kachow, baby

The air in Hawkins was thick with the oppressive weight of summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin like a second layer, making your clothes stick uncomfortably and the world shimmer like a fever dream. The sun hung low, painting the sky in hues of peach and gold, and you were perched on the hood of Billy’s Camaro, the metal warm and slightly gritty under your bare thighs. The faint hum of cicadas buzzed in the distance, mingling with the low rumble of the car’s engine cooling down, its ticking a reminder of the wild ride you’d taken to get here—a dusty backroad just outside town, where the world felt like it belonged only to the two of you.

Billy stood a few feet away, leaning against a weathered fence post, his silhouette sharp against the fading light. He fished a cigarette from the pack tucked in his denim jacket, the flick of his Zippo lighter sparking a brief flare that illuminated his face. His blond curls, slightly damp with sweat, caught the golden hour glow, framing his sharp jawline like a halo. He took a drag, the cherry-red tip flaring as he exhaled a lazy cloud of smoke that curled upward, dissolving into the heavy air. When he turned to you, those piercing blue eyes softened, the usual storm in them replaced by something warm, something that felt like it was just for you.

“Whatcha staring at, princess?” he teased, his voice low and gravelly, laced with that cocky edge that never quite faded. He pushed off the fence, sauntering toward you with that effortless swagger—boots crunching against the gravel, hips rolling just enough to remind you he knew exactly how good he looked. The gold chain around his neck glinted faintly, the one with your name etched in delicate gold script, that made your heart stutter. He wore it always, a quiet claim no one else needed to see.

You smirked, crossing your arms over your chest, the cotton of your tank top pulling tight against your skin. “Just wondering how I got stuck with a guy who thinks he’s God’s gift to Hawkins,” you shot back, tilting your head to meet his gaze. The breeze carried the faint scent of wildflowers from the field nearby, but it was drowned out by the sharper notes of Billy’s world—leather, motor oil, and the faint tang of nicotine that always clung to him.

Billy laughed, a low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine despite the heat. He closed the distance between you, stopping just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the faint freckles dusting his nose from too many hours in the sun. “Oh, you love it,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky drawl that made your cheeks flush. He leaned in, his lips brushing your forehead, soft and deliberate, the gesture so tender it felt like a secret between you. The faint scratch of his stubble against your skin grounded you, made this moment feel real, not like the fleeting fantasies you’d heard about Billy Hargrove from girls who only knew the playboy, not the man.

You couldn’t help but melt a little, your arms uncrossing to rest a hand against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt. This was Billy—notorious bad boy, king of reckless charm, the guy who’d once had a new girl on his arm every week. But with you, he was different. Real. Committed. He’d traded fleeting thrills for late-night drives, for quiet moments like this where the world faded away and it was just you, him, and the hum of something true.

“Careful, Hargrove,” you teased, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, your fingers brushing the edge of his collar where the gold chain peeked out. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking you’re serious about me.”

His grin was all teeth, sharp and dangerous, but his eyes betrayed him—soft, unguarded, like you were the only thing that mattered. “Maybe I am, princess,” he said, his hand finding your waist, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles over the thin fabric of your shorts. “Maybe I’m real serious.”

The moment hung there, heavy and perfect, the kind of moment you wanted to bottle up and keep forever. Because this was your Billy—not the myth, not the rumors, but the guy who wore your name against his heart and meant it.

It had been six months since you’d started dating Billy Hargrove, and despite the whispers that swirled through Hawkins like dust in a summer storm—whispers that Billy couldn’t be tamed, that he was trouble with a capital T—he was yours. Wholly, undeniably yours. The bad boy who’d once left a trail of broken hearts and bruised knuckles had changed his tune. He’d stopped flirting with every girl who batted her lashes at him, stopped picking fights just for the thrill of it (mostly), and started showing up for you in ways that made your chest ache with a warmth you hadn’t expected. Like the gold necklace he wore, your name etched in delicate script, always tucked under his shirt—a secret promise, a quiet claim that only you knew about. But getting to this point hadn’t been easy. Falling for Billy Hargrove wasn’t a lightning strike; it was a slow burn, one you’d resisted until he proved he was more than his reputation.

It started at the Hawkins community pool, late last summer, when the air was sticky and the chlorine scent hung heavy. You were there with a few friends, lounging on a towel, a book propped open on your knees, half-ignoring the chaos of splashing kids and the thump of music from someone’s boombox. Billy Hargrove was impossible to miss—shirtless, all tanned skin and lean muscle, strutting around like he owned the place. His laugh was loud, his grin sharper than the edge of a blade, and the girls giggling by the lifeguard stand were eating it up.

You weren’t impressed. You’d heard the stories—Billy, the new guy from California, with a reputation for charming his way into hearts and beds, only to leave both in pieces. You weren’t looking for a fling, especially not with someone who seemed to thrive on fleeting thrills. So when he caught your eye from across the pool, that cocky smirk tugging at his lips, you looked back at your book, determined to ignore him.

But Billy didn’t take the hint. He sauntered over, water dripping from his curls, and dropped onto the grass beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “What’s a girl like you reading at a place like this?” he asked, voice all smooth confidence, like he already knew you’d fall for it.

You didn’t look up. “Something that doesn’t involve guys who think they’re hot shit.”

Your friends stifled giggles, and Billy’s laugh was low, unbothered. “Ouch. You always this tough, or am I special?”

You flicked your eyes up, meeting his gaze—blue and piercing, like he could see right through your defenses. “You’re not special,” you said flatly, turning the page. “Just loud.”

He grinned wider, undeterred, and leaned back on his hands, stretching out like he had all the time in the world.

That was the beginning. Billy didn’t give up, despite your best efforts to keep him at arm’s length. He’d show up at the arcade where you worked, leaning against the counter with that infuriating smirk, tossing quarters in the air and catching them without looking. “C’mon, Y/N, one game. I’ll let you win,” he’d tease, and you’d roll your eyes, telling him to bother someone else. But he didn’t. He’d linger, asking about your day, commenting on the music you hummed under your breath, noticing things—like the way you tied your hair back when you were stressed—that made you pause.

It wasn’t the charm that got you. It was the moments when the mask slipped. Like the time you were closing up the arcade late, and a group of drunk guys outside wouldn’t leave you alone. Billy, who’d been hanging around waiting for you to cave and talk to him, stepped in without hesitation, his usual swagger replaced by something protective, almost dangerous. He didn’t throw a punch—just stood between you and them, his voice low and threatening until they backed off. When he turned to you, his eyes weren’t cocky; they were soft, searching. “You okay?” he asked, and for the first time, you saw something real.

Still, you weren’t convinced. You weren’t looking for a one-night stand, and Billy’s reputation screamed that’s all he was good for. So you kept him at a distance, testing him, waiting for him to get bored and move on. But he didn’t. He started showing up with small gestures—a coffee from the diner, left on the counter with a note that just said, “For the toughest girl I know.” He’d drive you home when your car broke down, no strings attached, no flirty lines, just a quiet, “Get in, Y/N.” One night, when you were both at a bonfire party, he didn’t join the girls fawning over him. Instead, he sat beside you on a log, sharing a beer and talking—really talking—about California, his sister Max, the weight of his dad’s expectations. You saw the cracks in his armor, the boy beneath the bravado, and it scared you how much you wanted to know more.

The turning point came one evening in the fall, when the air was crisp and the leaves crunched underfoot. You were walking home from the arcade, your breath fogging in the cool night, when Billy’s Camaro pulled up beside you. He rolled down the window, his usual grin softer, almost hesitant. “Need a ride?”

You sighed, ready to say no, but something in his eyes stopped you. You got in, and instead of driving you straight home, he took you to the quarry, where the stars were bright and the world was quiet. He parked, cut the engine, and turned to you, his hands fidgeting in a way you’d never seen. “I know what you think of me,” he said, voice low. “And maybe I was that guy. But I’m not that guy with you. I don’t want to be.”

You studied him, heart pounding. “Why me, Billy? You could have anyone.”

He looked away, jaw tight, then back at you, his eyes raw. “Because you see me. Not the bullshit. The real me. And I don’t wanna screw that up.”

He reached into his shirt, pulling out a delicate gold chain with your name etched in script. “Got this last week,” he said, almost shy. “Figured if I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it right. For you.”

That was when you knew. He wasn’t just chasing a thrill. He was chasing you—wholly, undeniably. And when you leaned across the console to kiss him, soft and tentative, it felt like the start of something real.

Now, six months later, he was yours. The whispers around town didn’t matter. The gold necklace he never took off, your name resting against his heart, said everything you needed to know. Billy Hargrove had changed—for you.

But not everyone believed Billy Hargrove could change. Especially not Steve Harrington.

It started small, subtle enough that you didn’t think much of it at first. Steve Harrington’s lingering glances during your shifts at the Hawkins arcade, his “friendly” smiles that stretched just a beat too long, the kind that made you feel like he was waiting for something. You’d known Steve forever—Hawkins was a small town, and you’d grown up trading jabs in the school halls, sneaking out to split milkshakes at the diner, laughing over stupid inside jokes from middle school. He was a decent guy, all things considered, the kind of friend you could count on to cover a shift or give you a ride when your car acted up. So when he started hanging around more, you brushed it off as Steve just being Steve—charming, a little flirty, but harmless.

But lately, his attempts to “catch up” felt less like catching up and more like… something else. It was the way he’d lean against the arcade counter, his brown eyes following you as you hauled boxes of prizes from the back, his voice taking on a tone that was just a little too smooth. You’d be restocking the prize shelf, arranging stuffed bears and plastic trinkets, and there he’d be, arms crossed, hair perfectly tousled, tossing out comments that made your stomach twist.

“C’mon, Y/N, you’re too good for Hargrove,” he said one afternoon, his voice casual but pointed as he leaned closer, his elbow brushing the counter’s edge. The arcade was quiet, just the hum of machines and the occasional clatter of quarters. His grin was all charm, the same one that had half the girls in Hawkins swooning, but it grated on you, like sandpaper against your patience. “Guy’s got a reputation. You really think he’s gonna stick around?”

You rolled your eyes, shoving a plush bear onto the shelf with a bit more force than necessary. “Steve, I’m happy. Billy’s not who you think he is. Can you drop it?” Your tone was light, teasing, the way you’d always talked to him back when you were just friends trading jabs. You didn’t want to snap—Steve was still the guy who’d helped you cram for algebra finals, who’d driven you home after a party when you drank too much punch. You figured he’d back off, like he always did when you pushed back.

But he didn’t. Not that day, and not the days that followed. Every chance he got, he’d slide in with a comment—about Billy’s temper, how he peeled out of the school parking lot like a maniac, how he was “that type” of guy. “You know he’s trouble, right? Always has been,” he’d say, leaning over the claw machine as you cleaned the glass, his voice low like he was letting you in on a secret. “You deserve someone who’s not gonna bail when things get real.” The implication was clear—he thought he was that someone. It was like he couldn’t fathom that Billy, the notorious playboy, was serious about you, and worse, he seemed to think he had a shot.

