𝙀𝙡𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣

Snow had always felt like background noise in Hawkins. Something that showed up every winter whether you asked for it or not—cold, inconvenient, something adults complained about and kids tracked through the house. You’d never really thought much of it. Until Jane. Until you woke up that morning to the world outside Hopper’s cabin muted and white, the trees sagging under fresh snowfall, the sky pale and endless—and realized Jane had never actually played in it. Not really. She stood at the window now, socks pulled halfway up her calves, one of Hopper’s oversized sweaters swallowing her frame. Her breath fogged the glass as she stared out, eyes wide and curious, like the world had quietly rewritten itself overnight without telling her. “It’s… quiet,” she said. Her voice was soft. Reverent. “Yeah,” you replied, leaning against the doorframe. “Snow does that.” She turned to look at you. “It’s like everything is holding its breath.” That sentence hit you right in the chest. Jane always did that—said things that felt too big for how casually they left her mouth. You watched her turn back to the window, fingers hovering just above the glass like she was afraid it might disappear if she touched it. “You ever… played in it?” you asked carefully. Jane hesitated. “No,” she said. “I’ve seen it. Once. Through the glass.” A pause. “But Hopper said it was cold. And wet. And not practical.” You snorted. “Hopper would say that.” She smiled, small and fond, but her eyes drifted back to the snow. The curiosity was still there. The want. You made a decision right then. “Okay,” you said, pushing off the wall. “Get your coat.” Jane blinked. “Why?” “Because,” you said, already grabbing your boots, “you’re about to have a very important life experience.” She looked unconvinced. “Important?” “Yes,” you said seriously. “Extremely.” Five minutes later, she was bundled up in a coat that was still a little too big, gloves slightly mismatched, a knit hat pulled low over her ears. Hopper watched from the couch with narrowed eyes. “She doesn’t need to be out there long,” he grumbled. “It’s freezing.” “We’ll be quick,” you promised. “Scout’s honor.” He squinted. “You were never a scout.” “Spiritually,” you said, opening the door. The cold hit immediately—sharp, biting, clean. Jane sucked in a breath as she stepped onto the porch, boots crunching against untouched snow. She froze. Literally just stopped moving. “Oh,” she whispered. Snowflakes drifted lazily around her, catching in her hair, clinging to her coat. Her eyes followed one as it landed on her glove. “It’s… falling,” she said, like this was brand new information. “That’s usually how it works,” you teased gently. She crouched, slowly, like the ground might bite back, and brushed her glove across the snow. The texture seemed to surprise her. She scooped some up, watching it clump together, then melt against the warmth of her palm. “It disappears,” she murmured. “Yeah. But you can make it stay for a bit.” You knelt beside her and gathered a handful, pressing it together. “Like this.” She watched closely, brows furrowed in concentration as you shaped a rough snowball. Her turn. Jane copied you, tongue caught between her teeth as she pressed the snow together. It crumbled. She frowned. “It doesn’t listen,” she said. You laughed. “Snow’s kinda rude like that.” She tried again. This time, it worked. Her face lit up. “I did it,” she said, awe-struck. “You sure did.” She stood suddenly, energy buzzing through her like static. She tossed the snowball into the air, laughing when it shattered on the ground. And then—without warning—she threw one straight at you. It hit your shoulder. You stared at her. She stared back. Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry— I didn’t—” “Oh, it’s on,” you said, already scooping up snow. Her gasp turned into laughter as you lobbed a snowball her way. She shrieked, ducking clumsily, snow spraying everywhere. Jane laughed like she’d just unlocked something fundamental. Like the sound had been trapped inside her for years and finally found a way out. She ran—actually ran—boots slipping, arms flailing, laughter ringing out into the quiet woods. You chased her, both of you breathless, snowballs flying in all directions. At some point, she stopped aiming. She just threw snow for the joy of it. Her cheeks were pink, hair a mess beneath her hat, eyes bright and unguarded. You realized—somewhere between dodging another badly aimed snowball and nearly slipping on the porch steps—that she wasn’t holding anything back. No careful control. No restraint. No fear. Her powers were silent. Forgotten. Jane skidded to a stop, laughing so hard she had to bend over, hands on her knees. “I can’t—” she gasped. “I can’t stop—” She laughed again, louder this time, and the sound cracked something open in you. You’d seen her smile before. You’d seen her happy. But this? This was different. This was free. You approached slowly, holding up your hands. “Truce?” She straightened, catching her breath. “Truce,” she agreed solemnly. Snow drifted between you as the laughter faded into something warm and quiet. Jane looked around, really looking this time. “I like this,” she said. “It doesn’t ask anything from me.” You nodded. “Snow’s chill like that.” She tilted her head. “I don’t feel… heavy.” That made your chest ache in the gentlest way. “You don’t have to,” you said. “Not today.” She smiled at you then—soft, sincere—and stepped closer. Close enough that your shoulders brushed, coats dusted with snow. “Thank you,” she said. “For bringing me out here.” “Anytime,” you replied. “We’ve got a lot of firsts to catch up on.” She looked out at the white-covered trees again, snowflakes clinging to her lashes. “Can we build something?” she asked. “Absolutely.” “A… snowman,” she added, unsure of the word. You grinned. “Classic choice.” You worked together, hands numb, laughter bubbling up every time the snowman leaned dangerously to one side. Jane insisted on giving it a crooked smile and mismatched eyes made of stones. When it finally stood, lopsided and proud, she stepped back to admire it. “We made it,” she said, like it was a miracle. “You did,” you corrected. She shook her head. “We did.” Snow settled around you both, the world still and bright and new. Jane reached out and took your hand, her grip warm despite the cold