Chapter Text
The house felt different without Hopper and Joyce. They’d gone on a week-long trip to some Island that retired people love.
The home was not empty, just quieter. Like it was holding its breath.
El noticed it the first morning after they left, standing barefoot in the kitchen while the kettle heated, Kate humming softly to herself at the table as she lined up cereal pieces by color. The ocean breeze drifted through the open windows, warm and lazy, carrying the smell of salt and sunscreen from somewhere down the beach.
Mike was due in an hour.
She checked the clock for the third time and immediately told herself to stop.
Kate looked up at her. “Mama?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Is Mikey coming today?”
El smiled despite herself. “Yeah. He is.”
Kate considered this carefully. “Okay.” Then, after a beat: “I will show him my shells.”
El laughed quietly. “I think he’d like that.”
She hoped he would.
-
Mike arrived with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and sand already clinging to the cuffs of his jeans, like the beach had claimed him before he’d even made it inside. El opened the door before he could knock.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she answered.
They stood there for half a second too long, both smiling in that careful way they’d perfected, fond, warm, deliberately non-committal. Then Kate barreled past El at full speed.
“Mikey!” she yelled, arms outstretched.
Mike barely had time to drop his bag before he crouched and caught her, laughter bursting out of him as she collided with his chest.
“Whoa,” he said, steadying her. “You trying to knock me over?”
“Yes,” Kate said seriously.
El watched from the doorway, chest tightening at the sight of them together, Mike laughing freely, Kate completely unafraid of him, already treating him like something permanent.
She hadn’t told him she hoped for this.
She didn’t have to.
-
The day unfolded slowly.
They walked down to the beach together, Kate darting ahead and then back again like a boomerang, always checking to make sure both of them were still there. Mike carried the cooler. El carried the towels. Kate carried a plastic bucket full of very important things.
At one point, Kate plopped down in the sand between them and announced, “Sit.”
Mike obeyed immediately.
El shook her head, amused. “She’s bossy.”
Mike grinned. “I respect her authority.”
Kate beamed.
They spent hours doing nothing important. Mike helped Kate dig a hole that quickly turned into a very serious construction project. El lay back on her towel, sunglasses resting low on her nose, watching them from under half-lidded eyes.
Mike kept glancing over at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She was always looking.
When Kate got tired, she crawled into Mike’s lap without hesitation, sandy fingers curling into his shirt. Mike stiffened for half a second, not from discomfort, but from the weight of it, then relaxed, one arm settling around her small back.
El felt something shift in her chest.
“Is this okay?” Mike asked quietly, eyes flicking to El.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “More than okay, she likes you a lot”
He nodded, jaw tight, emotion carefully contained.
Kate leaned her head against his chest and sighed. “You’re warm.”
Mike laughed softly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”
El smiled, blinking against the sudden sting in her eyes.
-
That night, after Kate fell asleep curled between stuffed animals and tangled sheets, Mike and El sat on the back porch again, a familiar place now. They shared a bottle of wine, no glasses, just passing the bottle back and fourth, like the teenagers they never really got to be, their teenage years filled with danger and loss instead.
Crickets chirped. The ocean murmured. Summer pressed in close around them.
“She’s amazing,” Mike said quietly. “You made that!” He said softly, amazement in his one as he turned to look into her eyes.
El nodded. “Yeah, I did” she said in almost a whisper, a small smile on her lips
He hesitated. “Thank you. For… letting me be around her like this.”
She looked at him, really looked at him. “I want you to know her,” she said. “I want her to know you.”
Mike swallowed. “I don’t want to overstep.”
“You’re not,” El said gently. “You’re just… here.”
He nodded, relief visible.
They sat in companionable silence, knees almost touching, hands resting close but not quite brushing.
Neither of them moved.
Neither of them needed to.
Inside, the house creaked softly, a living thing adjusting to new rhythms, new possibilities.
And somewhere between the sound of waves and the steady quiet of shared presence, something began to take shape.
Not a decision.
Not a promise.
Just the slow, careful learning of how to belong, together, without rushing the name for it.
The first time El left Mike alone with Kate, it wasn’t intentional.
It happened in the late afternoon, the house heavy with heat and the slow lethargy that came after too much sun. Kate had fallen asleep on the couch, limbs sprawled, a faint smear of melted chocolate still at the corner of her mouth. Mike sat on the floor beside her, back against the couch, flipping idly through a paperback he’d found on the shelf, something Joyce had bought years ago and never finished.
El stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them.
Mike read quietly, but every few seconds his eyes flicked up to Kate, checking the rise and fall of her chest like it was instinct, like something ancient in him had already clicked into place.
“I’m going to shower,” El said casually, testing the words.
Mike looked up. “Yeah. Okay.”
She waited for hesitation. For panic. For the question.
It didn’t come.
She nodded and walked away, heart pounding harder than it should have.
The water ran warm over her shoulders, steam filling the bathroom, but her mind stayed anchored to the living room. She tried to relax. Tried to trust what she already knew, that Mike would never let harm come to someone he loved.
And Kate loved him.
When El came back out, hair damp and curled loosely around her face, she found them exactly where she’d left them , except now Kate had shifted, curled more tightly, one small hand fisted in the fabric of Mike’s shirt.
Mike wasn’t reading anymore.
He was still as stone, afraid to move, eyes soft and glassy as he stared down at her.
“She woke up for a second,” he whispered. “Asked where you were. I told her you were nearby.”
El swallowed. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “She went right back to sleep.”
El sat on the armchair across from them, just watching.
She felt something ache open in her chest, not jealousy, not fear, something gentler. Something like relief.
Later that night, Kate woke crying from a bad dream, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. El was there immediately, scooping her up, murmuring comfort, but Kate clung tighter than usual.
“Mikey,” she whimpered sleepily.
Mike was already there, kneeling beside them.
“I’m here,” he said softly.
Kate reached for him without hesitation, arms outstretched. El paused for half a second, then handed her over.
Mike held her like he’d done it a hundred times before, rocking gently, voice low and steady.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
El leaned against the doorframe, arms wrapped around herself, watching as Kate slowly calmed, her breathing evening out against Mike’s chest.
Something in El shifted.
Not fear.
Not loss.
Trust.
-
The days blurred together after that.
Morning walks. Beach afternoons. Grocery runs that somehow turned into hours-long detours because Kate wanted to look at everything. Mike learned which cereal she liked best, which stories she wanted read twice, which stuffed animal had to be tucked under her arm at night or else sleep was impossible.
El watched it all quietly, letting herself feel the complicated, beautiful weight of it.
One afternoon, she found Mike and Kate sitting on the back steps, sorting shells Kate had collected earlier.
“This one’s yours,” Kate declared, handing him a small, perfectly smooth white shell.
Mike accepted it solemnly. “This is a very important shell.”
“Yes,” Kate agreed. “You have to keep it forever.”
El laughed from the doorway.
Mike looked up at her, smiling. “I think I can manage that.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary.
Neither of them spoke.
That night, after Kate was asleep, Mike and El sat side by side on the porch swing, the air warm and buzzing with cicadas.
“You don’t have to stay on the couch- I can share with Kate” El said suddenly.
He glanced at her. “I’m fine.”
“I know,” she said. “I just… wanted you to know you’re welcome.”
He nodded, throat working. “Thank you.”
They sat there, swing creaking softly beneath them, hands resting close but not touching.
“I like this,” Mike said quietly. “Being here. With her. With you.”
El smiled faintly. “Me too.”
The words hung between them, not a promise, not a declaration, just truth.
Later, as El lay in bed listening to the house settle, Kate curled against her side, she thought about how strange it felt to let happiness exist without immediately bracing for loss.
She thought about Christopher, about how love had once been quiet and safe and grounding.
She thought about Mike, about how love had always been fierce and overwhelming and impossibly deep.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she had to choose which kind of love she was allowed to carry.
Morning would come.
Summer would keep unfolding.
And whatever they were becoming, together, apart, somewhere in between, would happen slowly.
On purpose.
With care.
-
The house was asleep.
Not the soft, half-awake quiet of early evening, but the deep stillness that only came once the ocean had settled into its low, steady rhythm and even the floorboards seemed to stop remembering they could creak.
Mike woke thirsty.
It was the kind of thirst that pulled you out of sleep without panic, your body asking gently for something simple. He lay still for a moment, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening.
Kate’s room was quiet.
The house breathed evenly.
He slipped out of bed, careful, moving by memory more than sight. The hallway was dim, moonlight slanting through the windows in pale stripes across the floor. He padded toward the kitchen, feet silent against the wood.
The glass of water was cold in his hands.
He drank slowly, leaning against the counter, eyes half-closed as he let the coolness settle. For a moment, he considered going back to bed.
Then he heard it.
Not a scream.
Not even a cry.