At first, you weren’t too bothered. Steve was your friend, after all, and you chalked it up to him being overprotective, maybe even a little jealous that you were spending less time with him now that Billy was in the picture. You’d laugh it off, tossing back quips to keep things light. “Steve, you sound like my mom,” you’d tease, flashing a grin as you handed a kid their prize tickets. Or, “If I wanted a babysitter, I’d hire Dustin.” He’d laugh, but there was a glint in his eyes, a stubbornness that told you he wasn’t letting it go.

As the weeks wore on, though, the comments started to wear you down. The arcade’s neon lights felt harsher when Steve was there, his presence shifting from familiar to stifling. He’d linger after his “visits,” making excuses to stick around—offering to help you close up, commenting on your new sneakers, standing just a little too close when he talked. One evening, as you were wiping down the counter, he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. “You look nice today, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft, too intimate for the empty arcade.

You froze, your smile faltering as you stepped back, putting the counter between you. “Steve, c’mon, don’t do that,” you said, forcing a laugh to keep it from getting awkward. Your heart was pounding, not from flattery but from discomfort, the realization that this wasn’t just friendly anymore. “I’m with Billy. You know that.”

He held up his hands, that easy grin still in place, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just saying, Y/N. You could do better. I’m just looking out for you.”

You wanted to snap, to tell him to back off for real, but you swallowed it down, clinging to the old friendship you didn’t want to ruin. “I’m fine, Steve. Really.” You turned away, busying yourself with restocking the candy dispenser, hoping he’d take the hint.

But Steve wasn’t getting it. The next week, he was back, leaning against the Skee-Ball machine, watching you with that same persistent gaze. “Saw Hargrove screaming out of the lot again,” he said, his tone light but laced with judgment. “You sure you’re okay with a guy like that? I mean, you’re you, and he’s… well, him.”

You forced another laugh, but it came out strained, your patience fraying like an old rope. “Steve, I’m not having this conversation again,” you said, keeping your voice light but firm, your hands gripping a stack of prize tickets a little too tightly. “Billy’s my boyfriend. I’m happy. Can we just… be friends like we used to?”

He shrugged, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t done. “Just don’t want you to get hurt, Y/N. That’s all.”

You turned away, your jaw tight, the arcade’s cheerful beeps and whirs suddenly grating. Steve’s persistence wasn’t just annoying anymore—it was crossing a line, making you feel cornered in a place that used to feel like yours. You loved Billy, and you hated that Steve’s words made you second-guess, even for a moment, what you knew was real. You’d shot him down every time, firm but polite, because you didn’t want to make things weird. But it was getting weird, and you were running out of ways to laugh it off.

The tension had been building for weeks, a slow simmer that you could feel every time Billy’s eyes darkened when Steve’s name came up. Billy wasn’t blind—he’d noticed the way Steve lingered around you at the arcade, the way his “friendly” comments carried an edge that wasn’t so friendly. You’d told Billy about Steve’s persistent remarks, how he kept questioning your relationship, dropping lines about Billy’s reputation like they were casual observations. You’d laughed it off at first, tried to keep things light, but Billy wasn’t laughing. His jaw would clench, his knuckles whitening around whatever he was holding—a cigarette, the steering wheel, your hand. He’d been holding back, for your sake, but you knew it was only a matter of time before the dam broke.

It nearly did one Friday evening at the Hawkins High parking lot, the sky bruised with the purples and pinks of a late summer sunset. You’d just finished your literature club meeting, as you stepped out into the cooling air. Billy was waiting for you, leaning against his Camaro with his arms crossed, the sleeves of his denim jacket rolled up to his elbows, exposing the taut muscles of his forearms. The gold necklace with your name glinted faintly under his open shirt, a quiet reminder of his commitment to you. He was early, as usual, his eyes scanning the lot like a hawk, and you knew he was looking for one person in particular.

You were halfway to the car when you saw Steve’s BMW pull into the lot, the engine purring as he parked a few spaces away. Your stomach sank. Steve had been relentless lately, his comments growing bolder, his presence more suffocating, and you’d mentioned it to Billy in passing—maybe a mistake, in hindsight, because Billy’s protective streak ran deep. Steve stepped out, his hair as perfect as ever, and his eyes locked on you immediately. He flashed that charming grin, the one that used to feel like a friend’s but now made your skin crawl.

“Hey, Y/N,” Steve called, striding over with that easy confidence, like he hadn’t been pushing your boundaries for weeks. “Long day? You look like you could use a break. Wanna grab a burger or something?”

Billy’s head snapped up, his body uncoiling like a spring as he pushed off the Camaro. “She’s got plans, Harrington,” he said, his voice low and sharp, cutting through the evening air like a blade. He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Steve.

You hurried over, your heart pounding as you reached Billy’s side. “Steve, I’m good, thanks,” you said quickly, keeping your voice firm but light, hoping to defuse the situation. “I’m heading out with Billy.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to Billy, then back to you, and that stubborn glint in his eyes made your stomach twist. “C’mon, Y/N, you don’t have to go with him. I’m just saying, you deserve—”

“Back the hell off, Harrington,” Billy growled, stepping forward so he was inches from Steve. The air crackled with tension, and you could see the muscles in Billy’s jaw twitching, his fists clenching at his sides. A small crowd of lingering students nearby started to turn, sensing the brewing storm.

Steve didn’t back down, his own posture stiffening. “What’s your problem, Hargrove? Can’t handle a little competition?”

Billy’s laugh was cold, dangerous. “Competition? You’re outta your league, pretty boy. And I’m real tired of you sniffing around my girl.” He took another step, his chest nearly bumping Steve’s, and you could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him.

“Billy, stop,” you said, your voice sharp as you grabbed his arm, your fingers digging into the denim of his jacket. You could feel the tension in his muscles, like a coiled snake ready to strike. “He’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed, his grin turning smug. “She’s only with you ‘cause you got her fooled, man. Everyone knows you’re just gonna break her heart.”

Billy seized Steve by the collar, his fists trembling as he growled, “Say it again, and you’re finished.” Your pulse spiked.

“Billy, now,” you snapped, yanking at his arm harder, your voice cutting through the haze of his fury. You stepped between them, your back to Steve, and pressed both hands against Billy’s chest, pushing him toward the Camaro. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Don’t give him what he wants.”

Billy’s eyes, stormy and wild, flicked down to you, and for a moment, you thought he might shove past you. But your touch seemed to ground him, his breathing slowing just enough. He glared over your shoulder at Steve, his voice low and venomous. “You come near her again, Harrington, and I won’t stop next time.”

Steve scoffed, but you didn’t turn to look at him, keeping your focus on Billy. “We’re leaving,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. You tugged at his jacket, guiding him toward the car, and he let you, though his body was still rigid with anger.

He hesitated, his eyes still locked on Steve, but then he looked down at you, and something in his expression softened. He nodded once, sharp and quick, and slid into the driver’s seat. You hurried to the passenger side, your heart still racing as the Camaro roared to life. As Billy peeled out of the lot, tires screeching, you reached over, resting a hand on his thigh. “You okay?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away, his grip tight on the wheel, but then he let out a shaky breath. “He’s been harassing you, Y/N. I can’t just let that slide.”

“I know,” you said, your fingers squeezing gently. “But I can handle Steve. And I need you to stay out of trouble, okay? For me.”

Billy glanced at you, his eyes softening further, and he reached down to cover your hand with his, the cool metal of his rings brushing your skin. “For you,” he muttered, and you knew he meant it.

The Camaro sped into the dusk, leaving Steve and his stubbornness behind, and you leaned back in the seat, the weight of the moment settling into your bones. Billy was yours, and no amount of Steve’s doubts could change that.

The breaking point came at a party at the quarry, the kind of night where the air was thick with the acrid scent of bonfire smoke and the sharp tang of cheap beer, mingling with the earthy dampness of the lake nearby. You were tucked against Billy’s side, his arm slung possessively around your waist, his fingers warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt. Laughter bubbled up from your small group of friends, the kind of easy camaraderie that made the world feel right, but it was Billy’s presence that anchored you—the way his thumb traced lazy, soothing circles on your hip, a silent reminder that you were his, and he was yours. The music thumped from a nearby boombox, bass vibrating through the ground, and above it all, the stars glittered like scattered diamonds.

Then Steve showed up.

He stumbled into the circle of firelight, his usual polished charm frayed at the edges by too much beer, his steps unsteady and his eyes glassy. He zeroed in on you immediately, ignoring the way Billy’s body tensed like a wire pulled taut. Steve’s lopsided grin was sloppy, desperate almost, as he pushed past a couple of people, his gaze locked on you with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

“Y/N, there you are,” Steve slurred, his voice thick and uneven, carrying the weight of unspoken frustrations. He reached out, his hand brushing your arm in a way that was too familiar, too bold. “God, you look… damn, you look so good tonight. Always do.”

You felt Billy go rigid beside you, his arm tightening around your waist like a vice, his breath hitching in a way that screamed restraint. The air grew heavy, charged with unspoken threats, and your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of anger and unease bubbling up. “Steve, back off,” you said, your voice sharper than intended, edged with the exhaustion of having to say this again. “I’m here with my boyfriend. Just… go sober up or something.”

But Steve didn’t listen. He laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that echoed in the sudden quiet of the crowd, waving a hand dismissively as if Billy were nothing more than an inconvenience. “Boyfriend? C’mon, Y/N, you know Hargrove’s just playing you. Guy’s got a new girl every week—hell, every night. You’re smarter than this. You deserve…” His eyes softened, a flicker of something raw and vulnerable flashing through the drunken haze—regret, maybe, or longing. “You deserve someone who actually gives a damn.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, stinging your eyes, your throat. You felt a pang in your chest, not for Steve’s misguided affection, but for the doubt he tried to plant, the way his persistence chipped away at the fragile peace you’d built with Billy. The crowd around you had gone silent, sensing the shift, the way the night teetered on the edge of chaos. Billy’s arm dropped from your waist, and he stepped forward, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sent chills down your spine. “You got something to say, Harrington? Say it to my face.”

Steve, too drunk to sense the peril, squared up, his chest puffing out in a pathetic display of bravado. But his eyes weren’t on Billy—they were on you, filled with a desperate, aching plea. “Yeah, I do. She deserves better than some sleaze who’s gonna ditch her when he gets bored. Like you ditched all the others.” He stepped closer, his breath reeking of beer, and before you could react, his hand cupped your cheek, his face leaning in as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. “Y/N, please… I’ve always—”

Time slowed. His lips brushed the corner of your mouth in a clumsy, unwanted attempt at a kiss, and a wave of revulsion crashed over you, mingled with a sharp stab of betrayal. This wasn’t just persistence anymore; it was violation, a line crossed in the haze of alcohol and unresolved feelings. You jerked back, your hand flying up to shove at his chest. “Steve, no! What the hell?”

