edward

Hello everyone,

I hope you’re all having a wonderful day. I will no longer be roleplaying Eddie Munson on this account.

As much as I love this character and the stories we’ve built, I’ve struggled to maintain the consistency you deserve. Lately, real-life responsibilities and the mental energy required to fully immerse myself in these plots have led me to disappear; sometimes for a week, sometimes for much longer.

Every time I step away, I carry a heavy sense of guilt. I look at the incredible effort, creativity, and time you pour into your writing, and I feel that it is unfair to keep you waiting in limbo. You put so much heart into your muses, and I believe you deserve a partner who can match that energy and provide the timely responses your talent merits. Even if some of you have been incredibly patient and haven't complained, I personally feel that I am not giving you the best version of this experience, and that is something I can no longer ignore.

Please know that this decision has absolutely nothing to do with any of you. It’s not about my feelings towards our threads, it’s about my respect for your time. I have cherished every single friendship I’ve made here and every plot we’ve woven together. You have made my time here unforgettable, and I’ve enjoyed every second of our interactions.

If we’ve connected and you’d like to stay in touch, please feel free to reach out via DM. I’d love to share my main account or Discord with those who want to keep the friendship going outside of this roleplay space.

Hannah's eyes widened. "But... this is your bed, your house. I should be the one sleeping on the couch. You've already been so kind to take me in," she protested.

He didn't seem to budge though, so she accepted. "I mean, otherwise we can share the bed," she said, blushing. "I keep my fingers and limbs to myself and I don't snore. If you wanted to Fritzl me, I figure you'd done that already."

Then she remembered that of course he didn't know what that meant. "I meant, if you had bad intentions I figure you'd had your chance."

Did she get a bit of butterflies in her stomach from the suggestion? Yes. But the situation she was in, it was way too crazy for her to even think of such things.

Right?

"Sharing the bed, huh?" he mused, his voice dropping into a low, velvet tone that was playfully flirtatious yet grounded in a deep sense of respect.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat. He looked at her, his expression softening into something incredibly kind. "I appreciate the offer, really. But you’re the guest here, even if you did technically crash-land into my life. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible.''

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of the overwhelming day she’d had. He reached into the top of his closet, pulling out a spare pillow and a thin, worn-out blanket.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice gentle and incredibly soothing. He began to spread the blanket out on the floor right next to the bed, smoothing it over the worn carpet. "I’ll stay right here. Guard duty."

When he decided that he would sleep on the floor she still felt a little bad. "Won't that be rather rough for your back?"

But then she shrugged. He seemed intent on letting her have the bed. Once again, a clear gentleman.

"Well, thank you," she said, giving him a small smile.

She wiggled out of her jeans, not wanting to sleep in those. And not her bra either, but she and every other girl on the planet knew how to unhook and take off the bra even with a shirt on, so she did that, putting them at the edge of the bed.

Hannah crawled beneath the covers and laid down. The bed smelled like Eddie - cigarettes, Old spice, and some kind of shampoo. It was a pleasant smell.

"Good night then, Eddie," she said.

He moves with a surprising, cat-like grace, peeling himself off the floor without a single floorboard groan. He looks at her for a lingering second—this girl who claims to be from a world yet to happen—and feels a strange, protective tug in his chest.

He retreats to the kitchenette, moving with practiced silence. He starts the coffee, the smell of the dark roast beginning to mask the scent of stale tobacco. It’s the best he has to offer. While the machine hisses, he slips outside, and snatches the Hawkins Post from the gravel.

Back inside, he clears the clutter from the small table—moving a stray D&D manual and an empty beer can to make room. He toasts two slices of bread until they’re golden-brown, slathering them with the last of the butter.

He doesn't stop there. He digs through a pile of cassettes and magazines, pulling out a copy of Newsweek and a walkman. He sets them next to her plate like a curated museum exhibit of the present day. On a scrap of yellow legal paper, he scrawls in his messy, looping handwriting:

She opened her eyes and at first she didn't recognized her surroundings. Then she remembered everything that had happened last night and groaned, rubbing her temples.

"Back in the Twilight zone," she muttered to herself. Eddie was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment she was worried he had left, or even worse, that he had somehow disappeared into the atmosphere and she was all alone again.

"Eddie?" she called, quickly pulling her jeans on, padding barefoot out of the room.

The scent of toast and coffee hit her and she saw Eddie in the kitchenette.

"Oh, hi," she said, feeling a bit stupid. "You weren't there, I thought... something else had happened, that you were gone. Sorry," she said, looking sheepish. "Do you need any help?"

"I'm not particularly picky with what I eat, so you won't hear me complaining. At all. I think it's very sweet of you to do this, with everything else you've been doing too," she said, leaning forward to inhale the scent of the coffee. "Mmm."

She opened the paper - that was new to her, she usually just read the news on her phone or her tablet - and read some of the articles. It was quite nice to read something without a million comments popping up, saying this and that.

"What's on the agenda?" she asked, looking at Eddie, pouring some sugar in her coffee, smiling as she realized that not even the famous song, Pour Some Sugar on Me had been released yet as it was from 1987.

Maybe she would play it later for Eddie, if her phone had some battery left.

She nodded when he told her she would have to come to school with him, and had to smile when he talked about his friend Dustin. It was obvious he was someone Eddie cared a lot about.

"Well, I'm looking forward to meet him! Maybe he'll build a DeLorean for me," she joked, knowing that Eddie would've heard about that one at least, the Back to the Future reference.

She finished her coffee and her toast. "Thanks for breakfast. Well, I guess I better get into character," Hannah said, walking back to Eddie's room to put on the hoodie he had lent her last night. She gathered her long hair into high pony tail, coming back into the kitchen. "Hmm, would it be possible you had some eyeliner or such?" she wondered. "Do I still look too Gen Z?"

He turns around and starts rummaging through one of his cluttered drawers. After a chaotic clatter of empty cassette tapes and guitar picks, he pulls out a heavily sharpened, slightly beat-up black eyeliner and holds it up in the air like a trophy.

Eddie’s lips must have been charged with electricity, sending sparks flying all over her veins with that quick kiss on her nose. Her fuses short-circuited, systems delayed as she just stood frozen on the spot, watching as Eddie dashed through her home to escape her grandfather’s ire.

She cupped her nose as if to keep the magic, to absorb it on her pores as she didn’t know when she would get to feel that again, while her eyes fixed on the hallway where Eddie had gone. If only she had some of those powers of her own, so she could telepathically beg Eddie to come back, to make him materialize before her again. She was only yanked away from her spell by the sound of her front door opening. All that electric magic was gone the moment her grandpa’s icy glare scanned the mess of tinsel and ornaments all over the room.

“You’re imagining things,” she had to excuse with an annoyed huff, in an attempt to convince her grandpa that he hadn’t in fact seen anyone within their home when he pulled up into the driveway. “You’re not used to the snow, the windows are all covered up up. It was probably a shadow,” she grumbled, trying desperately to sell the act but knowing her grandpa was far too wise. She took the scolding, and dutifully cleaned up the space to earn back some points, so by dinner time, the matter was brushed under the rug. She wasn’t entirely off the hook, but at least she wasn’t receiving the silent treatment — her grandpa’s brand of it could make glaciers melt in comparison.

