Chapter Text
The warehouse was dead.
No windows.
Just a broken lightbulb hanging uselessly from the ceiling.
The air smelled of dust, rusted metal, and something worse—fear.
Jonathan Byers sat on the floor, his back pressed to a freezing wall.
Rope bit into his wrists, tied too tight.
The knot in his chest wasn’t just panic—it was the gag filling his mouth, rough and thick, stealing his breath.
He tried not to make noise.
He really tried.
Then he heard footsteps.
Slow.
Heavy.
Too close.
His heart slammed against his ribs. His lungs locked in terror, and a muffled sound tried to escape, useless behind the gag.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
Please don’t hear me. Please don’t.
But the footsteps didn’t come toward him.
They stopped.
And then—
—Jonathan.
The voice was quiet. Controlled. Tight.
Steve Harrington wasn’t yelling.
That was what made it terrifying… and what made it safe.
Jonathan shook.
A silent sob tore through his chest.
Tears burned his eyes when he heard boots moving carefully—not searching with sight, but with sound.
Steve was listening to him breathe.
—Hey… hey, I’ve got you —Steve whispered, closer now—. You’re okay. I won’t touch you until you’re ready, alright?
Jonathan couldn’t answer.
But he breathed.
Shaky. Uneven. Alive.
Steve knelt in front of him, and when their eyes met, something fierce crossed Steve’s face—rage, fear, guilt, all tangled together.
—Shit… —he breathed.
He cut the ropes with shaking hands. Wrists first. Ankles next. Every movement careful, reverent, like Jonathan might shatter.
The gag came last.
Steve removed it slowly.
Jonathan didn’t scream.
Didn’t speak.
He folded forward with a broken, silent sob, breathing like he didn’t remember how not to hurt.
Steve caught him before he collapsed.
—Shh… shh… it’s over. It’s over —he murmured, again and again.
Jonathan clutched Steve’s jacket with trembling hands.
His whole body shook.
Tears soaked into the fabric, soundless.
Steve held him tight against his chest. Solid. Protective. One hand on Jonathan’s back, guiding slow breaths.
—Breathe with me, okay? One… two… that’s it. I’m here. I’ve got you.
Jonathan barely nodded.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
Steve stayed with him on the cold warehouse floor until the shaking eased, until Jonathan’s breathing stopped breaking apart.
When Jonathan finally rested his forehead against Steve’s neck, exhausted, Steve pressed a soft kiss into his hair.
—I’ve got you —he whispered—. Always.