Billy exploded. His fist connected with Steve’s jaw in a blur, the crack echoing like thunder. Steve staggered, but Billy was on him, fueled by a storm of rage and something deeper—hurt, the kind that twisted in his gut at the sight of someone else trying to take what was his, at the reminder of his past sins thrown in his face. “You touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” Billy snarled, his voice breaking with raw emotion, his punches landing with the weight of every insecurity Steve had poked at.

You grabbed Billy’s arm, your fingers digging in desperately, tears stinging your eyes from the whirlwind of emotions—anger at Steve, fear for Billy, and a deep, aching love that made your chest hurt. “Billy, don’t! He’s not worth it.” Your voice cracked, pleading, because you knew this fight wasn’t just about Steve; it was about Billy proving himself, fighting the ghosts of his reputation that haunted you both.

But Billy’s eyes were locked on Steve, a tempest of fury and pain swirling behind them, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. “You don’t know shit about me, Harrington. Or her. She’s mine—mine—and you’re too blind to see it.”

Steve, blood trickling from his split lip, smirked through the pain, his eyes hazy but defiant. “I know enough. Y/N’s way out of your league, man. Always has been. She’ll see it eventually.”

Now, Billy was a storm unleashed, his fists a blur as they slammed into Steve’s face, each punch fueled by a primal need to protect, to claim, to prove.

Steve staggered under the onslaught, blood streaming from his nose, his lip split and swelling, his once-perfect features marred by the brutal force of Billy’s rage. The crowd around the bonfire had formed a loose circle, their shouts and gasps fading into a dull roar as you pushed through, your heart hammering in your chest. Billy’s knuckles were raw, streaked with blood—some his, some Steve’s—as he landed another blow, his chest heaving, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and something deeper, something wounded. Steve crumpled to the ground, his body folding like a broken doll, his breaths ragged and shallow, his face a mess of crimson and bruising.

“Billy, stop! Please!” you yelled, your voice cracking as you shoved through the last of the onlookers, your hands trembling as you reached for him. But he didn’t hear you, not at first, too lost in the tempest of his emotions—anger at Steve’s audacity, pain at the doubt his words had stirred, and a desperate need to show the world that you were his, that he was yours in a way no one could question.

Steve’s eyes, glassy and unfocused, fluttered as he tried to lift his head, his body splayed on the gravelly earth, the firelight casting harsh shadows across his battered face. Billy towered over him, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts, his fists still clenched, blood dripping from his knuckles to the ground below. The top buttons of his shirt had torn open in the scuffle, the fabric hanging loose to reveal the sweat-slicked planes of his chest, where a delicate gold necklace gleamed against his skin. It was the centerpiece of the moment, the symbol that held you both together—your name, etched in elegant, looping script, dangling from the chain he never took off. It caught the fire’s glow, flickering like a beacon, a quiet but unyielding declaration of his devotion.

Steve’s fading gaze drifted upward, locking onto the necklace as his consciousness wavered. He saw it clearly, even through the haze of pain and alcohol—your name, resting against Billy’s heart, a tangible mark of the bond he’d mocked, the love he’d refused to believe in. It was the last thing he saw before his eyes rolled back, his body going limp, the weight of his defeat sinking into the dirt.

The summer of ’86 was a fever dream of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the wail of Eddie’s guitar. At eighteen, you’d carved out your own rebellion in Hawkins—cropped tops clinging to your skin, ripped hot pants that made Eddie’s eyes linger, and hoop earrings that glinted like a dare under the sun. You were a walking middle finger to the town’s small-minded judgment, strutting through the trailer park like you owned it. Eddie, nineteen and all wild curls, was your perfect match—his denim vest a patchwork of band logos and anarchist pins, a canvas of chaos sewn together with dental floss. You weren’t just childhood sweethearts anymore; you were the trailer park’s Bonnie and Clyde, minus the bank robbing but never short on trouble.

Last week, you and Eddie had thrown yourselves into chaos at the town’s annual Fourth of July fair. The fairgrounds were alive with neon lights, the sugary scent of cotton candy, and the tinny jangle of carnival games. Families milled about, kids clutching balloons, while the mayor droned on about “Hawkins pride” from a makeshift stage, his voice thick with self-important pomp. You and Eddie, leaning against the Ferris wheel’s railing, exchanged a look—eyes rolling in perfect sync. “This guy’s begging for a wake-up call,” Eddie muttered, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes.

That’s when the plan was born, half-whispered in the humid night air, your shoulders brushing as you schemed. You snuck backstage, hearts pounding with the thrill of breaking rules. Eddie carried your beat-up boombox, a tangle of wires spilling from his pocket. The loudspeaker system, a clunky relic near the stage, was your target. Eddie knelt beside it, his fingers deftly splicing wires, his tongue poking out in concentration. “Pass me the tape,” he whispered, and your hands brushed as you handed it over, a spark of electricity passing between you that had nothing to do with the wires.

“Ready?” he asked, grinning like a kid about to set off a firecracker. You nodded, giggling, your pulse racing as he plugged in the boombox. With a press of a button, Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” exploded through the speakers, shattering the quiet of the mayor’s precious moment of silence for “our brave veterans.” The distorted riffs echoed across the fairgrounds, lights flickering as if the town itself was startled awake. You stifled laughter, crouched behind a cotton candy stand, Eddie’s hand squeezing yours as you watched the chaos unfold—people spilling out of their RVs, confused and shouting, the mayor’s face purple with rage from the stage.

You were still giggling, high on adrenaline, when a security guard’s flashlight beam caught you. “Hey! You kids!” he bellowed, and you bolted, Eddie yanking you through the maze of game booths, your sneakers pounding the dirt. You could’ve made it, but another guard cut you off near the Tilt-a-Whirl, and soon Hopper was there, red-faced and fuming, his sheriff’s hat slightly askew. He dragged you both to the station, his lecture about “public disturbance” and “immature stunts” drowned out by the ringing in your ears from the music and the thrill. You were eighteen now, an adult in the eyes of the law, so your dad didn’t show up—hadn’t shown up in years, really. Word was he’d ditched Hawkins for good, chasing some new fling or bottle, and you couldn’t care less. Eddie was your family now, him and Wayne, the only ones who mattered.

High school was a battlefield. Senior year—Eddie’s second attempt—was a grind of fluorescent lights and sneering jocks. The halls of Hawkins High buzzed with gossip, lockers slamming, and the stench of cheap cologne. Eddie’s grades were a disaster, a collage of Fs and incompletes, his desk carvings more impressive than his essays. You, though, were different. You could’ve aced every test, written essays that’d make teachers cry, and gotten into a college far from Hawkins’ grip. But the thought of walking that graduation stage without Eddie, of leaving him behind in this shithole town, felt like betrayal. So you stopped trying. Skipped history to doodle in Eddie’s notebook, flunked math tests by leaving them blank, and spent afternoons smoking with him behind the bleachers, the cherry of his cigarette glowing like a secret.

One day, you got careless. Mrs. O’Donnell caught you passing a note in English—a crude drawing of her as a dragon, courtesy of Eddie. She dragged you both to detention, where you sat across from each other, smirking. “Worth it,” Eddie whispered, tossing a paper ball at you. But later, when you tossed an unopened chemistry textbook into the dumpster behind the school, Eddie’s face darkened.

“What the hell, Y/N?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the autumn chill. “You’re tanking on purpose?”

You shrugged, kicking a pebble, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t feel like studying.”

“Bullshit!” He grabbed your arm, not hard, but enough to make you face him. His brown eyes were wild, desperate. “You’re smart, okay? You could get out of here, go to college, be somebody. Why the fuck are you throwing it away for me?”

“I’m not throwing anything away,” you shot back, heart hammering. “I’m staying with you. That’s what we do, right? We stick together.”

He let go, running a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m ruining you. I’m holding you back, and you’re too goddamn stubborn to see it.” His voice cracked, thick with turmoil. “I love you so much it’s killing me, Y/N. I want you to have everything—college, a real life, a future where you’re not stuck in this trailer park with a fuck-up like me.” In his head, though, a quiet voice whispered: I’m glad you’re staying. I’m too weak to lose you. The thought made him feel guilty, but it was there, a selfish spark he couldn’t extinguish.

You stepped closer, voice trembling. “You’re not a fuck-up, Eddie. You’re my everything. I don’t want some fancy college life if you’re not there. I want us—now, always.”

He stared at you, eyes wet, torn between shoving you toward a better future and that secret relief that you’d chosen him. He yanked you into a fierce hug, his breath shaky against your hair. “Goddamn it, you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice thick with love and fear. You didn’t resolve it that night, the tension lingering like smoke, but you fell asleep in his arms, his heartbeat grounding you, your bond unshaken despite the cracks.

Your first time was a week after the fair stunt, in the dim glow of Eddie’s trailer bedroom. The air was thick with summer heat, the window cracked to let in a faint breeze, Metallica’s Ride the Lightning humming low on his stereo. You’d been kissing, sprawled across his bed as always, but the electric charge that had simmered since that quarry kiss exploded. His hands slipped under your cropped top, tentative, his calloused fingers brushing your skin, sending shivers up your spine that felt like fireworks in your chest. You arched into him, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it, and whispered, “I want you,” your voice barely audible but heavy with need, butterflies rioting in your stomach.

It was clumsy, sweet, and intense. Buttons fumbled, your earring catching in his curls, making you both laugh—a nervous, giddy sound that broke the tension. “Shit, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he chuckled, untangling you gently, his eyes never leaving yours. When you finally came together, it was like the world narrowed to just you two—his gaze, wide and reverent, like you were a miracle he couldn’t believe he’d been given. His hands cradled your face, his breath hitching as he moved with you, every touch laced with years of unspoken longing, love so deep it felt like it could burn the trailer down. Afterward, tangled in his sheets, sweat-slick and breathless, you laughed, the sound bubbling up from pure joy, your heart so full it ached. “Holy shit,” he muttered, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering like a promise. “We’re doing that again, right?”

You did. A lot. The hunger was insatiable—stolen moments in the back of his van, parked by the quarry, the seats creaking as you moved together, his hands gripping your hips like you might vanish; quickies in the woods after Hellfire, leaves crunching under your back, his whispers of “you’re mine” sending shivers down your spine; lazy mornings when Wayne was at work, sunlight filtering through the blinds as you explored each other slowly, memorizing every inch. Each time felt like rediscovering a piece of him—his quiet gasps, the way his fingers traced your skin like you were sacred, the soft “I love you” he’d murmur after, like a secret he was scared to say too loud. The trailer park felt alive, vibrating with your love, like it was rewriting the gritty corners of your world.

Wayne saw it all. One evening, you and Eddie were sprawled on the couch, sharing a greasy pizza and watching a grainy Friday the 13th on VHS. Wayne came home from his shift, tossing his keys on the counter with a clatter. He smirked at you two, tangled together like you’d been glued there. “You kids ever gonna get your own place, or am I stuck with you forever?”

Eddie grinned, lobbing a crust at him. “You’d miss us, old man.”