At night, when her grandpa had already gone to sleep, Angel curled up in her bed, facing the window, longing for her best friend to be back but unsure if Eddie would dare to come back so soon after almost being busted. She closed her eyes with a melancholic sigh, burrowing under the blankets while her fingers idly massaged the tip cold of her nose, trying to conjure up the warm sensation of Eddie’s plush lips enveloping it.

The next morning, he paced his room, tossing a guitar pick between his hands until the clock finally crawled past noon. He didn't want to seem desperate—even if he was—but the silence was killing him more than the threat of a shotgun ever could. Snatching his phone, he tapped out a message with a smirk, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline as he hit send.

She looked at the clock on the counter before typing out:

Do I meet you there, or will you come pick a damsel in distress up? The warden of the tower isn’t home. Don’t worry about being lured into a trap.

She was slightly disappointed but it was definitely for the best. For one, she knew Eddie’s van creaked more than an old man’s rocking chair. Or worse, an old man’s joints. And in this weather, with the snow? It could be an accident waiting to happen.

She got dressed giddily, trying up her combat boots, and switching up her usual band t-shirt for a black wool sweater, and replacing her signature leather bomber jacket for a puffy, winter one. The last thing she grabbed before heading out was her purse, while wrapping a thick cream scarf around her neck — a personal favorite that had been knitted by her mom and it reminded Angel of home.

She lightly jogged the last few steps to Eddie’s direction without even noticing she was — just that excited to see him, instantly enveloping him in a loving hug. That’s when she noticed an odd bump underneath his jacket, making her frown as she leaned back to properly see him. She could make out the faintest peak of a red petal which made her heart do a little flippy thing.

She broke out of her instant daze with a knowing smirk when Eddie remarked on his reward. She knew full well what she meant. That almost-kiss from yesterday lingered between them. But she wasn't about to give in that easily; she was determined to make him sweat it out a little bit.

Eddie juggles the massive bucket of popcorn in one arm—buttery grease already seeping into the cardboard—and balances two oversized sodas like a clumsy waiter. He nudges the heavy theater door open with his hip, ushering Angel into the darkened room.

The air inside is cool and carries that specific scent of stale upholstery and cleaning chemicals, but as they descend the stairs, the silence is what hits first. There’s no rustling of candy wrappers, no muffled whispers from teenagers in the back row, no obnoxious coughing. The theater is a hollowed-out cavern, bathed in the dim, flickering blue light of the pre-show slides.

"Right here. The sweet spot," Eddie declares, gesturing toward the exact center of the middle row. He slides in first, dumping the concessions onto the armrests and plopping down with a dramatic sigh of relief, patting the velvet seat next to him. "Front row is for masochists, and the back is for... well, people with less noble intentions than your humble knight."

Eddie leans back, stretching his long legs out over the seat in front of him, his rings clicking against the plastic armrest. Suddenly, the projector hums to life, a bright beam of dust-mote-filled light cutting through the dark.

"Noble? Did you massacre all of your foes in Hawkins!? where is everybody!?" she teased, but honestly couldn't complain. After having to sneak around and having her time with her best friend being cut short because of her grandpa, she basked in the moment, slurping on her soda with extra delight.

Hannah's eyes widened. "But... this is your bed, your house. I should be the one sleeping on the couch. You've already been so kind to take me in," she protested.

He didn't seem to budge though, so she accepted. "I mean, otherwise we can share the bed," she said, blushing. "I keep my fingers and limbs to myself and I don't snore. If you wanted to Fritzl me, I figure you'd done that already."

Then she remembered that of course he didn't know what that meant. "I meant, if you had bad intentions I figure you'd had your chance."

Did she get a bit of butterflies in her stomach from the suggestion? Yes. But the situation she was in, it was way too crazy for her to even think of such things.

Right?

"Sharing the bed, huh?" he mused, his voice dropping into a low, velvet tone that was playfully flirtatious yet grounded in a deep sense of respect.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat. He looked at her, his expression softening into something incredibly kind. "I appreciate the offer, really. But you’re the guest here, even if you did technically crash-land into my life. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible.''

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of the overwhelming day she’d had. He reached into the top of his closet, pulling out a spare pillow and a thin, worn-out blanket.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice gentle and incredibly soothing. He began to spread the blanket out on the floor right next to the bed, smoothing it over the worn carpet. "I’ll stay right here. Guard duty."

When he decided that he would sleep on the floor she still felt a little bad. "Won't that be rather rough for your back?"

But then she shrugged. He seemed intent on letting her have the bed. Once again, a clear gentleman.

"Well, thank you," she said, giving him a small smile.

She wiggled out of her jeans, not wanting to sleep in those. And not her bra either, but she and every other girl on the planet knew how to unhook and take off the bra even with a shirt on, so she did that, putting them at the edge of the bed.

Hannah crawled beneath the covers and laid down. The bed smelled like Eddie - cigarettes, Old spice, and some kind of shampoo. It was a pleasant smell.

"Good night then, Eddie," she said.

He moves with a surprising, cat-like grace, peeling himself off the floor without a single floorboard groan. He looks at her for a lingering second—this girl who claims to be from a world yet to happen—and feels a strange, protective tug in his chest.

He retreats to the kitchenette, moving with practiced silence. He starts the coffee, the smell of the dark roast beginning to mask the scent of stale tobacco. It’s the best he has to offer. While the machine hisses, he slips outside, and snatches the Hawkins Post from the gravel.

Back inside, he clears the clutter from the small table—moving a stray D&D manual and an empty beer can to make room. He toasts two slices of bread until they’re golden-brown, slathering them with the last of the butter.

He doesn't stop there. He digs through a pile of cassettes and magazines, pulling out a copy of Newsweek and a walkman. He sets them next to her plate like a curated museum exhibit of the present day. On a scrap of yellow legal paper, he scrawls in his messy, looping handwriting:

She opened her eyes and at first she didn't recognized her surroundings. Then she remembered everything that had happened last night and groaned, rubbing her temples.

"Back in the Twilight zone," she muttered to herself. Eddie was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment she was worried he had left, or even worse, that he had somehow disappeared into the atmosphere and she was all alone again.

"Eddie?" she called, quickly pulling her jeans on, padding barefoot out of the room.

The scent of toast and coffee hit her and she saw Eddie in the kitchenette.

"Oh, hi," she said, feeling a bit stupid. "You weren't there, I thought... something else had happened, that you were gone. Sorry," she said, looking sheepish. "Do you need any help?"

"I'm not particularly picky with what I eat, so you won't hear me complaining. At all. I think it's very sweet of you to do this, with everything else you've been doing too," she said, leaning forward to inhale the scent of the coffee. "Mmm."

She opened the paper - that was new to her, she usually just read the news on her phone or her tablet - and read some of the articles. It was quite nice to read something without a million comments popping up, saying this and that.

"What's on the agenda?" she asked, looking at Eddie, pouring some sugar in her coffee, smiling as she realized that not even the famous song, Pour Some Sugar on Me had been released yet as it was from 1987.

