MISTER MUNSON

Eddie Munson who absolutely pretends he doesn’t notice you at first… and then suddenly he’s always around you. Sitting a little closer. Offering you his headphones. Leaning in when he talks like it’s unconscious (it’s not).

Eddie Munson who's surprisingly observant with you. Notices when you’re stressed before tests, when your mood’s off, when you’ve tied your hair up because you’re nervous. He never calls it out directly , just adjusts how he treats you.

Eddie Munson's flirting is awkward but intentional. Teasing nicknames, exaggerated sighs when you beat him at something, dramatic compliments like “I mean, you didn’t have to be that cool about it.”

Eddie Munson walks you to class even if it makes him late. Acts like it’s no big deal. It is a big deal to him.

Eddie Munson lets you listen to his favorite tapes but watches your reaction like it’s the most important thing in the world. If you like a song? It becomes your song.

Eddie Munson is very careful with you emotionally. Eddie’s been written off so many times that the idea of hurting you genuinely scares him. So he double-checks your reactions, your comfort, your boundaries without making it obvious.

Eddie Munson who brags about you in the dumbest ways. “Yeah, well, she actually gets that reference,” or “She’s smarter than all of us combined, just sayin’.”

Eddie Munson's affection is casual but constant: leaning his head on your shoulder, nudging you with his foot, stealing your jacket and acting shocked when you want it back.

WHEN Eddie Munson finally realizes he’s in deep, it hits him hard. Like, lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he got this lucky.

NSFW MINORS DNI

Eddie Munson’s restraint is the hottest thing about him. You can feel how badly he wants you in the way his jaw tightens, the way he exhales through his nose like he’s steadying himself before touching you.

Eddie Munson Who abselutely worships your tits, big or small he'll always find a way to play with them.

Eddie Munson Abselutely loves van sex. He's made it quite cozy in the back of his old one. A matress, some pillows, blankets...condoms.

Eddie Munson Who has to physically hold himself back when you join a hellfire session with him and the boys, And you wear those tight tank tops that show all too much, but all too little at the same time.

Eddie Munson Who smokes while he's fucking you. He'd be balls deep, sweat dripping, his hair in a low ponytail. The loud sound of slapping and your beautiful fucking moans fill his ears as he reaches for his cigarette.

Eddie Munson Who plays guitar to you while you sip your water after your little session. Only thing is, He's naked. The guitar resting on his plush thighs, his cock covered by the body of the instrument. It makes you crave him all over again.

Eddie Munson Who doesn't care if wayne is home or not. His pretty baby can be good and quiet, Right?

Eddie Munson Who wants to try out all sorts of different condoms with you. Flavored, ridged, warm, cold, he wants Everything.

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Billy Hargrove does not do subtle.

So when his friends start acting weird, you notice.

It happens slowly. Too slowly to ignore.

Tommy and Carol glance at you, then at Billy, then away too fast. Neil’s name never comes up around you anymore, but neither does anything real. The conversations stop when you walk into the room. Laughter cuts off like a switch flipped too hard.

Billy notices too.

He gets quieter.

Not distant. Not cold. Just careful in a way that makes your chest ache.

He walks you to class every day now. Waits for you outside your locker. Keeps a hand at the small of your back in crowded halls like he is anchoring himself.

You think it means something.

You think it means you are safe.

You find out the truth on a Thursday afternoon.

You forgot your notebook in the parking lot bleachers after lunch. You go back for it alone, annoyed at yourself, already planning how late you will be to class.

You hear voices before you see anyone.

Billy’s voice is tense. Not angry. Not joking.

“I told you to drop it.”

Tommy laughs. “Relax. It was just a bet. Nobody thought you would actually catch feelings.”

Your stomach drops.

You freeze behind the concrete wall, notebook forgotten, breath caught halfway in your lungs.

Carol says your name. Casually. Like it is nothing.

“She’s really into you, you know. Kinda pathetic how easy it was.”

Billy snaps. “Shut up.”

Tommy scoffs. “What. You gonna pretend this wasn’t about proving a point. You said it yourself. No way she would say yes.”

Your hands start shaking.

Someone laughs again. Someone mentions money. Twenty bucks. Thirty. You do not hear the exact number because your ears are ringing too loud.