Wayne caught it, taking a bite with a mock grimace. “Maybe.” He sat on the armrest, looking at you, his gruffness softening. “Y/N, you keep him outta trouble, yeah? Someone’s gotta.”

You laughed, leaning into Eddie. “I’m the trouble, Wayne. He’s the one keeping me in line.”

Wayne chuckled, but when Eddie stepped out to grab smokes, he stayed, his eyes serious. “Look, kid,” he started, voice low. “Eddie’s crazy about you. Always has been. But he’s scared he’s not good enough, that he’s gonna drag you down with him. You’re smart, Y/N—smarter than this town deserves. Don’t let his mess stop you from shining.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I love him, Wayne. I’m not going anywhere without him. But… I hear you. I’ll push him, too. We’ll get out of here together.”

He nodded, patting your shoulder—a rare gesture that felt like a blessing. “You’re good for him. Both of you—keep fighting for each other. Just don’t let this town win.”

Trouble came in the form of Chrissy Cunningham. You’d seen her around—cheerleader, prom queen, the kind of girl who seemed untouchable. But one day, Eddie came back from a deal in the woods, smelling faintly of floral perfume and grinning a little too brightly. “Ran into Chrissy,” he said, tossing his lunchbox on the counter. “She wanted some weed. She’s not what I expected—real sweet, y’know? Gets the whole ‘not fitting in’ thing. I think we could be friends.”

Your stomach twisted, a sharp pang of jealousy you weren’t used to. Chrissy was everything you weren’t—polished, perfect, the kind of girl who could steal Eddie without trying. “Yeah? You two besties now?” you said, voice sharper than you meant.

He laughed, oblivious, his eyes lighting up. “Nah, just talked for a bit. She’s cool, though. Told me she’s into Bowie, which is wild for a cheerleader.” His excitement stung, like he’d found someone new to share a piece of himself with.

That night, on his mattress, you were quieter, curling into him but feeling the splinter of Chrissy’s name. He nudged you, sensing it. “You okay?”

“Fine,” you lied, but your voice was tight. The thought of him grinning at her, sharing music and secrets, gnawed at you.

A few days later, he mentioned her again—she’d stopped by another deal, laughed at one of his dumb jokes. You couldn’t hold it in. “You like her or something?” you snapped, sitting on his bed, painting your nails black to keep your hands from shaking.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, she’s just… nice. Why?”

“You’re talking about her a lot,” you said, focusing on the brush to hide your insecurity. “She’s all perfect and cheerleader-y. Hard not to notice.”

Eddie crawled across the bed, taking the nail polish from your hand. “Hey. Look at me.” His voice was soft but firm, his eyes searching yours. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that. Chrissy’s just a friend—barely even that. You’re my girl, okay? My everything.” He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I don’t want anyone else. Never will.”

Your heart eased, but the insecurity lingered. “I just… she’s so perfect, Eddie. I’m not like that.”

He shook his head, almost angry. “You’re perfect to me. You’re real, you’re fierce, you’re mine.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his hands sliding under your shirt, grounding you in his touch. You melted into him, the kiss turning hungry, and soon you were tangled together, clothes discarded, his body proving every word he said. After, he held you close, whispering, “No one else, baby. Just you.”

You’d noticed Eddie acting weird—wearing long sleeves despite the summer heat. One night, you caught him wincing as he pulled off his shirt, revealing a fresh tattoo on his forearm: a dagger, your initials carved into the hilt. Your breath caught, shock mixing with a rush of love. “Eddie, what—”

“For my ride-or-die,” he said, grinning but nervous, his eyes soft. “So you’ll never think I don’t belong to you, baby.”

You traced it, heart swelling, and kissed him until you were both breathless. “You’re insane,” you whispered, but you couldn’t be mad. It was his vow, etched in skin, and it made you feel like you’d claimed him forever.

A week later, you proved your own loyalty. The Hellfire freshmen—Dustin, Mike, and Lucas—were getting hassled by jocks in the cafeteria, their D&D books scattered across the floor. You were nearby, sharing a cigarette with Eddie outside, when you heard the commotion. Without a word, you stormed in, shoving past a crowd. “Hey, assholes!” you shouted, stepping in front of Dustin, who was clutching a crumpled character sheet. “Pick on someone your own size.”

The lead jock, Brad, sneered. “What, Munson’s girlfriend gonna save the day?”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed a tray from a nearby table and swung it, catching Brad’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Touch them again, and I’ll make you eat this,” you said, voice low and deadly. The cafeteria went quiet, and the jocks backed off, muttering.

Dustin grinned, awestruck. “Y/N, you’re a legend.”

Eddie was at your side, eyes wide with adoration. “You’re fucking fearless,” he said, pulling you into a kiss in front of everyone, his hands gripping your waist like you were his anchor. “My girl,” he murmured, and you felt invincible.

That night, at the Hellfire lair—a cluttered corner of the drama room—you bonded with the kids. You’d always felt like Eddie’s shadow in the group, but tonight, they welcomed you fully. Dustin recounted your cafeteria stunt, exaggerating until you were a superhero. “You’re like a rogue with max charisma,” Mike said, scribbling your stats onto a character sheet. “You’re in the campaign now.”

You laughed, rolling dice, trading jabs over Doritos. Eddie watched from the DM throne, his smile soft, like he was seeing you shine for the first time. When you landed a critical hit, the table erupted, and Dustin’s high-five nearly took your hand off. You finally belonged—not just as Eddie’s girl, but as part of Hellfire’s chaos.

By spring ’87, everything changed. Eddie, fueled by your fight and a stubborn spark, buckled down for his third senior year attempt. He was done letting Hawkins define him as the town screw-up. You studied with him in the trailer, the small space cluttered with flash cards, empty coffee mugs, and crumpled notes. Late nights blurred into early mornings, your legs tangled under the table as you quizzed him on history dates and algebra formulas. “You’re gonna make it, Eddie,” you’d say, squeezing his hand when his confidence wavered. He’d smirk, but his eyes were serious, determined. He scraped by with Cs, barely, his essays still a mess but his effort undeniable. You matched his pace, pulling your own grades up, not willing to let him fight alone.

Graduation day was surreal. The Hawkins High gym was stuffy, the air thick with anticipation and cheap perfume. You and Eddie sat in your caps and gowns, his tassel already tangled in his curls, your hoop earrings glinting under the fluorescent lights. When they called his name—Edward Munson—the crowd murmured, some with surprise, others with grudging respect. You clapped until your hands stung, tears blurring your vision as he flipped off a heckling jock on his way to the stage. Your name came next, and Eddie’s whistle pierced the air, loud and unapologetic. Wayne was in the stands, his flannel swapped for a rare button-up, cheering louder than anyone, his grin wide enough to crack his weathered face. As you clutched your diplomas, standing side by side, the crowd’s whispers—about the trailer park kids, the troublemakers—faded. You’d done it. Together.

After the ceremony, Wayne pulled you both into a bear hug outside the gym, the June sun warm on your shoulders. “Proud of you two,” he said, voice gruff but thick with emotion. “Didn’t think you’d make me cry, but here we are.” Eddie laughed, but his eyes were wet, and you squeezed Wayne’s hand, your new family complete.

You didn’t stay in Hawkins long. With your savings from odd jobs and Eddie’s gig money from Corroded Coffin’s dive-bar sets, you packed up his creaky van, stuffing it with clothes, tapes, and his beloved guitar. The drive west was a blur of mixtapes—Metallica, Sabbath, even some Madonna you snuck in when Eddie wasn’t paying attention—windows down, your hair whipping in the wind as you sang off-key. Seattle was your destination, a city that felt big enough to hold your dreams. You landed in a tiny apartment in Capitol Hill, all peeling wallpaper and a sink that dripped like a metronome. It wasn’t much—a single room with a sagging mattress, a secondhand couch, and a view of a graffiti-covered alley—but it was yours, a blank slate for your new life.

One night, after a gig at a gritty bar called The Crocodile, Eddie was buzzing, his skin still slick with sweat from the stage. Iron Wraiths, a band he’d formed with a drummer and bassist he met at a Seattle open mic, had killed it, their raw, heavy sound drawing a crowd that screamed for an encore. You’d been front and center, your voice hoarse from cheering, your heart swelling as Eddie shredded a solo, his curls flying under the dim lights. Back at the bar, with the jukebox playing some local grunge band and the air thick with beer and smoke, Eddie pulled you aside to a corner booth, his energy electric. His eyes were bright, a little glassy from the whiskey shots fans had bought him, but his focus was razor-sharp. He dropped to one knee on the sticky floor, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. Your breath caught, heart stuttering as he opened it to reveal a simple silver ring, one he’d saved months for, working extra shifts at a record shop.

“Marry me, Y/N,” he said, voice steady despite the liquor, his grin half-cocky, half-nervous. “I’m all in—always have been. Let’s make this official.”

You laughed, heart pounding, tugging him up by his vest. “You’re such a sap, Munson.” But your voice cracked, and you nodded, tears spilling as you whispered, “Yes.” The bar crowd whooped, strangers raising their glasses as Eddie slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling. He kissed you hard, tasting like whiskey and home, and you felt like you could conquer the world.

The next week, you had a shotgun wedding at a Seattle courthouse, Wayne flown out on your dime as your witness. You’d scoured thrift stores for the perfect dress—a vintage, cream-colored lace gown with delicate sleeves and a flowing skirt, like something you’d once dreamed of wearing, tailored with your own stitches to fit like a glove. Your hoop earrings caught the light, and you’d pinned a small black ribbon in your hair. Eddie wore his least-torn jeans and a neat button up, his hair almost tamed, but he looked at you like you were a vision, his eyes wide with awe. Wayne, in his best flannel, teared up when you exchanged vows, simple promises scribbled on a napkin the night before: To love you, to fight for you, to never let this world tear us apart. The clerk, a bored woman with a perm, cracked a rare smile as you sealed it with a kiss, Eddie dipping you dramatically until you laughed and swatted him, your dress swirling around you.

You were rebels, misfits, lovers—forged in the grit of the trailer park and bound by a love fiercer than anything Hawkins could contain. In Seattle, Eddie’s guitar riffs filled your tiny apartment, mingling with the hum of your sewing machine as you sketched designs for a future you were building together. Your fierce, dreamy heart kept you both anchored, and at night, as you lay tangled in bed, Eddie’s arm draped over you, his dagger tattoo nestled among a growing canvas of ink—skulls, bats, and a new rose for your first anniversary—you felt the city’s pulse sync with your own. Every chord he played, every stitch you sewed, was a promise: this life, wild and unpolished, was yours alone, and you’d never need anything more.

The end.

I feel like I can't write endings that well😭. Once the pre relationship chase is over its just and they lived happily ever after haha.

