”
“You absolutely do,” Robin said. “But we’ll circle back.” She reached out, flicking a drop of dried strawberry off Lottie’s arm with dramatic disgust. “Anyway. He hovered. He never hovers. The only things he hovers near are mirrors and hair products.”
“He was just… saying hi,” Lottie said, wiping a smear off the table leg. “That was not a ‘hi,’” Robin countered. “That was a capital-H Hi. That was—” She widened her eyes, pitched her voice up, and fluttered her fingers in a deliberately dramatic impression. “‘Ohhh look at me, I’m Harrington, I’m just casually leaning in the doorframe, totally natural, nothing to see here.’” Lottie snorted. “You sound like Kermit the Frog.”
“I was doing him politely,” Robin hissed. They both dissolved into quiet laughter, heads almost knocking together as they leaned over the same spot on the floor. When they got back up, Robin brushed her hands off and scanned the diner the way she always did half habit, half making sure Lottie wasn’t overwhelmed. “You doing okay?” Robin asked softly, tone shifting into that best-friend place without warning. The one nobody else heard from her. Lottie nodded. “Yeah. Just… first day jitters, I guess.”
“You’re doing great,” Robin said, nudging her. “And I don’t say that about many people. Or often. Or ever.”
“That’s true,” Lottie laughed. “You don’t even say it about yourself.”
“Because I don’t lie,” Robin said, then paused. “…Except socially. And in front of customers. And sometimes to your uncle so he’ll let me steal fries.”
“Right.” Robin opened her mouth to add something else, then paused. She peeked across the hall again just a flicker and when she looked back, her expression softened. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said simply. Lottie blinked. “At the diner?”
“At the mall. With me,” Robin corrected. “Hawkins is less… suffocating when you’re around.” The words hit Lottie square in the chest. The kind of thing Robin would never say in front of anyone else. “Well…” Lottie said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here too.” Robin’s smirk returned, crooked and bright. “Obviously. I’m delightful.”
“Debatable,” Lottie said, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. Robin caught it, eyes brightening. “There it is. The elusive genuine smile. Extremely rare in its natural habitat.” She gestured grandly at the diner. “Ray should be paying me extra for morale.”
“He pays you in fries,” Lottie reminded her. “And yet I remain tragically undercompensated.” Robin flicked her wrist like a bored actress, then glanced at the clock above the register. “What time are you off again? I forgot to commit your suffering schedule to memory.”
“Four,” Lottie said. “Unless Ray decides to trap me here forever. Why?”
“Because,” Robin said, dropping her voice like she was sharing state secrets, “I finish at four-thirty, and I have dibs on your corpse for post-shift hanging out.” Lottie raised an eyebrow. “You want to hang out with my corpse?”
“Obviously not only your corpse,” Robin said. “Ideally you’d still be alive. But worst-case scenario, I can prop you up in the food court and we can judge people’s outfits. Weekend plans: solved.” Lottie snorted. “What did you have in mind? Besides haunting the Orange Julius stand.”
Robin’s expression brightened like that was the correct answer on a quiz only she knew they were taking. “Actually, I was thinking the carousel court.” Lottie blinked. “Why the carousel court? The carousel isn’t even there anymore.”
“Exactly,” Robin whispered dramatically. “It’s emotionally haunted. And the benches are comfy.”
“The benches are plastic.”
“Comfy adjacent,” Robin corrected. “But also, it echoes up there. Very moody. Very cinematic. Perfect for decompressing after capitalism.” Lottie snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re going with me,” Robin said, matter-of-fact. “Four-thirty. I’m kidnapping you. Bring snacks.” Lottie raised a brow. “You’re kidnapping me but I bring snacks?”
“That’s how friendship works,” Robin said proudly. “Also, if I show up empty-handed, your uncle will bribe me into doing dishes again, and I refuse to be domesticated by Ray.” Before Lottie could reply, the kitchen bell dinged aggressively.
“LANE! ORDER!” Ray yelled. “DON’T LET IT DIE OUT HERE!”
Lottie sighed. “Duty calls.”
Robin backed toward the doorway, but not before flicking her eyes toward Scoops one last time — a quick, instinctive scan. Steve was leaning on the counter, elbow propped, doing that stupid little half-smile he thinks is charming at a group of middle-schoolers choosing between flavors.
“Unbelievable,” Robin muttered. “He’s flirting with children now.”
“He’s being nice,” Lottie said, standing and smoothing her apron.
“He’s being Steve,” Robin countered. “Which is a disease. Highly contagious. Wear gloves.” Lottie rolled her eyes. “Go back to work.”
Robin pointed at her. “Four-thirty.” Then she slipped out, sailor hat bouncing crookedly as she jogged back across the hall. Lottie grabbed the plate from the window a BLT with fries, and took it to table six. The diner had that comfortable midday noise now: plates clinking, Ray humming an Elvis song off-key, someone laughing at something in the Sears across the way.
Chapter 14: Don’t spill your milkshake
Chapter Text
Ray’s Diner had settled into that weird half-quiet where the AC hummed louder than the customers. A couple of teenagers shared a basket of fries in the corner booth, arguing over a cassette tape. An older guy nursed his third cup of coffee at the counter like it owed him money. Someone’s crying baby in a stroller had finally, mercifully, fallen asleep. Lottie leaned against the soda fountain for exactly three seconds, letting the cool stainless steel press into her spine. “Don’t die on me,” Ray warned from the pass, flipping a burger. “You still gotta make it to four if I’m gonna brag you survived your first real shift.”
“I’m pacing myself,” she said. “Like a marathon.”
“Wrong sport,” he said. “This is more… dodgeball. But the balls are emotional damage and hot grease.” She snorted, pushing off the counter when the bell over the door chimed. Instinct kicked in: straighten the menus, check the tables, fake a smile that didn’t look completely feral.
It was Robin. She stepped into the diner like she owned it, sailor uniform slightly askew, hat tucked under her arm. Her hair stuck out in about three different directions like she’d fought a battle with static electricity and lost. “Wow,” she announced, sweeping a look over the checkered floor. “Look at you. Thriving in your natural habitat.”
“This is not my natural habitat,” Lottie said. “My natural habitat is horizontal.”
“That sounds wrong,” Robin said immediately, then winced. “Ignore that. I’m sleep-deprived.” She wandered up to the counter, drumming her fingers on the laminate. Across the hall, someone called her name from Scoops Ahoy, but she pretended not to hear it. “How’s it going?” she asked, eyes flicking over Lottie’s apron. “On a scale from ‘this is fine’ to ‘I live here now and the hash browns are my gods.’”
“Somewhere in the middle.” Lottie glanced at the clock above the milkshake machine. “Forty minutes till freedom.”
“Perfect,” Robin said. “Just enough time for you to contemplate faking your own death and then decide to be responsible instead.” Ray stuck his head out through the kitchen window. “Buckley! You better not be trying to steal my star employee.”
“Relax, Ray,” Robin said. “I’m just borrowing her after work. Think of it as… community building.” Ray narrowed his eyes. “No peer pressure. She already signed a blood oath to this diner.”
“Pretty sure that was just ketchup,” Lottie said.
“Tomato, tomahto,” Ray replied, disappearing again.
Robin leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was about to share classified intel. “So. After you escape from Fry Jail, we’re still on for our sad girl summit?”
“Carousel court?” Lottie asked.
“Obviously.” Robin nodded. “The acoustics demand our emotional baggage.” Lottie felt something unclench in her chest. “Yeah. I’m in.”
“Good.” Robin’s eyes went soft for half a second tiny, rare softness she never let anyone else see. Then it snapped away and she straightened, smacking her hand on the counter. “Okay. I gotta go pretend to smile at children again. Don’t die before four. I’d be so offended.” She spun to leave, then paused like she’d just remembered something. Her face did an odd little twist guilty and amused and resigned all at once. “Oh, hey,” she added. “If… uh… something… extra shows up later, just know I did my best.”
“What does that mean?” Lottie asked, but Robin was already backing toward the door. “Love you, bye!” she called, and then she was gone, sliding back into the Scoops Ahoy vortex.
———
By four, the diner was quiet enough that Lottie could hear the faint echo of the mall’s PA system announcing a sale on tube socks.
She dropped her last check at a table, refilled a coffee, and helped Ray roll a few sets of silverware just to prove she wasn’t about to abandon him mid-rush. He waved her toward the back eventually, insisting he could handle the handful of stragglers himself.
“You did good, kiddo,” he said, wiping a line of grease off the grill. “Go hang out. Be a person. Just be back tomorrow to suffer some more.”
“Looking forward to it,” she said dryly. She tugged her apron off in the cramped back room, shaking out her hair like she could dislodge the day. The uniform dress stayed—it was too much effort to change but she traded her sticky sneakers for her slightly-less-sticky sneakers from her bag. Small victories. Her reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror looked like she felt: tired, flushed, bangs still freakishly perfect.
When she stepped back into the main area, Ray was singing along off-key to an Elvis song playing faintly from the radio behind the kitchen. He caught her eye and gave her a little salute with the spatula.
“Tell Robin to stop stealing my ketchup bottles,” he called. “I know it’s her.”
“She says it’s for science,” Lottie said.
“She lied,” he replied. “But it’s funnier if I pretend to believe her.”
The mall outside was in late-afternoon mode: thinner crowds, quieter chatter, a different kind of tired hanging in the air. Lottie stepped out into the cool blast of AC, letting the door chime clatter shut behind her.
Across the hall, Scoops Ahoy was still lit up, but the line had dwindled to a couple of kids rattling change in their fists. She could see Robin behind the counter, gesturing with a scoop like it was a weapon. No sign of Steve from the doorway, but she didn’t linger to look. Instead, she headed for the escalator, weaving around a stroller and a cluster of teenage girls comparing shopping bags.
The upper level felt like another world. Up here, half the storefronts were dim or half-closed, the lights inside filtered and soft. The hum of the mall dropped into a gentle echo. The carousel court sat in the middle of it all, a wide ring of space marked by a different tile pattern and a low metal railing, like a ghost of where something used to spin. If she were younger she’d probably beg to ride it over and over till she puked.
Lottie stepped onto the tiled circle slowly, like she might disturb something invisible. The skylight above washed everything in warm yellow; the dust hung thick in the beams, dancing lazily as if the ride were still turning. She sank onto one of the curved white benches and let her muscles unspool. Her feet throbbed. Her knees pulsed. Her arms felt like noodles. She closed her eyes for exactly three seconds. “Wow,” Robin’s voice said. “Look at her. Our little fry soldier. Resting dramatically. Stunning.”
Lottie opened her eyes to find Robin approaching with a slouch that could only come from sheer emotional devastation. Her hat was jammed under her arm. Her apron was untied and dragging behind her like a sad cape. “You look like you got hit by a Dairy Queen truck,” Lottie said.
“I wish,” Robin said, flopping onto the bench beside her with a thud. “That would be a mercy.” Lottie nudged her shoulder. “What broke you?”
“A four-year-old ordered a double scoop and then forgot how to speak English halfway through paying,” Robin said, rubbing her face. “Kids are chaos goblins. I stand by that.”
“That tracks.” Robin let her head fall back, staring at the skylight. “Okay. Business. How’s your brain? Still intact? Do we need to chant or burn sage or something?”
“I just want to sit down,” Lottie said. “Forever.”
“Good,” Robin sighed. “We can haunt the mall together. Like ghosts of capitalism.” They sat in silence for a moment, both staring at the empty circle in front of them. Somewhere below, the mall PA crackled: Attention shoppers…
Robin groaned. “If they advertise tube socks one more time, I’m going to launch myself off the railing.” Lottie snorted. Robin elbowed her gently. “Hey. I’m proud of you.”
Lottie blinked. “For what?”
“For surviving your shift,” Robin said. “And not crying into the silverware bucket. That’s a rite of passage.” Lottie groaned. “Don’t remind me.” Robin paused, squinting at her like she was about to diagnose her with emotional disease.
“Okay, don’t be mad at me,” she said. “But—”
“No,” Lottie said immediately. “Absolutely not. Whatever you’re about to say, take it back.” Robin lifted both hands. “I tried! I tried so hard. But he’s persistent in a way that should honestly be studied by scientists.” Lottie blinked. “Robin…”
Robin sighed dramatically, slumping sideways until she bumped Lottie’s shoulder. “He invited himself.”
“Who—” Lottie started, but Robin cut her a look so flat she didn’t bother finishing the question. “Harrington,” Robin clarified. “Apparently he has nothing better to do with his time. Or his life. Or his sailor pants.”
Lottie stared at her. “What did you do.”
“I tried to do nothing,” Robin said, which was already suspicious. “I was back at Scoops, right? Wiping down the counter, muttering to myself like a normal, well-adjusted person about how we were going to come up here and complain about tube socks and late-stage capitalism—”
“You say that like that’s normal,” Lottie cut in. “It is for me,” Robin said. “Anyway. I said your name. Out loud. Once. And suddenly, there he was, popping up from behind the milkshake machine like a cursed jack-in-the-box.” Lottie groaned quietly, pressing her thumbs into her temples. “Of course he was.”
“Then he did this whole—” Robin hunched her shoulders and widened her eyes, doing an alarmingly accurate impression of Steve’s fake-casual. “‘Ohhh, you guys are hanging out? Like… later? Like… just the two of you? That’s cool, that’s… whatever. I don’t care. I mean, I could come, or not, or—’” She broke off, gagging. “It was like listening to a blender with emotions.” Lottie tried very hard not to picture it. “You could’ve said no.”
“I did say no,” Robin insisted. “I said, ‘No, this is a Sad Girl Summit, you’re not invited.’ And then he did the face.”
“The face?”
“The kicked-puppy, ‘my life is meaningless if I can’t third-wheel your emotional breakdown’ face. I swear, his eyes got bigger. It’s like a defense mechanism.” Lottie chewed the inside of her cheek. “And you… caved.”
“I held strong for a whole ten seconds,” Robin said. “Which, in Harrington Time, is basically a year. Then he started mumbling about how he didn’t really want to go home yet, and it was either this or reorganize his hair products again and—” She flopped back against the bench with a groan. “I cracked. I told him he could come if he brought snacks and didn’t make it weird.” Lottie stared at the empty circle where the carousel used to be, heart doing something that was definitely not allowed. “You can still un-invite him,” she said, though it came out thinner than she meant. “Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him I changed my mind. Tell him Ray said I have to scrub the grill with a toothbrush.”
“I thought about it,” Robin admitted. “Like, seriously. I got as far as dialing the Scoops phone to fake an emergency.” She tilted her head, studying Lottie’s profile. “But then I thought you might kill me.”
“For un-inviting him?” Lottie scoffed. “Why would I kill you for that?” Robin’s mouth tugged at one corner. “Because, tragically, you don’t actually hate him as much as you claim. It’s very sad for you. I’m mourning.” Heat crept into Lottie’s face before she could stop it. She crossed her arms, trying to look offended instead of exposed. “I barely know him.”
“Sure,” Robin said blandly. “And I barely know the Scoops jingle I sing eighty times a day.” Robin bumped their shoulders together again, gentler this time. “You’re allowed to like having him around, you know. It’s not a crime.”
“I don’t—” Lottie started.
“Save it,” Robin cut in. “I already talk to twelve-year-olds about their crushes all day, my meter’s full.” Lottie huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tension in her chest loosening by a fraction. “I don’t have a crush,” she said, mostly on instinct. “That’s not what this is.” Robin’s eyebrows climbed in slow motion. “Ohhh-kay. Sure. What is it, then? Scientific curiosity? Community service?”
“I just…” Lottie picked at a loose thread on her skirt, eyes fixed on the empty tile ring. “Still feel bad, that’s all.”
“Bad?” Robin echoed. “About what? His tragic sailor shorts? Because I agree, but—”
“But what?” Robin jerked so hard she nearly fell off the bench. Steve stood three feet away, one hand gripping the railing of the carousel court, the other holding a paper bag that was definitely leaking grease. His hair was haloed stupidly by the skylight behind him, like God herself was enabling his nonsense. “How long have you been standing there?” Robin demanded, hand over her chest like he’d just risen from the grave.“Uh…” Steve hitched the bag higher in his hand. “Not long? Short enough? I caught ‘tragic shorts,’ though.”
He glanced down at his sailor uniform pants, sighing. “I mean… fair.” Robin groaned into both hands. “I hate this mall. I hate you. I hate your stealth mode. You’re like a golden retriever in tap shoes, you shouldn’t be able to sneak up on people.”
“I wasn’t sneaking,” Steve protested, stepping closer. “I literally walked up the escalator. Loudly. I stomped, even.”
“No you didn’t,” Robin snapped. “You’re lying. You float.” Steve turned to her next, the teasing slipping into something gentler. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just… y’know.” He lifted the bag like an olive branch. “Brought fries.” Robin snatched it from him immediately. “Good. You can stay.”Steve rolled his eyes. “Nice to know my friendship is conditional.”
Robin ignored him, digging in the bag. “Your timing,” she told him, “is terrible, by the way.” Lottie found her voice at last. “You weren’t supposed to be here yet.” Steve blinked. “Robin said four-ish.”
“I said five-ish,” Robin corrected. “Then you shot me those stupid puppy eyes. You did the thing.”