Billy’s voice is rough. Desperate.

“I didn’t know it would turn into this.”

Silence stretches.

Tommy sighs. “So what. You gonna tell her. Or just ride it out.”

Billy does not answer fast enough.

That is what breaks you.

You back away slowly, quietly, like you are sneaking out of a room where something precious is being smashed.

By the time you get to the bathroom, you are crying so hard you have to grip the sink to stay upright.

You replay everything.

The jacket on the seat. The way he watched your shoulder. The softness in his voice when he said your name like it mattered.

It was all a game.

Or it started as one.

That almost hurts worse.

Billy finds you after school.

He is smiling when he sees you, relief washing over his face like it always does when you are there. It vanishes the second he looks at you properly.

Your eyes are red. Your posture is closed. You do not step closer.

“Hey,” he says carefully. “What’s wrong.”

You laugh. It comes out sharp and ugly and nothing like you.

“How much?” you ask.

Billy blinks. “What.”

“How much did you win,” you repeat, voice steady even though your chest feels like it is collapsing. “Was I worth twenty. Or did you get more for dragging it out.”

His face drains of color.

“Who told you.”

That is answer enough.

You nod slowly. “So it was a bet.”

Billy steps forward. “It was. But it isn’t. Not anymore.”

You take a step back.

“Do not,” you say quietly. “Do not do that. Do not turn this into some redemption speech.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frantic now. “I never meant to hurt you. I swear to god. It started stupid. I was stupid.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

The boy who burns too hot. Who never thinks past the next second. Who did not expect to care and did anyway.

“That does not make it better,” you say. “That makes it worse.”

Billy’s voice cracks. “I fell in love with you.”

You flinch.

Not because you do not feel something back.

Because you do.

And now it is poisoned.

“You do not get to say that,” you whisper. “Not after lying to my face.”

“I was going to tell you,” he says. “I just needed time.”

“You had time,” you say. “Every ride. Every look. Every time you touched me and let me believe it was real.”

Billy’s eyes shine. He looks wrecked. Unmasked. Terrified.

“It is real,” he says. “I am real with you.”

You shake your head, tears finally spilling again.

“I do not know how to trust what is real anymore.”

The words hit him harder than anything else you have ever said.

You step around him, not running, not dramatic, just done.

Billy does not grab you.

He lets you walk away.

That night, the Camaro sits untouched in his driveway.

Billy stares at the ceiling, replaying every moment where he could have chosen differently.

For the first time in his life, he realizes something worse than losing a fight.

He lost you.

.”

Billy Hargrove is not gentle.

He’s loud, reckless, all heat and swagger. He burns too hot and too fast and leaves smoke behind him everywhere he goes.

But the next week, something shifts.

It starts small. Almost invisible.

Billy shows up to chem early. Not on time...early. He’s sitting in his seat, the lab manual open, pencil in hand. When you walk in, he doesn’t smirk. He just… looks at you.

Not like you’re a challenge or a joke.

Like he’s taking inventory.

“Morning,” you say, cautious but polite.

Billy grunts something that might be a greeting. His eyes flick to your shoulder, checking, making sure the bruise is gone. He looks away quickly when he catches himself.

You notice, but you don’t comment.

You’re used to Billy being a lot of things. Concerned isn’t one of them. You don’t know what to do with it.

Class starts. You half-expect him to slack off again, or flirt with some girl from across the room, or ignore the worksheet entirely.

But Billy is focused.

Actually focused.

When you explain a step in the procedure, he listens. When you hand him the beaker, he takes it carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break something important.

At one point, your hands brush. You pull back quickly.

Billy doesn’t.

His fingers flex like he wants to reach for you. He stops himself.

You pretend not to notice the way his jaw clenches.

A Few Days Later

Rumors spread fast in Hawkins High. Rumors about Billy spread faster.

By Wednesday, people have decided you’re either:

Billy’s new target

Billy’s new toy

Or someone Billy will chew up and spit out by Friday

You ignore it, because ignoring things is what you’re good at.

Billy pretends to ignore it. He’s not good at it.

You’re grabbing books out of your locker when a group of girls passes by, ones who used to giggle whenever Billy walked near.

“Poor thing,” one says loudly. “She has no idea what he’s like.”