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

Hawkins High was a glittering, suffocating kingdom, and you and Steve Harrington reigned supreme, untouchable atop its throne. King Steve, hair stacked to the heavens, each strand defying gravity with infuriating ease and that cocky, lopsided grin that could melt hearts or spark wars, rolled through the parking lot in his cherry-red BMW, a chariot that screamed I’m better than you, and I know it. And you? The Queen Bee, striding through those linoleum halls like they were your personal runway, your short skirts swishing with purpose, cropped tops hugging your curves, and that cherry lip gloss catching the fluorescent lights like a siren’s call. Every head turned as you passed: guys tripped over their own egos trying to catch your eye, girls whispered in awe or envy, their stares sharp enough to cut glass. But you? Your gaze was locked on one person—Steve Harrington, the only one who could match your fire. He was just as obsessed, maybe more, his eyes tracing you like you were the only star in his sky.

Steve spoiled you rotten, his devotion bordering on worship: driving you to school in his BMW, your legs propped on the dash like a queen; sneaking you surprise milkshakes from the diner, extra whipped cream because he knew you loved it; letting you win at the arcade’s claw machine, his grin soft as he handed you the stuffed bear. Your own car, a sleek little number, gathered dust in your driveway, forgotten for months because Steve insisted on driving you everywhere. “No way my girl’s riding solo,” he’d say, tossing you that signature smirk as he held open the passenger door of his BMW, crowning you his passenger princess with every ride. You’d roll your eyes, but the truth? You loved it—loved him—and the way he made the whole world feel like it belonged to just the two of you.

It all began in middle school, back when Hawkins was just a sleepy speck and you and Steve were just kids caught in the messy whirl of hormones and homeroom. Same class, same chipped desks, same awkward braces phase—yours glinting under flickering fluorescents, his making him grimace when he laughed too hard. It started small: notes scrawled in smudged ink, passed under Mrs. Carter’s nose during history; extra cookies swiped from the cafeteria, split in secret behind the gym. Somewhere between giggling over dumb doodles and sneaking into the school pool for late-night cannonballs, something sparked—electric, inevitable, like lightning finding the tallest tree. You became inseparable, two halves of a whole, tethered by sleepovers sprawled across living room floors, popcorn bowls tipped over as you whispered about first crushes, secret fears, and dreams too big for a town like Hawkins. You’d laugh until your sides ached, plotting pranks like switching the teacher’s chalk with glitter pens or sneaking into the gym to shoot hoops after hours. Trouble followed you like a shadow—stern talking-tos from red-faced teachers, their voices sharp but never quite sticking, because your parents and Steve’s would swoop in, smoothing things over with apologies and promises to “talk to you at home.” None of it mattered, though, because you had Steve, your partner-in-crime, your soulmate in scruffy sneakers and too-big hoodies. Those were the days when the world felt small, just you and him against it all, building a bond no one could break.

One humid summer night, with Steve’s parents off on some conveniently timed business trip, you raided his dad’s liquor cabinet, giggling like kids as you poured amber whiskey into mismatched glasses—his mom’s crystal. The air was thick with humidity and rebellion, the kind of reckless freedom that only comes when you’re young and untouchable. The world shrank to the glow of his family’s pool, its water shimmering under the moonlight. You dove in, splashing and laughing, alcohol buzzing warm in your veins, your body brushing against his in the heated water—too close, too electric, the air crackling with something unspoken. Damp towels clung to your shoulders as you stumbled upstairs, a tangle of nervous giggles and charged glances, the space between you humming with want.

In his bedroom, sprawled across his plaid comforter, you traced lazy circles on his chest, your voice soft but heavy. “You’re my favorite, you know that?” Steve’s hazel eyes darkened, a storm behind them, his hand catching yours, pressing it to his racing heart. “Always have been,” he rasped, voice low and rough, like a vow carved in moonlight. The air ignited—swimming clothes shed in a fevered rush, your bikini top hitting the floor. His lips crashed into yours, whiskey-sweet and hungry, hands roaming—yours tugging his perfect hair, his mapping your curves like he’d been dreaming of them forever. You tumbled into the sheets, his body hovering over yours, hair falling into his eyes, breath hot against your neck. “You sure?” he whispered, voice trembling with restraint, lips grazing your pulse, sending sparks down your spine. “Fuck yes,” you breathed, nails grazing his shoulders, pulling him closer.

It was clumsy, raw—virgin territory for both of you, all fumbled touches and breathless laughs—but it was yours. Steve moved slow, reverent, learning your body like it was a sacred text, whispering against your skin—“God, you’re perfect,” “You’re everything.” His voice broke with awe, each word a spark. You arched into him, nails biting into his back, his name a prayer on your lips, each moan drawing you deeper into the fire. When release came, it was a shared, shattering wave, leaving you breathless, tangled in each other as the world blurred out. After, curled in his arms, sheets draped over your bare skin, it wasn’t awkward—just deeper, like you’d cracked open a hidden layer of your bond. No labels, no girlfriend-boyfriend clichés, just you and Steve, best friends forever, now burning brighter with something more. “Best friends forever?” he teased, his lips brushing your forehead, that familiar Steve grin softening the intensity. “Forever,” you agreed, your voice a sleepy hum, but now, with benefits—your hearts tethered tighter than ever, no labels needed. Steve would always be your favorite boy, the one who knew your soul inside out. And you? You’d always be his favorite girl, the one he’d choose over anyone, every time.

By Senior year, you and Steve were the untouchable gods of Hawkins High, perched at the top of the food chain like you were born for it. Privileged lives? Check. Rich parents who were never home? Double check, leaving you and Steve free to rule Hawkins like royalty. But through it all, one thing never wavered: you and Steve, an unbreakable bond no amount of popularity could fray. You’d gotten a little spoiled, maybe even bratty, basking in the way Steve treated you like a queen—carrying your books, sneaking you his varsity jacket when you were cold, always picking you over everyone else. Even when he had girlfriends (they never lasted long anyways, a month tops before they stormed off in tears), you were his favorite girl, the one who made their eyes narrow with jealousy. “It’s just a best friend sleepover,” you’d chirp to their skeptical glares, Steve nodding along with that charming grin, but the second the door to his bedroom closed, the world was just you two—tangled limbs, heated whispers, and nights that burned with a reckless, unspoken promise. Grinding until dawn. No labels, no rules, just you and him, fucking through the night like it was the most natural thing in the world, waking up in each other’s arms, still the bestest of friends, still everything.

Not everyone was blinded by the golden haze that surrounded you and Steve though—Eddie Munson, that long-haired, leather-clad freak with a chip on his shoulder, saw right through it. Same age as you, nineteen and stuck in the purgatory of High School, he lurked on the edges of Hawkins High’s polished kingdom, all chains and ripped jeans, watching you and Steve with a sneer that could cut glass. To him, you were the poster children for conformist bullshit, strutting around like you owned the world. “Look at ‘em,” he’d snarl to his D&D crew at their corner lunch table, his voice low and venomous, chains rattling as he slammed his tray down hard enough to make the plastic forks jump. “King Shit Harrington and his prissy little queen, all fake smiles and daddy’s credit cards. Bullying anyone who doesn’t kiss their asses or fit their perfect little mold. Bet they’ve never had a real problem in their lives—buncha sheep in designer clothes.” You’d catch his rants sometimes, his wild gestures and that gravelly voice carrying across the cafeteria, and you’d just roll your eyes, glossed lips curling in dismissal. Steve, ever the king, would shove Eddie into a locker with a lazy, “Watch it, Munson,” his tone more annoyed than angry, while Eddie fired back with a middle finger and a grin that was half-taunt, half-something unreadable, those dark eyes lingering on you a beat too long. Your paths crossed plenty—hallway glares, snarky exchanges, Steve’s shoulder checks—but mostly, you ignored him. He was the bottom of the food chain, a loudmouth nobody with a guitar and a bad attitude. You and Steve? You were untouchable, the glittering top, and Eddie Munson was just a speck in your rearview mirror.

Friday nights in Hawkins were a religion, and Tommy H.’s house party was the altar where the faithful gathered, the air thick with cigarette smoke, cheap beer, and the pulse of Journey blaring from a boombox. In a dim corner, Eddie Munson held court like a rogue preacher, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, wild curls haloed by haze, his grin all sharp edges and defiance as he slipped dime bags to preppy kids chasing a taste of his rebellion. You’d seen him before, his dark eyes slicing through the crowd to find yours, that half-taunting smirk daring you to bite as Steve’s arm draped around you, his grip a lazy claim, his glare a warning shot. Eddie was a constant at these parties, a shadow peddling chaos to the same crowd that bowed to you and Steve’s golden reign, his muttered barbs about “conformist sheep” swallowed by the thump of the bass. But tonight, the shine of your court—Tommy and Carol’s loud, fake-laughing posse, their try-hard energy, their endless cycle of petty drama—felt like a weight you couldn’t carry. Lately, you’d been spilling your frustration to Steve, your words sharp with disgust at their shallow games, their air-sucking presence. Sprawled on a sagging couch, Steve’s hair a perfect, tousled mess, he met your gaze with those hazel eyes that saw right through you. “They’re fucking exhausting,” he admitted, voice low, a confession just for you. “I’d rather it just be us.”

So you grabbed his hand, fingers lacing tight, and tugged him toward the door, your whispered “Let’s get out of here” a spark in the dark. Behind you, Eddie’s eyes tracked your exit, his smirk faltering into something unreadable—envy, maybe, or something sharper—as you and Steve slipped into the night. Down the street, his parents’ house stood quiet, a sanctuary from the chaos. In his bedroom, the world shrank to the glow of a single lamp, the creak of his bed, the tangle of your limbs as you fell into each other. The weekend stretched out like a promise—no labels, no rules, just you and Steve, wrapped in sheets and secrets, your laughter soft against his skin, your best friend, your everything, as the noise of Hawkins faded to nothing.

You and Steve were fused at the soul, just two besties who fucked like bunnies. No boyfriend-girlfriend bullshit, just you and him, tangled in each other’s orbits, insatiable and unapologetic. You were always his favorite, the one he’d ditch anyone for, and he proved it in his bedroom, the backseat of his car, or stolen moments in empty school hallways. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight,” he’d groan, hands gripping your hips as you smirked, grinding down on him, your voice teasing, “Say it—I’m your favorite.” “Always,” he’d pant, flipping you over, pounding into you until your moans echoed, your nails carving crescents into his back, screaming his name like it was the only word you knew.

Eddie Munson watched you and your “Stevie” often, leaning against his beat-up van, cigarette dangling as he caught you climbing into Steve’s car, your skirt hiking up just enough to make his jaw tighten. “Those two? Total hypocrites,” he’d mutter to his friends, voice dripping with venom, his rings clinking as he flicked ash to the ground. “Rich kids fucking around while preaching their popularity gospel. Conformist trash. Bet they think they’re untouchable.” But deep down, Eddie couldn’t shake the pull—your pink outfits hugged every curve, that gloss-smeared smile flashing like a neon sign in his head. Alone in his trailer, he’d jerk off to the thought of you sometimes, your laugh, your strut, hating himself for wanting the queen bee who’d never look twice at a freak like him. “Fucking dream girl,” he’d curse under his breath, “if she wasn’t such a bitch.”