Just a sound, small, broken, caught halfway between a gasp and a sob, drifting down the hall.
Mike froze.
It came again. Softer this time. A hitch in breathing. A whispered sound that barely made it past the door.
His chest tightened instantly.
He didn’t think. He didn’t weigh options. He just moved.
El’s door was cracked open, the same way Hopper always told her too when they were young. not wide, not closed, just enough to let light and air through. Mike stopped outside it, listening.
Inside, El was awake.
She sat upright in bed, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around herself like she was trying to keep something from spilling out. Her breathing was uneven, shallow, eyes wide and unfocused, staring at something that wasn’t there.
“No,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a dream” she tried to reassure herself.
Mike knocked once, softly.
“El?” he said, voice low. Careful. “It’s me.”
She startled, breath catching sharply, eyes snapping to the door.
For half a second, fear flared, then recognition followed, fragile but real.
“Mike,” she breathed.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
She nodded immediately. “Yeah.”
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it gently behind him.
The room smelled faintly of lavender, Joyce’s doing, and the open window let in the ocean air, cool against the lingering heat of summer. Moonlight pooled on the floor, silvering the edge of the bed.
Mike stayed near the door for a moment, watching her carefully.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She shook her head. “I-” Her voice wavered. “I had a dream.”
He nodded. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
She hesitated, fingers digging into the blanket. “It was Hawkins,” she said finally. “Before. When everything was wrong.”
Mike’s jaw tightened.
“There were lights flickering,” she continued. “The air felt heavy. Like it was full of… dust. Or spores. I couldn’t breathe right.” Her eyes darted briefly, as if the room might shift if she wasn’t careful. “I could hear them. Moving. Behind the walls.”
Mike took a step closer.
“And I was trying to find everyone,” she said. “You. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Will. I kept running, but the halls never ended. Every door I opened was empty.”
Her voice cracked.
“I could hear you calling for me,” she whispered. “But every time I turned toward the sound, it got farther away.”
Mike sat down on the edge of the bed without asking, close enough that she could feel him there but not crowding her.
“You’re here,” he said gently. “You’re safe.”
She nodded, but her body hadn’t caught up yet.
“I hate that it still gets to me,” she murmured. “After everything. I feel stupid.”
“You’re not,” Mike said immediately. “Not even a little.”
She let out a shaky breath. “Sometimes it feels like it’s all still waiting for me. Like if I stop moving forward, it’ll catch up.”
Mike leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I still dream about it too,” he admitted quietly. “More than I would like to admit, the demogorgan, demodogs, the mindflayer, the military, Vecna… more than I want to admit”
She looked at him, surprised. “You do?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It doesn’t mean we’re back there. It just means it mattered.”
She nodded slowly, absorbing that.
The silence stretched, not awkward, just tender.
“El,” Mike said carefully, “do you want me to stay for a minute?”
Her answer came instantly, raw. “Yeah”
He shifted closer, sitting more fully on the bed now, turning toward her.
She hesitated, then whispered, “Could you… could you lay with me?”
The request was soft. Vulnerable. Not demanding anything, just asking not to be alone.
Mike’s heart thudded painfully.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
He kicked off his slippers and eased back onto the bed beside her, careful not to startle her. They lay facing each other, a small space between them, the mattress dipping slightly with his weight.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then El’s hand crept across the blanket, hesitant, fingers brushing his sleeve.
Mike turned onto his side, facing her fully.
She closed the distance, curling into him like it was muscle memory, like her body had already decided before her mind could overthink it. Her head rested against his chest, ear pressed over his heart.
Mike froze for half a second, not from fear, but from the enormity of it, then wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.
She let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head. “Anytime.”
Her breathing slowly evened out, the tension easing from her shoulders as she listened to his heartbeat, steady, real, alive.
The night stretched on around them.
At some point, Mike felt her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clutching gently, like she was anchoring herself. He tightened his hold just a fraction in response, wordless reassurance passing between them.
Neither of them spoke.
There was nothing left to explain.
Sleep crept up quietly, slipping between them like a promise neither dared name. When Mike finally drifted off, his last thought was how natural it felt, holding her like this, no fear, no urgency, just presence. The past finding its way back into their lives, but this time without the bad parts.
El slept deeply.
No monsters.
No running.
Just warmth. Breath. The ocean outside the window.
And when morning came, they would wake still holding each other, not because they’d decided anything, but because sometimes the body knows where it belongs long before the heart catches up.