“I didn’t do a thing—”
“You did the thing.” Robin waved a fry at him accusingly. “You tilted your head and did that sad shrug like someone said your bike died.” Steve muttered something under his breath about betrayal. Robin bit into a fry. “Anyway, congratulations, you interrupted a private conversation.” Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “You said ‘tragic shorts’ in public. That’s not private.” Robin pointed at Lottie. “We were talking about her feelings.”
Lottie choked. “No we weren’t.”
“Yes we were,” Robin insisted. “You literally said ‘I just…’ and then, poof! He appears like Beetlejuice.”
Steve looked between them, confused but amused. “Okay, wait—what did I interrupt?”
“Nothing,” Lottie said quickly.
“Nothing.” Robin said at the exact same time.
He sighed and dropped onto the bench on Lottie’s other side, the plastic squeaking under his weight. He wasn’t quite touching her there was a careful inch of space—but it still felt like he sat too close. Or not close enough and there was something annoying about that. He held the bag out between them again, less olive branch and more hostage. “Can we at least eat the peace offering before you guys roast me alive?” Robin snatched another fry, but Lottie took the bag this time, fingers brushing his for half a second. Static jumped up her arm. “What’d you bring?” she asked, peering inside.
“Fries from Ray,” Steve said. “And, uh—” he tapped the side of the bag “—some of that test fudge stuff Keith’s obsessed with. He gave it a name, but I forgot it because I don’t care.”
“You stole from both our employers,” Robin said. “Bold.”
“Ray literally shoved the basket at me,” Steve protested. “‘Take food, Harrington, she earned it,’” he added in a gruffer voice, doing a surprisingly good Ray impression. Lottie tried not to let that land anywhere weird in her chest. “I’m not hungry,” she lied, picking out a fry anyway. “Liar,” Robin said around a mouthful. Steve watched her take a bite like he was checking to see if she’d spit it out. When she didn’t, his shoulders loosened a little.
“So,” he said, glancing between them, “what’s a… sad girl summit?” Lottie nearly choked. But Robin answered before she could. “It’s where we come to complain about our lives and late-stage capitalism and sometimes cry about the ocean for no reason. You were not on the guest list.”
“Harsh,” he said. “I can be sad.”
“No,” Robin said. “You’re, like, golden retriever with a tennis ball. It’s against your brand.”
“I can be sad and golden retriever,” he argued. “Complex emotions, Buckley. Look it up.” Lottie swallowed her fry, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “You don’t have to stay,” she said, eyes on the railing. “If this is… lame or whatever.”
“What? No.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, twisting his watchband. “I like lame. Lame’s my specialty. Besides, I already did the dramatic entrance. Be a waste if I left.”
“Your entrance wasn’t dramatic,” Robin said. “You just exist too loudly.” Steve flipped her off without looking, still facing the empty ring below. “How was your first real day, anyway?” he asked Lottie, like Robin hadn’t just insulted his entire personality. “You, uh… didn’t look like you wanted to jump out a window, so I’m calling that a win.”
“It was fine,” Lottie said. “Busy.”
“Fine?” Robin echoed. “She single-handedly defeated a strawberry milkshake war crime. Ray should put a picture of her on the wall.” Steve glanced at her, interest brightening. “Yeah? First spill?”
“First catastrophe,” Robin corrected. “There was splash radius.” Lottie rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It’s not that deep. A toddler knocked it over.”
“And you,” Robin said, pointing a fry at her like a tiny accusing sword, “dealt with it without crying in the walk-in. That’s a gold star in food service.” Steve nodded solemnly. “She’s right. First day I worked at Scoops, a kid threw up blue raspberry all over the counter and I almost joined him.”
“You did join him,” Robin said. “You dry-heaved so loud I could hear it over the blender.” Steve linked his fingers together, like he was praying. “In my defense, it was really chunky.” Lottie made a face. “Okay, ew. I just got off work; don’t send me back there mentally.” He laughed, a quick, startled sound. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll save the horror stories for summit two.”
“Who said you’re invited to summit two?” Robin asked.
“Obviously me,” Steve said. “I’m delightful.”
“That’s debatable,” Robin muttered.
Lottie listened to them bicker, the sound oddly soothing. The knot that had been living under her sternum since she’d driven back into Hawkins loosened another millimeter, like someone was slowly turning a dial. She risked a glance at him. He was watching the open space where the carousel used to be, brow faintly furrowed. In this light, he looked less like King Steve and more like some boy she vaguely remembered from summers on her street—the one who’d ridden his bike too fast and waved at the wrong moment and ended up bleeding in her mother’s roses. Guilt flickered under her ribs. Stupid. Old. Stuck.
She shoved another fry in her mouth to shut it up. Robin must’ve felt the shift, because she leaned back against the bench, tipping her head toward Lottie’s shoulder like she was casually stretching. “So,” she said breezily, “Harrington. Since you crashed our summit, you have to answer questions.” He narrowed his eyes. “What is this, a deposition?”
“Yes,” Robin said. “Swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but your tragic choices?”
“Objection,” he said. “Leading the witness.”
“Overruled,” she shot back. “Why’d you really invite yourself?” He made a face. “Because I heard you say ‘sad girl summit’ and I thought, ‘You know who could use one of those? Me.’” Robin stared.
He shifted, suddenly fidgety. “And, like… I didn’t wanna go home yet.” He shrugged like that was nothing. Something in Lottie went quiet at that. She knew that feeling too well not wanting to go home because home felt like a loaded word. “You could’ve met up with Tommy or… whoever,” she said, before she could stop herself. “Nah,” Steve said, gaze still on the tile. “Different… crowd.”
Robin’s eyes flicked between them, catching the undercurrent, then softening for half a breath before she covered it with a smirk. “Translation: we’re the only ones who tolerate his sailor uniform.” “That, and you have better fries,” he responded.
Steve leaned back too, mirroring Robin, shoulders brushing the bench behind them. “So,” he said. “What do you guys normally do up here? Besides talk trash about my shorts.”
“Judge people’s outfits,” Robin said. “Rank the worst mall announcements. Occasionally have existential crises.”
“Sometimes we count how many kids run full speed into the Orange Julius sign,” Robin added. Steve brightened. “Okay, that actually sounds fun. How many’s the record?”
“Four in one afternoon,” Robin said proudly. “You get used to it,” Robin said. “The mall. The noise. The weird people-watching energy. It’s like… Hawkins, but pressurized.”
Steve nodded. “Like a snow globe version of the town. Sparkly, fake, a little claustrophobic.”
“And deeply cursed,” Robin added. “Deeply,” Steve agreed. Lottie let her gaze sweep the upper level again the half-lit shop windows, the flickering neon, the escalators humming like slow machinery. When she’d left Hawkins, this place didn’t exist. When she came back, it had swallowed half the town. She wasn’t sure how she fit into it yet. But sitting here—between Robin’s relentless honesty and Steve’s weird earnestness—it didn’t feel as impossible as it had that morning. “So,” Steve said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “If this is your special clubhouse—” he gestured vaguely around the empty tile ring “—do I need, like… a password or something?”
“Yes,” Robin said immediately.
“Absolutely,” Lottie added, surprising herself.
Steve’s mouth fell open. “Wait—seriously?” Robin nodded gravely. “Super serious. You can’t just stumble in here with your tragic shorts and expect entry.”
“Okay,” Steve said, offended and delighted in equal measure. “First of all—my shorts are fine.”
“They’re a cry for help,” Robin muttered.
“And second,” he continued, ignoring her, “what’s the password?” Robin looked at Lottie. Lottie looked back, pulse kicking in her throat like she’d been given a stage cue she didn’t know. After a beat, she cleared her throat. “Um… it’s… ‘don’t spill your milkshake.’” Robin snorted so loudly she almost inhaled a fry. “Oh my God, yes. That’s perfect.”
Steve grinned slowly, a little crooked. “Okay. Fine. Password accepted.”
“You’re not the one accepting it,” Robin said. “I kinda am,” Steve shot back. “Since apparently I’m the only one who brought snacks to the secret clubhouse.”
“That’s fair,” Robin said. “He has a point.”
“I do?” Steve blinked.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
Lottie felt something warm settle low in her chest like the heaviness from the morning, the panic and the rushing and the feeling of being out of place, had finally started dissolving. She glanced sideways at Steve. He wasn’t looking at the tile or the escalators anymore.
He was looking at her. Not King Steve. Not the loud boy with too much hair gel. Just the same boy who once rode his bike too fast on her street. The one she didn’t know but somehow recognized.
Her heart stuttered.
Robin popped another fry in her mouth. “So who’s up for the Orange Julius death-watch round two?” Steve tore his gaze away from Lottie like he’d been caught. “Absolutely.” Lottie swallowed, nodded, and leaned back into the bench.
Chapter 15: Victory Lap
Notes:
Hello friends, I ment to get this out around the 100 mark…..but I procrastinated and now we’re more at the like 170 views mark but regardless thank you. I hope you’ve been enjoying my little story. And I hope you keep reading. Stay hot and sexy
-Lev
Chapter Text
“…I’m just saying,” Robin was insisting, waving an empty fry sleeve like a flag, “if you die via Orange Julius sign, that’s Darwinism.”
“That’s harsh,” Steve said. “What if it’s, like, a really profound orange juice emergency?”
“There’s no such thing as a profound orange juice emergency,” Robin shot back. “Name one.”
“Scurvy,” Steve said immediately. Lottie snorted so hard she almost choked, It was stupid. It was nothing. It was exactly what she hadn’t realized she’d been craving: a place to sit that wasn’t her bed or a break room, people who knew how to fill silence without asking for anything she wasn’t ready to give. Still, eventually, gravity won. Her back started to complain about the bench. Robin stretched until her joints cracked like a glowstick.
“Okay,” Robin groaned, “if I sit here any longer, my spine is going to fuse to this bench and Ray will have to serve pancakes off me. I need to move.” Steve stood too, hands sinking into his pockets. “We could do a victory lap,” he said. “Celebrate Lottie’s first official day of capitalism servitude.”
“A lap around the mall?” Lottie asked.
“It’s like… a cool-down,” he said. “Athletes do it all the time in movies.” Robin squinted at him. “When have you ever finished a sports thing?”
“I played basketball,” he protested.
“Yeah, when Ford was in office,” she shot back.
He flipped her off again. Lottie rolled her ankles, testing their willingness to cooperate. “A lap,” she decided, “as long as no one makes me run, jump, or perform basic math.”
“Reasonable conditions,” Robin said, looping her arm through Lottie’s and dragging her up. They shuffled out of the carousel court like three old ladies leaving bingo. The noise of the mall grew as they approached the escalator, but after the quiet ring of tile and skylight, it still felt muffled. They rode down, Robin leaning on the handrail like a Victorian heroine with consumption. Steve stood one step behind Lottie, one hand a few inches from her back like he was ready to catch her if she face-planted.
She tried not to notice that. At the bottom, they veered past the Orange Julius, dodging a guy with a pretzel and a girl with far too many Claire’s bags. Steve pointed briefly at the sign like he was saluting a fallen comrade. “Till next time.”
“May your victims be clumsy,” Robin intoned.
They were halfway to Scoops, laughter still hanging thin and ridiculous between them, when Lottie felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Someone was watching.
It was a light thing, barely there, but years of being the girl people whispered about had tuned that particular instinct sharp. Her eyes flicked forward—empty bench, potted ficus, a group of middle schoolers arguing about a movie. Nothing.
Then she heard it.
“Steve?” His name, not loud, but clear. It came from just ahead of them, where the walkway widened by the fountain. A woman’s voice, warm and bright and edged in something that made Lottie’s stomach dip.
Donna was standing by the railing, one hand curved around the handle of a stroller. The mini skirt swished around her knees, the hem catching a flare of neon. Her letterman jacket was cinched at the waist with a skinny belt, neat and composed. Her cassette player bumped gently against her hip. Her hair was smoothed into waves that looked like they’d taken actual effort.
She looked like she’d stepped out of a catalog and onto the tile.
In the stroller, a small figure was wrestling with the safety buckle like it had personally wronged him.
“Oh my God,” Robin whispered. “She brought reinforcements.”
Steve froze for a half-second, caught in full view like he’d been spotlighted. His whole posture changed shoulders straightening, chin lifting, the old King Steve armor sliding over him almost visibly. Lottie watched it happen and hated that she could tell the difference now. “Hey,” he called, amazed at how the one syllable could sound guilty and pleased and tired all at once. Donna’s face lit up, a genuine flash of it, before she clocked the trio he was walking with. Lottie, beside him. Robin, attached to Lottie’s arm like an annoying barnacle. The light dimmed a fraction and Lottie was absolutely looking. “There you are,” Donna said, pushing the stroller forward. “I have been trying to track you down for twenty minutes, you said you had work today so I thought I’d pop by and visit.”
“Oh,” she added, quick, adding a smile like a fresh coat of gloss. “Hi. Lottie, right?” Lottie swallowed, forcing her throat to work. “Yeah. Hi.” Donna’s eyes flicked from Steve to Robin to Lottie, taking in the trio like she’d just stumbled on something she hadn’t been warned about. Donna’s polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I didn’t know you all hung out after work,” she said lightly.
Robin perked up. “We drag her up to the carousel court so we can complain about the mall. It’s very therapeutic. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
Steve shot her a look that screamed stop talking. Donna nodded once, hands tightening on the stroller handle. “I’ve just… been trying to find you.” She aimed it at Steve. “I called the house. I even stopped by Scoops. Keith said you ‘wandered off.’ Again.”
Steve winced. “I wasn’t wandering. I was—”
“With us,” Robin filled in. “Wandering as a team.”
Lottie resisted the urge to elbow her.
Donna wet her lips, still smiling, still too bright. “It’s just…” She looked at Steve again. “It would’ve been nice to know.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you, I swear. I just needed some air after my shift and—”
“And you found it,” Donna said gently, though something sharper sat beneath the words. Her gaze slid to Lottie. Not cruel or catty. Just curious. Like she was trying to place a puzzle piece that hadn’t been on the table before. Lottie felt her face warm under the scrutiny. Steve stepped slightly in front of her without seeming to notice, shoulder bumping hers. “We were just doing one lap,” he said. “Cooling down.”
Donna hummed, polite and clipped, but her fingers tightened on the stroller handle—right as the entire thing jerked violently.
“Okay,” Robin said, pointing. “Either the stroller’s haunted or something inside is trying to jailbreak.”
CLICK. The buckle popped. Donna’s eyes widened in horror. “Caleb—don’t you—” But it was late. A curly-headed toddler shot upright like a champagne cork popping. He blinked once at the world, processing this new freedom and then immediately launched himself out of the stroller with absolutely zero aim or self-preservation. “HEY!!!” he shrieked. Lottie barely had time to gasp before the toddler slammed into her legs like a tiny battering ram, arms latching around her shins. “Oof—!” she staggered and caught him before he hit the ground. She instinctively hoisted him up, his little limbs wrapping around her like a koala who had chosen her as his new tree. “Oh my god,” Robin whispered, delighted. “He chose her.” Caleb grabbed two fistfuls of Lottie’s hair and pulled himself closer, staring at her face with big, curious, unblinking eyes.
Then loudly, decisively, as if announcing the winner of a contest he declared: “HIIIIIIIII!”
Lottie blinked. “Uh… hi?”
He did not know her name.
He did not care.
He had found a tall, warm, non-Donna human and that was enough.
Donna sighed, mortified. “Caleb, sweetheart, that’s not—she’s not—can you not attack strangers?” Caleb ignored her completely, patting Lottie’s cheeks with sticky hands like she was a fascinating new species. Steve stared like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. Robin elbowed him. “Dude. You’re getting out-charmed by someone who can’t even spell his name.” Steve glared at her. “He’s two.” Robin nudged his side with her elbow, “Yea. And he’s winning.”
And then- A voice drifted over them, warm and familiar in a totally different way.
“Yeah, he does that.”
Donna groaned as Danny strolled into view, headphones hanging around his neck, curls flopping across his forehead, a lazy grin tugging one corner of his mouth. “Caleb attaches to literally everyone except Donna,” Danny said, stopping beside them. “She takes it very personal.”
Donna rolled her eyes so hard she nearly levitated. “He doesn’t attach. He ambushes.”
Danny ignored her, eyes flicking to Lottie—then to the toddler clinging to her like a barnacle. “Wow,” he said, smile widening. “He really likes you.”
“I don’t think he knows who I am,” Lottie said weakly. Caleb responded by smooshing his entire face against her shoulder and humming loudly. Danny laughed. “Yeah. That’s him liking you.” Steve made a noise that could only be described as the human equivalent of static interference.
Donna’s smile had thinned to something polite and papery. “Caleb,” she murmured, reaching to pry him off, “sweetheart, let go she’s not—” Caleb squirmed violently and refused, arms tightening around Lottie like a python. “No!” Danny snorted. “He hates being put back.” Donna shot him a glare only siblings mastered. “He’s not supposed to launch himself at strangers.” Danny shrugged, unbothered. “He’s an equal-opportunity clinger.” Caleb, proving the point, pressed his entire face into Lottie’s shoulder and hummed like he knew a lullaby she didn’t. “He does this with, like, two people,” Danny added. “Three now, I guess.” Lottie felt her cheeks heat. “I don’t think he picked me on purpose.”
“Yeah he did,” Danny said, grinning. “He probably likes your outfit.” Donna’s smile tightened, and she clamped her hands over the stroller handle like she was trying to wring the metal into submission. “Regardless, he needs to come back to me.” She took a step forward, arms extended. Caleb lifted his head, eyes wide, betrayed, and immediately recoiled back into Lottie’s shoulder. “Noooo,” he whined, kicking one foot defensively. “No Donna!”