Nancy Wheeler swept into your world like a quiet storm, all soft curls, doe eyes, and a steely ambition that didn’t quite match her pastel sweaters. She wasn’t loud like Carol or brash like Tommy’s crowd—she was something else, something real, and that made her dangerous. Steve—your Steve, the boy who’d shared your secrets since braces and bad haircuts—fell for her hard, in a way that twisted your stomach into knots. You saw it first at a pep rally, his hazel eyes lingering on her in the bleachers, where she sat scribbling in a notebook, oblivious to the chaos of cheering jocks and waving pom-poms. By Monday, he was carrying a bouquet of daisies from the corner store, their petals wilting in the October chill as he handed them to her outside the library, his lopsided grin softer than you’d ever seen. He took her to Benny’s Diner for milkshakes and fries, not just stolen snacks but real dates, her hand tucked in his as they walked through Hawkins High’s scuffed halls, his varsity jacket slipping over her shoulders like a promise.

You caught them one afternoon by the lockers, Nancy laughing at something he said, her fingers brushing his arm while he leaned in, all puppy-dog eyes and nervous charm. “She’s different, y’know?” he told you later that night, sprawled on his couch, the TV flickering with some cheesy horror flick neither of you were watching. His voice was quiet, earnest, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I wanna do this right with her. Like… no screwing around.” The words hit like a punch, sharp and cold, because screwing around was what you did—tangled in his sheets, breathless and reckless, your bodies saying what words never needed to. Now, that was gone, stopped cold like a radio unplugged mid-song. You forced a smile, lips tight, and nodded, swallowing the weird ache blooming behind your ribs. “Be happy, Stevie,” you murmured, your voice softer than you meant, but it felt wrong, like a lie you couldn’t sell. He was still your best friend—still drove you to school each morning, your sneakers propped on the dash of his BMW, Springsteen crooning low; still flopped next to you on his couch every evening, his arm slung around your shoulders, calling you his favorite girl with that grin that used to feel like home. But the air had shifted, heavy with something unspoken, and every time he mentioned Nancy—her name soft on his lips, like a secret he was learning to keep—you felt him slipping, your Steve fading into someone else’s story.

One night, after a long evening of pretending everything was fine, you sat cross-legged on his bed, picking at the frayed edge of his comforter while he sprawled beside you, tossing a basketball in the air. The room smelled of his cologne and the faint tang of the pizza you’d split earlier, the radio humming Madonna in the background. “You really like her, huh?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, your eyes fixed on the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling from middle school. He caught the ball, held it against his chest, and turned to you, his expression soft but resolute. “Yeah, I do,” he said, and the honesty in it cut deeper than you expected. “She’s… she makes me wanna be better, y’know? Not just the king of Hawkins High bullshit.” You nodded, your throat tight, forcing another smile that felt like glass in your mouth. “You’re already the best, Harrington,” you teased, but your heart wasn’t in it, and when he reached out to ruffle your hair, his touch lingered a beat too long, like he felt the fracture too. You were still you and Steve, tethered by years of laughter and secrets, but now there was a crack in the foundation, and no amount of cuddling on his couch could fill it. He was yours—had always been yours— and now he was slipping through your fingers.

When Nancy Wheeler asked you to babysit her brother Mike and his pack of nerdy friends—Will, Dustin, and Lucas—while she went on a date with Steve, you played it cool, tossing your hair with a dramatic, “Ugh, nerd duty?” But inside, you were secretly thrilled. Kids were chaos, unfiltered and real, a sharp contrast to Hawkins High’s suffocating hierarchy. You strutted into the Wheeler basement, cherry lip gloss gleaming under the dim bulb, and the boys froze, blushing and whispering behind their D&D manuals. Mike squinted suspiciously, Dustin’s eyes widened under his trucker cap, Lucas smirked, and Will just ducked his head, sketching in his notebook. You won them over fast—tossing bags of Doritos onto the table, sprawling across the musty couch with a grin, laughing at Dustin’s ridiculous one-liners as they rolled dice and bickered over their campaign. “You’re not mean like the others,” Dustin said, his grin all teeth and awe, and you ruffled his curls, smirking. “As if I’d bully kids. That’s pathetic. You little dorks are too cute for that.” And they were—Mike with his intense leader vibe, Will’s quiet sketches of dragons, Lucas’ sly quips, Dustin’s infectious energy. Watching them, you felt a warmth you’d never admit, a flicker of something simple and good amidst the high school bullshit.

But then Will went missing, and the world split open like a wound. Your heart cracked for the shy kid with the bowl cut, his gentle smile haunting you as you trailed Nancy through Hawkins High’s crowded halls, her determined stride cutting through the chatter like a blade. She stopped at Jonathan Byers’ locker, where he stood, eyes hollowed by grief, his flannel rumpled, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “I’m so sorry about Will,” you said softly, your voice barely carrying over the clatter of lockers, and Nancy nodded beside you, her hand brushing Jonathan’s arm in a quiet gesture of solidarity. Steve, leaning against a nearby locker, saw it all—his jaw tightened, hazel eyes flashing with something dark. You felt his stare like a weight, heavy and possessive, but you couldn’t look at him, not when Will’s absence hung like a ghost between you all. Later, in a fit of rage that felt like it had been simmering for weeks, Steve cornered Jonathan in the empty school parking lot, his fist smashing Jonathan’s camera to the asphalt, the crack of metal echoing like a gunshot. You stood frozen, heart pounding, watching Steve’s chest heave, his face a mix of anger and something rawer—hurt, maybe, or fear that you were slipping away.

That night, the tension boiled over in his bedroom, the air thick with everything you hadn’t said. The drive to his place had been silent, the hum of his BMW’s engine the only sound as you stared out the window, your throat tight with the weight of Nancy’s name, Jonathan’s grief, and Steve’s unraveling. The second his bedroom door clicked shut, he was on you, pinning you against it with a desperation that stole your breath. “Missed you,” he growled, lips crashing down your neck, leaving trails of heat that burned away the world. Clothes tore away in a frenzy—your skirt crumpled to the floor, his shirt ripped open, buttons scattering—as he pressed himself into you, deep and unrelenting, the creak of the door matching the rhythm of your gasps. “Steve—fuck!” you cried, legs wrapping around his waist, nails clawing his back as he fucked you hard, each thrust a claim, each bite on your skin screaming mine. “You’re mine,” he rasped, voice breaking as he drove you both to the edge, his hands gripping your hips like you might vanish. When you came, it was a shattering rush, your moans tangling as you clung to him, breathless, the world reduced to the heat of his skin and the pound of your heart.

But morning brought a cold dawn, the weight of Nancy’s name settling like frost. You woke tangled in his sheets, his arm heavy across your waist, but his eyes were distant, clouded with guilt as he mumbled, “Nancy…” like her name was a confession. You swallowed the ache, forcing your voice steady. “It’s okay, Stevie,” you said, patting his head awkwardly, but it wasn’t—not really. Your heart felt bruised, but you were still his favorite, and he was still yours, no matter how messy it got. You were still the girl he’d choose in a crowded room, but the lines were blurring, and every touch, every whispered mine, carried the sting of something breaking.

You didn’t want to ruin Steve and Nancy—god, you swore you didn’t, even as the sight of them together twisted your gut like a knife, their intertwined hands in the halls a quiet betrayal of the world you’d built with him. He still called you his favorite girl, still slung his arm around you in the BMW’s front seat, but the absence of his touch—that touch—left a hollow ache you couldn’t shake. Desperate for a distraction, anything to dull the sting of Steve’s attention drifting, you scanned the chaos of the Hawkins High cafeteria one lunch period, the air thick with the clatter of trays and the hum of fluorescent lights. Your gaze snagged on Eddie Munson, slouched at his corner table with his D&D crew, wild curls spilling over his leather-clad shoulders, ripped jeans hugging his lean frame, his dark eyes slicing through the crowd like a switchblade. Damn, he was hot—undeniably, infuriatingly so, with that lopsided grin that screamed trouble and a raw intensity that made your pulse kick up. If he wasn’t such a loudmouth freak, always ranting about “conformist sheep” and flipping off your polished world, you’d be tempted to climb into his beat-up van, let him pin you against its side, and find out what those calloused hands could do. You caught his stare across the room, his eyes locking on yours for a heartbeat too long, daring you to cross the line. No way—you weren’t about to dive into the deep end with Hawkins’ resident outcast, no matter how his smirk made your skin hum.

So you settled for a distraction closer to your orbit: some jock—Brad, Brett, whatever—broad-shouldered, letterman jacket pristine, with a smile that never reached his dull blue eyes. He was a walking cliché, all chiseled jaw and empty charm, and dates with him were a snooze—endless droning about football plays and the latest kegger, his voice a monotone hum as you stared out his car window, picking at your nail polish. The sex was worse, a clumsy fumble in the backseat of his car, the leather creaking under you as he moved with all the finesse of a jackhammer, thinking he was God's gift while you stared at the fogged-up window. He didn’t know your body, didn’t know the spots that made you shiver, didn’t see you the way Steve did. Steve, who could unravel you with a single glance, his hazel eyes burning into yours like he was reading your soul, his hands mapping your skin like a sacred chart. Every time you faked a moan for Brad-or-whatever, your mind drifted to Steve—his low, rough “mine” whispered against your neck, his fingers threading through yours, the way he’d make you cum with a look alone, like you were the only thing that mattered. This jock was a placeholder, a flimsy bandage on a wound that bled Steve’s name, and every awkward thrust, every hollow kiss, only carved the ache deeper.

Steve was coming apart at the seams, his jaw clenched tight as Nancy played the perfect girlfriend—sweet, prim, her kisses soft and chaste, her boundaries drawn in sharp, unyielding lines. She was everything he thought he should want, but she wasn’t you—his best friend, his wildfire, the one who knew every scar on his soul and every inch of his skin. The ache of missing your touch gnawed at him, a constant burn that flared hotter every time he saw you laugh or toss your hair, your cherry lip gloss catching the light like a taunt. Worse, he had to stomach Brad—your smug, broad-shouldered jock fling—strutting through the locker room before and after basketball practice, his voice booming with crude boasts about “banging the hottest chick in school.” The other guys hooted, slapping his back, but Steve’s blood ran hot, his fists curling at his sides. He knew Brad was lying—those stories didn’t match the way you moved, the soft gasps you’d let slip, the way you’d arch into him like he was your gravity. He didn’t even last, Steve thought, a smirk flickering through his rage, his body screaming to reclaim what was his.