Another snickers. “He’ll get bored. He always does.”

You keep your eyes on your locker, refusing to react.

Billy hears everything.

He’s halfway down the hallway before he realizes he’s moving. He steps in, slamming his locker shut just a little too hard, the metal echoing like a threat.

The girls jump.

Billy doesn’t even look at them ... he looks at you.

“You ready?” he asks, like nothing happened.

You nod. “Yeah. Just need to grab a pencil.”

The girls scurry away.

Billy watches them until they’re gone, shoulders tense, breath uneven, the vein in his temple pulsing.

“Billy…” you say gently. “I can handle them.”

He scoffs. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean they get to talk.”

You pause.

“You don’t have to defend me.”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and something unguarded crosses his face before he masks it.

“Maybe I want to.”

You open your mouth, but he walks ahead before you can respond.

His ears are red.

The Ride

You shouldn’t get in Billy Hargrove’s car.

It’s a bad idea. Everyone knows it. Your friends side-eye the Camaro like it’s a black hole. Steve hesitates every time he sees you heading that direction.

But Billy keeps offering. And you keep saying yes.

Today, he waits for you leaning against the hood, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He looks like trouble wrapped in denim.

You can feel the eyes on you as you walk over.

“Rough day?” Billy asks.

You shrug. “Normal day.”

He opens the passenger door for you.

That’s new.

You blink. “Uh… thank you.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but he looks away too fast.

When you get in, you see a jacket folded on the seat — his — moved just for you.

Also new.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, rings glinting in the afternoon light. The radio hums low. It’s almost peaceful.

Almost.

“What happened to your shoulder?” he asks suddenly.

You turn to him. “I told you. I bumped into a shelf.”

“Yeah, but how hard were you walking? Jesus.”

You laugh softly. “Why do you care?”

He doesn’t answer.

Billy tightens his grip on the wheel until the leather creaks.

“Just… don’t like seeing you hurt,” he mutters.

You look out the window to hide the way your stomach flips.

He glances at you, barely, quickly, like he’s afraid the moment will bite him, then looks back at the road.

You’re closing up the store where you work, sweeping, counting registers, flipping off lights one by one.

You step outside into the cool air, tired and ready to go home.

Billy is leaning against the brick wall.

You jolt. “Billy? What are you doing here?”

He shrugs, but something is tight in his shoulders. “Picking you up.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You don’t have to ask.”

You should be annoyed. You should tell him you’re fine, that he doesn’t need to babysit you.

But something in his face stops you.

Billy looks… unsettled.

Not angry. Not cocky.

Lost.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Billy hesitates, and Billy never hesitates, then says quietly:

“My dad was home early.”

You don’t know everything about his father, but you know enough to understand.

And suddenly his presence outside your workplace makes sense.

He needed to get away. He didn’t want to be alone. And somehow, that meant coming to you.

“Do you want to sit in the car?” you ask, voice soft.

Billy nods once, sharp, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t move now, he won’t move at all.

You walk to the Camaro together.

Inside, the silence is different. Heavy, but not suffocating.

Billy rests his forehead against the steering wheel. His breath shakes once, quietly, like he’s ashamed of it.

You reach out before you can think and touch his arm.

He flinches, not away from you, just from the gentleness.

After a second, he exhales and leans back.

“You don’t have to deal with my shit,” he mutters.

“I don’t mind,” you say.

He looks at you then, eyes tired and raw in a way you’ve never seen.

“You should,” he whispers.

You hold his gaze. “I don’t.”

Billy swallows hard.

For the first time since he started this whole game, he isn’t smirking. He isn’t charming. He isn’t performing.

He’s just… Billy.

And he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand why you haven’t run yet.

His voice breaks low. “I didn’t mean for this to—”

He stops himself.

You wait.

Billy shakes his head, frustrated with feelings he doesn’t have the language for.

“I don’t want to screw this up,” he finally admits.

“This?” you repeat, heart thudding.

Billy meets your eyes.

“This,” he says, voice rough but sincere. “You.”

The car is quiet.

Too quiet.

You don’t know what to say. Billy doesn’t either. He rubs his thumb over the steering wheel, tense and waiting, for rejection, for confusion, for anything.

You don’t reject him.

You just say, “Okay.”