Donna closed her eyes for one long, painful beat. “Caleb,” she said through gritted teeth, “we don’t say ‘no Donna.’” Caleb responded by squeezing Lottie tighter. “No Donna,” he repeated, louder this time, like an incantation. Robin dissolved. “Okay, I’m sorry, that’s objectively hilarious.”
“Robin,” Steve hissed.
“What? It IS!”
Donna visibly recalibrated, forcing a bright, brittle smile. “He’s… overtired. And easily overstimulated.” Danny nodded. “Yeah, that’s what we call it.” Donna shot him a death glare but Danny didn’t notice—or pretended not to. Meanwhile, Caleb began rhythmically patting Lottie’s shoulder again, apparently settling in for the long haul.
Steve let out a breath he’d been holding. “Lottie, seriously—are you okay? You don’t have to hold him if you don’t want to.” Lottie blinked, surprised by how…gentle he sounded. “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine,” she said quickly, though her arms were definitely starting to ache. Steve scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay,” he muttered, stepping closer, “can—can someone help me get him off her before he fuses?”
“Good luck,” Danny said, folding his arms like he was about to enjoy the show. Donna sighed, straightened her jacket, and approached again with pure, older-sister determination. “Caleb,” she said, holding out her arms firmly, “it’s time to come back to me.” He turned and hissed at her. Donna jerked her hand back like she’d touched a live wire.
Danny covered his mouth to hide a laugh. Robin did not hide hers. “Oh my GOD,” Robin wheezed. “He’s feral.” Steve dragged a hand down his face. “We have to do something. He’s gonna fuse permanently.” And Lottie feeling the little toddler koala tightening his limbs around her torso, cheek smushed into her collarbone—just exhaled and made a quiet decision. “It’s fine,” she said, lifting her chin. “Really. I can just carry him for the lap. It’ll calm him down.” She shrugged carefully so she didn’t dislodge Caleb’s little death grip. “He clearly doesn’t want to go back yet.” Donna blinked at her like she’d suggested performing surgery.
“You—want to carry him?”
“I don’t want to,” Lottie said honestly, adjusting her hold as Caleb drooled on her shoulder. “But I don’t mind.” Caleb perked up like he understood English perfectly.
“Yay!” he declared, patting her cheek. Danny leaned toward Steve. “Man, I’m telling you, she’s got magic or something.” Robin elbowed him. “No, that’s just competence. The rest of you should try it.” Steve ignored her. His eyes flicked to Lottie, warm and worried and something else he quickly masked. “You really don’t have to,” he said quietly.
She gave him a tiny smile. “It’s one lap, Steve. I survived Ray’s diner. I can survive a toddler.” Caleb hummed contentedly, proving her point. Donna hesitated, visibly torn between the humiliation of being rejected by a two-year-old and the prospect of spending uninterrupted time with Steve. “I mean… if you’re sure,” she said cautiously. “I’m sure,” Lottie nodded. “Go walk. Talk. Whatever.”
Donna’s face brightened so quickly it was almost jarring.“Oh! Okay, your awesome truly. ” She glanced at Steve, a little hopeful lift in her brows. Steve coughed awkwardly and nodded. “Uh—yeah. Sure.” Robin clapped once. “Perfect! Delegate the child to the responsible adult and the rest of you go be young and romantic or whatever. I’ll supervise.” She shot Lottie a wink half teasing, half I’ve got your back. Danny pushed off the railing, falling into step beside Lottie automatically. “I’ll help keep him from, y’know, jumping out of your arms near the playhouse like a rabid dog.”
Caleb slapped Danny’s shoulder with one sticky hand. “Daaaanny.” Danny grinned. “What’s up, dude.” But Steve lingered just a second too long. Eyes glued on Lottie. On Caleb. On her shoulders holding the weight of someone else’s chaos like it was natural. “You’re sure?” he asked again, softer this time. “Go,” she said gently. “It’s fine.” And Steve hesitant, conflicted, but pulled by Donna’s expectant smile finally stepped toward her.
“Okay. Uh—thanks,” he murmured.
Robin immediately latched onto Lottie’s free side, cheerfully narrating, “Okay! Onward! The victory lap, now with bonus toddler!” Steve and Donna peeled off toward the middle, falling into step side by side. Donna still had one hand on the stroller handle. Lottie hung back with Robin and Danny, Caleb fused to her like a sleepy backpack.
He’d stopped squirming the second they started walking, resorting instead to batting softly at her hair and occasionally muttering “mm,” like this was the comfiest he’d ever been. “See?” Danny said under his breath. “Movement knocks him out. Human tranquilizer.” Lottie shifted Caleb higher, already feeling the pull in her shoulders. “How long does it take?”
“For him?” Danny shrugged. “Could be one minute. Could be twenty. He’s unpredictable. Like a tiny drunk guy.”
Robin snorted. “He’s adorable. Chaos, but adorable.” Caleb responded by patting Lottie’s cheek with a sleepy “Hi,” even though he wasn’t opening his eyes. They rounded the corner toward the quieter side of the mall the one with the craft store, the half-closed pet shop, and the kiosk that only sold knockoff sunglasses. A small cluster of kids ran past them, and Caleb tensed, his hands tightening in Lottie’s shirt. “Hey, hey,” she murmured, bouncing slightly. “It’s okay. Just kids.”
He relaxed instantly. Danny pretended not to smile. “Careful. If you talk to him like that, he’ll follow you home.” Robin let out a short laugh. “Yeah, prepare for custody.”
Up ahead, Steve and Donna slowed their pace. They weren’t touching, but Donna kept leaning in as she talked, her fingers occasionally brushing the strap of her purse, hair tucked behind one ear in that way girls did when they wanted to be noticed.
Steve listened. Politely. A little distant. Nothing dramatic—just a slight crease between his brows. Caleb sighed a long, soft sigh against her neck and finally went limp—a full toddler surrender.
“Oh good,” Danny said quietly. “He’s out. If he wakes up mid-walk, though? You’ll know. He screams like a siren.” Lottie huffed. “So I just hold him like this?”
“Pretty much.” Danny straightened the back of Caleb’s shirt so it covered him. “You’re doing great.” Robin nodded. “Yeah. And honestly? Donna needed the space. She looked… frazzled.” Lottie kept her eyes forward. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” Robin cut in gently. “I know. You’re just… decent. Sometimes that helps.” They continued around the long loop of the mall. Tile underfoot. Muffled chatter. The smell of pretzels drifting from the food court. Steve glanced back once to make sure Caleb wasn’t screaming. Instead he saw Caleb sleeping quietly against her. Danny walking beside her. Robin on her other side. Lottie balancing a toddler she didn’t owe anything to, shoulders tense but steady. Steve’s steps faltered for half a second.
Donna said something then something light, something teasing—and he turned back toward her, giving a polite answer. They reached the far end of the mall where the lights were dimmer, a few stores already pulling down their gates for the night. Caleb shifted, burrowing deeper into Lottie’s shoulder.
Danny tilted his head at her. “You sure you’re okay to keep going? We can swap. Or Robin’ll take him if he bites.” Robin shook her head immediately. “Absolutely not. I like my shoulder intact.” Lottie adjusted her grip, exhaling slowly. “It’s okay. I said I’d do one lap.”
“You’re allowed to hand him off if you need a break,” Robin murmured.
“I know,” Lottie said.
By the time they caught up to Steve and Donna again, they were almost back at the wide space by the fountain. Donna had both hands on the stroller now, walking in neat, precise little steps. Steve’s hands were back in his pockets.
Donna turned when she heard them approach. Whatever she’d been saying to Steve dimmed at the edges when she saw Caleb still asleep on Lottie’s shoulder. “Oh.” She blinked, surprise cracking through the polish. “He—he actually… stayed?”
“Out like a light,” Danny said. “Told you. Human tranquilizer.” Lottie shifted her grip, feeling her fingers start to tingle. “He’s heavy, though. If one of you—”
“Oh—yeah, here.” Steve stepped in automatically, arms lifting. “I got him.” Caleb stirred as Steve took his weight, making a small, offended noise before resettling against Steve’s chest like he knew this person too, in some other, softer context. Steve huffed out a tiny laugh, relief loosening his shoulders. “Hey, buddy. Didn’t even scream at me this time. Progress.”
Donna exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the entire lap. “Thank you,” she said to Lottie, and this time it sounded more like it came from somewhere real. “Seriously. I didn’t think he’d let anyone else hold him if he was upset.” “It’s okay,” Lottie said, flexing her hands. Her arms felt weirdly light and heavy at the same time. “He picked me. I just… went along with it.”
Danny snorted. “See your practically a toddler magician.” Donna brushed a curl off Caleb’s forehead and started fussing with the stroller straps, angling him carefully from Steve’s arms back into the seat without waking him. It was practiced, automatic; whatever else she was, she was used to doing this part.
Robin checked the clock on the wall. “Okay, before we all pass out Lottie and I should probably let you domestic types get home.” “And me,” Danny added. “I am tragically domestic. I own one plant.”
Donna snorted. “It’s dead.”
“Semantics,” he said.
They all sort of hovered there for a moment, at the edge of splitting apart. The fountain burbled. An escalator hummed. The world moved around them. “Thanks again,” Donna said to Lottie, a little quieter now. “For helping with Caleb. And for not… freaking out when he decided you were his new jungle gym.” Lottie shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “He’s sweet. Dramatic. But sweet.”
“That’s this whole family,” Danny said. Donna elbowed him. Robin tugged lightly at Lottie’s sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s go liberate your feet from those shoes before they file a complaint.”
“We’ll see you,” Lottie told Steve, keeping it casual. “Yeah,” he said, staring at her just a fraction too long. “See you.” They started to peel off—Robin steering them toward the exit when Danny called, “Hey, Lottie?” She paused, turning back. Danny had one hand still shoved in his pocket, the other fidgeting with the broken cord of his headphones. He stepped closer, just enough to stay out of Donna’s earshot. “You did good,” he said, chin tipping toward the now-dozing Caleb. “Most people hand him back as soon as he squeals. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” she said. “He latched on.”
“Yeah,” Danny said, “but you could’ve made it miserable. You didn’t.” He hesitated for half a beat, then dug into his pocket and came up with a crumpled movie stub and a pen that looked like it had been chewed on. “Here,” he said, flattening the paper against the stroller handle long enough to scrawl something on the back. His handwriting was looping, a little chaotic. He held it out to her between two fingers.
Lottie frowned. “What’s that?”
“My number,” he said, easy. “For when Caleb inevitably demands the ‘tree lady’ again.” His smile tugged up on one side. “Or, y’know. If you ever need a break from this place and want to complain about it with someone who doesn’t work here.” Her fingers brushed his as she took it. The paper was warm from his hand. “Oh,” she said, brilliant as always. “Um. Okay.” Robin’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly left her face.
Behind them, Steve had gone very still. Danny stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets again like it was no big deal. “No pressure,” he added. “Just figured—Caleb’s picky. He doesn’t attach to just anyone. Kinda says something.” Robin hooked her arm through Lottie’s again, already buzzing with unasked questions. “Alright, before she collapses from holding your human bowling ball, we are leaving.”
“Bye, Lottie!” Donna called, with a smile that was almost real. “Bye,” Steve echoed, softer. Lottie let Robin tow her away, the scrap of paper crinkling between her fingers.
Chapter 16: Almost Safe
Chapter Text
“I’m just saying,” Robin declared, talking with both hands even though she was in the passenger seat and absolutely not in control of the vehicle, “you were like the Pied Piper of Toddlers back there. Did you see Steve’s face? I thought his brain was going to crawl out his ear and file a complaint.” The night air came in warm through the cracked windows, sticky with the smell of cut grass and the faint, fried-thing ghost of the food court. Hawkins blurred past in sodium-orange streaks. Lottie’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel. “I saw his face,” she muttered. “He just didn’t want Caleb to fuse to my spine forever.”
“Uh, no.” Robin clicked her tongue. “That was the face of a man watching a toddler imprint on his crush like a baby duck.”
“Okay, no,” Lottie said quickly, almost clipping a mailbox. “We are not using the word crush. Take it back.” Robin slumped dramatically against the door. “Fine. Fine. His….intense fondness.” She perked back up a second later, unable to help herself. “Donna looked like she wanted to strangle me with a stroller strap,” Lottie said instead.
“Donna always looks like she wants to strangle someone,” Robin replied. “Usually Steve. Tonight you were just the decoy.” She turned in her seat, studying Lottie’s profile. “For the record? You handled that whole thing like a champ. Most people would’ve handed Caleb back the second he went gremlin mode.”
“He hissed at her,” Lottie said, a helpless half-laugh breaking through. Lottie didn’t have an answer for that, so she let the radio fill the space instead. Some soft rock station fuzzed in and out through the static. The mall seemed far away already, like a place she’d imagined. She pulled up in front of Robin’s house a few minutes later. The Buckley driveway was cluttered with bikes and a lopsided basketball hoop, the porch light casting a crooked triangle onto the yard. Robin unbuckled with the aggression of someone escaping a restraining device. “Okay,” she said, gathering her vest and bag. “You, my heroic tree lady, need to go home, ice your arms, and bask in the knowledge that you out-charmed Donna’s DNA.”
“That’s not—” Lottie started. “Non-negotiable,” Robin cut in. She hesitated with one foot out the door, leaning back in. “Hey. You’re coming by before your shift tomorrow, right? So we can continue your indoctrination into mall hell?”Lottie let her head fall back against the headrest for a second. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Good.” Robin’s smile flickered, less sharp, more real. “And, uh… if you decide you want to use that number? Or not use it, or burn it, or whatever? You can talk to me about it. I’m very mature and extremely wise. Basically guru material-“
“Got it, Guru Buckley,” Lottie said, lips tugging up. “Now get out of my car before I start charging you.”Robin saluted, then hopped out, jogging up the walk. She turned at the porch, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Night, Lane!” she called. “Don’t let the toddlers bite!”
The drive home from Robin’s felt shorter. Maybe it was the absence of commentary. Maybe it was the way Hawkins folded in around her, familiar streets knitting together like a map she hadn’t realized she’d missed. She passed the dark hulk of the middle school, the empty lot where the old Ray’s Diner used to be before the mall swallowed it, the gas station that always smelled like burnt coffee. Cicadas screamed in the trees. The sky hung low and hazy, the last bruised streaks of sunset gone. Her dad’s house sat a little back from the road, crouched under a big maple, its branches drooping over the roof like a hand. Two of the front steps creaked; the third always felt like it might give way if you didn’t hit it just right. The living room light was off when she pulled up. The only glow came from the kitchen fluorescent, humming, too bright—and the little rectangle of blue from the TV in the den. She killed the engine and sat there for a second, fingers still curled around the wheel. The silence after the car shut off was loud, pressing into her skin along with the humid air.
Home, she thought, and then, automatically, not really. Inside, the house smelled like detergent and whatever frozen dinner her dad had thrown in the oven before heading to his night shift. A note was magneted to the fridge in his messy block letters.
LOTTIE—
WORKING LATE. LEFT YOU LASAGNA IN THE FRIDGE. LOVE YOU. CALL RAY IF YOU NEED ANYTHING.
—DAD
There was a little smiley face tacked on like an afterthought. Her throat compressed around something she didn’t want to name. She ate two forkfuls of cold lasagna standing at the counter, then gave up and shoved the plate back in the fridge. The cheap kitchen clock ticked too loudly. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog barked and kept barking. Her legs were starting to feel heavy, the bone-deep tired rolling in. She flicked off the kitchen light and crept up the narrow hall. She pushed the door open with her hip and exhaled, tension she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying loosening as the golden glow met her. It didnt look like a office anymore. Every available surface seemed to be holding something that belonged to her. Strings of mismatched fairy lights looped around the slanted ceiling, tacked into the wood paneling and the floral wallpaper that had come with the house. They turned the room honey-warm, softening the corners, blurring the lines where the walls met the angled roof.
Paper leaves she’d dug out of a box of old fall decorations hung from yarn over the single small window, casting little shadows. The window unit air conditioner rattled quietly, blowing out air that smelled faintly like dust and rain. Plaid curtains pooled on the sill, framing the square of deep-blue night outside.
Her bed sat in the middle of it all, tucked under the lowest part of the ceiling, a riot of mismatched quilts and thrifted pillowcases. Her comforter a sun-faded orange and red patchwork was finally spread out instead of crumpled at the foot. A stuffed fox she’d had since she was seven leaned against the pillows, ears flattened from too many nights being used as a stress ball. The bedside table was already a disaster: a stack of paperbacks with cracked spines, a half-finished glass of water, an empty mug with lipstick on the rim, a tiny lamp with a shade someone had doodled stars all over in pen. A record player sat by the lamp, two records shoved inbetween it and the wall.
She dropped her bag by the door, toeing off her shoes with a sigh bordering on a groan. The arch of her right foot throbbed in time with her heartbeat. “Mutiny,” she told her feet. “I get it. I’ll file your complaint.” She peeled off Ray’s diner dress, careful with the buttons, and traded it for a soft oversized t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts that had seen better days. Caleb’s sticky handprints were still faintly visible on the fabric where he’d clung to her; she made a face and tossed the dress into the laundry basket in the corner. In the mirror above her dresser, she caught a glimpse of herself: flushed cheeks, a faint smear of mascara under one eye, shoulders sloping in that way that meant exhaustion had gotten past her armor. Her fingers slipped into her pocket again, closing around the folded ticket stub. She pulled it out this time, smoothing it carefully on top of the dresser. The front was the movie logo, half-worn, fuzzed at the edges. On the back, in looping, chaotic pen, was a number and DANNY scrawled above it like he wasn’t sure she’d remember his name.
