đź‚ąEvan POVđź‚ą
After making sure that Mike had met Eleven, I returned home. I slipped in through my window like usual—quiet, practiced, careful.
The moment my feet hit the floor, the lights snapped on.
I froze.
For half a second, my brain tried to rationalize it—faulty wiring, bad timing, maybe—
Then I saw her.
Mom sat on the edge of my bed, hands folded in her lap, posture straight. Too straight. Her shadow stretched across the room, long and sharp, and in that moment she looked less like my mother and more like a demon patiently waiting to collect a soul.
Mine.
I swallowed.
Still, I couldn't see myself in the mirror, but I was definitely sweating through my shirt.
"Good evening," she said calmly.
That was worse than yelling.
"…Hi, Mom," I replied, forcing my voice not to crack as I shut the window behind me. "You're—uh—up late."
She tilted her head slightly, eyes never leaving my face.
"Funny," she said. "I was just about to say the same thing."
Silence settled between us, thick and heavy. My mind raced through excuses—bike trouble, late campaign planning, Dustin being Dustin—but none of them felt strong enough.
She patted the mattress beside her.
"Sit."
It wasn't a request.
I sat.
She studied me for a moment, then reached out and brushed damp hair off my forehead. Her touch was gentle, but her eyes were sharp.
"You were out in the rain," she said.
"Yes."
"You climbed through the window."
"…Also yes."
Another pause.
"Evan," she said softly, and that softness scared me more than anything else, "do you want to tell me why I woke up to a noise outside my house past midnight and found your bed empty?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"We were looking for Will."
There it was. The truth—just enough of it.
Her expression faltered. Just a little.
"The Byers boy?" she asked.
I nodded.
She sighed, rubbing her temples, the anger draining into something closer to fear.
"Do you have any idea what could've happened to you?" she said quietly. "Do you have any idea what I felt when I saw you weren't here?"
I looked down at my hands.
"I'm sorry."
She didn't yell. She didn't ground me. She just pulled me into a hug, tight enough that I forgot how to breathe for a second.
"Don't ever scare me like that again," she whispered.
I nodded against her shoulder.
"I won't."
đź‚»Next morningđź‚»
At Bing's, the morning felt strangely quiet.
Around the dining table, Chandler was hunched over his cereal like it personally offended him. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped, hair messier than usual. Across from him sat Monica and Evan, both far more awake than he was, though the atmosphere was undeniably heavy.
Monica softened her voice.
"Honey, how did the search go?"
Chandler let out a sigh deep enough to hold a week's worth of stress.
"Well… not so great. We couldn't find the kid."
The room dimmed emotionally for a second. Even the clink of his spoon against the bowl sounded tired.
"Alright," Monica said quietly, already slipping into protective mode. "Then I'll go check on Joyce today."
She turned her gaze to Evan next, and the warmth vanished, replaced by steel.
"And you," she said. "No more adventures like last night."
Chandler paused mid-bite.
Slowly… his head turned.
He stared at Evan.
Then back to Monica.
Then at Evan again.
"…Adventures?" Chandler repeated carefully. "What kind of adventures? Fun, Disneyland-type adventures? Or the kind where I wake up to find out someone almost died, because I feel like those are very different categories."
Evan swallowed.
Monica folded her arms. "The kind where he sneaks out in the middle of the night, into the woods, during a missing child investigation."
Chandler blinked.
No sarcasm.
No joke.
Just pure, horrified parent mode.
He set his spoon down, leaned forward, and stared at Evan with a seriousness Evan rarely saw on him.
"You went into the woods. At night. During a manhunt. For a missing kid," Chandler repeated slowly, like his brain needed help processing the stupidity. "Are you trying to speedrun childhood straight into an obituary?"
Evan opened his mouth. "I—"
"Nope," Chandler cut in, raising a finger. "Don't even start. There is no sentence you can form right now that begins with 'I' and ends with ', but it made sense' that will make this sound good."
Monica nodded firmly. "You scared me. Both of us. Do you understand that?"
Evan looked down, guilt tightening his chest. "…Yeah. I do."
Chandler's voice softened, but only slightly.
"We care about you. And if something happened to you out there—" He shook his head. "We're not losing you, too."
Silence hung for a moment.
Then Chandler sighed again, leaning back.
"You're grounded. And not the 'you can negotiate your way out of it' grounded. The 'we will physically staple you to this house if necessary' grounded."
Monica shot him a look.
"Metaphorically," Chandler added quickly.
Evan nodded again. "Okay. I get it."
-------------------------------------
So, how are you guys liking it so far?
If you're enjoying it, please leave some reviews, comments, longer thoughts or paragraph comments, and don't forget to send some power stones.
If you're not enjoying it, let me know where I can improve—and still send me some stones.
----------------------------------------
Number of Chapters in P@treon: 18
[email protected]/Micheal210
Read now