Billy frowns. “…Okay?”

You smile softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Something in his chest loosens, so suddenly, so visibly, that it almost hurts to watch.

Billy turns the key in the ignition, trying to hide the way relief washes over him.

“Good,” he says, softer than he intends. “’Cause I’m not done trying.”

The Christmas market glows like something out of a postcard—fairy lights strung between wooden booths, the air sweet with cinnamon and roasted nuts, and a soft dusting of snow clinging to your coat. You tug your scarf tighter, breath misting in front of you.

Beside you, Billy Hargrove huffs a quiet laugh.

“What?” you ask, nudging him with your shoulder.

“You look like a walking marshmallow,” he smirks, tugging at the ridiculously fluffy hood of your jacket.

You roll your eyes, but his grin is warm—warmer than the air, warmer than the lights. He’s been trying not to show it all night, but you catch it in the small things: the way he walks close enough that your coats brush, the way his hand hovers near yours like it wants to hold it but won’t unless you give him an excuse.

You stop at a booth selling hot chocolate piled with whipped cream.

“Two,” Billy tells the vendor before you can even open your mouth.

“You don’t even like hot chocolate,” you say.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “but you do.”

Your stomach does a little somersault that you pray he can’t see.

You walk together through the flickering lights, sipping from steaming cups. Snowflakes catch in Billy’s curls, and he doesn’t bother brushing them away. For once, the wildness in his eyes is quiet—soft in a way only you get to see.

“So,” you say, bumping your arm into his, “why’d you actually agree to this? Thought Christmas stuff wasn’t your thing.”

He exhales through his nose. “It’s not.”

“Then why come?”

Billy looks at you. Really looks.

“Because you asked.”

The world goes still for a moment—just the two of you between glowing lights and drifting snow.

Your fingers brush his. He tenses, but only for a heartbeat, then he shifts his hand so your fingers slide perfectly between his. Warm, rough, gentle.

You squeeze. “You know… if you wanted to come because you like me, you could just say that.”

He snorts. “Please. I don’t like you.”

“Right.”

“I—” He swallows, jaw tightening. Then, quieter, almost lost in the wind: “I like you way too much.”

Your cheeks burn, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

A band starts playing a slow Christmas song near the square. Couples drift toward the music, swaying under the lights. You glance at them, then at Billy.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Not dancing.”

You step closer, tugging his hand. “Even if I ask nicely?”

His resolve lasts exactly three seconds.

He groans. “You’re killing me,” he mutters, but he’s already letting you pull him toward the music.

You rest your hands on his shoulders. He hesitates—just a flicker—before placing his hands on your waist. The warmth of them sinks straight through your coat.

“You know,” you whisper, swaying with him, “you’re actually good at this.”

“Shut up.”

You smile up at him. “Make me.”

He kisses you. Soft at first, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. Then deeper, warmer, the kind of kiss that makes you forget the cold entirely. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Merry Christmas,” you breathe.

Billy’s thumb brushes your cheek, tender in a way no one else ever sees.

Billy Hargrove’s Christmas Wishlist

1. A new leather jacket Something even sleeker (and more expensive) than his current one. Black or deep red, preferably.

2. High-end car wax + detailing kit Because the Camaro must shine brighter than anyone else’s ride in Hawkins.

3. A louder cassette deck for the Camaro To blast metal at window-shattering volume. Bonus points if it comes with extra bass boost.

4. Metal and rock cassettes Motley Crüe, Van Halen, Metallica, Ratt — anything to annoy Neil, impress the girls, and dominate the road.

5. A big bottle of cologne Preferably the kind that hits you from across the hallway.

6. Aviator sunglasses In case his current pair gets scratched — or he needs a backup for dramatic entrances.

7. A gym membership (or home weights) He’d never say it out loud, but he does care about keeping that lifeguard-body reputation intact.

8. Beer or a fake ID Because… Billy.

9. Surfing gear A reminder of California — maybe a new board, wax, or beachwear he can’t actually use in snowy Indiana.

Hawkins High — Fall, 1985

You always knew Billy Hargrove’s Camaro long before it pulled into the Hawkins High parking lot, first the low growl of the engine, then the way half the senior class turned their heads like he was some kind of solar flare. You were already at your locker, swapping your biology book for English lit, when he eased into a spot with practiced arrogance.