She could hear his voice in her head: ‘No pressure. Just figured—‘ Lottie tapped the edge of the paper with her nail. Her chest felt crowded. Not in a bad way, exactly. “Tree lady,” she muttered, lips twitching. “God.” She could throw it away. Crumple it, toss it into the little trash can under her desk, never think about it again. Instead her hand moved on its own, sliding the stub between the pages of the book at the top of her stack. She pressed it there like a pressed flower, then snapped the book shut.
Her gaze snagged on the far wall where she’d started pinning up photographs and scraps of things: a picture of her and Uncle Ray outside the old diner, both of them squinting into the sun; a cut-out from a magazine of some European street she’d never see; a faded Polaroid from middle school where she’d half-hidden behind friends she wasn’t sure she could name anymore. There was space there. Blank wallpaper waiting.
She shook the thought off and climbed onto the bed, careful not to knock her head on the slanted ceiling. The mattress sighed under her, springs creaking in protest. She flicked on the the record player, carefully setting the needle on the vinyl. She propped herself against the pillows and let the music wash over her. Her muscles started to unwind stitch by stitch, tension leaking out into the quilts.
She shifted onto her side, tugging the blanket up. The ceiling felt closer at night, like it might fold down over her if she breathed too loudly. But the lights made it feel less like a lid, more like a tent. She pulled the fox plush into the curve of her chest. The fabric was worn thin in places; her thumb found a frayed seam automatically. “I survived Ray’s diner,” she murmured to nobody, repeating her own words from earlier. “I can survive a toddler. I can survive this.” Her eyelids were heavy. Somewhere in the house, a pipe clanged. The AC in the window hiccuped, then kept rattling.
For a moment, just a moment—the fairy lights along the slanted wall flickered. One strand stuttered, the bulbs dimming to a dull orange before brightening again. Lottie’s eyes were already half-closed. She saw the brief change without really seeing it, brain chalking it up to old wiring and overworked outlets. Hawkins houses did that all the time.
Outside the window, the night pressed close, deep and black beyond the curtain of paper leaves. Somewhere far off, thunder rumbled, too soft to be anything but a suggestion. Lottie tucked herself deeper into the nest she’d made, surrounded on all sides by her things, her lights, her pillows. It was the safest she’d felt in a long time. She didn’t notice, how the shadow under her door seemed a shade too dark, or how the air in the far corner of the room had gone just a degree too cold. She was asleep by the time the fairy lights along the ceiling flickered once more longer this time—before settling back into their warm, unwavering orange glow.
Chapter 17: Where Hawkins Ends
Chapter Text
Her eyes flew open, heart thudding against her ribs. It took her half a second to realize something was off. Her room was quiet. The AC in the window, which always rattled like it wanted to die, wasn’t making a sound. The record on the player had finished, but there was no soft static. Even the house wasn’t settling—not a groan, not a tick, not the usual pipes pulsing under the floor. Just… nothing.
Her breath came out in a small white puff. Lottie frowned and pushed herself up on her elbows. The air was cold- colder than her attic ever got with a window unit from the 70s. Her blankets felt damp, heavy. Her shirt clung to her back like she’d fallen asleep in a basement. She blinked hard, trying to clear the last fog of sleep. Her fairy lights glowed weakly along the slanted ceiling, flickering every few seconds like they were shorting out. The wallpaper, normally warm-toned under the lights, looked grey-blue. Her quilts had lost their color. Everything looked drained.
She sat up fully now, the mattress cold beneath her. Her fox plush had toppled to one side, its fur dusted with something grey. Her bedside table—a mess of books and mugs looked warped, edges swollen like they’d gotten wet. Her breath puffed again. Lottie shoved the blanket off, swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet touched the floor and she flinched—the boards were freezing, damp enough that moisture pressed between her toes. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Dad?” she called out instinctively.
Nothing. Not even the muffled sound of the den TV. Not the hum of the fridge downstairs. Not the whir of the bathroom fan her dad always forgot to turn off.
The house was dead silent.
She pushed herself up, moving slowly because everything felt wrong, like she was walking underwater. Her body was awake, but the air made her feel heavy. Slowed.
She crossed to her bedroom door and grabbed the knob.
It twisted normally but the door didn’t open.
It didn’t tug. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even click against the frame.
It was like the door was painted onto the wall.
“Come on,” she muttered, yanking harder. “Don’t do this. Not tonight.” No movement. No sound. Just cold. Her pulse picked up, she stepped backward, trying to breathe evenly even as her lungs fought the air thin and stale, like something had sucked the oxygen out. She turned toward the window next. Outside, Hawkins was barely recognizable. The streetlight on the corner burned a dim red. The houses looked warped, colors leeched away, everything coated in dust. The sky churned a deep, ugly violet—like a bruise spreading. Her throat tightened. “Okay,” she whispered shakily. “Okay. It’s just a nightmare. Just wake up.”
She slapped her cheek lightly. But nothing changed. She closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. Still here. Still wrong. Her fairy lights flickered harder now one bulb buzzing before going out entirely with a faint pop. Her room seemed darker because of it. The shadows in the far corner the one behind her desk seemed thicker, like fog gathering indoors. The wallpaper there rippled, just a little, like a draft was pushing under it. Except there was no draft. There was no sound at all. Lottie’s breath came faster. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, stepping backward until her spine hit the window frame. “Wake up,” she whispered. “Wake up. Please.” The silence pressed in tighter, the air heavier, the room felt smaller.
Her skin prickled with the sensation of being watched even though the room was empty, familiar furniture warped just enough to feel wrong. Her throat worked around a swallow that sounded too loud in the stillness. She scanned the room again, hoping to catch some mistake in her own perception, some harmless explanation, but everything she looked at seemed stranger upon second glance. The record player’s plastic casing was clouded and brittle-looking, the books on her nightstand bowed with moisture, their pages puckered like they’d been left in the rain. Even the air smelled wrong mildewy and metallic, like wet concrete or a flooded basement. She tightened her arms around herself, rubbing her palms up and down her chilled biceps as though friction alone could reheat her blood. “Please,” she whispered to the quiet, “just let me wake up,” but the room stayed motionless, unchanged, like it had no intention of releasing her. Her eyes drifted toward the far corner again the dark one behind her desk. At first it was just a little too shadowed, a little too dense, the way corners sometimes looked in bad lighting, but the longer she stared, the more she realized it wasn’t light at all. The darkness there looked textured. Layered. Like fog curling into itself in slow reverse. She stepped sideways, keeping her back against the window frame, gaze pinned to that corner as if anything could slip loose from it at any moment. The wallpaper bulged again a subtle ripple, small enough she could’ve dismissed it if her mind weren’t already clawing for logic. But it moved with purpose, swelling outward like breath under fabric. The motion was slight, but Lottie’s whole body locked, a cold bolt of adrenaline slicing through her chest. Something was behind the wall. Something large enough to displace it.
Her hand shot out instinctively, palm flattening against the window beside her. The glass was freezing, colder than the air, cold enough that her fingerprints fogged it for only a second before vanishing. She leaned into it anyway, desperate for something solid something real, something that didn’t feel like it was dissolving under her. Her breathing grew uneven. Each inhale felt shallow, each exhale trembling, the silence of the room seemed to expand with her fear, swallowing even the sound of her gasps until she felt like she was suffocating inside her own head. She squeezed her eyes shut again, harder this time, nails digging crescent moons into her arms. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. The mantra pulsed behind her eyelids like a heartbeat. She counted breaths. One. Two. Three.
When she opened her eyes the room hadn’t changed. The air grew colder still, siphoning warmth from her fingers until they stung. Her toes curled instinctively against the damp floorboards, trying to pull away from the slick chill seeping between them. A tremor rolled through her shoulders, unbidden.
“Please,” she whispered, not sure anymore if she meant it as a plea to wake up or to whatever unseen thing was in here with her. “Please let me out.” She sucked in a trembling breath and turned toward the latch of the window, her hand skimming the cracked paint. If the door wouldn’t open if the room was shrinking around her, she had one other way out. Her fingers fumbled at the latch. For a terrible second it felt like the metal was fused to the frame, welded by cold or time or whatever wrongness clung to this version of her attic. But then………click. The latch jumped under her touch, almost eager. Windows didn’t open that easily. Not in her house. Not with the humidity swelling the wood in the summer and the old rusted hinges sticking every time she tried to let in a breeze.
She hesitated only a moment, then shoved upward. The pane slid open without resistance, scraping through the damp air with a sound that barely registered a dry, papery whisper swallowed instantly by the silence outside. A wash of freezing wind hit her, sharp enough to make her eyes water. The scent that rushed in was unmistakable: wet earth, rot, the metallic tang of cold mist.
Her breath caught. Hawkins was gone.Or rather, Hawkins was still there, but hollowed out, flayed open by something unnatural. Her yard stretched below her, but the grass had blackened to brittle strands, curled and wet with dew that wasn’t dew. The maple tree that always dropped leaves onto her roof in autumn now stood twisted and skeletal, bark melted into slick, pulsing ridges. The sky above was a violent smear of blue and red, clouds churning as though stirred from below. Tiny particles drifted through the air falling slowly, softly, like ash. The world looked like a photograph soaked in water and left to dry improperly everything warping at the edges, everything bowed inward.
She had to get out of the room. She didn’t know why that was the terrifying part. Instinct just screamed out, primal and urgent, like staying in this room meant being swallowed by the walls.
She crouched, grabbed the lowest part of the window frame, and hauled herself onto the sill. The wood was slick beneath her palms. She swung one leg out, then the other, bracing herself against the cold siding of the house as her body slid into the open air. Her breath fogged heavily in front of her face. Her lungs felt raw. She glanced back inside the room and instantly wished she hadn’t. Her wallpaper was moving. Not bulging. Not breathing. Moving. Slow waves rolled beneath the floral pattern, as if something massive shifted beneath it, swimming just under the surface of the house.
Her limbs went weak with panic. She scrambled fully out of the window, landing hard on the creaking shingles of the roof. The shock of the cold traveled through her feet, up her legs, into her spine. She staggered but caught herself on the gutter, gripping the metal until her knuckles whitened. The metal felt brittle beneath her fingers, as though it might crumble into flakes if she held too tightly. She swallowed hard, tasting cold and rust at the back of her throat. Below her, the yard she’d grown up in was nearly unrecognizable every blade of grass slick with something dark and gelatinous, every familiar outline softened and warped like a melted toy left in the sun too long. The air hung thick with a cloying dampness, each inhale coating her lungs with the same metallic chill that clung to the wind.
She forced herself to look away from her transformed yard, away from the skeletal trees and the pulsing vines coiled around their trunks like parasites. Her eyes pulled back to the open window behind her the bedroom she’d crawled out of. The windowpane rocked slightly with the pressure of the wind, but what made her stomach twist wasn’t the glass or the frame or even the cold, lifeless glow of her fairy lights flickering inside.
Lottie’s pulse stuttered, her fingers spasming on the gutter. She had to get off this roof. Her body moved on instinct, even as her fear pinned her in place. She dropped to her knees, bracing her weight so she didn’t slip on the wet shingles. She leaned forward, one hand gripping the window ledge, and reached inside with the other. Her arm vanished into the dim, flickering glow of her room; the air inside felt humid, thick, like she’d plunged her hand into a warm mouth. Her fingertips skimmed the warped wood of her nightstand. Then the drawer handle. She hooked her fingers into it and pulled, the drawer sliding open with a sticky groan. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she fumbled blindly through the contents crumpled notebooks, a loose cassette, a tube of chapstick, until her hand closed around the cold cylinder of her flashlight. She yanked it out and recoiled from the window, breathing hard. The wallpaper bulged again not a ripple this time but a rounded, pushing shape, like something inside the wall testing how much space it had left. Lottie nearly fell backward down the roof. She slammed the flashlight on, the beam cutting through the foggy air like a spear. The light illuminated the drifting particles floating past her face thousands of tiny white specks moving in slow, graceful currents, as if gravity had loosened its hold on them. They glowed in the beam, catching and reflecting faint blues and purples from the sky above.
Chapter 18: Upside down
Chapter Text
For half a heartbeat Lottie didn’t know which way was up—just a violent jolt through her spine, a burst of white behind her eyes, and the cold. The cold was everywhere, swallowing her breath, numbing her fingers before she even pushed herself up. Damp earth clung to her palms. Something slick smeared across her shirt. Her ears rang. She blinked through the dizziness, breath shuddering out in a pale plume. She was still in her yard. But not her yard. Lottie swallowed hard, tasting metal, dirt, and something bitter she couldn’t name. She forced herself to her feet, legs trembling beneath her.
The grass around her was blackened and matted, strands fused together like melted plastic. The ground pulsed faintly beneath her knees—once, twice like a heartbeat buried deep below. When she looked up, the sky churned in violent strips of blue and red, clouds swirling as though stirred by an unseen hand. The air was thick, clotted with drifting white particles that glowed faintly whenever they caught the light of her fallen flashlight. Lottie’s throat tightened. Her breath came out in thin, panicked puffs. The weight of the silence grew heavier, thicker, until the air itself seemed viscous, pushing against her lungs. She forced herself to breathe slower, even though every instinct screamed at her to run blindly into the world below. But something felt wrong about moving too quickly like sudden motion might draw attention. She tightened her grip on the flashlight, noticing for the first time how her hand shook. Her skin looked grey-blue under the beam, fingertips nearly translucent. She rubbed her arms again, but the cold wasn’t external anymore it had seeped under her skin, into her bones, into the small trembling space behind her ribs where fear lived.
From somewhere deep in the trees beyond her yard, a low shifting sound rolled through the air. Not a growl or footsteps. More like breathing. Slow, impossibly heavy breathing. Each inhale pulled at the surrounding air, thinning it, tugging at the world with a gravity all its own. Each exhale rumbled like it came from something ancient, something vast enough that she couldn’t even picture its shape. Her pulse stumbled. She swept the flashlight toward the woods. The beam caught trunks wrapped in thick, pulsing vines black, wet-looking, threaded with faint reddish veins. The trees swayed as if reacting to her gaze, but the air was perfectly still.
Something was watching her.
She didn’t see it. She didn’t hear it.
But she felt it—like a cold fingertip trailing the length of her spine. The flashlight beam trembled as she lifted it higher, sweeping across the distorted line where her yard bled into the woods. The trees loomed taller than she remembered, trunks thickened into grotesque silhouettes. Their bark writhed with slow, crawling movement veins pulsing just beneath the surface as though something inside them was alive and pacing. “Hello?” The word slipped out before she could stop it, barely more than a rasp. It hung in the air for a moment, fragile and small.
The world seemed to inhale again, a deep pull that tugged at the hair along her arms, that stirred the drifting white particles into a slow spiral around her boots. The trees shuddered in unison, just a slight tremor, like a ripple moving through a sleeping creature’s skin.
Lottie stumbled backward, heel catching on a root or what used to be a root. The thing under her foot writhed weakly, curling away. She jerked her leg back with a strangled gasp, heart lunging into her throat. Her flashlight skittered in her hand, beam slicing through the fog-like haze. The light landed on her house or the skeleton of it. The siding sagged inward. The windows were dark, filmed over with a slick black membrane. Her roofline drooped at one side like something heavy had pushed down on it. The shape of her childhood home had never looked so fragile, so breakable, so wrong.
The breathing in the woods deepened, shifting from steady inhales to a slower, deliberate rumble… as if whatever was out there had finally taken notice of her presence. Lottie’s voice cracked around a whisper “…please don’t come closer.”
Her breath stuttered out in a white plume. The silence around her felt swollen, too dense to breathe through. She gripped the flashlight tighter, her fingers shaking, the beam jittering across twisted grass.
Then— somewhere to her left a sound rose through the quiet. “…you came back…and nothing changed…” Her breath caught. “…you still don’t belong…” The words glided through the air, calm and delicate, as if spoken right behind her ear. Another whisper overlapped the first. Higher-pitched. Sharper. “…you’re not enough…” Then a third, lower one—almost gentle: “…they only pretend to care…” Lottie sucked in a shaky breath. Lottie stumbled back until her spine hit the cold, damp siding of her warped house. The air felt thinner, tighter, as if the world was closing around her. A final whisper came, soft as ash falling: “…and you’re scared they’ll see it.”
She lurched backward, away from the house, away from the trees, away from the direction the voice seemed to seep from. Her boots slid across the damp, oily grass, and she nearly fell again, catching herself at the last second. She slowed to a halt, chest heaving, looking around in disoriented circles. The air felt different now emptier. Hollow. As if whatever had been speaking retreated into the cracks between the trees. Her knees trembled. She leaned on her flashlight, the cold metal biting into her palm.
She needed to get her bearings. She needed something recognizable.
Anything.
Her eyes strained against the murky red-blue sky as she turned in a slow circle—
—and that’s when she saw it.
At first it was nothing more than a shape at the edge of the property line, half-swallowed by fog. A sagging silhouette hunched against the horizon. She lifted the flashlight, narrowing her eyes. There, sitting on what should have been the distant horizon, was something impossible.