Maybe she would play it later for Eddie, if her phone had some battery left.

Hannah's eyes widened. "But... this is your bed, your house. I should be the one sleeping on the couch. You've already been so kind to take me in," she protested.

He didn't seem to budge though, so she accepted. "I mean, otherwise we can share the bed," she said, blushing. "I keep my fingers and limbs to myself and I don't snore. If you wanted to Fritzl me, I figure you'd done that already."

Then she remembered that of course he didn't know what that meant. "I meant, if you had bad intentions I figure you'd had your chance."

Did she get a bit of butterflies in her stomach from the suggestion? Yes. But the situation she was in, it was way too crazy for her to even think of such things.

Right?

"Sharing the bed, huh?" he mused, his voice dropping into a low, velvet tone that was playfully flirtatious yet grounded in a deep sense of respect.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat. He looked at her, his expression softening into something incredibly kind. "I appreciate the offer, really. But you’re the guest here, even if you did technically crash-land into my life. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible.''

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of the overwhelming day she’d had. He reached into the top of his closet, pulling out a spare pillow and a thin, worn-out blanket.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice gentle and incredibly soothing. He began to spread the blanket out on the floor right next to the bed, smoothing it over the worn carpet. "I’ll stay right here. Guard duty."

When he decided that he would sleep on the floor she still felt a little bad. "Won't that be rather rough for your back?"

But then she shrugged. He seemed intent on letting her have the bed. Once again, a clear gentleman.

"Well, thank you," she said, giving him a small smile.

She wiggled out of her jeans, not wanting to sleep in those. And not her bra either, but she and every other girl on the planet knew how to unhook and take off the bra even with a shirt on, so she did that, putting them at the edge of the bed.

Hannah crawled beneath the covers and laid down. The bed smelled like Eddie - cigarettes, Old spice, and some kind of shampoo. It was a pleasant smell.

"Good night then, Eddie," she said.

He moves with a surprising, cat-like grace, peeling himself off the floor without a single floorboard groan. He looks at her for a lingering second—this girl who claims to be from a world yet to happen—and feels a strange, protective tug in his chest.

He retreats to the kitchenette, moving with practiced silence. He starts the coffee, the smell of the dark roast beginning to mask the scent of stale tobacco. It’s the best he has to offer. While the machine hisses, he slips outside, and snatches the Hawkins Post from the gravel.

Back inside, he clears the clutter from the small table—moving a stray D&D manual and an empty beer can to make room. He toasts two slices of bread until they’re golden-brown, slathering them with the last of the butter.

He doesn't stop there. He digs through a pile of cassettes and magazines, pulling out a copy of Newsweek and a walkman. He sets them next to her plate like a curated museum exhibit of the present day. On a scrap of yellow legal paper, he scrawls in his messy, looping handwriting:

She opened her eyes and at first she didn't recognized her surroundings. Then she remembered everything that had happened last night and groaned, rubbing her temples.

"Back in the Twilight zone," she muttered to herself. Eddie was nowhere to be seen, and for a moment she was worried he had left, or even worse, that he had somehow disappeared into the atmosphere and she was all alone again.

"Eddie?" she called, quickly pulling her jeans on, padding barefoot out of the room.

The scent of toast and coffee hit her and she saw Eddie in the kitchenette.

"Oh, hi," she said, feeling a bit stupid. "You weren't there, I thought... something else had happened, that you were gone. Sorry," she said, looking sheepish. "Do you need any help?"

Eddie’s lips must have been charged with electricity, sending sparks flying all over her veins with that quick kiss on her nose. Her fuses short-circuited, systems delayed as she just stood frozen on the spot, watching as Eddie dashed through her home to escape her grandfather’s ire.

She cupped her nose as if to keep the magic, to absorb it on her pores as she didn’t know when she would get to feel that again, while her eyes fixed on the hallway where Eddie had gone. If only she had some of those powers of her own, so she could telepathically beg Eddie to come back, to make him materialize before her again. She was only yanked away from her spell by the sound of her front door opening. All that electric magic was gone the moment her grandpa’s icy glare scanned the mess of tinsel and ornaments all over the room.

“You’re imagining things,” she had to excuse with an annoyed huff, in an attempt to convince her grandpa that he hadn’t in fact seen anyone within their home when he pulled up into the driveway. “You’re not used to the snow, the windows are all covered up up. It was probably a shadow,” she grumbled, trying desperately to sell the act but knowing her grandpa was far too wise. She took the scolding, and dutifully cleaned up the space to earn back some points, so by dinner time, the matter was brushed under the rug. She wasn’t entirely off the hook, but at least she wasn’t receiving the silent treatment — her grandpa’s brand of it could make glaciers melt in comparison.

At night, when her grandpa had already gone to sleep, Angel curled up in her bed, facing the window, longing for her best friend to be back but unsure if Eddie would dare to come back so soon after almost being busted. She closed her eyes with a melancholic sigh, burrowing under the blankets while her fingers idly massaged the tip cold of her nose, trying to conjure up the warm sensation of Eddie’s plush lips enveloping it.

The next morning, he paced his room, tossing a guitar pick between his hands until the clock finally crawled past noon. He didn't want to seem desperate—even if he was—but the silence was killing him more than the threat of a shotgun ever could. Snatching his phone, he tapped out a message with a smirk, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline as he hit send.

She looked at the clock on the counter before typing out:

Do I meet you there, or will you come pick a damsel in distress up? The warden of the tower isn’t home. Don’t worry about being lured into a trap.

She was slightly disappointed but it was definitely for the best. For one, she knew Eddie’s van creaked more than an old man’s rocking chair. Or worse, an old man’s joints. And in this weather, with the snow? It could be an accident waiting to happen.

She got dressed giddily, trying up her combat boots, and switching up her usual band t-shirt for a black wool sweater, and replacing her signature leather bomber jacket for a puffy, winter one. The last thing she grabbed before heading out was her purse, while wrapping a thick cream scarf around her neck — a personal favorite that had been knitted by her mom and it reminded Angel of home.

She lightly jogged the last few steps to Eddie’s direction without even noticing she was — just that excited to see him, instantly enveloping him in a loving hug. That’s when she noticed an odd bump underneath his jacket, making her frown as she leaned back to properly see him. She could make out the faintest peak of a red petal which made her heart do a little flippy thing.

She broke out of her instant daze with a knowing smirk when Eddie remarked on his reward. She knew full well what she meant. That almost-kiss from yesterday lingered between them. But she wasn't about to give in that easily; she was determined to make him sweat it out a little bit.

Eddie juggles the massive bucket of popcorn in one arm—buttery grease already seeping into the cardboard—and balances two oversized sodas like a clumsy waiter. He nudges the heavy theater door open with his hip, ushering Angel into the darkened room.

The air inside is cool and carries that specific scent of stale upholstery and cleaning chemicals, but as they descend the stairs, the silence is what hits first. There’s no rustling of candy wrappers, no muffled whispers from teenagers in the back row, no obnoxious coughing. The theater is a hollowed-out cavern, bathed in the dim, flickering blue light of the pre-show slides.