It was 7:42 a.m. He was late. Of course he was late.

And of course he didn’t care.

Billy took three strides inside the building before he spotted you. The second he did, his entire posture changed. Shoulders still cocky, but the smirk softened into something just for you. He slid up behind you, one warm hand finding your hip like it always did.

“Morning, princess.”

“You’re late,” you said, even though you were already smiling.

He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your cheek. “Miss me?”

“You saw me last night.”

“Still miss you,” he murmured, lips moving against your skin.

Someone down the hall wolf-whistled. Billy didn’t even look. His hand tightened possessively at your waist.

“Ignore them,” you said softly.

“Not thinking about them.” His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Just you.”

You swatted at him because it was way too early for Billy’s brand of trouble. He just laughed, the low, warm kind he saved for you, and stole a quick kiss anyway before letting you go.

First Period — English

Billy hated English. Billy also hated that you were good at English. He sat in the desk beside you, tapping his pencil on the wood like the class personally offended him.

Halfway through the lecture, he nudged your sneaker with his boot. You didn’t look over. You were taking notes.

Another nudge. You kept writing.

A third nudge—this one deliberate, dragging the toe of his boot against your ankle.

You finally glanced at him. “What?”

He leaned closer. “I’m bored.”

“And this is my problem because…?”

“Because you’re my girlfriend,” he said simply, like it explained everything.

You tried not to smile. “Take notes. It won’t kill you.”

“Dunno,” he whispered, feigning seriousness. “Feels like torture.”

He slid his notebook halfway across your desk—not so subtly asking you to help.

You rolled your eyes but angled your notes where he could see. Billy gave you a tiny, grateful half-smile that nobody else ever got to see.

Lunch

You were carrying your tray toward your usual table when Billy intercepted you again, looping an arm around your shoulders and kissing the top of your head like it was instinct.

“You eat?” he asked, eyeing your tray.

“Yes, Billy. I eat.”

“Just checking.” He brushed a thumb along your waist. “You forget sometimes.”

Your chest warmed. It was so… normal. So un-Billy to anyone else, but so familiar to you.

He sat close enough that your thighs pressed together. His hand stayed on your knee under the table—not sexual (yet), just grounding. Sometimes he squeezed gently when he wasn’t talking, like he needed to make sure you were rel.

“You comin’ to the pool after school?” he asked, taking a bite of a cafeteria apple like he had something to prove.

“You’re lifeguarding.”

“And?”

“I’ll be distracting.”

He smirked. “You saying I can’t focus with you around?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “I like when you distract me.”

Your face went hot. He lived for it.

Fourth Period — Gym

Gym class was, predictably, Billy’s kingdom.

Girls giggled every time he blew the whistle. Guys tried (and failed) to impress him. He acted like it was annoying, but you saw the way his chest puffed just a little.

When the class split into teams for volleyball, Billy wandered over to where you were standing.

“You’re not in this class,” you reminded him.

He ignored that completely. “Switch with her,” he told one of the girls beside you.

The girl stared at him, starry-eyed. “Um—sure?”

Billy took her spot, spinning the volleyball on one finger. Your jaw dropped.

“Billy, you can’t just—”

“Yes I can.” He tossed the ball lightly into the air. “Was bored.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He grinned. “And you like me anyway.”

The game started. Every time the ball came near you, Billy backed you up. Every time you scored, he muttered “Atta girl” under his breath like he couldn’t help it.

The other girls watched in open envy. Billy didn’t even notice. His eyes never left you.

After School — Pool

You waited by the bleachers while Billy clocked out. He emerged from the employee room in jeans and a tank top, hair damp, smelling like chlorine and cigarette smoke and something warm you couldn’t name.

“C’mere,” he called, crooking a finger.

You walked over. “Why?”

“So I can kiss my girlfriend.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you could tease him, he grabbed your waist and kissed you—not rushed, not dirty like the rumors said, but slow. Sweet enough that your knees wobbled. He pulled back just a little, forehead resting against yours.

“You look pretty today,” he said quietly. “Should’ve told you earlier.”

Your breath caught. Billy didn’t do soft words often. But when he did, it was always earnest.

“You look pretty too,” you teased.

He snorted. “Shut up.”