Ray’s Diner. Not the new one in the mall. The old one. The squat brick building that used to sit two miles down the road before Starcourt swallowed it whole the one with the flickering neon sign and the crooked back door she used during summer shifts.
Except now… now it was here.
Or part of it was.
The diner looked half-built, half-dissolved its neon sign flickering weakly through fog, letters warped into unreadable shapes. The front windows were covered in the same black membrane that clung to her house, smooth and slick, breathing shallowly with the pulsing ground beneath it.
Her flashlight quivered as she angled it higher. The roofline sagged inward, the old Ray’s Diner logo twisted until it resembled a gaping mouth. A single barstool lay tipped on its side in the dirt, metal eaten through like rust had devoured it from the inside out. The countertop inside glowed faintly, like embers dying under its surface.
But the worst part wasn’t what changed.
It was what hadn’t.
A striped server’s hat identical to the ones Ray kept in a dusty box behind the counter sat perfectly upright in the ashen dirt in front of the diner. Clean. Untouched. It looked like someone had set it down moments ago. She had walked this path a thousand times as a kid. Even in dreams she knew how far Ray’s used to be. She knew the space between her house and the diner like she knew the lines on her palms. There was no world where she should be able to see it from her yard.
And yet… here it stood, warped and swollen and waiting, like the world had folded in on itself and dropped pieces of her life at her feet.
Chapter 19: The Pull
Chapter Text
She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to be anywhere near this thing that looked like Ray’s and not like Ray’s in a way her brain couldn’t process without wanting to run. So she stepped backward slowly, carefully, the way someone might move away from a sleeping animal whose size they couldn’t guess. She turned her body away, her flash light stretching across the rotted fog till it landed on road—dark, cracked, and stretching into the murky blue distance like it had always been there. A thin yellow stripe split down its center, broken and faded, leading forward into a fog thick enough to look almost alive.
The cold arrived as a pressure first right beneath her ribs, deep enough to feel like fingers hooking inside her chest. It wasn’t harsh or sudden it simply leaned. As if an invisible hand applied the gentlest forward force, urging her to shift her weight, urging her to take one step and then another. Her feet tingled with pins and needles, numbing up to her ankles. Lottie whispered “No,” breath trembling, even though she wasn’t sure who she was refusing. The hum of the wind, the soft hiss of drifting spores, even the faint ringing that had been lodged in her ears since she landed on the ground in her yard all of it blinked out. Her footsteps landed silently, swallowed by the darkness pooling between the cracks in the pavement. She could hear her breathing, but it sounded distant, as if she were listening to it from underwater. And underneath that, steadier, slower, deeper something else breathed. Lottie lifted the flashlight again, and its beam cut through the dark like a solid pillar, steady and straight, illuminating the empty stretch before her. The beam felt too heavy in her hand, the metal too cold, as if it had been left outside in winter for hours. She rubbed her fingertips against the handle, shocked at how numb her skin felt. Her veins looked grey-blue again, subtle beneath her skin, like ink spreading slowly outward from her knuckles.
The road began to change the farther she walked. It wasn’t long before tiny fragments of her life appeared along its edges scattered without sense or pattern. An old streetlight she vaguely remembered from the outskirts of town leaned drunkenly at the ditch, its bulb filled with swirling spores instead of light. A chalk hopscotch grid stretched across a patch of cracked pavement on her right, numbers smudged into indiscernible shapes. A mailbox slumped open, rusted through, its red flag hanging by threads of blackened vine. A tire swing rope dangled from a tree that wasn’t tall enough to hold it. None of it belonged here. But as she passed each piece, the cold moved inside her like a pulse of recognition. The whispers began as a faint rustle almost like leaves dragging across pavement, almost like static. Then they shaped themselves into words, slipping around her ankles and wrists like strands of fog.
“…this way…”
“…keep going…”
“…almost there…”
Her shoulders tightened, breath quickening as she fought the urge to look behind her. The flashlight beam jittered, scattering against the fog. The farther she walked, the more the fog thickened, drifting low to the ground like liquid. The spores glittered faintly within it, constellations forming and dissolving in her periphery. The trees on either side of the road became taller, darker, their trunks wrapped in slick vines that sometimes pulsed and sometimes didn’t. Their roots twisted across the road like veins bulging beneath skin. Lottie stepped over them without thinking, each motion smoother and more automatic than the last. Her body no longer felt like her own. The cold inside her chest had settled into something steady, spreading across her ribs like frost crawling over glass. Her breath came out in plumes so thick they drifted behind her like fog. She touched her throat once, startled by how cold her skin felt—like she had walked into an industrial freezer and stayed there too long. Her joints ached, stiffening even as she kept walking, but the pull inside her only tightened.
The world around her dimmed again, not darker but emptier, as if color and sound and temperature were thinning the farther she walked. Lottie blinked hard, once, twice, trying to clear the strange pressure building behind her eyes. For a second the trees around her doubled two overlapping silhouettes, one sharp and one trembling, like the outline of her vision had slipped. She slowed, hand lifting toward her temple, she clenched the flashlight tighter, knuckles whitening, and tried to steady her breathing. Slow in, and slow out. But each inhale tasted wrong thin and metallic, tinged with something stale and chemical. It burned the back of her tongue. Her lungs fought it, tightening in protest, and for a terrifying moment she couldn’t decide whether she was breathing in too little air… or too much of something else.
Up ahead the road curved not sharply, just enough to hide what lay beyond. The fog bunched along the bend as though waiting for her, thick and heavy like curtains drawn over a stage. The trees leaned closer, their trunks narrowing into long skeletal shapes, their branches arching overhead to cage out the sky. Little pinpricks of drifting white light swirled between them, rising and falling like distant embers. Lottie felt a tug low in her ribs, insistent, steady, a pull she no longer had the strength to resist without tearing herself apart.
She rounded the bend and immediately the temperature dropped, a sudden shattering cold that stole every ounce of warmth from her lungs. Her breath burst out in a plume so dense it looked solid. The air here pressed differently thick, syrupy, clinging to her skin like wet cloth. She shivered, an involuntary full-body tremor that rattled her teeth.
People.
Not living one, well not exactly. Silhouettes floated at the edges of the road, blurred and double-exposed, like long-exposure photos caught mid-motion. Their forms wavered, slipping in and out of themselves, their limbs stretching into the fog before snapping back. Their faces were indistinct, more suggestion than feature, but their heads all turned toward her at the exact same time. The silhouettes wavered, growing taller as the cold pulsed again from the center of her chest. She wanted to run. God, she wanted to run. But the pull inside her tightened to a painful snap, and her knees buckled forward, forcing her another step down the road.
One of the silhouettes shivered, its edges warping like heat rising off asphalt except everything here was freezing. The distortion rippled downward, pooling across the cracked pavement, spreading thin like spilled oil. Lottie stared, breath caught halfway up her throat, as the shadow slid forward with a strange, liquid grace. It flattened first, then thickened, gathering itself into something darker, heavier. The pavement beneath it seemed to soften, the yellow line bending under the weight of whatever was pushing through. She took a step back, boot scraping soundlessly over the asphalt.
Something beneath the road shifted with a deep, dragging groan, a sound so low she felt it more than heard it. The asphalt bulged outward, warping like a stretched membrane. Cracks spider-webbed toward her feet. She froze, unable to move as the darkness gathered in the center of the road, rising up in a slow, awful swell. Then a hand if it could even be called that pushed through the pavement. Long fingers, made entirely of shadow, slipped out from beneath the surface like ink poured underwater reaching toward her with a terrifying, deliberate slowness, as though savoring each inch they gained. But she was to slow, it snapped around her ankle. Cold exploded up her leg, sharp and electric, seizing her calf with a force so sudden she gasped. Her knee buckled. She pitched forward, catching herself with her free hand, fingers scraping against the freezing asphalt. Her flashlight tumbled from her grip, clattering uselessly on the road, its beam skittering wildly across the darkened trees.
“Let go! let go—” The words broke apart, thin and trembling, but the shadow didn’t hesitate. It tightened, squeezing with an impossible strength. Her ankle throbbed violently, a deep ache radiating up into her shin as though the cold were burrowing beneath her skin. She clawed at the dark shape wrapped around her leg, but her fingers passed through it no resistance, no substance only cold. Cold so deep it made her bones feel hollow.
The shadow pulled. Not with a jerk. Not with violence. But with certainty. Her body slid forward across the pavement, tiny pebbles biting into her palms. She dug her nails into the ground, grasping at cracks and grit, but her efforts felt useless.
Her flashlight flickered wildly, beam tilting toward the treeline, catching glimpses of twisted branches and pulsing vines as she was pulled inch by helpless inch. Her fingers scraped raw against the asphalt. Her breath came in frantic plumes that vanished the moment they left her lips. The cold burrowed deeper, curling around her spine like a hook.
Chapter 20: Sleepwalking
Chapter Text
Blinding, white-gold light blooming behind her eyelids like someone had just snapped a flashbulb an inch from her face. She winced, or tried to her body felt slow, uncooperative, as if her limbs belonged to someone still drifting in a dream. “Lottie—hey—Lottie! Come on, wake up—” For a moment she wasn’t sure if the light was headlights or that sickly, flickering glow from the Upside Down sky. Her mind tried to reach for the road she’d been on—the wrong road, the one that pulsed beneath her feet, the one that breathed—but her thoughts slipped like oil through her fingers. The cold clung to her. The weight that didn’t belong in the real world.
A tug yanked at her chest sharp, like a hook lodged between her ribs. Her breath hitched. The world flickered. One moment she felt asphalt under her feet, smooth and familiar. The next, something else quivering ground, spore-dense air, that same blue-red swirl above her. No- no, she wasn’t there. But she wasn’t fully here either. “Lottie!” Hands gripped her shoulders, warm enough to burn. The shock of heat shot through her like a jolt, and for a breathless instant the two worlds overlapped. Light fractured into two overlapping layers, one sharp and gold, the other murky and pulsing with that horrible blue-red glow. Steve’s face hovered in both worlds, flickering at the edges, his features sliding out of alignment before snapping back like a picture coming into focus.
She blinked hard. Once.
Then Twice.
The worlds didn’t separate. They pressed against each other, bleeding together until the trees behind him looked too tall, their shadows too long, their branches twitching as though they weren’t entirely branches. The fog from the other place curled around Steve’s legs, dissolving into early morning dew halfway up his shins. “Hey hey!” His hands were on her face now, guiding her gaze to his, thumbs brushing her temples. “Lottie, you’re scaring me. You need to wake up.” God, she tried.
But her body lagged behind the command, her eyelids fluttering like something heavy pressed down on them. Her vision refused to cooperate, blurring in and out until Steve seemed both too close and impossibly far away. His breath puffed in the cold air, warm on her skin. The warmth felt wrong too intense, too real after the numb nothingness of where she’d been.
She pulled in another sharp inhale, her lungs stinging like she’d run a mile. The fog around her feet thinned into an ordinary morning mist, pale and harmless. The trees, once towering and skeletal, now looked like nothing more than tired pines. Even the sky a washed-out gray-blue of early dawn lacked the wrongness of the red-blue churn she’d been beneath moments ago. Reality settled over her like a blanket dropped onto her shoulders.
“Lottie?” Steve’s voice wavered. “Hey are you with me?” Her gaze drifted past his shoulder, scanning the tree line. She lifted her foot slowly the one the shadow grabbed just to test the ground. It felt steady. Her ankle throbbed, but the pavement didn’t pulse back. Her gaze flicked next to the headlights two stable beams cutting through dawn haze, not stuttering, not warping. The light didn’t flicker between worlds now. It held steady, unwavering, as real as anything she’d ever seen.
She blinked, blinking hard, like she expected the trees to distort or the road to ripple back to life.
But the they didn’t. A thin sob of relief almost escaped her. But then her eyes found the ditch on the side of the road, and her chest tightened again because for a split second she thought she saw fog pooling thick in the grass. “Lottie.” Steve’s hands were on her arms, gentle but desperate. “Please just look at me. You’re scaring the shit out of me.”
It took her a moment to peel her eyes away from the world around her to pull herself back from the instinctive scanning, the frantic checking, the part of her that didn’t believe she was safe unless she saw it with her own eyes. Finally, slowly, she turned toward him. His face hit her like a warm shock human, familiar, real in a way nothing in that other place ever was.
“I…” Her voice cracked, small and raw. “I think so.” Steve exhaled shakily, relief crashing through him so fast he visibly sagged. “Jesus, Lottie.” The relief in his voice was so sharp she could almost feel it, like a physical thing brushing over her skin. His hands were still on her arms, steadying her, but she could feel the tremor in them
Steve stepped closer, angling himself so the headlights weren’t in her eyes anymore. Her muscles twitched with leftover adrenaline, as if ready for the ground to split again, for shadows to crawl up her legs, for the trees to shudder into impossible shapes. Steve brushed her hair back from her face, gentle, almost hesitant. “What the hell are you doing out here? It’s five in the morning.” His voice cracked on the word five, like saying it made everything worse.
“I don’t…” Her lungs squeezed, breath catching. “I don’t remember leaving my house.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “You were in the middle of the road. Barefoot.” He looked down at her toes as if only now noticing how pale they were. “You weren’t… you weren’t responding. I thought you were—” He cut himself off, throat working. “I’m okay,” she lied, the words wobbling, too thin to hold their shape.
His eyes darted over her again, searching checking for bruises, for injuries, for something to explain the way she’d been walking in the headlights like she belonged to the dark. She followed his gaze without meaning to, and that’s when she saw it..
The ankle the shadow had grabbed. A faint ring circled the bone a greyish, bluish band that didn’t look like a bruise so much as frostbite. Her stomach flipped. She pulled her foot slightly behind her other, hiding it in a reflex she didn’t fully understand. Steve didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy watching her face, as if afraid she’d slip away again.
Steve stepped even closer, his warmth radiating off him in uneven pulses. “Let’s get you in the car. Okay? You can sit. Just sit. You’re shaking.” She could hear him, but the words hit her with a half-second delay, as if traveling through water before reaching her ears. She tore her eyes away from him for a moment, scanning the road again.
A wave of dizzy relief swept through her sharp enough to sting behind her eyes. “Lottie?” Steve’s hand hovered near her elbow, unsure whether to hold her or not. “Can you… can you move?” She nodded slowly. He slipped his arm around her anyway, guiding her toward the passenger door with a gentleness that made her chest ache. Every step made her more aware of her body the cold stiff in her joints, the lingering tremor in her muscles, the throb in her ankle like a bruise blooming beneath the skin.
Her bare feet touched the pavement, then the damp grass beside the road. The real sensation of dew-soaked blades brushing her skin made her stop short. She curled her toes into the ground just to feel it. Steve paused with her, worry deepening. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
She didn’t answer.
Her eyes were still sweeping the treeline, the ditch, the long stretch of asphalt behind them searching for any sign the world might distort again. “Lottie,” Steve tried again, softer, coaxing. “It’s just the woods. It’s nothing.”
She wished that word felt true. A branch snapped somewhere deep in the trees. Her entire body jerked, steve reacted instantly, tightening his arm around her waist, grounding her before she bolted.
“Hey, hey it’s a deer. Or a raccoon. Everything’s fine.” His voice was steady but his pulse was not; she could feel it where his chest brushed her shoulder, quick and scared and trying not to be. She stared into the trees until her eyes burned. “Lottie.” Her name, soft but firm. “Look at me. Not the woods. Me.” It took effort, real effort, for her to drag her gaze to his. Her eyes felt huge in her face, vision still too sharp, every shadow too loud. But when she finally met Steve’s eyes, something inside her loosened not fully, but enough to let her lungs expand again.
His expression cracked relief, fear, confusion all tightening at once. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay… good. Just keep looking at me.” He guided her the last few steps, and she sank slowly into the passenger seat. The fabric felt scratchy against her legs, real in a way the strange road had never been. The seat cradled her weight, grounding her. The hum of the engine vibrated faintly under her heels.
She focused on that sensation, breathing through the fading tremors in her limbs. Steve crouched beside the open door, one hand braced on the frame above her, the other hovering uselessly near her knee like he didn’t know whether to touch her or afraid he’d shatter her if he did. “Lottie…” He exhaled her name, barely a whisper. “You’re shaking.” Her hands trembled violently now that she was still, the kind of trembling that came after adrenaline crashed, after terror passed but didn’t leave. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating under her skin, buzzing with leftover cold, leftover fear, leftover something she didn’t want to name.
Steve reached out slowly, like approaching a startled animal. He brushed his fingers against her wrist. “Your pulse is… Jesus, Lottie.” But she didn’t look at him. Her gaze drifted past Steve’s shoulder, drawn back to the tree line like a magnet she couldn’t fight. Even with the car between them and the woods, even with Steve blocking most of her view, she still felt watched.
Steve noticed her staring and shifted to block her view entirely. “Hey. No,” he said softly, reaching up to cup the side of her face. “Focus on me, okay?” His thumb brushed her cheek, she blinked, pulling her eyes from the treeline to him. Steve’s voice softened further, barely a breath. “Lottie what were you dreaming about?” Her eyes darted instinctively toward the window before she caught herself, staring instead at the dashboard, at her own trembling hands, at anything that wasn’t him.
“I- I don’t remember,” she lied.
“You don’t remember leaving your house,” he said slowly. “But do you remember… anything? Before I found you?”