One cloudy afternoon, after a practice where Brad’s voice grated like nails on a chalkboard, Steve found you outside the gym, leaning against the brick wall, your skirt swishing in the autumn breeze. His eyes were soft but blazing, a storm of want and fear, and he pressed a small velvet box into your palm, his fingers lingering on yours. “For my favorite,” he murmured, voice low and rough, like he was afraid you’d vanish. Inside was a necklace—a sleek gold chain with delicate, bold letters spelling STEVE, a claim as subtle as a wildfire and twice as fierce. You grinned, heart stuttering, and slipped it on, the cool metal kissing your collarbone like it was made for you. That night, in Brad’s cramped bedroom, the air heavy with his cologne and desperation, you rode him with a confidence he couldn’t match, your body moving like a song only Steve knew the lyrics to. The necklace swung between your breasts, catching the dim glow of a streetlight through the window, each letter glinting like a dare. Brad froze mid-thrust, his eyes locking on STEVE, his face twisting into a snarl of shock and rage. “What the fuck?” he sputtered, voice cracking, but you just smirked, grinding down harder, letting Steve’s name claim every inch of you. He ghosted you after that—good riddance, the loser—and you laughed until your sides ached with Steve later, sprawled across your bed, fairy lights casting a soft glow over your room as you replayed Brad’s horrified expression.

“God, you should’ve seen his face,” you giggled, kicking your legs as Steve’s grin mirrored yours, his arm slung around your shoulders, the familiar weight grounding you. “Like I’d ever let him think he had me.” Steve’s laugh was low, warm, but his eyes lingered on the necklace, still nestled against your skin, a quiet tether to the boy who’d always be yours. You didn’t talk about what it meant—didn’t need to. The necklace stayed on, a secret vow between you, no matter who else tried to claim your orbit. Nancy might have his hand, Brad might’ve had a fleeting chance, but you were Steve’s favorite, his wildfire, his home—and that truth burned brighter than any name could.

The get-together at Steve’s house was meant to be chill, just a small crew scattered across his parents’ pristine backyard, the air heavy with cigarette smoke, the clink of beer bottles, and the faint hum of a Fleetwood Mac cassette drifting from a boombox. Nancy perched on a sunbed, prim in her pastel pink sweater, her shy smiles at Steve like little darts to your chest. Tommy and Carol were a tangled mess in a shadowed corner, their drunken laughter grating, their hands wandering as they stumbled over empty cans. Barb sat awkwardly on the edge of a lawn chair, her red hair glowing faintly under the flickering patio lamp, her fingers fidgeting with her glasses, her sweater too big for the humid night. You lounged beside Steve on a wicker couch, your cropped top riding up, your skirt brushing his thigh. His arm rested behind you, close but not quite touching, until Nancy leaned in, her voice a soft whisper—“Can we talk?”—and tugged him upstairs, her eyes avoiding yours. Tommy and Carol soon vanished too, giggling toward the guest room, leaving you and Barb in a silence that crackled like static. She shifted, tugging at her sweater, mumbling about a history test tomorrow, her discomfort palpable. You couldn’t take it—the awkwardness, the weight of Nancy’s absence with your Steve. “Gonna head home,” you said, voice clipped, grabbing your keys and strutting to your car. The Mustang’s engine roared to life, slicing through the quiet Hawkins night as you peeled away.

The next day, Hawkins High was a hornet’s nest, buzzing with whispers—Barb was gone, vanished without a trace after the party. In the crowded hallway, Nancy cornered you by the lockers, her eyes red-rimmed and sharp with accusation, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade. “You were the last one with her!” she snapped, drawing gasps from passing students, their stares prickling your skin. “What did you do?” The words hit like a slap, stealing your breath, your heart lurching with a mix of shock and guilt you didn’t deserve. Before you could fire back, Steve was there, stepping between you like a shield, his jaw tight, hazel eyes blazing. “Back off, Nance,” he growled, voice low and fierce, his hand grazing your arm—protective, possessive, a spark that made the hallway shrink to just you and him. Nancy’s face crumpled, her anger dissolving into tears, and their fight spilled into the parking lot, voices rising over the asphalt. The tension had been brewing since the night before, when Nancy followed Steve to his bedroom, hoping to take things further, only to find it a shrine to you. Polaroids of you and Steve—grinning at the arcade, sprawled on his couch, your laughter frozen in time—littered his desk. Your makeup bag sat on his dresser, your favorite sweater slung over a chair, and worst of all, your bra dangled carelessly over his bedpost, a bright red flag in Nancy’s eyes. “It’s just her stuff, Nance, she crashes here all the time,” Steve had said, exasperated, but the fight erupted anyway, her voice sharp with hurt, his defensive with loyalty to you.

Across the school, Eddie Munson was hunched over a battered notebook, scribbling D&D campaign notes for later, but the whispers of Barb’s disappearance reached him through the grapevine. He leaned back against the chain-link fence by the parking lot, his boots scuffing the asphalt as he muttered to Gareth, “What the hell happened at that party? Did the golden duo off her or what?” His voice dripped with suspicion, but beneath the sneer, a bitter envy clawed at him. Barb was an outsider like him—awkward, never quite fitting the Hawkins mold, though quieter about it—and her absence hit harder than he’d admit. You and Steve, though? You were untouchable, a ride-or-die pair who’d stand by each other through anything, even something as dark as a missing girl. Wish I had someone like that, he thought, kicking a pebble across the lot, his dark eyes narrowing as he pictured you and Steve, loyal to a fault, your bond a fortress no one could breach. He hated how perfect you seemed together, how you’d defend each other against the world, and the thought twisted in his gut like a knife, sharp with longing for a connection he’d never had.

Tina’s Halloween party was a neon-lit fever dream, fake cobwebs dangling from the ceiling, the air pulsing with Van Halen’s screech and the clatter of Solo cups. Kids in costumes—sexy nurses, cheesy vampires, and the occasional ridiculous gorilla—swayed and stumbled through the haze of cigarette smoke. But Steve Harrington was a ghost among them, slouched against a wall in the crowded living room, his King Steve crown shattered. His hazel eyes were hollow, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers, the remnants of Nancy Wheeler’s breakup cutting him open like a jagged blade. You’d watched it unfold from the edge of the dance floor—Nancy’s voice sharp, her eyes resolute, Jonathan Byers lingering like a shadow in the background. It gutted you to see Steve like this, your favorite boy, your soul’s other half, stripped raw, his heart chewed up and spit out by the girl who’d never truly known him.

You pushed through the sweaty crowd, your witch costume—a black mini dress clinging to every curve, fishnets ripped just right, cherry lip gloss Steve loved—catching eyes but aimed only at him. “C’mon, Stevie,” you said, voice soft but unyielding, your hand slipping into his, warm and sure. His gaze flicked to you, broken but sparking at your touch, a flicker of the boy who’d always been yours. “Let’s get outta here.” He didn’t resist, letting you lead him through the chaos, the cool October air biting your skin as you tugged him toward his BMW. You snatched his keys, ushering him into the passenger seat, his body slumping like the weight of the night was too much. The drive to his house was quiet, the hum of the engine and the faint crackle of the radio’s Springsteen filling the space, your hand resting on his thigh like an anchor, grounding him to you. Tonight, you weren’t just his best friend—you were his lifeline, the one who’d always catch him when the world fell apart.

His bedroom was a sanctuary, the familiar mess of scattered jeans, basketball trophies, and the faint musk of his cologne wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The door clicked shut, muffling the distant thump of Tina’s party, and it was just you and him, the world shrinking to the glow of his bedside lamp. Steve stood by his bed, shoulders hunched, still clutching that damn beer bottle like it could drown Nancy’s words. You stepped closer, the hem of your dress riding up, the STEVE necklace glinting against your collarbone. His eyes caught it, darkening with a hunger that wasn’t just pain, his breath hitching as you moved into his space. “Let me make you forget,” you purred, voice low and dripping with intent, your fingers grazing the edge of your dress. Slowly, you peeled it off, the black fabric sliding down your body like a whisper, pooling at your feet to reveal lacy black lingerie that made his jaw tighten. “Fuck,” he breathed, setting the bottle down, his eyes raking over you like you were the only thing left in his universe.

You dropped to your knees on the soft carpet, fingers deft as they undid his belt with a soft clink, the leather falling away. “You don’t have to—” he started, voice rough with emotion, but it broke into a low groan as you freed him, your hand wrapping around his length, stroking slow and teasing. “Shh, Stevie,” you murmured, lips brushing the tip, your gloss smearing against his skin as you took him deep, throat working, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing. You knew exactly how to unravel him, every flick and twist pulling him further from the heartbreak. “Shit—yes,” he moaned, hands tangling in your hair, guiding you with that perfect blend of gentle and desperate, his hips twitching as curses spilled from his lips. Your name fell from his mouth like a prayer, raw and reverent, as you drove him wild, the ache of Nancy fading with every bob of your head.

He tugged you up, eyes blazing with need, and kissed you hard—teeth clashing, tongues hungry, tasting of beer and raw want. “Need you,” he growled, spinning you around and bending you over his desk, the cool wood pressing against your palms. Your underwear hit the floor, and he didn’t wait, slamming into you with a force that stole your breath, the stretch intense and perfect. “Harder!” you gasped, voice raw, arching back to meet his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. His hand came down on your ass, a sharp smack that stung deliciously, then another, your skin blooming red under his touch. “Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he panted, grip bruising as he pounded into you, chasing release like it could burn away the pain. You pushed back, nails digging into the desk, moaning his name as the heat built, your body trembling under his relentless rhythm.

The night dissolved into a frenzy of need. He flipped you onto the bed, missionary first—his eyes locked on yours, unguarded and intense, thrusting slow and deep, each movement pulling gasps from your lips. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice breaking, pinning your wrists above your head, the necklace glinting between your breasts like a vow. Then doggy, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you back to meet every rough thrust, your moans echoing off the walls. Finally, you climbed on top, straddling him, riding him with a rhythm that had him groaning, hands gripping your thighs as you moved, nails raking down his chest. “Say it,” you teased, grinding down hard, voice breathy. “I’m your favorite.” “Always,” he panted, flipping you again, pounding until you both shattered, your cries tangling as pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless and spent.

Exhausted, you collapsed against him, bodies tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, the room quiet except for your ragged breaths and the faint pulse of the party down the street. Steve’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, his lips brushing your temple with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “You didn’t have to do this,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. You nuzzled into his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat grounding you. “Wanted to, Stevie,” you murmured, voice soft but certain. “ Best friends, soulmates, something more—no label could hold the wildfire you shared, burning bright enough to outshine any heartbreak.

he panted, voice cracking with urgency, hands flailing like he’d just seen the apocalypse. Steve spun from the lawn, roses still gripped tight, his brow furrowing as his hazel eyes flicked between you and the kid. “Dustin, what the hell?” he snapped, confusion lacing his tone, but there was no real bite—just the exhaustion of a night already gone wrong. You sat up, annoyance melting into curiosity as Dustin vibrated with nervous energy, his jacket half-zipped, his cap askew. “It’s my basement, okay? There’s… something down there. My pet—Dart—it kinda… ate my cat, and I need you guys now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart kicked up a notch—Hawkins had a knack for turning “something” into “we’re all screwed.” Steve glanced at you, jaw tight, caught between his hopeless quest for Nancy and whatever chaos Dustin was dragging you into. You raised an eyebrow, voice dripping with bratty challenge. “What’s it gonna be, Harrington? Keep playing Romeo for Miss Perfect, or you coming with us to save this dork’s ass?” His lips twitched, that familiar spark igniting in his eyes as he caught your tone, the one that always pulled him back to you. With a huff, he tossed the roses onto the grass—let them rot—and strode to the driver’s side, his varsity jacket catching the moonlight like a knight’s armor. “Let’s go,” he said, voice low, already bracing for whatever weirdness awaited, his hand brushing yours as he slid into the seat.