"Right here. The sweet spot," Eddie declares, gesturing toward the exact center of the middle row. He slides in first, dumping the concessions onto the armrests and plopping down with a dramatic sigh of relief, patting the velvet seat next to him. "Front row is for masochists, and the back is for... well, people with less noble intentions than your humble knight."

Eddie leans back, stretching his long legs out over the seat in front of him, his rings clicking against the plastic armrest. Suddenly, the projector hums to life, a bright beam of dust-mote-filled light cutting through the dark.

Hannah's eyes widened. "But... this is your bed, your house. I should be the one sleeping on the couch. You've already been so kind to take me in," she protested.

He didn't seem to budge though, so she accepted. "I mean, otherwise we can share the bed," she said, blushing. "I keep my fingers and limbs to myself and I don't snore. If you wanted to Fritzl me, I figure you'd done that already."

Then she remembered that of course he didn't know what that meant. "I meant, if you had bad intentions I figure you'd had your chance."

Did she get a bit of butterflies in her stomach from the suggestion? Yes. But the situation she was in, it was way too crazy for her to even think of such things.

Right?

"Sharing the bed, huh?" he mused, his voice dropping into a low, velvet tone that was playfully flirtatious yet grounded in a deep sense of respect.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat. He looked at her, his expression softening into something incredibly kind. "I appreciate the offer, really. But you’re the guest here, even if you did technically crash-land into my life. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible.''

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of the overwhelming day she’d had. He reached into the top of his closet, pulling out a spare pillow and a thin, worn-out blanket.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice gentle and incredibly soothing. He began to spread the blanket out on the floor right next to the bed, smoothing it over the worn carpet. "I’ll stay right here. Guard duty."

When he decided that he would sleep on the floor she still felt a little bad. "Won't that be rather rough for your back?"

But then she shrugged. He seemed intent on letting her have the bed. Once again, a clear gentleman.

"Well, thank you," she said, giving him a small smile.

She wiggled out of her jeans, not wanting to sleep in those. And not her bra either, but she and every other girl on the planet knew how to unhook and take off the bra even with a shirt on, so she did that, putting them at the edge of the bed.

Hannah crawled beneath the covers and laid down. The bed smelled like Eddie - cigarettes, Old spice, and some kind of shampoo. It was a pleasant smell.

"Good night then, Eddie," she said.

He moves with a surprising, cat-like grace, peeling himself off the floor without a single floorboard groan. He looks at her for a lingering second—this girl who claims to be from a world yet to happen—and feels a strange, protective tug in his chest.

He retreats to the kitchenette, moving with practiced silence. He starts the coffee, the smell of the dark roast beginning to mask the scent of stale tobacco. It’s the best he has to offer. While the machine hisses, he slips outside, and snatches the Hawkins Post from the gravel.

Back inside, he clears the clutter from the small table—moving a stray D&D manual and an empty beer can to make room. He toasts two slices of bread until they’re golden-brown, slathering them with the last of the butter.

He doesn't stop there. He digs through a pile of cassettes and magazines, pulling out a copy of Newsweek and a walkman. He sets them next to her plate like a curated museum exhibit of the present day. On a scrap of yellow legal paper, he scrawls in his messy, looping handwriting:

Only kiss and touch when Jason or someone Jason-adjacent is around (i.e. his basketball teammates). It ends as soon as no one can see us. No lingering!

You can't date anyone else while we're fake dating. If you do, she can't be from Hawkins and you need to take your extracurriculars elsewhere. If someone spots you with anyone other than me, the secret's out.

We have to plan at least one overnight out of town trip. Even if it's just to stay at a motel a town over. No one believes anything is serious until you stay the night with them.

Snow Ball is coming up. Congratulations, you have a date. And yes, you have to wear a tie. I will not be debating this.

If Jason gets upset enough to put his hands on either of us, only hit to defend. I don't want you going to jail over my stupid plan.

Chrissy watched as Eddie read over her rules, eagerly awaiting his response as she lightly chewed on her lower lip. "Well? What do you think? Should there be anything added?"

Chrissy's grin fell to a worried frown when Eddie mentioned a bike, bowed, and began walking away from her. Chrissy stood there in silence for a few seconds, letting his words register. "A bike...wait, Eddie! Do you mean... you don't mean that motorcycle, do you? Oh come on, you probably don't even have two helmets! Definitely not one that fits me, anyway. Sounds unsafe to me, but thanks! Eddie? EDDIE?" she called after him, voice reaching a higher pitch out of nervousness, but he'd already passed through the auditorium doors and out of sight.

"What have I gotten myself into?" she hissed under her breath, reaching up to press her hand against her cheek. It burned hot with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. "Munson's girl," she repeated to herself, stomach flipping as she thought back to how his voice sounded when he'd spoken those words. Shaking the thoughts away, she grabbed her backpack and walked to meet her mother in the parking lot. Getting into the car with her felt like walking into a detective's interview room. Thankfully, her mother was too self-absorbed in her own problems to notice anything was off with Chrissy.

The next morning, Chrissy was nearly through curling her hair when she remembered Eddie's comment about wearing a skirt. "Cheese and rice!" she exclaimed to herself, running over to the closet as she replanned her wardrobe for the day. Settling on some black jeans and baby pink shirt, she pairs this with her white princess Reeboks and a white cardigan in case she gets cold. She would've preferred her white slacks, but couldn't guarantee they would stay white after being on the back of Eddie's bike. She shuddered as she ran the light pink gloss across her lips. Chrissy had a perfectly logical fear of motorcycles. During a family vacation when she was seven, she saw one wrap around a telephone pole and send the driver several feet into the air. He had been drunk, a fact turned lesson her parents made sure to instill into her head during that traumatic event. Ever since then, she didn't want to be anywhere near them. And now, to make an ex-boyfriend jealous, she was about to ride on the back of one with Eddie Munson at the wheel. Er, handles. What could go wrong?

He steps into her space, closing the gap until he can reach out and grip her upper arms with his large, ring-clad hands, grounding her. "Whoa, whoa! Easy there, Cunningham. Take a breath before you pass out right here on the pavement," he says, his voice a low, steadying hum. "You’ve got me. That’s what’s protecting you. You’re gonna wrap those arms of yours around me so tight you’ll practically be part of my jacket. Nothing’s gonna happen, I promise."

He tilts his head, a challenging, sassy glint returning to his dark eyes. "But hey, if you want to walk, be my guest. I just thought you actually wanted to make Jason’s head explode. You were the one giving me all those rules yesterday, acting like a little mastermind. Are you really gonna fold before the opening credits even finish rolling?" He grabs the spare helmet, patting the top of it with a series of hollow thuds. "See? Solid as a rock. And you’re looking at a pro, sweetheart. My reputation precedes me—I’m a god on this machine."

As he’s busy revving her up, two girls from the Hawkins High cheer squad—girls Chrissy probably calls 'friends'—pass by on the sidewalk. They freeze in their tracks, their eyes widening in pure, unadulterated horror. From their perspective, the school's most dangerous freak has the golden girl cornered, his hands on her arms while she looks like she's about to cry. They look ready to sprint for help or a priest, clearly convinced they're witnessing a kidnapping in progress.