A flash: The pulsing road. The shadows pulling. The whispers curling around her ears. This way. Almost there. “No,” she said quickly. “Nothing.” Steve frowned. “Lottie—”
“I said I don’t remember,” she cut in, sharper than she meant to. Her breath wavered afterward. “I just… I must’ve been sleepwalking, okay? People do that sometimes. My aunt used to do it. She’d end up in the kitchen making cereal at three a.m.”
She was rambling. She could hear it in her own voice, the uneven pitch, the edges fraying. And Steve didn’t buy it. “Sleepwalkers don’t wander miles down the old highway,” he murmured.
Her heart thudded painfully.
Miles?
Had she really walked that far?
He finally exhaled, running a shaky hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said, though the word didn’t sound convinced. “Okay. We can we can talk later. Let’s just get you warm.”
He reached for the door to shut it.
Panic jolted through her so suddenly she grabbed his sleeve. She glanced at him, feeling the blood rush to her checks dropping her hand in her lap. “Sorry.” He pulled his sleeve gently from her grasp but kept his gaze on her until the door clicked shut. She watched him circle the hood of the car, eyes wide, breath held, afraid the world would flicker again the moment he wasn’t directly in front of her.
He slid into the driver’s seat, closing his door firmly, sealing her into the warm, humming space beside him. “Sleepwalking,” Steve repeated quietly, hands gripping the steering wheel. “You’re sure?”
Lottie forced her gaze out the windshield, her heartbeat thrumming painfully against her ribs. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she whispered. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Steve stared at her for a long moment. Then, under his breath almost too quiet to hear “…yeah. Okay. If that’s what you want to call it.”
Chapter 21: Half Asleep
Chapter Text
The drive blurred together in pieces headlights sliding across the road, Steve’s hands steady on the wheel, the heater humming low and constant. Every time the car slowed, her head tipped forward, chin dipping toward her chest before she caught herself. Her body felt heavy in a way that went past exhaustion, like something had drained her and forgotten to give it back. “Hey,” Steve murmured the third time she drifted. “Stay with me, okay? We’re here.” She blinked, hard, forcing her eyes open. The shape of her house swam into focus through the windshield.
The porch light still on, casting a dull yellow pool across the lawn. Relief loosened something in her chest so fast it made her dizzy. Steve parked and killed the engine, but the sudden silence made her sway. “Lottie.” He was there immediately, a hand on her arm, warm and anchoring. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, the words slurring at the edges. He didn’t argue. He just got out, rounded the car, and opened her door. Cold air rushed in, sharp enough to make her gasp. She swung her legs out, but the ground tilted the moment her feet touched it. Steve caught her without hesitation, one arm wrapping around her back, the other bracing her at the hip. “Whoa.” She let her weight lean into him this time, too tired to pretend. His shoulder was solid beneath her cheek, his jacket rough against her fingers as she clutched it to stay upright. The world narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the quiet reassurance of his presence.
“You’re home,” he said softly, like he was reminding both of them. He guided her up the path slowly, pausing when she swayed again, letting her rest her forehead against his shoulder until the dizziness passed. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead as he unlocked the door one-handed, keeping her upright with the other.
Inside, the house was dark and still. The warmth hitting her all at once, and with it, the exhaustion. Her eyes fluttered despite her best effort. Steve nudged the door shut behind them with his foot, locking it out of habit, then steered her carefully toward the living room.
“Hey,” he said quietly, slowing them both. “Okay. Uh where’s your room?” She lifted her head like the question had to travel a long distance to reach her. “What?”
“Your bedroom,” he repeated, gentler. “Which way?” She blinked, frowned faintly, then gestured down the hallway with a vague lift of her hand. “Down there. On the left. I think.” The last word slurred, uncertain. He guided her past the living room, slowing when her steps started to drag. Her weight sagged more with each footfall, her head dipping forward until her hair brushed his shoulder. The house creaked softly around them—old, familiar noises that felt strangely loud in the quiet. Halfway down the hall she stumbled, toe catching on the rug. Steve stopped them both, steadying her without tightening his grip. “Okay,” he said, low. “We’re not in a hurry.”
She nodded vaguely, eyes half-lidded, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder while the dizziness passed. He guided her the rest of the way down the hall, slowing when her steps turned clumsy again. The door she’d pointed to was ajar. Steve nudged it open with his foot and eased her inside. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Sit.” She sank onto the edge of the bed, not quite making it all the way back, shoulders hunched forward as if staying upright took everything she had. Her bare feet pressed into the carpet, toes curling and uncurling as she fought the pull of sleep. Her head dipped once, twice, before she forced it back up with a faint shake. “I’m awake,” she murmured, more to herself than him.
“Yeah,” Steve said, unconvinced. He crouched in front of her, close enough that she could feel him there even when her vision blurred. His eyes tracked over her face, her arms, the way her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “You dizzy?” he asked. She nodded, then corrected herself halfway through the motion. “Just tired.”
“Okay.” He glanced down at her feet then, at the faint dirt along her soles, the small scrapes she hadn’t reacted to. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I’m gonna grab something,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.” He stood, disappearing down the hall. The room felt too quiet without him. Lottie focused on the carpet, tracing the pattern with her eyes, anchoring herself while the pull of sleep pressed heavier. Her chin dipped again, and she caught it with the heel of her hand.
Steve returned a moment later. He didn’t announce himself. He just knelt again, a damp towel folded in his hands. He met her eyes briefly, silent question. She nodded once, barely. He lifted her foot gently, resting it against his knee, and began to wipe it clean. The motion was slow and careful, the towel cool against her skin. He worked methodically, pausing now and then as if checking for something, his thumb brushing lightly over her ankle before moving on. Her eyelids fluttered. She swayed forward, and without speaking, Steve steadied her knee with one hand, keeping her from tipping.
He finished one foot, set it down softly, then reached for the other. The towel moved in quiet strokes, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric. By the time he was done, her breathing had slowed, deeper now, her body heavy and pliant with exhaustion. Steve folded the towel, rose, and stood there for a moment longer, watching to make sure she stayed upright.
When her head dipped again, this time it didn’t come back up. Steve moved immediately, hands light but sure as he guided her shoulders back. “Hey,” he murmured, barely louder than her breathing. He eased her down inch by inch, waiting until her weight was fully on the mattress before letting go. She turned onto her side on instinct, knees drawing in slightly, like her body knew the shape it needed. He hovered for a second, watching her face, making sure her breathing stayed even, that the tension in her jaw eased instead of tightened. Only when her shoulders finally slackened did he reach for the blanket. He pulled it up slowly, careful not to startle her, covering her legs first, then her waist, then settling it around her shoulders. Her fingers twitched once, curling into the edge of the fabric, and then stilled. Steve paused at that, chest tightening, before gently tucking the blanket around her, making sure her feet were covered, that nothing was pulling or twisted beneath her.
He straightened, then hesitated. After a moment, he reached out and brushed her hair back from her face, the touch brief and careful, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Her brow smoothed a fraction, her breathing deepening again. He watched for another beat long enough to be sure she didn’t stir, long enough for the tension in his shoulders to ease a fraction. Then he reached for the lamp and clicked it off. The room softened into shadow, gray dawn light seeping in through the curtains, dull and harmless. He moved toward the door carefully, mindful of the floorboard that creaked near the threshold. When he reached it, he paused, hand resting briefly against the frame, eyes flicking back to the bed.
But she didn’t move.
He pulled the door in slowly, leaving it just shy of closed, the latch whisper-quiet. The hallway beyond was dim, familiar, unchanged. Steve stepped back into it and shut the door the rest of the way, gentle enough that the sound barely registered. A moment later, the front door opened and closed again, softer still. And the house settled around her.
Chapter 22: Afternoon Coffee
Chapter Text
Ray’s was already loud when Lottie pushed through the door that afternoon. Not chaotic—just alive. The griddle popped and hissed, grease snapping as Ray flipped burgers with the ease of someone who’d done it for decades. The air smelled like coffee, fried onions, and the faint sweetness of pie cooling somewhere out of sight. Lottie clocked in and tied her apron, fingers slower than usual, the knot slipping once before she got it right. Her body still felt heavy, like it hadn’t quite caught up with her. Sleep had helped, but it hadn’t erased the dull ache behind her eyes.
She stepped toward the counter and stopped. A Scoops Ahoy paper cup sat waiting for her. Blue-and-white stripes. The little sailor logo smirking up at her like it knew something she didn’t. Steam ghosted up around the lid, the cardboard warm when she touched it. She frowned. “Ray…?” Ray didn’t even glance over. “Don’t look at me,” he said, flipping a patty. “That’s sailor boy’s doing.” Her chest did a small, traitorous flip. “He came in here like he was deliverin’ a newborn,” Ray went on. “Wouldn’t put it down till I promised not to mess with it. Asked where you usually stand. Said, ‘She’ll know it’s hers.’” He snorted. “Real secret agent stuff.” Lottie smiled despite herself, fingers curling tighter around the cup.
Across the mall, Scoops Ahoy glowed like a cartoon fever dream. Steve was behind the counter, aggressively busy—stacking waffle cones, reorganizing toppings, wiping the counter in short, precise strokes. He did not look over. Not once. If anything, he looked like he was trying not to.
Ray followed her gaze and scoffed. “Look at him. Pretendin’ he didn’t just make a supply run.” She popped the lid and took a sip. It was perfect. Strong enough to cut through the lingering fog in her head, hot enough to warm her hands all the way through. Her shoulders loosened a fraction, tension draining in a way she hadn’t realized she was holding. The shift swept her up after that. Orders called, plates slid, silverware chimed. Lottie moved on muscle memory, steadier now, taking small sips between tables like she was rationing something precious.
Steve stayed busy.
Painfully so.
When Robin wandered into Scoops midway through the afternoon, she watched him for all of ten seconds before narrowing her eyes. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m working,” Steve said.
“You’ve wiped that counter four times.”
“It gets sticky.” Robin leaned forward, following the direction he was very intentionally not looking. “Is that Lottie?”
Steve didn’t turn his head. “Probably.”
“You brought her coffee,” Robin said, not accusing. Just stating.
“She’s tired.” Robin blinked. “How would you know?” Steve paused, fingers tightening around the rag. Then he shrugged, small and defensive. “Well I mean. Look at her.” Robin did. Across the mall, Lottie moved a little slower than everyone else, careful with her steps, the Scoops cup tucked beside the register like an anchor. There were faint shadows under her eyes, her smile softer than usual, like it took effort. “See she looks she was just pulled out of a lake.” Robin snorted, then softened almost immediately. “Jesus, Steve.”
“That’s not—” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just mean she looks wiped.”
“I know,” Robin said. She leaned forward on her elbows, eyes back on Ray’s. “You’re not wrong.”
Steve finally let himself glance over quick, careful, like touching something hot. Across the mall, Lottie moved between tables with a kind of deliberate focus, like every step had been negotiated beforehand. The Scoops cup sat by the register, half-drunk now, her fingers brushing it every time she passed like she needed the reminder it was there. “She’s just slower today,” he said quietly. “Like she’s running on fumes.” Robin watched him instead of Ray’s this time. “You notice that stuff fast.” He shrugged, defensive. “It’s not hard to see.”
Across the mall, Ray leaned in toward Lottie and muttered something that made her laugh, the sound brief but real. She lifted the Scoops cup for another sip, shoulders easing a little more. Steve’s gaze flicked up without permission, just long enough to see it. Ray’s quieted to a low hum no new tickets, no clatter of plates. Ray handed her the broom with a nod that said close enough and disappeared into the back to count receipts. Lottie started at the far end of the diner, sweeping slow, lazy arcs along the baseboards. Her body moved on autopilot now, the coffee having softened the worst of the drag, leaving her with that floaty, end-of-day calm.
Across the mall, Scoops Ahoy hit the same lull. Steve grabbed a broom and started near the toppings bar, pushing sugar granules and napkin scraps into neat little lines. The overhead lights washed everything in that pale glow that made time feel slower, quieter. Neither of them meant to drift. Lottie swept toward the front of Ray’s, crumbs whispering across tile. She glanced up without really thinking and caught a flash of blue across the was. God, he looked unfair like that. The stupid stripes, the way the fabric pulled across his shoulders when he leaned into the broom. Even tired, even foggy, her brain supplied the thought automatically, uninvited: He’s really good-looking. Annoyingly so. Like the uniform had no right to work as well as it did.
Steve was sweeping toward Scoops’ entrance, eyes on the floor, until something in his peripheral tugged at him. A flash of red-and-white stripes. He looked away fast, pushing dust into a corner that didn’t need it, heart doing that stupid hitch it always did when he noticed her without meaning to.
Ray’s tile gave way to the broader stretch of the food court floor, scuffed and shiny from years of shoes and spilled sodas. Scoops’ pastel border blurred into the open space between storefronts. The mall felt bigger here—echoey, quiet in a way that made every small sound feel louder. The soft scrape of brooms. The distant hum of a freezer. Muzak playing something slow and forgettable overhead They kept moving, step by step, sweep by sweep, both of them inching closer to the center of the mall without ever fully committing to a look. Quick glances stolen and abandoned. The quiet, ridiculous choreography of two people pretending not to notice each other while absolutely doing so.
Lottie risked another glance.
Steve was closer than she expected. The sailor uniform caught the light, the red tie hanging loose at his chest, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms she absolutely did not need to be thinking about right now. She frowned at herself and went back to sweeping, lips pressing together like that might help.
Get it together.
Steve flipped his broom and swept forward again, then hesitated. He had the distinct feeling of being watched which was ridiculous. Except when he glanced up they had met at the middle. Both of them froze. Steve’s broom stilled against his shoe. Lottie’s stopped mid-stroke, bristles resting on the tile. For half a second, neither of them moved, caught red-handed in the act of looking.
“Oh,” she said, barely audible.
“Oh,” he echoed, just as quiet. His ears went pink immediately. Her mouth twitched. The silence stretched soft, charged, absurd. Steve shifted his weight, suddenly acutely aware of the uniform, of how close he was standing to the threshold like some kind of nautical idiot. “Uh,” he started, then stopped. Lottie let out a breath that turned into a small, helpless smile. “Guess we picked the same spot.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Looks like it.” They both glanced down at their brooms at the same time, then back up like magnets snapping back together. She caught herself thinking it again, unfiltered this time. He really is handsome. In a way that felt unfairly gentle.
“So,” he said, then winced slightly at how dumb that sounded. “Uh. Slow night.” She nodded. “Yeah. Ray says that’s when things get weird.” He huffed a soft laugh. “Checks out.” She rested her weight on the broom handle, fingers laced loosely at the top. “Thanks for the coffee,” He shrugged, eyes flicking down and back up again. “You looked like you needed it.”
She nodded. “I did.”
The word lingered. Steve shifted his grip on the broom, rubber squeaking faintly against his palm. He looked like he was deciding whether to say something and losing courage in real time. Then, quieter, he asked, “Do you remember this morning?” Her brows knit slightly. “This morning?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I mean you were really tired. I just…” He stopped, exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to. I just wanted to check.” The food court hummed around them, low and distant. Lottie glanced down at the floor where the tile changed color, then back up at him. “I remember bits,” she said slowly. “Headlights. The porch light being on.” A pause. “You smelling like coffee.” His mouth twitched. “That’d be my fault.” She tilted her head. “How?”
“I spilled it on my jacket,” he admitted. “Like an idiot. All over the sleeve.” He lifted his arm slightly, as if the stain might still be there. “Didn’t even realize until later.” Her smile softened. “Yeah,” she said. “That tracks.” He let out a quiet breath, something loosening in his shoulders. “Okay. Good.”
“Why?” she asked gently. He hesitated, eyes dropping to the broom bristles. “You were kind of out of it. I just didn’t want you to wake up later and think you imagined stuff. Or that I—” He shrugged.
“I remember you were there,” she continued, steady. “Not everything. Just enough.” She paused, then added, almost sheepish, “Your stereo was on that weird station. The one that doesn’t commit to a genre.” His mouth twitched. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said. “It kept fading between songs that didn’t match. Like my brain couldn’t decide if it wanted to sleep or stay awake.” Her gaze softened a little. “There was a guy talking about the weather like it was the end of the world.” Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “That sounds right.”
Steve shifted his weight, casual in the way he only ever was when he was trying not to be. “Can I ask you something?” She glanced up. “Sure.”
“You, uh do you sleepwalk?” he asked, like it was a normal question to toss out in the middle of a food court. “Or was this morning a one-time thing?” Her brows knit, not defensive just thoughtful. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I mean, not usually. I’ve always been a heavy sleeper, though. When I’m exhausted, I kind of…… drift.” He nodded slowly. “Okay.” There was a beat. Then, lightly, “So what’re you gonna do tonight? I mean what if you sleepwalk again? What if you end up walking miles on the highway again?”
She let out a breath, slow, and tipped her head slightly. “I wasn’t walking miles,” she said, half a smile tugging at her mouth. “It just felt like a lot.” Steve shifted, broom angled against his leg now, forgotten. “It was enough,” he said.
The food court hummed, empty and echoing, the overhead music blurring into background noise. Steve shifted his stance, broom angled against his leg, clearly trying to keep his tone light while his eyes stayed serious.
“So,” he said, “tonight.”
She glanced up at him.
“I’ll lock the doors,” she said. “Double-check the windows. Put my keys somewhere annoying so I actually have to wake up to get them.” A small huff of breath. “Maybe leave a light on.”
