Chapter Text
Steve woke up on carpet.
That was his first thought. Carpet. Not dirt. Not slime. Not cracked tile, not wet moss, not the weird Upside Down dust that always tasted like pennies in the back of his throat.
Carpet.
His second thought was: Oh my God, I’m dead and this is hell, and hell looks like my parents’ taste.
Because he knew this room. Knew it in his bones. Harrington house—formal living room, expensive couch nobody sat on, the glass table that existed purely to punish shins. Everything in its place like it was waiting for a showing.
Except—
Except the air was wrong.
Not stale—held. Like the house was holding its breath.
And Steve didn’t remember how he’d gotten here.
He didn’t remember the how, but he remembered the shape of it—pain and pressure, like the world had taken him by the collar and decided he belonged somewhere else. A flash of frozen ground. A weight slamming him down hard enough that his shoulder still complained. Hands—his friends’ hands—reaching for him, mouths open around his name like they could pull him back by sound alone. And then something hot and rank over his throat, breath too close, too wrong, the Upside Down stink filling his lungs until the air itself tasted like metal.
There had been something else underneath it—not a thought, not even a smell he could name, just an impression that stuck like burrs in fabric. Presence. Attention. The feeling of being singled out in a crowd you couldn’t see. The memory cut off before he could make sense of it, torn clean like a page ripped from a notebook. Darkness folded over him like wet paper—and somewhere inside that dark, a voice wearing a smile said, soft as if it belonged in his ear: Found you.
That was the part that made his stomach turn. Not the carpet, not the polish-and-money smell—the blank. One second he had been… where? He could summon the feeling of panic, the taste of fear, the sense that something Upside Down-adjacent had happened, something that had picked him up by the back of the neck and dropped him somewhere else.
But the actual memory was gone.
Bad idea, Dingus, Robin’s voice supplied in his head, crisp as if she were leaning over the couch with her hands on her hips. Waking up in a haunted rich-person museum? Super bad idea.
Steve shut his eyes for half a beat, then opened them again because if he started pretending he could hear voices, he was going to end up exactly where his parents always threatened—some expensive facility with beige walls and no exits.
He pushed himself upright, palms sinking into plush fibers that felt too clean to be real. His ribs screamed. His neck throbbed where the demobats had torn him up months ago; those scars still talked to him when the weather changed, and lately they talked all the time.
He swallowed. The swallow came with that new, humiliating hitch—his throat catching like his body remembered teeth there. The omega gland on the side of his neck wasn’t a bruise or a myth anymore. It was a thing—a small, sensitive truth that made him feel exposed even when he was fully clothed.
“Okay,” he said out loud, because silence was how you invited Hawkins to get creative. “Okay. Great. Awesome. Love this for me.”
His voice echoed too softly.
The house smelled like lemon polish and old money—
—and underneath that, again, the struck-match scent.
Alpha.
Steve froze. Every hair on his arms lifted. His heart did that stupid, traitorous omega jump, like it wanted to lean toward the danger just to understand it.
Oh, cool, Dustin’s voice popped up, bright with the kind of terrible enthusiasm that got them all killed. So it’s a trap with a boss fight.
“Hello?” Steve called, and tried to make it sound like he hadn’t just felt his whole biology sit up and beg.
From the hallway came footsteps: slow, careful, not trying to sneak so much as trying not to startle.
A man appeared in the doorway.
He was… normal. And that was the most unsettling part.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a photo Steve’s mom would’ve called tasteful—dark trousers, an old-fashioned shirt, the kind of neat, tight-sleeved thing you wore when people still said sir unironically. Not a suit, not quite. The silhouette was old school anyway. Like he’d dressed for church and missed the decade.
Mid-twenties, maybe. Older in the eyes. Blonde hair, light-skinned and pale in a way that made him look like he didn’t spend much time under a real sun. And his eyes—pale blue, piercing, too aware. He had the kind of face you’d expect to see in a yearbook from a different decade: all clean lines and quiet intensity. Hands held open, palms out, like Steve was a skittish animal.
“Hey,” the guy said, voice low. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Steve stared at him.
Up close, the scent hit harder. It wasn’t just “alpha” in the abstract; it was him—warm, sharp, strangely clean, like winter air that burned your lungs.
Steve’s mouth went dry. “Who are you?”
The guy hesitated in a way that looked practiced. “Henry Smith.”