Grabbing the helmet from Eddie's hand, Chrissy's robin blue eyes shifted over to the girls, a bold stare holding their gaze as she reached back and pulled the hair tie out of her ponytail. Blonde curls whipped waterfalls against her shoulders as she lifted the helmet over her head and slid it downward. Waving to them gleefully, she cautiously joined Eddie on the back of his bike. "Is this why you're so cocky? Because you have a motorcycle?" she questioned, her smirk hidden beneath strands of hair blowing against her face. Truthfully? She understood it. There was something about sitting on a motorcycle, feeling the humming throttle between her legs, that made her want to act up, too.

Timidly at first, Chrissy reached around Eddie’s waist, following his instructions with careful hesitation. She tried to mold herself to him, as close as a second skin, though her stomach fluttered wildly with nervous anticipation. Her hands locked in place, grip tightening until she was certain her fingers would go numb before they ever reached the school. She pressed her cheek against his back, the solid warmth of him grounding and overwhelming all at once, and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly she nearly saw stars. “Okay, I’m re—”

The sentence never had a chance to finish. Eddie peeled away from the curb, the sudden movement yanking a startled squeal from her throat as her stomach flipped end over end. Instinct screamed at her to react, to swat his arm, to scold him for the warning she hadn’t been given—but fear took precedence. She clung to him instead, breathless and laughing despite herself, too terrified of letting go to do anything else.

He turns to her, a lopsided, wicked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "See? Not a grease spot. I told you I’d treat you like the precious cargo you are, Cunningham," he says, his voice dropping an octave as he steps closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. "Now, before we walk into the lions' den, you want to review the rules of engagement one more—"

The screech of high-end tires cuts him off.

A sleek, polished car—the kind that screams 'daddy’s money'—swings into a nearby spot with the practiced arrogance of a king. The doors fly open, and out steps Jason Carver, followed by his troupe of loyal subjects. Jason is mid-laugh, adjustment his varsity jacket, until his eyes lock onto the scene by the motorcycle.

The transformation is instantaneous. Jason’s jaw doesn't just drop; it locks. His face drains of its golden-boy glow, replaced by a muddy, bewildered shade of red. He looks like he’s just watched his favorite trophy get tossed into a trash compactor.

Eddie feels a surge of pure, unadulterated triumph. It’s better than any guitar solo he’s ever played.

"Showtime," Eddie breathes.

He doesn't hesitate. He moves into Chrissy's space, his large hand sliding firmly around her small waist. His fingers splay across the small of her back, the heat of his palm seeping through her cardigan. He pulls her flush against his side, marking his territory with a bold, possessive tug that leaves no room for interpretation to any onlookers.

Eddie leans down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his wild curls creating a curtain that hides them from the world—but not from Jason’s burning gaze.

"Don't look at him yet," Eddie whispers, his breath hot against her skin, sending a deliberate shiver through the air between them. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp. "Our golden boy looks like he’s about to have a stroke, Chrissy. Keep your eyes on me. Let him wonder what the hell I’m saying to you that’s making you blush like that."

As he speaks, his thumb begins a slow, rhythmic graze against the fabric of her shirt, right at the curve of her spine. It’s a ghost of a touch, steady and maddeningly intimate, designed to keep her grounded while driving the 'audience' insane. He tilts his head back just enough to catch Jason’s eye over Chrissy’s shoulder, flashing a sharp, predatory smirk that says 'Look what I found.'

Eddie’s lips must have been charged with electricity, sending sparks flying all over her veins with that quick kiss on her nose. Her fuses short-circuited, systems delayed as she just stood frozen on the spot, watching as Eddie dashed through her home to escape her grandfather’s ire.

She cupped her nose as if to keep the magic, to absorb it on her pores as she didn’t know when she would get to feel that again, while her eyes fixed on the hallway where Eddie had gone. If only she had some of those powers of her own, so she could telepathically beg Eddie to come back, to make him materialize before her again. She was only yanked away from her spell by the sound of her front door opening. All that electric magic was gone the moment her grandpa’s icy glare scanned the mess of tinsel and ornaments all over the room.

“You’re imagining things,” she had to excuse with an annoyed huff, in an attempt to convince her grandpa that he hadn’t in fact seen anyone within their home when he pulled up into the driveway. “You’re not used to the snow, the windows are all covered up up. It was probably a shadow,” she grumbled, trying desperately to sell the act but knowing her grandpa was far too wise. She took the scolding, and dutifully cleaned up the space to earn back some points, so by dinner time, the matter was brushed under the rug. She wasn’t entirely off the hook, but at least she wasn’t receiving the silent treatment — her grandpa’s brand of it could make glaciers melt in comparison.

At night, when her grandpa had already gone to sleep, Angel curled up in her bed, facing the window, longing for her best friend to be back but unsure if Eddie would dare to come back so soon after almost being busted. She closed her eyes with a melancholic sigh, burrowing under the blankets while her fingers idly massaged the tip cold of her nose, trying to conjure up the warm sensation of Eddie’s plush lips enveloping it.

The next morning, he paced his room, tossing a guitar pick between his hands until the clock finally crawled past noon. He didn't want to seem desperate—even if he was—but the silence was killing him more than the threat of a shotgun ever could. Snatching his phone, he tapped out a message with a smirk, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline as he hit send.

She looked at the clock on the counter before typing out:

Do I meet you there, or will you come pick a damsel in distress up? The warden of the tower isn’t home. Don’t worry about being lured into a trap.

She was slightly disappointed but it was definitely for the best. For one, she knew Eddie’s van creaked more than an old man’s rocking chair. Or worse, an old man’s joints. And in this weather, with the snow? It could be an accident waiting to happen.

She got dressed giddily, trying up her combat boots, and switching up her usual band t-shirt for a black wool sweater, and replacing her signature leather bomber jacket for a puffy, winter one. The last thing she grabbed before heading out was her purse, while wrapping a thick cream scarf around her neck — a personal favorite that had been knitted by her mom and it reminded Angel of home.

She lightly jogged the last few steps to Eddie’s direction without even noticing she was — just that excited to see him, instantly enveloping him in a loving hug. That’s when she noticed an odd bump underneath his jacket, making her frown as she leaned back to properly see him. She could make out the faintest peak of a red petal which made her heart do a little flippy thing.

Hannah's eyes widened. "But... this is your bed, your house. I should be the one sleeping on the couch. You've already been so kind to take me in," she protested.

He didn't seem to budge though, so she accepted. "I mean, otherwise we can share the bed," she said, blushing. "I keep my fingers and limbs to myself and I don't snore. If you wanted to Fritzl me, I figure you'd done that already."

Then she remembered that of course he didn't know what that meant. "I meant, if you had bad intentions I figure you'd had your chance."

Did she get a bit of butterflies in her stomach from the suggestion? Yes. But the situation she was in, it was way too crazy for her to even think of such things.

Right?

"Sharing the bed, huh?" he mused, his voice dropping into a low, velvet tone that was playfully flirtatious yet grounded in a deep sense of respect.

He straightened up, his movements fluid and graceful, like a cat. He looked at her, his expression softening into something incredibly kind. "I appreciate the offer, really. But you’re the guest here, even if you did technically crash-land into my life. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible.''

He saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a shadow of the overwhelming day she’d had. He reached into the top of his closet, pulling out a spare pillow and a thin, worn-out blanket.

"Tell you what," he said, his voice gentle and incredibly soothing. He began to spread the blanket out on the floor right next to the bed, smoothing it over the worn carpet. "I’ll stay right here. Guard duty."

And underneath it, a picture of the band - as middle aged men, sure, but... younger. And Freddie Mercury in the middle.

Freddie Mercury... was alive.

She heard someone drive onto the parking lot and park and as soon as they stepped out of the car she turned toward them. "Excuse me, sir, this might sound completely crazy, but... can you tell me which town this is? And... what year it is?"

He saw her the moment she appeared- or rather, the moment he noticed her standing there like a deer caught in high beams. She looked lost, clutching a strange, glowing rectangular object that definitely wasn't a Walkman.

When she approached him with those frantic questions, Eddie didn't answer immediately. He took one last pull of his cigarette, the cherry glowing bright, before dropping the butt to the gravel. He ground it slowly under the heel of his boot, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Wow," he chuckled, his voice raspy and laced with a playful, dramatic edge. "I’ve heard of some pretty bad trips, sweetheart, but forgetting the year? That’s some high-tier stuff. You sure you didn't snag a little something extra from Reefer Rick before wandering out here?"

He pushed himself off the wall, his chains clinking softly against his jeans. He took a step closer, tilting his head with a look of mock concern that didn't quite hide the flirtatious glint in his eyes. He scanned her face, certain he’d never seen her before. In a town where everyone knew everyone’s business by third grade, she was a total ghost.

"But hey, far be it from me to leave a lady in distress," he said, spreading his arms wide as if introducing her to a grand stage. "You are in the sprawling, majestic metropolis of Hawkins, Indiana. Population: mostly boring, except for yours truly."

He stepped even closer, his grin widening as he let the punchline land.

Even though she was on the verge of panic she couldn't help but notice the guy... he was a hottie.

A DDG in her terms - drop dead gorgeous.

And if his style was anything to go by... then he liked pretty much the same style and music as she did.

She herself was dressed in black jeans, Converse and a t-shirt with the logo of Guns N´ Roses on the front.

"You know, I wish," she told him. "That would explain so much. But... no, can't say I did. I don't know who that is. Never met the guy."

Hawkins, Indiana? 1984?!

Holy fucking shit!

"N-no, not really okay," she got out, her legs shaking underneath her as she shoved her phone into her back pocket. What was she supposed to do with that one?

The case of her phone also doubled as her card holder, but her driver's license and bank account... how was she supposed to use them? Her bank account didn't even exist!

"I think I... need to sit down," she said, managing to squat down onto the concrete and bury her head between her legs.

He reached out, his hands hovering near her arms for a split second, hesitating. As much as Eddie Munson prided himself on being the confident, sometimes borderline obnoxious freak of Hawkins, he could tell this girl looked like her entire world had just caved in. "I’m gonna touch you, okay? Don't freak out," he murmured, gently gripping her arms to steady her as he tried to catch her eye.

"Is everything alright? I mean, obviously it's not, but... Look at me. What’s your name? And what state are you from?"

He reached into the pocket of his denim vest, his hand emerging with a metallic jingle. Between his fingers, he held out a cold, silver phone token.

In less than a year, this town would split down the middle.

She didn't "freak out" from him touching her, however, understanding it came from a place of compassion.

What was she supposed to reply to his question? "Hey, I'm Hannah and I'm from the future. Nice to meet you!"

"I'm Hannah," she said, settling for something in the middle. "I'm from... Illinois. But I can't... I can't call my family. I was pretty much dropped here with just... the clothes on my back. There's no one to call."

Technically her grandparents would still be here in Hawkins, but her grandpa already had problems with his blood pressure, she didn't want to give him a stroke by waltzing in there, saying she was their granddaughter, especially when their own daughter, Hannah's mom, was currently, what? 8? 9?

"No one," she repeated, running a shaky hand through her hair.

She shook her head again, rubbing her bare arms with her hands. "No. I'm sorry, there's no one."

Are you in trouble? Good question. She probably was but not from law enforcement or troublesome boyfriends.

"No, no, nothing like that. I was... dumped here and now there's no going back," she settled for. "But I get it, this isn't your responsibility. I'll be..."

She interrupted herself when he asked if she was hungry. No, she didn't feel much of an appetite right now, but that would've sound rude. "Maybe a little. Mostly I would just... have a mug of coffee to warm up. Of course I didn't bring a jacket."

He pulled her to her feet and she followed him inside. She was nervous they would demand to see her ID - because what was she going to do then? She had her ID but the dates on it was like 35 years wrong!

"Thank you," she whispered, cupping the mug in her hands and breathing in the scent of coffee, closing her eyes for a moment before taking a sip.

It burned her tongue a little, but she welcomed that pain. Rather burning than freezing your ass off out there.

When he told her she was starting to look less like a ghost and more human she snorted.

"Aw, thank you. You look terrific. I guess the whole 'not freezing outside and knowing where to go' makes wonders for the appearance," she couldn't help but tease him back.

"Look... I don't know how to... it's a very complicated..." she started, interrupting herself and then starting again.

"Let's just say, I don't think you'll ever believe me. I barely do, and I'm currently living it. You will probably think I'm insane. Hell, you thought I was on crack when you saw me outside. No. I've never even tried any illegal drug. But it will sound like it. Lost the plot. Away with the fairies. Barking. Woof."

She took another sip of the coffee.

"I... I understand this is hard to believe, but... I'm actually... I'm from the future. My time is... I was living in the year 2025. See?"

She pulled her phone case out of her back pocket and held out her driver's license. There was her birthdate, October 6th 2005.

There was also the date her license had been issued in -23.

"You see? I... I was just looking at pictures earlier this day and suddenly everything spun, kind of like when you get up too soon and your blood pressure falls. And then I was in that parking lot. It's... crazy!"

She felt a little bit of anger too. It made her free hand, the one that didn't hold the mug, clench into a fist.

Even though she had no reason to be angry. How could he believe her? She barely believed it herself.

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes looking more black now. "I don't know who you're talking about. No one put me up to this. I'm telling the truth."

Hannah tried to figure out how she could make him believe her. Then she remembered her phone!

"You know what this is?" she asked, pulling her cellphone out. "This is called a cellphone. I know some people already have them, but they don't look like this. Now, say 'cheese'!"

She snapped a picture of him, and then turned the phone around and showed him the picture.

Her Youtube didn't work, of course, but she had a few videos on the phone - letting him see a clip from a Metallica concert. The men looked obviously older, and...

"You see they have a different basist. That's because Cliff Burton will die. In a bus accident, 1986. They've actually gone through... four."

The laughter vanished instantly. He leaned in so close he could smell the coffee on her breath, his gaze darting between the screen and the girl. When she started the video, he felt the air leave his lungs. He recognized James, Lars, Kirk... but they were older. Wrinkled. And the sound—it was too crisp, too heavy.