Camaro Ride — Sunset

He drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other linked with yours between the seats. The windows were down, rock music crackling through the speakers, wind tugging at your hair.

“You staying the night?” he asked, casual but hopeful.

“If your dad’s home—”

“He won’t bother us.” His jaw clenched. “He knows better.”

You squeezed his hand, and he relaxed, just barely.

Billy shot you a sidelong glance. “You don’t have to, you know. Stay the night. Just… like having you close.”

Your heart pressed against your ribs. Billy Hargrove didn’t say things like that to anyone else.

“I want to,” you said softly.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not cocky—relieved.

He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles as Hawkins blurred past the windows.

“Good,” he murmured. “Then you’re mine for the night.”

“And the day?”

The poster hits you in the face before the memory does.

CORRODED COFFIN — HOMECOMING TOUR.

Eddie Munson’s name is printed in metallic ink—bigger than life, loud enough to echo across a decade. You stare at it on the bulletin board outside Bradley’s, trying to convince your heart not to sprint out of your chest.

It’s been ten years. You haven’t seen him in ten years.

And yet there he is, smirking from the poster, guitar slung low, hair still a storm around his shoulders. Bigger crowds. Brighter lights. The whole world at his feet.

He made it.

And you… stayed.

The Concert

You don’t mean to go. Truly. It’s muscle memory—your feet leading you toward the fairgrounds as the sun dips behind the trees. You tell yourself you’re curious. You tell yourself you’re not hoping he remembers you.

The crowd is wild, screaming Eddie’s name. And then—

He walks onstage.

Your breath catches. Not just because of the lights or the smoke or the electricity that rolls off him like thunder.

But because he stops mid-step.

His eyes sweep the crowd once, twice— And then he sees you.

Eddie misses his cue. The drummer smacks the back of his head with a stick. And Eddie Munson, actual rockstar, breaks into the stupidest, brightest grin you’ve ever seen.

Your knees nearly give out.

He plays like a man possessed after that—fast, flawless, showing off. Every guitar solo is pointed straight at you. Every lyric feels personal.

You try not to read into it.

You fail.

Backstage

You’re halfway to your car when a breathless intern blocks your path.

“Uh—are you Y/N?”

Your name on a stranger’s lips feels foreign. “Um… yeah?”

The intern beams. “Mr. Munson wants to see you.”

You nearly faint. Your body moves on autopilot as you follow her through the maze of trailers until she stops at a black door with gold lettering:

EDDIE MUNSON.

She opens it.

Eddie stands inside, still in his stage clothes, still sweaty, still breathing hard—and somehow even more devastating up close. His necklace glints under the dressing room lights as he stares at you like you’re a hallucination.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “Hi.”

You swallow. “Hi, Eddie.”

He laughs—nervous, disbelieving, too soft for a man who just set a stage on fire.

“You’re here.” “You’re back,” you answer.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well, technically I came back yesterday. But you—you being here is the part I didn’t see coming.”

You try to look anywhere but at him. “You’re famous now.”

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean much if you’re not around to see it.”

Your head snaps up. “Eddie—”

He takes a slow step toward you. “I thought about you. Every damn day.”

Your breath shakes.

“You left,” you say, softer than you meant to.

“I had to,” he says quietly. “You know I did. But I never—never stopped wishing you’d come with me.”

You blink hard. “I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

Eddie’s face breaks—something raw and unguarded.

“Sweetheart… you were the one thing I wanted.”

The room goes silent.

He steps close enough that his hand could touch yours if either of you moved an inch.

“Can I—?” he asks, voice cracking.

You nod before your brain catches up.

Eddie’s hand cups your cheek. Warm. Careful. Familiar.

“You haven’t changed,” he murmurs. “You have,” you whisper back. “You got louder.”

He laughs, forehead falling against yours. “Only because I never shut up about you.”

Your lips part in surprise.

“I wrote songs about you,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “My manager told me to make them sound less… obvious.”

Your stomach flips. “Which ones?”

His eyes sparkle.

“All the good ones.”

And before you can reply, he kisses you.

It’s not a stage kiss. Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd.

It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a decade collapsing, like a story restarting, like coming home.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, he brushes a thumb across your jaw.

“Stay tonight,” he whispers. “Please.”