Henry Smith. The most generic sounding name ever. Yeah fucking right.
“Henry Smith.” Steve said flatly.
“Yes.” Henry said.
No I’m from Hawkins or I’m with the government or holy shit, there are monsters. Just Henry Smith, like they were at a party and not… whatever this was.
Steve’s eyes flicked over him: no visible weapons, no blood, no monster-features, no government badge. Nothing.
Which meant—
“You’re trapped too,” Steve said, because his brain wanted an explanation it could chew. Wanted a box to put this in. Guy. House. Problem. Plan. And because the blank spot in Steve’s head made it easier to believe Henry’s blank spot too. If Steve couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, why should this stranger?
Henry let out a breath that might’ve been relief. “Yeah.”
Steve stood, slowly, testing his weight. His shoulder barked. He didn’t limp—refused to. He took one step and the room tilted in a way that made his stomach turn, sharp and sudden.
Henry moved.
Not fast like a normal person moving fast—no scramble, no awkward reach. Just… there. A hand at Steve’s elbow before Steve even realized he’d started to sway.
The grip was gentle.
The strength behind it wasn’t.
Steve stiffened. Because he’d been grabbed before. Billy had grabbed him—hard hands, effort in it, all rage and muscle. This wasn’t that. This was like being steadied by a steel bar wrapped in velvet. Like Henry could lift him with one arm and it wouldn’t cost him anything.
Steve pulled away on instinct, forcing his balance back under him.
Henry’s hand dropped immediately. No argument. No sulk. No offense taken.
Just that calm, watchful look again.
“How long have you been here?” Steve asked, voice rougher than he meant.
Henry’s gaze slid past Steve, into the room, like he was counting shadows. “Not long. I woke up… somewhere else. I followed noise. Found the house.”
Steve’s stomach tightened. Woke up. Somewhere else. Like Steve had. Like the memory had been cut with scissors.
“Yeah,” Steve said, and almost laughed, sharp and humorless. “My house.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “Your house.”
“My parents’ house,” Steve corrected automatically, because apparently trauma didn’t cancel out class resentment. “So—either I’m dreaming, or someone’s messing with me.”
Henry’s mouth twitched like he found that interesting. “Does it feel like a dream?”
Steve hated how his body answered first: the carpet under his feet, the steady temperature, the way his lungs didn’t burn. The way the alpha scent made his omega instincts want to… settle.
Yeah, no, Robin’s voice said, unimpressed. This is not a dream. This is a set. There’s a difference.
“No,” Steve admitted. “It feels… like a trap.”
Henry stepped a little closer, careful, like approaching a dog that might bite. “Then we should treat it like one.”
Steve met his eyes.
They were pale, piercing—too calm. Not empty-calm, not monster-calm. More like storm-calm, the quiet right before lightning.
“Okay,” Steve said, because he’d built his whole second life on being the guy who said okay even when he wanted to scream. “Okay. We treat it like a trap.”
Henry nodded once.
Then—like he couldn’t help it—Henry’s gaze flicked briefly to Steve’s throat. Not staring. Not devouring. Just… noticing.
Steve’s omega gland prickled, furious and aware all at once. His skin wanted to crawl. His body wanted to lean in. Both impulses made him want to punch a wall.
Steve lifted his chin anyway. “Don’t.”
Henry blinked, like Steve had slapped him with a word. “Don’t what?”
“Whatever that was,” Steve said. “Don’t look at me like I’m—”
Henry’s expression softened, quick and almost charming. “Like you’re what?”
Steve’s mouth opened.
He didn’t have a word that didn’t feel like swallowing glass.
He settled for: “Like you know me.”
Henry held Steve’s stare for a moment too long, then inclined his head—polite. Controlled. “Fair.”
Steve didn’t relax. He just… moved. Past Henry, into the hallway, because standing still felt like letting the house decide where he belonged.
“Come on,” Steve said. “We’re checking exits.”
Henry fell into step beside him. Close enough that Steve could smell him. Not close enough to touch.
It was… considerate.
It was also exactly what a smart predator would do.
Steve kept his eyes forward and pretended his throat wasn’t still tingling.
Bad idea, Robin’s voice sighed. But okay, Dingus. We’ve done worse.
And Steve—because he didn’t know how to be anything else anymore—treated the thought like a hand on his shoulder and kept walking.