Bound By Shadows 3 | Will Byers x Reader (Fem)

~ 40 ~

~ TWO WEEKS LATER ~

~ Y/N — POV ~

The afternoon has that warm, late glow that makes the kitchen look like it's been washed in honey. The kettle has just started its soft fuss on the stove. Will's at the table in my massive flannel, sleeves shoved up badly, sketchbook open, tapping the eraser end of the pencil against the paper in a rhythm I've learned as well as his laugh. He keeps glancing out the window at the maple tree like it's posing for him. Every time he concentrates, his mouth goes a little lopsided.

I'm reading on the couch, or pretending to. The book is just weight against my legs; the real story is him across the room. For weeks now he's stayed every night, and the house has changed around us—less echo, more lived-in. I slept. He ate. We remembered how to joke in the morning. The kind of normal that feels handmade.

He looks up. "You keep staring."

"You're cute," I say, deadpan.

He tries to hide a smile and fails. "You say that like it's a fact."

"It is a fact," I say, and that makes him blush, which is the other fact.

The kettle clicks off. He pours, knows my tea by muscle memory—one sugar, splash of milk—and hands it to me without looking, like this is choreography we rehearsed for years. Our fingers brush. The quiet between us is soft-stitched.

The phone rings.

It's so sudden the air tightens. He reaches it first because he always does. "Hello? ...Hey, Mom." His shoulders settle, then rise again, like he can't pick a posture.

I sit up.

"Now?" A beat. "Yeah, I can come home. Is everything—" He swallows whatever the rest was. "Okay. I'll be there soon."

He sets the receiver down carefully. It makes the smallest click, like a door latching.

"What's up?" I ask.

"Mom wants a...meeting." His mouth twists around the word. "Probably just—" He stops. "I haven't been home much."

"You've been here," I say, trying to make it sound like a joke. Mostly.

His smile is thin. "I'll be back before dinner."

"Take some water at least," I say. "It's like a furnace out there."

He grabs a bottle from the counter, shaking it once so the condensation runs down his hand. "I'll survive."

"Don't melt," I warn, and smooth the wrinkle on his sleeve instead of a collar.

He leans down and kisses me—quick, familiar warmth—and I catch his wrist for half a second and then let go. He hesitates the same half second at the door, like he always does, Then he's gone, and the house exhales around me.

The air doesn't settle the same. It feels too still, like the walls are holding their breath.
I try to move, but it's as if my body's forgotten what to do with quiet. The second the door clicks shut, the house sounds wrong — not peaceful, not empty, just... exposed.

The fridge hum turns sharp. The clock ticks like a hammer. My own breath feels too loud in my throat. I set my tea down because my hand is shaking, but the cup clinks against the table anyway, echoing around the kitchen like a small alarm.

For a second I think I smell smoke, the way I always do when the memories come — that sour, metallic heat from the lab. My vision pinches. It's nothing. I know it's nothing. Still, my chest locks. I press my palms against the counter, stare at the pattern in the wood, and count. One. Two. Three. Breathe.