“Eddie—”

“Not forever. Just… talk to me. Let me make up for lost time.”

You run a hand through his tangled curls, and he leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.

“Okay,” you breathe. “I’ll stay.”

Eddie grins—that same stupid grin from the poster, but softer, realer.

Hawkins High wasn’t big enough for Billy Hargrove’s ego.

Everyone knew it.

Billy strutted through the hallways like the school belonged to him, hair perfect, shirt half-unbuttoned like he didn’t own a button that could reach the top. Girls whispered about him the moment he stepped into view; guys whispered too, usually about whether they could take him in a fight. (They couldn’t.)

You were… not part of that.

You weren’t unpopular, but you didn’t orbit the same sun as Billy Hargrove. Your friends were normal, low-drama types. You had a job after school. You kept your grades decent. You didn’t look when Billy walked by.

And that is what started all of it.

It begins with a dare.

Billy was leaning against his locker, spinning his car keys around his finger while his friends talked shit about Steve Harrington. Who had just walked by with you beside him. You were laughing at something Steve said, not flirty but comfortable. Familiar.

“You know her?” one of Billy’s buddies asked.

Billy followed you with his eyes. He didn’t say anything at first, because he hadn’t actually noticed you until last week. You were quiet, sure, but not in a fade-into-the-wall way. You listened. You paid attention. You were warm.

Too warm.

And Steve Harrington clearly enjoyed being around you.

Billy clicked his tongue. “Yeah. She’s friends with the little freaks Harrington babysits.”

“Heard she’s into guys who treat her right,” the guy teased. “So that rules you out.”

Billy grinned, sharp and practiced. “You think so?”

“Oh please, Hargrove,” another said. “You couldn’t get a girl like that if you tried.”

Billy’s jaw ticked.

He didn’t care about you, not personally, not then. But being told he couldn’t have something?

That was gasoline to a flame.

“Watch me,” he said.

Not one of them expected him to actually try.

You were at your locker, shoving textbooks inside when a shadow leaned over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jumped, smacking your head on the metal above you. “Ow— what? Oh. Billy.”

He smirked like he’d trained for it. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yes you did,” you muttered, rubbing your head.

Billy blinked. Not many girls talked to him like that.

He leaned against the lockers, casual but calculated. “Harrington said you’re looking for a chem partner.”

You frowned. “I never said—”

“Good,” he interrupted. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

“I didn’t agree to that.”

“You did now.”

You stared at him. He stared right back like this was the most normal interaction in the world.

“Why me?” you finally asked.

Billy shrugged. “You’re smart. And I’m charming. Thought we’d make a good team.”

He left before you could argue, leaving you confused and slightly annoyed.

He didn’t expect the next thing:

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t blush. You didn’t look back at him once he walked away.

That was new.

And infuriating.

He started showing up places you were. At the store where you worked. In the parking lot after school. In the hallway during your free period.

It was subtle at first. If you were paying attention, he’d lean against something, looking bored until you passed by. If you said hi to someone else, he’d stare too long.

But you weren’t giving him anything.

You were polite, sure. Nice. But neutral.

And Billy didn’t know what to do with neutral.

One day he followed you out to the student lot.

“You avoiding me?” he asked.

“No,” you said honestly. “I just don’t really know you.”

Billy opened his mouth, ready to throw out the usual flirty line, but something stopped him. The way you looked at him. Clear-eyed, steady, not impressed or scared—took the words right out of his mouth.

“Huh,” he said, like he’d just discovered something unexpected. “Guess we’ll fix that.”

The next week, he actually works with you in chem. Not just showing up ... actually doing work. He doesn’t talk much; he watches.

He watches how you treat people. How you help a kid who dropped their papers. How you smile at the teacher when you hand in homework.

You are the opposite of everything in Billy’s house.

And he hates that he notices.

One day after class, you slide the finished lab report across the desk.

“Here. You should look it over before we turn it in.”

Billy blinks. “You’re letting me see it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Nobody trusts him like that. Ever.

He folds the paper slower than he needs to. “Thanks.”

You smile, small but real.

And just like that, Billy feels something he refuses to acknowledge tightening in his chest.

Someone sees you getting into his Camaro after school (you needed a ride home—he insisted, smirking, “don’t worry, I won’t bite unless you ask”).