He nodded along, absorbing it. “Okay,” he said, relief easing his shoulders a notch. There was a brief pause. Then he asked, carefully, “And if you drift again?”
Lottie tipped the broom forward, then stopped again, bristles resting against the tile like a placeholder. The food court felt cavernous in the quiet, every sound every thought, echoing longer than it should. “I won’t know,” she said finally. “If it happens again, I won’t know until after.” Steve nodded once. He didn’t rush to fix it. He just thought. “What if,” he said slowly, “you change where you sleep?” She looked up. “How?”
“Like don’t sleep in your bed tonight,” he clarified, a little awkward but committed now. “Sleep on the couch. Or somewhere that feels wrong enough that your brain notices. Different texture. Different room.” She blinked. “Like interrupt the pattern,” she murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “If your body expects one thing and gets another, maybe it doesn’t go on autopilot.”
“And if I still drift?” she asked softly. Not defensive. Just real. “What if my brain doesn’t care where I’m sleeping?” Steve didn’t answer right away. He shifted, the broom knocking lightly against his shoe, eyes dropping to the scuffed floor like he was lining his thoughts up carefully before letting them out. “Then,” he said, gentle and deliberate, “you could stay at my place.”
Her head lifted. “Your place?”
“My parents’,” he clarified immediately, voice steady but cautious. “They’re out of town. We have a guest room. It’s right down the hall from mine. I’m a light sleeper.” A beat. “I’d be able to check on you.” The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t reach for anything more than they were offering.
The offer settled slowly, like snow quiet, undeniable. Offered the same way he’d offered the coffee that morning: like something practical that also happened to mean more than it let on.
Lottie looked down at the broom, then back up at him. From this close, she could see the way his shoulders were held not tense, not eager. Just… steady. Like he’d already decided he’d be okay either way. “You really thought that through,” she said, softly. He shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Just giving you options.” Her chest felt warm and tight all at once. Not panic. Not butterflies. Something like being handled gently when she’d expected to be dropped. “I don’t want to intrude,” she said, automatically. The reflex of it surprised her. “You wouldn’t be,” he replied, just as automatically. No pause. No qualifiers. “It’s a guest room. It’s literally there for that.”
She let out a breath, slow. The mall lights hummed overhead, washing his sailor stripes in pale gold. “I’ll stay,” she clarified. “Tonight.” A pause. “Mostly because I don’t trust my brain right now.” Relief crossed his face so quickly she almost missed it gone just as fast, replaced with care. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That makes sense.”
She nodded once, as if sealing it.
As they finished sweeping, her thoughts drifted again not away, but inward. Back to the dream-state she’d been skirting all day. Headlights stretching like ribbons. The radio fading between stations. The feeling of moving toward something without knowing what it was. Steve nodded, like he’d expected her to change her mind at any second and was grateful she didn’t. “You can grab anything you need first,” he added. “If you want. Like a bag. Some clothes, whatever else you need.”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Right. A bag.” Her brain tried to leap ahead her room, her door, the way the house had felt too quiet when she’d stumbled inside this morning. The thought of going back there alone, even just to grab things, made the edges of her vision feel wrong. Too soft. She tightened her grip on the broom handle until her knuckles went pale.
Steve’s gaze flicked to her hand. Then to her face. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He didn’t say you’re shaking or you look pale or any of the things people said when they wanted to be helpful and accidentally made it worse. He just nodded once, like he understood. “We can go together,” he said simply. Something in her chest eased. Not all the way. But enough.
“Okay,” she repeated, quieter. “Yeah. Together.”
They turned in opposite directions to put their brooms away her toward Ray’s back closet, him toward Scoops and for a second the distance felt wrong, like the mall itself noticed the gap and tried to widen it.
Chapter 23: Alone in the dark
Chapter Text
Lottie eased the front door shut behind her, careful with the latch, the click of it settling into place louder than she wanted it to be. The porch light cast a familiar yellow square across the entryway, her shadow stretching thin and strange across the wall as she kicked off her shoes. The television murmured from the living room. Her dad sat slouched at the end of the couch, one arm draped over the back, reruns flickering blue across his face. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard her keys hit the bowl.
“There she is,” he said. “Long shift?”
“Yeah,” she replied, shrugging out of her jacket. “Ray’s wouldn’t die.” He snorted softly. “That place never does.” She lingered just long enough for it to feel normal, then drifted down the hallway toward her room. The carpet was cool under her bare feet. The house smelled like clean laundry and whatever he’d reheated for dinner earlier. The light snapped on, steady and warm, filling the room with things she recognized: her dresser cluttered with half-burned candles, the stack of records leaning against the wall, her bed unmade from that morning.
She crossed to the closet and pulled down her overnight bag, the canvas one she usually took to Robin’s. She packed with care that bordered on ritual. A t-shirt. Pajamas. Jeans for the morning. Socks. Toothbrush. She paused, then added her hoodie, folding it smaller than necessary. The bag filled faster than she expected, zipper teeth catching once before sliding closed.
Her bed creaked softly when she sat down to lace her shoes. Her dad appeared in the doorway as she swung the strap of the bag over her shoulder, leaning there easy and unassuming. “You heading back out?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m gonna stay at Robin’s.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Tonight?” She nodded, already reaching for the doorknob. “She didn’t feel like being alone. We’re probably just gonna watch movies and crash.” That earned a small smile. “Sounds like her.” He stepped forward and squeezed her shoulder once, solid and grounding. “Drive safe.”
“I will.” The porch light washed over her as she stepped outside, the night air cooler than she expected. She didn’t look back at the house as she crossed to her car, just unlocked it and tossed the bag into the passenger seat. The engine turned over on the second try.
____________________
The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh as she stepped inside, the familiar rush of conditioned air brushing over her skin.
Scoops Ahoy was still lit. Steve leaned against the counter, jacket already on over his uniform, arms folded loosely like he’d been waiting without admitting it. He straightened when he saw her, relief flickering across his face before he smoothed it away. “You made it,” he said.
“Yeah,” she replied, shifting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. “Told my dad I was staying with Robin.”
He nodded, not prying. “Good plan.”
They fell into step side by side without comment, sneakers squeaking softly against the tile as they headed toward the exit. The mall hummed around them—distant laughter, the whir of a floor buffer somewhere far off, the echo of their footsteps stretching longer than it should have. Outside, the parking lot spread wide and dim, sodium lights casting long shadows between cars. Steve stopped beside his, hand resting on the roof as he looked at her.
“Thanks for trusting me,” he said quietly.
She hesitated, then met his eyes. “Thanks for giving me somewhere to go.” That earned her a small, careful smile. He opened the passenger door for her, and as she climbed in, she felt a chill creep up her spine. Steve shut the door gently behind her, like sudden noises might spook something delicate in the air between them. The interior of the car smelled faintly like coffee and clean fabric laundry detergent, maybe and something warm she couldn’t quite place. He circled the hood and slid into the driver’s seat, keys already in hand. “You cold?” he asked, glancing over as the engine turned.
“A little,” she admitted, rubbing her palms together once before letting them rest in her lap. He reached for the heater without comment, twisting the knob until warm air began to creep through the vents the fan whirred softly, steady and unobtrusive. The parking lot lights slid across the windshield as he backed out, tires crunching softly over gravel before finding asphalt. Starcourt receded behind them, neon glow The road hummed beneath the tires, headlights carving a narrow tunnel through the night. Houses passed in quiet rows, porch lights dotting the dark like watchful eyes. The radio stayed off. The silence felt intentional, companionable, like something they’d agreed on without saying so.
Lottie watched the way Steve drove hands steady at ten and two, posture relaxed but alert. He checked his mirrors more often than necessary, like he was making sure the world stayed predictable. “You okay?” he asked finally, not turning his head. “Yeah,” she said, then paused. “I mean yeah.” He nodded once, accepting it for what it was.
They drove a little farther, the neighborhood changing subtly yards a little wider, trees a little taller. Steve slowed as they turned onto a quieter street, the kind where sound seemed to get absorbed instead of echoed. “My house is up here,” he said softly. He pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. The sudden quiet pressed in, thick and expectant. Neither of them moved right away.
“The guest room’s already set up,” he said, breaking the silence gently. “Clean sheets. Extra blanket. Bathroom’s across the hall.”
“Okay,” she said. Her voice sounded smaller in the stillness of the car.
He glanced at her then, really looked, like he was checking for something she hadn’t said out loud. “If at any point you wanna change your mind,” he added, careful, “we can turn around. I won’t be offended.”
She shook her head. “No. No. I’m good, I promise.” That earned her another one of those small, careful smile, the kind he seemed to reserve for moments he didn’t want to mishandle. They got out of the car together, doors closing softly behind them. The night air was cooler here, quieter, broken only by distant crickets and the low rustle of leaves. Steve grabbed her bag before she could, slinging it over his shoulder like it was nothing.
Inside, the house was dim and still, the air cooler than outside. Steve flicked on a lamp instead of the overhead light, bathing the living room in a warm, muted glow. Everything looked lived-in but tidy family photos on the wall, a stack of magazines on the coffee table, a sweater draped over the back of the couch.
lock the door behind them, the click of it echoing softly through the quiet house. He didn’t turn on any more lights—just gestured toward the staircase at the far end of the living room.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” he said quietly, like the house might be listening. “Bathroom too.” She nodded, fingers curling once into the strap of her bag before he picked it back up again without thinking, already halfway to the stairs. The steps creaked faintly under their weight as they climbed, the sound familiar in a way that suggested he knew exactly which ones complained and which didn’t.
The upstairs hallway was darker, narrower. A single nightlight glowed near the baseboard, casting soft amber light along the carpet and the doors that lined the hall. Steve moved carefully now, slower than downstairs, like he didn’t want to rush her into anything. “My room’s at the end,” he said, not pointing. Just stating it. “Guest room’s this one.” He opened the second door on the right and flicked on the bedside lamp instead of the overhead. The room came alive gently cream walls, a neatly made bed, a small dresser with a lamp and a stack of old magazines. A folded quilt sat at the foot of the bed, floral and a little faded, like it had lived a long, quiet life.
He set her bag down beside the bed and stepped back immediately, hands lifting like he was surrendering the space to her. “There’s extra towels in the bathroom,” he added. “And—uh if you wake up and need water or something, the kitchen light switch is by the pantry.”
He lingered in the doorway for half a second too long, then seemed to catch himself. “I’ll be across the hall,” he said. “If yeah.” He mumbled waving away with his hand awkwardly. He cleared his throat, the motion small, like he hadn’t meant to say anything else and almost had by accident. “If you need anything,” he said instead, steadier now, “just knock.”
“I will,” she said quietly.
He nodded once, like that was enough, and reached for the door. It closed with a soft click that settled into the quiet rather than breaking it. Lottie stood still until his footsteps retreated down the hall and another door opened, then closed. The house settled around her again, the nightlight in the hallway casting a thin bar of amber beneath her door.
She exhaled then slowly, she kicked off her shoes and set them side by side near the wall. She placed her bag on the chair, unzipped it just enough to remind herself it was there, then left it alone. Before she could overthink it, she padded back across the carpet, each step deliberate, soundless. She stopped in front of the door, hesitated for half a second, then leaned forward and pressed her ear gently against the wood.
At first nothing but her own breathing, a little too loud in her head. She forced it slower, quieter, until the sounds beyond the door began to separate themselves. A soft rustle of fabric, and the faint creak of a mattress shifting. The sound grounded her instantly. Not startling, not intrusive just proof of someone else existing in the space beyond the door. Awake, maybe. Or drifting somewhere else. Close enough to hear her if she moved. Close enough to notice if something went wrong. She stayed there a few seconds longer, cheek nearly brushing the doorframe now, eyes closed as she listened again.
Till she was satisfied at least enough to step back and return to the bed. This time when she lay down, she faced the door, the thin line of light beneath it anchoring her gaze. She pulled the quilt up to her chest and tucked her hands beneath it, fingers curling into the fabric. Her eyes fluttered once.
Then again.
Sleep didn’t come all at once. It crept. Edged its way in carefully, like it knew better than to announce itself. The light under the door stretched. At first she thought it was her eyes adjusting. Fatigue doing strange things. The glow thinned, pulled longer, like it was being smeared across the floor. The air in the room felt heavier, pressing against her chest in a way that had nothing to do with the quilt. Her fingers twitched and hum of the house deepened dropping a register. The sound warped, stretched, until it wasn’t a hum anymore but something closer to a distant wind moving through hollow spaces.
No, she thought. Not here.
The ceiling above her darkened, shadows pooling in the corners where there hadn’t been shadows before. The floral pattern on the quilt blurred, colors bleeding into each other until they dulled to gray.
Cold slid up her spine.
The light under the door flickered once. Then went out. Her breath caught as the room shifted not abruptly, not violently, but the way a tide pulls sand out from under your feet before you realize you’re standing in water. The air thickened and dampening the smell of rot and metal and something electrical burned wrong. The clean scent of detergent vanished, replaced by wet earth and decay.
The guest room is still the guest room.
Same walls. Same dresser. Same bed.
But everything looks tired.
The cream paint has darkened to a bruised gray-blue, as if the color has been leeched out of it. The corners of the ceiling sag ever so slightly, shadows clinging where the lamplight should reach but doesn’t anymore. Fine black threads creep along the baseboards, following the lines where carpet meets wall. The bed beneath her hasn’t moved but it feels softer now. Too soft, like the springs have sunk into something spongy, something that yields when it shouldn’t.
The house hum deepens, stretching into a low, distant thrumming that vibrates faintly through the mattress. Pipes tick somewhere above her head or below it’s hard to tell anymore. Lottie closes her eyes for one breath, she expects the pull the hook behind her ribs tightening, urging her down, through, elsewhere. It doesn’t come.
Instead, the room leans closer the shadows creep farther from the corners, stretching across the walls in slow, deliberate movements. Slowly, carefully, she pushes the quilt aside.
Her feet find the floor.
The carpet is still carpet, still patterned, still soft but it’s damp now, fibers clinging faintly to her skin like wet grass after rain. When she puts her weight down, the floor gives just a fraction more than it should. Lottie straightens slowly, every movement measured, like sudden speed might tear the thin membrane holding the room together. The air presses against her ears, thick and muffled, as if she’s standing underwater. She takes one careful step forward. The carpet sighs under her weight, damp fibers whispering against her soles.
The guest room door is still where it should be. the thin bar of light beneath it is gone replaced by darkness that looks too deep for a hallway.
Her chest tightens.
She reaches out, fingers trembling just enough to notice, and brushes the dresser for balance. The wood feels swollen, grain raised like skin after too long in the bath. Her fingertips come away cold. “No,” she whispers, more plea than word. The sound dies immediately, swallowed by the room.
She moves again, crossing the space one careful step at a time. The shadows slide with her, adjusting, reorienting, like they’re making room. Halfway to the door, the smell sharpens metallic now, electrical, something burned and bleeding at the same time. She presses her palm to the door.
The wood is cold. Too cold. Like it’s been sitting outside in winter air. When she wraps her fingers around the knob, it resists not locked, not stuck, just heavy, like the door itself is reluctant to let go of the space behind it. “Please,” she murmurs, unsure who she’s speaking to. The hum dips, drops lower, vibrating through her wrist, her elbow, settling deep in her bones. For a terrifying second, she feels that familiar tug again not sharp, not urgent, but patient. Waiting.
She twists the knob and the door opens. The hallway beyond is wrong in subtler ways. Longer. Narrower. The walls bow inward slightly, breathing. The nightlight still glows, but its amber warmth has dulled to a sickly, muddy gold, casting shadows that don’t quite match the shapes that make them. She stops inches from the door up close, it looks unchanged. Same scuffed paint near the bottom. Same brass knob, dulled by years of fingerprints. A door she’s seen a hundred times before in the daylight.
Her hand lifts, she knocks once. The sound lands wrong too flat, like it’s been smothered before it can echo. It doesn’t travel down the hall. It barely leaves her knuckles. She waits, but nothing. Not the creak of a bed. Not the shift of fabric. Not even the subtle noise of someone breathing on the other side.
Her pulse ticks louder in her ears.
“Steve?” she says, and the word thins, stretched, pulled until it barely sounds like language at all.
Still nothing.
The hum swells, vibrating faintly through the door, through her wrist, like the house itself is answering her instead. She knocks again. Harder. This time, the sound sinks into the wood and disappears, swallowed whole, cold creeps up her forearm. The shadows at her feet inch closer, pooling around the base of the door like something waiting to spill through.
Her fingers curl around the knob.
It turns too easily.
The door swings open.
The room beyond is empty.
Not unused empty in a way that feels intentional. The bed is there, neatly made, sheets smooth and untouched. The dresser sits against the wall, lamp off, surface bare except for a thin layer of gray dust that dulls the shine. The curtains hang limp, unmoving, even though she can feel a faint current of cold air brushing past her ankles.
“ No,” she whispers, the word barely making it past her teeth. She steps inside despite herself. The carpet is dry here, but threadbare, worn thin as if by years of pacing. When she moves, the room does not respond no creaks, no settling sounds. Just that distant thrumming, deeper now, vibrating through Her chest tightens painfully.
She backs toward the bed, legs weak. The mattress dips under her hand when she touches it, too soft, yielding like damp soil beneath a thin layer of fabric.
The hum shifts.
Closer. As if something has realized she noticed the room was empty. As if the house has decided she was meant to see this part.