The limbo didn’t shatter that night.
But it cracked wide enough for comfort to slip through.
And neither of them closed the door.
-
The morning is already warm when El steps onto the beach.
Not hot, not yet, just that early summer warmth that settles into the skin without asking permission. The sand is cool beneath her feet near the waterline, damp enough to hold shape where Kate’s shoes have already left uneven footprints.
She stays back.
Not hiding. Just… watching.
Mike is crouched a few yards away, sleeves rolled up, knees dusted with sand, his hair already curling slightly at the edges from the humidity. Kate stands beside him, hands on her hips, issuing instructions with the seriousness of someone overseeing a very important operation.
“No, Mikey,” Kate says, shaking her head. “That’s the wall. This part is the house.”
Mike squints at the lopsided mound he’s been shaping. “Oh. I see. I’ve made a structural error.”
“Yes,” Kate agrees solemnly. “It’s okay. You can fix it.”
El folds her arms loosely across her chest, the breeze tugging at the hem of her light sweater. She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something, not danger, not fear, but a truth she hasn’t let herself name yet.
They laugh together. Mike exaggerates his defeat, collapsing backward into the sand with a dramatic groan that sends Kate into peals of delighted laughter. She climbs onto his stomach without hesitation, declaring victory, while Mike pretends to surrender.
El’s chest tightens.
Not painfully.
Not sharply.
Just… full.
This is what scares her.
Not the monsters.
Not the memories.
Not the grief.
This.
Safety.
She has spent years teaching herself not to trust it. Years learning that the moment things feel steady, the ground gives way. Iceland taught her how to survive quiet. Hawkins taught her that quiet never lasted.
But this morning, watching Mike let Kate bury his legs in sand while he complains loudly about being “trapped forever”, doesn’t feel like a setup.
It feels like a life.
El sinks down onto the towel she laid out earlier, knees pulled to her chest, chin resting lightly against them. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t call out. She just watches.
Kate holds up a shell, triumph blazing across her face. “Mommy! Look!”
El smiles. “That’s a good one.”
Mike looks over his shoulder at her then, eyes warm, unguarded. “She says this one’s magic.”
Kate nods emphatically. “It protects the house.”
“From what?” Mike asks.
Kate thinks hard. “Bad dreams.”
El’s breath catches.
Mike doesn’t laugh. He nods seriously. “Good call.”
Kate hands him the shell, and Mike presses it gently into the sand near the castle wall, anchoring it there with care.
El looks away before the tears can come.
She presses her fingers into the sand, grounding herself, reminding herself where she is, when she is.
She thinks about Christopher. About how he would have loved this morning. That thought doesn’t shatter her the way it once would have. It still hurts, a dull, aching bruise, but it doesn’t send her spiraling. It exists alongside the warmth instead of extinguishing it.
She had been so afraid that loving the present Mike, even quietly, even like this, would mean losing Christopher all over again.
But standing here now, she realizes something slowly, carefully:
Love doesn’t replace.
It layers.
Christopher exists in the way she taught Kate to say please and thank you. In the way she never lets Kate feel unheard. In the patience she learned because someone once gave it to her.
And Mike…
Mike exists in the way her body relaxes when she hears his laugh. In the way safety feels familiar instead of foreign. In the way her heart remembers how to beat without bracing for impact.
She watches Mike help Kate rebuild the wall she declared structurally unsound, his movements instinctively gentle, never dismissive, never rushed. He listens to her like she matters, not like she’s cute, not like she’s small, like she’s real.
El’s throat tightens.
She hadn’t realized how much she wanted this.
Not a father figure. Not a replacement. Just someone who stays.
She thinks about how easily Kate reached for him. How natural it was. How her daughter didn’t hesitate, didn’t test, didn’t hover at the edges.
Kate trusts him.
And El trusts Kate.
The realization lands quietly but heavily… She trusts him too.
That’s the part that terrifies her.
Because trust isn’t something she can turn off if it gets dangerous. It’s a door that once opened doesn’t close easily.
She presses her palm flat against her chest, breathing slowly.
It’s okay, she tells herself.
Mike looks up again, catching her watching.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just smiles.
Not the careful smile they’ve been using for months. Not the “are we okay?” smile.
Just… Mike.
Something inside her loosens.
She realizes she’s not counting exits. Not scanning the horizon. Not waiting for the sky to break open.
She’s just… here. Safe enough to be still. And that scares her more than anything she’s faced before, because she finally understands what she stands to lose.