People whisper. Girls who wanted Billy glare at you. Steve looks confused and a little worried.

You shrug it off, because you still think this is just… Billy being Billy.

Billy, meanwhile, can tell you don’t see what he’s doing.

And that bothers him more than it should.

His friends check in.

“Yo, Hargrove,” one of them calls. “So what’s the deal with that girl? You in yet?”

Billy smirks automatically—but it drops fast.

“No. Not yet.”

“You losing your touch?” “Thought this was for fun.” “Or was Harrington right about you going soft?”

Billy’s stomach twists. Not from the teasing—he can handle that. But because for the first time, he’s not sure this is “for fun” anymore.

He shoves the guy lightly. “Relax. She’ll fall for it.”

He says it loud enough for them to hear. But quietly enough that he almost convinces himself too.

The next afternoon, you show up at school with a bruise on your shoulder from bumping into your shelf at home.

Billy sees it instantly.

“What happened?” he asks, voice too sharp.

“Oh—nothing. I just hit something.”

He steps closer. Too close. “Who?”

You blink at him. “I said it was nothing.”

Billy realizes what he looks like—angry, concerned, protective—and steps back fast. He clears his throat.

“Right. Whatever. Just… watch where you’re going.”

You walk away, confused.

Billy watches you leave with something heavy in his chest that feels nothing like a game.

And for the first time, he thinks: Shit. I’m in trouble.

Part 2

Eddie Munson had always loved Skull Rock for its acoustics, for the way sound echoed around like a secret shared only between him and the forest. Now, though, the place felt like a tomb. cold, damp, and too damn quiet.

He paced back and forth, arms wrapped around himself, trying not to think about Chrissy, or the cops, or the fact that his life had imploded in the span of a single night. The shadows felt like eyes. The wind felt like sirens.

A branch cracked behind him.

He spun around, heart stuttering.

until he saw her.

“Eddie?” she whispered, stepping into view with a heavy backpack slung over her shoulder.

His knees nearly gave out. “Sweetheart ... what the hell are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she dropped the pack in front of him and crouched down, unzipping it. “I brought you some things.”

Eddie stared as she unloaded item after item: a rolled sleeping bag, a pack of underwear, wet wipes, bottled water, a toothbrush, a bundle of granola bars and sandwiches, a hairbrush, warm clothes, and finally, a pack of cigarettes.

He blinked hard. “You… you brought all that for me?”

“You didn’t think I was just going to let you hide out here with nothing, did you?” she said softly.

When she looked up at him, Eddie finally saw it. the worry in her eyes, the kind that had probably been sitting there since the second news of Chrissy spread. He sank to his knees across from her, fingers trembling as he reached for her hand.

“They think I killed her,” he whispered. “Everyone. Even people I’ve known for years. They look at me like I’m ... like I’m some monster.”

Her hand tightened around his. “You’re not a monster. And I don’t care what they think. I know you.”

His breath caught. For a long moment he just looked at her, his eyes glossy and tired. Then he moved forward, forehead pressing to hers like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“I thought you’d stay away,” he admitted. “For your own safety.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured. “Not while you’re out here alone.”

Eddie let out a shaky laugh, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “You’re either the bravest girl I’ve ever known… or the craziest.”

She smirked. “I’m dating you. You tell me.”

Something warm broke through his fear then ... a small, grateful smile. He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing softly along her skin before he leaned in and kissed her, slow and desperate, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold on.

When they pulled back, she helped him spread out the sleeping bag and organize the supplies. Eddie watched her every move like he was afraid she’d disappear.

“You really saved my ass,” he said quietly as he tugged on the warm flannel she’d brought. “I don’t deserve you.”

She shook her head, standing in front of him. “You deserve someone who believes in you. That’s me.”

For the first time since the nightmare began, Eddie felt a little less like the walls were closing in. A little less alone.

He reached for her hand again. “Stay with me? Just for a little while?”

She nodded, settling beside him on the sleeping bag. Eddie wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his chest as if anchoring himself. Outside, the forest rustled. Somewhere in town, people were whispering his name like a curse.

But here, in Skull Rock, with her beside him, Eddie found a tiny pocket of peace ... enough to breathe, enough to hope.