"Wait, wait... back up," he stammered, his bravado crumbling as his shaky hand reached out to steady the device, though he was afraid to actually touch it. "Cliff? What are you talking about? Cliff is a god, he’s... a bus accident?" The mention of 1986 sent a cold shiver down his spine. It was only a couple of years away.

Now he looked at her more like she was a ticking bomb and she could understand why.

She put the phone back in her pocket since a couple of people had started to look at them and she didn't want to cause a mass panic.

"No, it's not a prank," she said, gently placing a hand on his arm. "I get that it's a lot. I can barely believe it either, and I'm the one that got sent back here."

She took a deep breath. "I'm just Hannah, really. Hannah Ryder. My grandparents and mom live here in Hawkins now, but..."

Hannah hesitated. "There's something... I think there's a reason I was sent back, but it's kind of a lot to take. Are you ready for that?"

She realized she didn't even know his name yet. "Shit, I'm sorry, but... what's your name?" she then asked with a small smile.

He looked down at her hand on his arm. It felt warm. Real. Too real for a ghost and too grounded for a hallucination. He swallowed hard, trying to regain even a fraction of his usual bravado, but his voice came out barely above a whisper.

"Munson," he croaked, clearing his throat to try again. "Edward. Edward Munson. But, uh... 'Eddie' works too. Most people in this town prefer that one."

He leaned back, running a shaky hand through his hair, his mind racing through every sci-fi trope he’d ever read in a comic book. If she was telling the truth—and that magic glass plate suggested she was—then the universe was a lot more terrifying than a D20 roll.

"Ready?" he repeated her question with a breathless, hysterical little huff of a laugh. "Hannah, I just watched my idols turn into old men and found out Cliff is... I'm pretty sure my brain is currently melting out of my ears."

Eddie... Eddie Munson?!

The guy that had been the prime suspect in the murders that happened before Hawkins went to hell?!

She almost bolted out of the chair and out the door before logic caught up with her.

Her grandparents were friends with Wayne Munson. They had always been convinced Eddie was innocent, that he had been framed, because he was 'different'.

If her grandparents believed him, then... well... she had to give him a chance. Because really, what other chance did she have?!

This... this might be the reason she was here? The murders had happened before that rift that all but split the town in two and then all the strange things that happened afterwards.

She took a deep breath.

"Eddie - can I call you that? This... this is probably even harder to hear, but... in a little bit less than a year... Hawkins... there will be some kind of disaster that affects Hawkins. Many people will die, and the town will go into quarantine. My grandparents were among those that left before the town was shut down..."

She bit her lip, wondering how she would tell the core of it. "But before that... there will be a couple of strange deaths... and you... you were... will be the prime suspect for it."

Hannah looked at him apologetically, hating that she had to tell him this.

"A disaster? Hawkins?" he stammered, shaking his head so hard his curls whipped around his face. "Sweetheart, this is Hawkins. The most exciting thing that happens here is the annual corn fest. The only 'disaster' we’ve ever had was a couple of years ago when that little Byers kid went missing and then turned up alive after everyone thought he was a goner. We call him 'Zombie Boy' now, for crying out loud! That’s the peak of our drama!"

But as the words about the murders and being a "prime suspect" left her lips, Eddie’s face went bone-white. He felt a cold, oily slick of dread wash over him. His hands, usually so busy fidgeting or playing air guitar, were now locked together on the table, and they were visibly trembling.

"Wait, wait... back the hell up!" he hissed, his voice cracking with a mixture of offense and pure terror. "Me? A murderer? Are you kidding me? I know I’ve got the look, okay? I know I’m the 'Freak' and the scary metalhead who worships at the altar of Iron Maiden, but I wouldn't hurt a damn fly, Hannah!"

She shook her head vividly when he told her he wasn't a murdered. "I didn't say you were!" she yelled-whispered. "Do you know who my grandparents are? Tom and Rose Ryder? They are friends with your uncle Wayne. They were convinced you were innocent, that you had been framed."

She chewed on her bottom lip again, thinking about what she should say. "I don't know everything. My grandparents doesn't like talking about it, says it's unnerving, so I don't know all the details. But from what I could understand... apparently you were suspected because you were seen at the scene on one of the murders. But that doesn't mean anything. And after that... well, I guess you were the perfect scapegoat to blame it on."

Hannah swallowed as she debated with herself if she should drop the last bomb.

"No one knows what happened to you, Eddie. You evaded the police, but after what happened in town... you disappeared. My grandfather hoped that you had somehow managed to get out, escaped to Canada or Mexico, but... no one knows."

She didn't say what her grandfather had always finished his stories about Eddie with: "but no one saw or heard from that boy again. Sadly I think it's more likely he... died."

"Ghost town..." he repeated under his breath, his fingers tracing the edge of the table. "You’re telling me this whole place; the school, the Hideout, Wayne’s trailer... it all just... ends? And I’m the guy they point the finger at before the lights go out?"

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he tried to process the sheer weight of it. He wasn't screaming or throwing chairs; he was retreating into that sharp, observant space he occupied when a D&D campaign took a lethal turn. If she was telling the truth, he was already a dead man walking in 1984.

"Look," he said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone that lacked his usual theatrical flair. "If what you're saying is even half-true, we can't stay here. This place is too loud, and I can't think with half the town's losers watching us chat over lukewarm coffee."

When he said they should get out here she looked around and nodded. "I agree," she said, "but I just want to say one thing first."

She shook her head, squeezing his hand. "I'm terribly sorry I have to spring this on you. But you're right. I truly think I was sent here to help you, and by helping you, perhaps helping Hawkins. I know we don't know each other, but I know my grandfather and he believed in you. I'll help you in any way I can, Eddie," she told him, looking into his dark eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat and she mentally slapped herself. This was not the time!

She felt so bad for him, trying to speak to him in a comforting manner when she replied to his question.

"The first murder occurred in March 1986," she told him. "Then it all happened in a matter of days."

Hannah chewed on her bottom lip, like she always did when she felt worried.

"But that means there's time. Time to investigate this, trying to figure out how to avoid it."

This made her think of the show Outlander. Her mom loved it and had read all the books.

Except this wasn't Scotland in the 1700s - and deep down she was grateful for that, because, despite having traveled back in time, there were at least functioning showers and healthcare.

And Eddie could probably give Sam Heughan a match in good looks, but she cursed herself for even thinking about such things.

"I know this is a lot," she said. "Is there... anything I can do for you? Right now I mean? Something else you want to know?"

"A year. Over a year," he muttered, more to himself than to her, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Okay. That’s... that’s a lifetime. I can graduate. I can finally get my diploma and get the hell out of this place before the..."

He glanced at Hannah, his expression shifting from dread to a sudden, sharp curiosity. He’d seen enough movies to know that messing with time was a dangerous game.

"But hey, Future Girl, let’s talk shop for a second," he said, his voice regaining some of its characteristic edge. "How do we know we aren't stuck in one of those stupid paradoxes? Like, you come back to warn me, but your warning is exactly what sets the whole thing in motion? Maybe if I didn't know I was going to be a 'prime suspect,' I wouldn't act like a guilty man and vanish. And speaking of vanishing..."