Chapter 24: Endurance
Chapter Text
The hum doesn’t rise so much as it changes, dropping into something lower and denser, a vibration that sinks beneath sound and lodges itself in her chest. The walls answer it first. A faint shudder runs through the room, subtle enough that she almost misses it, until the dresser lamp trembles and the glass shade clicks softly against itself. Dust sifts down from the ceiling in a thin, gray veil, catching briefly in the sickened light before disappearing against the darkened carpet. Then the house moves again, harder this time, a rolling convulsion that pulls a sharp gasp from her throat as the floor creaks beneath her feet. The walls split with delicate, fast cracks that race outward from the corners like veins surfacing under skin, and from those fractures leaks something that is not smoke and not ash, too fine to settle and too deliberate to be drifting at random.
gathers along the ceiling, pools in the corners, threads itself into the spaces where walls meet floor.
Lottie inhales on instinct, her body reaching for air before her mind can catch up, and immediately understands that something is wrong.
The breath offers no resistance at all. Her lungs fill with nothing, with absence, a hollow intake that leaves her chest aching and unsatisfied, like she has tried to breathe underwater without the burn. Panic flares sharp and immediate, her throat tightening as she coughs, the sound brittle and useless. Her head swims, vision dimming at the edges as though the room is slowly closing in around her. She jerks her shirt up, fingers curling hard into the collar and yanking the fabric over her mouth and nose. The cotton presses warm and familiar against her face as she drags in another breath, shallow and desperate. It barely helps, but it’s something, a thin barrier between her and the air that feels stripped of everything that makes it breathable. Each inhale scrapes empty, leaving her chest tight and burning.
The house groans in answer the sound rolling through the walls and floors, deep and strained, and then the entire structure convulses violently. The ceiling splits near the doorway with a wet, cracking sound, and more of the dark dust pours through, thicker now, churning in slow, rolling clouds that pulse faintly, as if responding to her presence.
Her lungs protest with every breath, the effort of staying upright becoming painful as her body struggles against the emptiness filling her chest. She doesn’t give herself time to think. The moment tightens, snaps, and she turns and runs.
Her feet slap against the carpet as she bolts into the hallway, one hand locked tight around the collar of her shirt, keeping the fabric pressed to her face as the other flings out for balance. The corridor stretches unnaturally, walls bowing inward, the distance to the stairs dragging longer with every step. Behind her, the dust surges forward, spilling low across the floor before rising in a sudden wave that curls toward her legs, cold and invasive, everywhere at once. She coughs into the fabric, the sound muffled and wet, her vision tunneling as black spots scatter across her sight. Her foot hits the first stair wrong, heel skidding on damp carpet where it shouldn’t be damp at all, and she pitches forward with a sharp, startled sound torn loose in her throat. Instinct takes over before thought has time to catch up. She reaches blindly for the banister, fingers flinging out in a desperate grab meant for smooth, familiar wood.
Her hand closes around something that moves. Not the solid, polished rail she expects, but something thick and fibrous, cold and faintly slick beneath her palm. For half a heartbeat her mind refuses to make sense of it, insists it must just be warped wood or loose fabric or her imagination spiraling under panic, but then it tightens reflexively around her fingers, responding to the pressure with a slow, deliberate flex. Dark and rope-thick, threaded with pale veins that pulse faintly beneath her grip, as if something inside it has noticed her. The texture is wrong in every possible way, ridged and rubbery and faintly wet, and the moment she realizes what she’s touching, a violent jolt of revulsion tears through her.
She yanks her hand back with a strangled cry.
The vine reacts instantly. It contracts, not snapping or recoiling but pulling, tightening with a sudden strength that jerks her off balance and slams her shoulder hard into the wall. Pain flares white-hot down her arm as the breath she was barely holding is ripped from her lungs. The collar of her shirt slips from her face and she gasps involuntarily, sucking in another mouthful of that empty, dead air that leaves her chest burning and useless. “No—” she tries to say, but the word collapses into a broken cough.
The vine writhes against the banister, slithering along the rail in a slow, purposeful movement, tendrils unfurling where there had been smooth wood only seconds ago. They creep toward her wrist, brushing her skin with a cold that feels deeper than temperature, like it’s leaching something out of her rather than touching her at all. She rips her arm free with a sharp her panic going into overdrive , wrenching motion, skin burning where the vine grazes her, and stumbles backward down the stairs. Her heel catches again and this time she doesn’t stop herself, tumbling down the last few steps in a clumsy sprawl that knocks the air from her chest and sends stars bursting across her vision.
She scrambles instantly, terror lending her limbs a frantic strength. Her fingers claw at the carpet as she drags herself upright, yanking the collar of her shirt back over her mouth with shaking hands. The vine above her shudders, more of it unfurling now, creeping down the banister in slow, deliberate pursuit, like it has learned something from her touch. The hum deepens, vibrating through the staircase, through her bones, through the floor beneath her feet. The dust pours down after her in thick, rolling clouds, swallowing the upper hallway completely, threading itself around the vines as if the house itself is knitting together around her escape.
She doesn’t look up again. Her legs pump hard as she bolts for the front door, lungs screaming, chest tight and hollow as every breath fights to keep her conscious. Behind her, the staircase groans, wood bending and warping as more dark tendrils creep outward, the banister no longer a boundary but a path, guiding them forward. The air grows colder with every step, heavier, pressing down on her shoulders like hands trying to hold her in place. She keeps the collar clamped to her face, coughing into the fabric, vision narrowing to a dim tunnel centered on the front door and nothing else.
Something slams into the wall behind her.
The impact rattles the entire house, shaking the door in its frame as she reaches it, fingers fumbling wildly for the handle. The vines scrape across the floor now, their movement audible beneath the hum, a wet, dragging sound that follows too close, far too close.
Her hand closes around the knob she wrenches it open and throws herself forward without thinking, stumbling through the doorway as cold night air crashes into her lungs like salvation and pain all at once.
She doesn’t stop running. Not when her feet hit the porch, not when she nearly trips down the steps, not when her chest burns so badly she thinks she might black out anyway. She runs until the air starts to feel real again, until the house is behind her, until the hum dulls just enough to prove she hasn’t been pulled back under.
And behind her, just beyond the threshold, the vines stop. The dust follows spilling through the open doorway in a final, restless surge, but instead of pressing forward it lifts, caught by the night air, spiraling upward in loose, wandering currents. It moves like leaves shaken free from a dying tree, swirling and tumbling in lazy arcs that catch briefly in the porch light before thinning, breaking apart, dissolving into the dark above the yard. What had felt heavy and intentional moments ago grows scattered, unfocused, no longer gathering or reaching, just drifting until it becomes indistinguishable from shadow.
Lottie stumbles to a stop in the street, chest heaving, hands braced on her knees as she gulps in breath after breath that finally feels solid, real, painful in a way she understands. Her lungs burn, her throat raw, each inhale shuddering through her like she’s relearning how to exist inside her own body. The collar of her shirt slips from her face, damp with breath and sweat, but she barely notices.She straightens slowly, dizzy, every nerve still screaming, and looks back.
The house stands where it always has, porch light flickering weakly, siding quiet, windows dark and watchful. Lottie straightens slowly, the movement sending a wash of dizziness through her that makes the street tilt for a moment before settling again. She waits for the world to follow through on the motion to sway back, to correct itself—but it doesn’t. It just holds there, suspended, like she’s stepped into the pause between one moment and the next.
Her breathing sounds too loud to each nhale drags through her chest with a rasp she can feel behind her eyes, each exhale leaving her light-headed and faintly disconnected from the body doing it. She listens for something else to anchor herself to. Crickets. Wind through the trees. A car in the distance.
There’s nothing. The street stretches out ahead of her in both directions, familiar in shape if not in feeling. The asphalt looks damp, though she doesn’t remember rain. Porch lights glow at irregular intervals, their halos dim and sickly, buzzing faintly without flickering out. She focuses on one across the way, watches the way the light trembles. It doesn’t change.
She watches longer than she means to. Long enough for her legs to start aching with a dull, insistent burn that suggests she’s been standing still for too long. Long enough for the ache to deepen and then recede again without her shifting her weight, like her body can’t decide how much time has passed. The clouds hang low and torn, stretched thin across the dark in ragged bands that look like they’ve been dragged there and left. She watches them, waiting for movement—for drift, for change, for any sign that time is still doing what it’s supposed to do.
Nothing shifts.
She blinks hard, rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, then looks again. The clouds are exactly where they were before. The same gaps. The same jagged edges. The stars behind them too sharp, too fixed, like pinholes punched through paper. A chill crawling up her spine.
She takes a step forward. The sound of her shoe against the pavement feels delayed, arriving half a second after the movement, soft and wrong. She takes another step, then another, counting them under her breath without realizing she’s doing it. Five. Six. Seven. The numbers start slipping apart somewhere around ten.
Her legs tremble, muscles tightening and loosening in uneven waves, as though she’s been walking much longer than she remembers. Her lungs burn again, then abruptly don’t, the ache cutting out so cleanly it leaves her disoriented. The porch light she’d been watching buzzes again, the same dull mechanical stutter, and she realizes with a small, sinking jolt that it’s been making that sound the entire time. She turns in a slow circle, scanning the street, the houses, the quiet stretch of road that should feel navigable, mapped, knowable. Everything is there. Everything is wrong. The longer she looks, the flatter it feels, like a set dressed to resemble a neighborhood rather than a place people actually live.
Her breath fogs faintly in front of her mouth. She watches it dissipate. Watches it thin and vanish faster than it should, like even warmth can’t linger here. A thought creeps in, unbidden and unwelcome.
If I start walking, will it ever end?
The idea lodges deep, heavy enough to make her knees threaten to buckle. She swallows hard, throat dry and aching, and forces herself to stay still, as if motion itself might cost her something she can’t afford to lose. Her knees buckle before she can argue with them. It isn’t a collapse so much as a slow, helpless giving-in, her legs folding beneath her as she stumbles sideways into the shallow dip of a driveway. Thin pajama fabric does nothing to soften the impact when she hits the concrete, the cold biting straight through cotton and into her skin. She lets herself slide down until her back knocks against the curb, the shock of it pulling a thin, broken sound from her throat. Her chest heaves, each breath short and sharp, the burn still bright and insistent, like her lungs have been scraped raw and left exposed.
Her breath sounds too loud in it, too present, like it’s the only thing still moving. She presses her palms to the pavement, fingers splayed, skin stinging where the cold leaches heat away. The texture is real. Gritty. Solid. She clings to that, grounding herself in the bite of it.
She tips her head back against the curb and shuts her eyes for a moment, waiting for the world to correct itself. When she opens them again, something has changed but not much. The porch light across the street blinks once slow, tired before settling back into its weak glow. The shift is small enough that she almost doubts it happened, except the shadow it casts has moved. Just slightly. Enough that she knows she didn’t imagine it.
Her breath fogs in front of her mouth. She watches it bloom thin and pale, then disappear. The next breath barely shows. Her lungs still ache, still burn, but the pain has settled into something steady, no longer climbing. The neighborhood stretches around her, wrong in quiet ways, flat and hollow and waiting.
Chapter 25: Overgrowth
Chapter Text
The cold had seeped deeper now, not just through her thin pajamas but into her bones, numbing her in uneven patches fingers stiff and unresponsive one moment, then prickling with phantom heat the next. She flexed her hands experimentally, watching her knuckles whiten and flush without feeling much of anything. The street stretched out in front of her, asphalt gleaming faintly under the sickly porch lights, but the shine looked wrong, like oil on water that refused to ripple. No wind stirred the leaves in the trees overhead; they hung frozen mid-fall, caught in a perpetual hesitation.
Her breath fogged in front of her mouth, a thin plume that lingered too long before dissolving unevenly, one edge fraying into nothing while the other held shape. She exhaled again, deliberately this time, and watched the mist twist into a shape that almost resembled a hand reaching back toward her. It vanished before she could blink, leaving her staring at empty air. The hum from the house duller now, but still there vibrated through the ground beneath her, syncing with her pulse in a way that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t loud, but it was everywhere, like the neighborhood itself was breathing in slow, labored heaves.
She couldn’t stay here. The thought cut through the haze in her mind, sharp and insistent. Sitting still felt like surrender, like letting whatever this was claim her inch by inch. With a grunt that echoed too flatly in the silence, she pushed herself up, legs wobbling as if she’d been sitting for hours instead of minutes. Time felt slippery here, unreliable. She glanced back at her house one last time—the vines had stopped at the threshold, but they pulsed faintly, as if waiting for her to turn away. She didn’t give them the chance.
The road to Starcourt should have been straightforward: a straight shot down Maple Drive, past the familiar row of houses, then a left onto the main drag. She’d driven it a hundred times that summer, windows down, radio blaring pop songs that drowned out the cicadas. Now, as she started walking, the path seemed to stretch, the houses repeating in subtle loops the same cracked mailbox appearing twice, the same curtain twitching in a window that shouldn’t be there.
The air grew thicker in pockets, forcing her to sidestep invisible barriers where breathing became a labored rasp, her lungs protesting as if filled with cotton. Black specks dotted her vision when she pushed through one, and when she coughed them up, they tasted like ash mixed with the faint, metallic tang of blood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, half-expecting to see red, but there was nothing. Just her skin, pale and unmarked. She shook her head, pressing her palms to her eyes until stars burst behind her lids. Not real. None of this is real. But the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of her resolve. What if it was? What if Steve was trapped here too, reaching for her through the haze? The thought twisted in her gut, pulling her forward even as fear screamed at her to run the other way.
The road finally curved toward where Starcourt should have been, but instead of the familiar glow of neon and the sprawl of the parking lot, there was only forest. Dense, twisted trees rose up like sentinels, their trunks gnarled and blackened, branches intertwining overhead to form a canopy that blocked out the unnatural sky. Vines draped from them like veins, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the hum that now seemed to emanate from the ground itself. There was no sign of the mall—no shattered glass doors, no flickering signs, no fountain running backward. Just endless woods, as if the summer’s beating heart had never been built, as if Hawkins had swallowed it whole and left only wilderness in its place.
She approached cautiously, the asphalt crumbling under her feet into soft, loamy earth that sucked at her soles. The trees loomed closer, their bark etched with patterns that looked almost like faces distorted, screaming mouths frozen in agony. Puddles dotted the forest floor, reflecting a sky that wasn’t right, stars too bright, too fixed. She knelt by one, drawn by her reflection. But it wasn’t her face staring back. The eyes were wrong pale blue, almost white, the mouth curved in a smile she hadn’t made. Horror surged through her, and she scrambled back as the ground trembled, cracks spidering outward. Vines inched closer, not aggressive but exploratory, one tendril brushing her ankle with a gentleness that was worse than violence. It coiled loosely, inviting, as if to lead her deeper into the nightmare. She stared into the depths of the forest, where the trees thickened into an impenetrable wall of shadow, the vines weaving between them like threads in a web.
She pushed herself up, legs unsteady but determined. The earth gave a little under her weight, soft and yielding like flesh. She took a step into the woods, then another, the canopy closing overhead like a lid snapping shut. The hum grew muffled here, absorbed by the trees, but the air turned heavier, laced with a damp rot that clung to her skin. Branches scraped at her arms without moving, leaving faint red welts that faded almost as soon as they appeared. The ground sloped downward unexpectedly, pulling her deeper, the path if it was a path winding through roots that twisted. Deeper in, the trees began to change. Their trunks bulged in odd places, as if something inside was pressing outward, straining against the bark. One split open slightly as she passed, revealing a glimpse of pale, glistening fibers that pulsed once before sealing shut. She didn’t stop to look closer. The puddles grew more frequent, their surfaces unnaturally still, reflecting not just the fixed stars but fragments of her dreams flickers of candlelight, a shadowed hall, a hand extended in silent invitation. She stepped around them carefully, but one foot sank into the mud beside a pool, the suction pulling her down until her calf disappeared into the earth. She yanked free with a gasp, black sludge clinging to her skin, cold and numbing.
The forest seemed to breathe with her now, the vines rustling faintly in time with her labored inhales. She pressed on, driven by a pull she couldn’t name, the horror building not in screams or chases but in the slow, inevitable unraveling of what she knew to be real.
She paused at a small clearing, or what passed for one in this twisted place: a patch where the trees thinned just enough to reveal a circle of barren dirt, ringed by roots that looped and knotted like veins on the surface. In the center, something glinted faintly—a small object half-buried in the soil. Her breath caught, curiosity overriding caution for a moment. She knelt, fingers trembling as she brushed away the loose earth. It was a locket, silver and tarnished, the chain broken as if snapped in haste. Inside, when she pried it open, was a faded photograph: a girl who almost looked like her, but not quite the same strange pale eyes staring back she saw in the puddle moments before, and smile that held secrets. The hum surged then, louder in her head than before, and the vines around the clearing stirred, inching toward her knees.
Panic flared anew, the locket slipping between her fingers as she scrambled back, but the fog had thickened, obscuring the way she’d come. The forest shifted around her, trees that had been distant now looming close, their bark splitting in silent cracks to reveal more of those pulsing fibers beneath. She ran then, blindly, branches whipping at her face without wind to move them, the ground tilting unpredictably underfoot. But no matter which direction she turned, the woods only deepened, the pull growing stronger, drawing her toward something unseen at its heart.
Avason (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 18 Nov 2025 12:14AM UTC
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Victoria_Ava on Chapter 1 Mon 15 Dec 2025 09:15PM UTC
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