"Okay, slow down, Stephen Hawking," she said, holding her hands up, "I don't have all those answers. Although I've read the sci-fi novels too, but... I can only read the cards in front of me. I'm here now. In your time. The first person I met was you. Someone I happen to have heard a lot about by people that knew... know? you and believed in you. I don't know, that's just seems very... fitting to me. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Or fate, if you believe in that. That's the only thing I know. If you don't believe in that, well... then I don't know what to do," she finished. "It's your decision."

She stepped into the trailer, looking around. "Nice place," she told him, looking around. "That's quite a collection," she continued, pointing to the mugs and hats hanging on one wall.

Hannah turned around when Eddie said she needed to adapt to this time. "How do you mean? Naturally I'm not going to walk around and showing my phone to everyone - which will probably die soon anyway, since I don't have a charger for it. I can look things up in a dictionary, even though I prefer Google search. And while I find it amazing that some of my idols are in their prime right about now, I won't walk around and say 'they look so young!' Although that might score me some points, come to think about it," she joked.

She tilted her head, feeling a bit bad about telling him that Cliff Burton would soon die. "I'm not going to go around and tell who died either. That was tactless of me, I'm sorry."

He took a long swig of his own beer, leaning back against the sink and shrugging his shoulders as if shaking off the last remnants of the shock.

"I’m not worried about you flashing a magic glass brick at people or crying over rockstars, Hannah."

He gestured vaguely toward her with his beer bottle, scanning her from head to toe. "We should start with the basics. Look, I don't know what the 'future' considers fashion—maybe you all wear silver jumpsuits or something—but right now? You’re in the era of 'more is more.' It’s the eighties, sweetheart. If your hair isn’t reaching for the heavens with enough hairspray to kill the ozone layer, people are going to think you're sick."

He chuckled, tossing his own mane of metalhead curls. "Everything is loud. Neon colors that hurt your eyes and denim on denim. If you want to disappear, you need to look like you just walked out of a shopping mall or a rock concert. Right now, you look a little too... quiet."

She remembered how Douglas Booth, playing Nikki Sixx, had said that the 80s were the worst decade in human history in the movie The Dirt, based on their autobiography. She had thought that the 2020s were worse, but... perhaps he had a point.

"Oh dear God, please don't tell me I have to perm my hair. I'd rather shave it off. Can't I just put it up in a fluffy pony tail? Besides, my hair texture is one of those you can backcomb forever and it won't make much of a difference. Trust me, the hair dresser tried for my prom night."

"As for the clothes, well... I didn't really bring any."

Which was worrisome, because she didn't want to keep wearing the same underwear, if she was going to stay here for weeks, but... one problem at a time.

He set his beer down and wandered over to a cluttered chest of drawers near his bed. With a practiced kick, he nudged the bottom drawer open and began rummaging through a mountain of dark fabric. He pulled out a faded, oversized black hoodie and a worn-in band tee, tossing them toward her.

"Here. It’s the Munson collection. Mostly cotton, mostly black, and it probably smells like a mix of cheap tobacco and van air freshener, but it’ll do."

His expression shifted, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening into something more focused.

"But here’s the real kicker. Hawkins is a small town, Hannah. And small towns are built on the backs of bored people with nothing better to do than talk. If you’re seen with the local freak, people are going to have questions—and 'I fell through a hole in time' is a one-way ticket to a padded cell."

He tapped his chin, his mind racing through possibilities like he was narrating a high-stakes campaign. "We need a legend. A story so boring and believable that no one bothers to double-check it. How about this? You’re my cousin from... let’s say, Indianapolis. Your parents are going through a messy divorce, you needed a break from the big city, and my Uncle Wayne was the only one with a spare couch."

She didn't mind the smell, she thought they smelled nice, but she didn't want to be weird and bury her face in them like a... well, weirdo.

She listened to him and nodded a little, but when he was finished she said:

"Pretty good story, but don't you think your closest friends, not to mention your uncle, would react to you having a cousin you've never mentioned before? We can go with the same story, except I can be a childhood friend of yours, or someone you've met at a concert and we've kept in touch via letters and phone calls?" she suggested. "And yeah, now my parents are divorcing, or I've fought with them, so I came to you, to get some distance."

He uncrossed his arms and gestured toward his bed with a slight tilt of his head. "You can crash here. It’s not exactly a five-star hotel, and the springs might give you a bit of a hard time, but at least it beats staying out on the street."

He took another sip of his beer. "My uncle is on the night shift, so he won't be back until morning. I’ll be taking the couch out there. If you need anything... well, the kitchen and the bathroom are right there. I’m sure you’ll find your way around this tin can in no time."

Eddie’s lips must have been charged with electricity, sending sparks flying all over her veins with that quick kiss on her nose. Her fuses short-circuited, systems delayed as she just stood frozen on the spot, watching as Eddie dashed through her home to escape her grandfather’s ire.

She cupped her nose as if to keep the magic, to absorb it on her pores as she didn’t know when she would get to feel that again, while her eyes fixed on the hallway where Eddie had gone. If only she had some of those powers of her own, so she could telepathically beg Eddie to come back, to make him materialize before her again. She was only yanked away from her spell by the sound of her front door opening. All that electric magic was gone the moment her grandpa’s icy glare scanned the mess of tinsel and ornaments all over the room.

“You’re imagining things,” she had to excuse with an annoyed huff, in an attempt to convince her grandpa that he hadn’t in fact seen anyone within their home when he pulled up into the driveway. “You’re not used to the snow, the windows are all covered up up. It was probably a shadow,” she grumbled, trying desperately to sell the act but knowing her grandpa was far too wise. She took the scolding, and dutifully cleaned up the space to earn back some points, so by dinner time, the matter was brushed under the rug. She wasn’t entirely off the hook, but at least she wasn’t receiving the silent treatment — her grandpa’s brand of it could make glaciers melt in comparison.

At night, when her grandpa had already gone to sleep, Angel curled up in her bed, facing the window, longing for her best friend to be back but unsure if Eddie would dare to come back so soon after almost being busted. She closed her eyes with a melancholic sigh, burrowing under the blankets while her fingers idly massaged the tip cold of her nose, trying to conjure up the warm sensation of Eddie’s plush lips enveloping it.

The next morning, he paced his room, tossing a guitar pick between his hands until the clock finally crawled past noon. He didn't want to seem desperate—even if he was—but the silence was killing him more than the threat of a shotgun ever could. Snatching his phone, he tapped out a message with a smirk, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline as he hit send.

She looked at the clock on the counter before typing out:

Do I meet you there, or will you come pick a damsel in distress up? The warden of the tower isn’t home. Don’t worry about being lured into a trap.

She was slightly disappointed but it was definitely for the best. For one, she knew Eddie’s van creaked more than an old man’s rocking chair. Or worse, an old man’s joints. And in this weather, with the snow? It could be an accident waiting to happen.

She got dressed giddily, trying up her combat boots, and switching up her usual band t-shirt for a black wool sweater, and replacing her signature leather bomber jacket for a puffy, winter one. The last thing she grabbed before heading out was her purse, while wrapping a thick cream scarf around her neck — a personal favorite that had been knitted by her mom and it reminded Angel of home.