The drive to Dustin’s house was short but heavy, the BMW’s engine purring through the quiet streets, the radio crackling with a faint Springsteen riff. Dustin bounced in the backseat, rambling about “government experiments” and “monsters in the walls,” his voice a high-pitched hum of panic. You leaned against Steve’s shoulder, your thigh pressed against his, the warmth of him seeping through his jeans, grounding you even as jealousy gnawed at your chest. The STEVE necklace rested heavy against your skin, a reminder of the boy beside you, the one who’d always been yours. “You didn’t have to ditch the flowers,” you murmured, half-teasing, half-pouting, your fingers brushing the chain, the metal cool under your touch. He glanced down, his hand finding yours, squeezing just hard enough to make your pulse stutter, his eyes holding yours in the dim glow of the dashboard. “Didn’t need ‘em,” he said, voice rough, raw with something unspoken. “Got my favorite girl right here.” Your lips curved into a smug little smile, heart swelling despite the ache, but before you could fire back, Dustin’s voice sliced through. “Can you two stop flirting for, like, five seconds? This is serious!” You snorted, rolling your eyes, but Steve’s low chuckle vibrated against you.

“It’s Dart, okay? My… pet,” Dustin stammered, his hands flailing, eyes wide under his trucker cap as he paced the Wheeler basement’s creaky stairs. “I found him in a trash can, thought he was just a pollywog, but then he ate my fucking cat!” His voice cracked, a mix of guilt and panic, his curls bouncing with every frantic gesture. “He’s from the Upside Down, I swear—same slimy, freaky shit as last year!” You froze mid-step, the wooden stairs groaning under your sneakers, the air turning thick and cold, like the world was holding its breath. “Wait, you kept a monster that ate Mews?” you snapped, voice sharp but trembling, shooting Dustin a glare that could’ve melted steel. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Henderson?”

Steve’s arm slid around your waist, pulling you close as you hit the basement floor, his warmth a shield against the icy panic settling in your bones. The single bulb overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across the concrete, and Dustin pointed to a corner where a pile of cardboard boxes sat, smeared with glistening, unnatural slime that pulsed faintly in the dim light. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the darkness, sending a shiver racing down your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps. “What the fuck is that?” you hissed, pressing instinctively against Steve, his body solid and grounding. He gripped his nail-studded baseball bat—his war weapon, ready for battle—his jaw clenched tight, hazel eyes scanning the shadows like a predator. “Stay behind me, babe,” he said, voice low and deadly serious, his free hand brushing your hip, a promise woven into the touch that said I’ve got you.

Dustin clutched a hockey stick, his bravado crumbling but that nerdy resolve still burning in his eyes. “It’s Dart! He’s… bigger now. I locked him in there, but he’s pissed!” The boxes rattled violently, something scaly and slick slithering behind them, the sound like nails on a chalkboard. Your heart pounded—not just from the creepy-ass vibes but from Steve’s body shielding yours, his breath hot and steady against your ear, his presence a lifeline in the chaos. “We’ve got this,” he whispered, his eyes locking on yours, that soulmate spark igniting despite the fear. “You and me, always.” You smirked, shoving down the panic, grabbing a nearby broom like it was Excalibur. “Better not let me down, Harrington,” you teased, voice bratty but steady, your grip tightening as you leaned into his side, ready to swing.

The boxes rattled again, then fell eerily still, the silence heavier than the growl. Dustin’s yelp echoed in the dim basement, his hockey stick trembling in his hands. “He’s breaking out!” he shouted, voice cracking with raw panic. Steve stepped forward, bat raised, muscles tensing under his varsity jacket, ready to swing at whatever nightmare crawled out. You clung to your broom, heart hammering, your body pressed close to his, the heat of him anchoring you in the icy air. But before anyone could move, a sickening crunch split the silence—not from the boxes, but from the wall behind them. The stack toppled with a crash, revealing a jagged, gaping hole in the concrete, big enough to crawl through, its edges slick with pulsating, Upside Down slime. Shards of drywall hung like broken fangs, and a cold, damp draft slithered through, carrying a faint, guttural snarl from the darkness beyond. “Holy shit,” you whispered, your breath catching, the broom slipping slightly in your sweaty palms. “Dustin, your fucking pet punched a hole in the wall!?”

Dustin stumbled forward, face pale as death, clutching his stick like it could save him. “Dart—he… he must’ve molted again! He ate Mews, and now he’s huge, and—he’s gone!” His voice was a frantic mix of guilt and terror, the kid’s nerdy bravado shattered by his Upside Down fuck-up. You shot him a glare, your glossed lips curling in disgust. “You kept a Demodog—what a cute name for a monster that chowed down on your cat—and now it’s loose? Real fucking genius, Henderson.” Steve’s arm tightened around you, pulling you back from the hole, his bat still poised as he scanned the tunnel’s writhing, slimy vines, barely visible in the dark. “Stay close,” he growled, voice low and lethal, his hazel eyes flicking to you with a protective fire that made your pulse race. “Whatever this thing is, it’s not getting past us. You and me, babe—always.”

Dustin crept closer, fumbling with a flashlight from a nearby shelf, its beam slicing through the shadows to reveal a narrow tunnel lined with pulsating, fleshy vines that seemed to writhe like living things. “This is bad. Like, Upside Down bad,” he muttered, his voice shaking but laced with that stubborn nerdy resolve. “We gotta find him before he hits town—or worse.” You rolled your eyes, stepping forward, broom raised like you were ready to beat the shit out of anything that slithered out. “Great. We’re on monster cleanup because you thought a Demodog was a cute pet. Nice going, dork.” Steve moved beside you, his bat steady, his free hand brushing your lower back—a subtle claim that grounded you even now. “We need to board this up and track that thing,” he said, voice firm, slipping into king mode. He glanced at you, a flicker of his cocky grin breaking through the tension. “You ready to hunt, princess?” You tossed your hair and shot him a look, all fire and defiance. “Born ready, Stevie. Let’s kill this slimy fuck.” Dustin nodded, still shaken but bolstered by your duo’s unbreakable energy. “Okay, team badass, let’s move.”

The Hawkins High cafeteria buzzed like a hive, the air thick with the clatter of trays, the hum of fluorescent lights, and the sharp edge of whispers traded like contraband. Eddie Munson slouched at his usual corner table, the one tucked by the chipped linoleum wall, his Hellfire club scattered around him—Gareth picking at a soggy fry, Jeff doodling dragons on his notebook. Eddie’s dark eyes squinted across the room, landing on the empty table where you and Steve Harrington usually held court, your golden duo energy screaming for attention like a neon sign. Day three of no King Steve, no Queen Bee. The absence was loud, a gaping hole in the cafeteria’s hierarchy, and Eddie didn’t need the gossip mill to smell trouble brewing. He leaned back, leather jacket creaking, and flicked a cigarette ash onto the floor, his chains rattling as he shifted. “What the hell are those two up to?” he muttered to Gareth, his voice low, gravelly, laced with suspicion and something sharper he wouldn’t name.

Gareth glanced up, shoving his glasses up his nose, his brow furrowing. “Who, Harrington and his girl?” he asked, following Eddie’s gaze to the empty table, where Tommy H. and Carol were trying—and failing—to fill the void, their laughter too loud, too forced. The cafeteria buzzed with theories, kids leaning over trays of overcooked pizza to whisper about where Hawkins’ royalty had vanished to. “Heard they’re fighting,” some cheerleader hissed nearby, her ponytail bouncing as she leaned into her friend. “Nancy dumped Steve, and now he’s holed up with her.” Another kid, a scrawny freshman, piped up, “Bet they’re off banging in his fancy house—probably never leaving his bed.” Eddie’s stomach twisted, a knot of envy and disgust he couldn’t untangle. He pictured you and Steve tangled in his sheets, that big, empty mansion of his a playground for your wildfire chemistry—your glossed lips moaning his name, your curves pressed against him. The thought burned, sharp and unwanted, and he hated how it made his pulse kick up, how much he wondered what you were really doing.

“Golden duo’s probably off playing royalty in Harrington’s bedroom,” he sneered to Gareth, his voice dripping with venom, but his dark eyes lingered on the horizon, staring past the cafeteria’s grimy windows to the gray October sky. He could see you in his mind—cropped sweater riding up, that short skirt swaying, your bratty smirk daring the world to try you. You were untouchable, a queen carved from fire, and Steve was your perfect match, the king who’d burn down Hawkins for you. Eddie hated how much he envied that—hated how you and Steve were a fortress, loyal to a fault, while he was out here on the fringes, just a freak with a guitar and a chip on his shoulder. But something was off. The whispers weren’t just gossip; they carried a weight, a shadow. Barb’s disappearance still hung over the school like a curse, and now you and Steve were gone, vanished like ghosts. Had you ditched town? Were you hiding something darker? The thought sent a chill down his spine, his fingers drumming on the table, the metal of his rings clinking softly.

He leaned forward, snatching a fry from Gareth’s tray, his voice dropping lower. “Something’s not right, man. Harrington and his girl don’t just disappear for three days. Not without a reason.” Gareth shrugged, but his eyes darted nervously, picking up on Eddie’s unease. “Maybe they’re just… y’know, doing their thing,” he said, but it sounded hollow, like he didn’t believe it either. Eddie’s jaw tightened—Hawkins had a way of turning rumors into nightmares, and he’d seen enough to know the truth was often uglier than the gossip. He pictured you again, your fire, your defiance, but now with a flicker of fear in your eyes, Steve’s arm around you as you faced something wrong. “If they’re not fucking in his mansion,” Eddie muttered, half to himself, “then they’re in deep shit. And I’m betting it’s the latter.” He kicked back in his chair, chains rattling, hating how much he cared, how much he wished he had someone to ride or die with like you and Steve had each other. Whatever you were up to, it wasn’t just a lover’s retreat—something was clawing at Hawkins, and you and your golden boy were right in the middle of it.

The familiar hum of Steve’s bedroom enveloped you—faint cologne lingering in the air, the soft creak of his bedframe, moonlight spilling through the half-open blinds, casting stripes across the tangled sheets. You jolted awake, a scream caught in your throat, the nightmare’s claws still gripping you: slimy Demodog teeth, pulsating vines, the suffocating dark of the Upside Down tunnels. Your chest heaved, sweat slicking your skin, your necklace cold against your collarbone as you gasped for air. Steve’s arms tightened around you instantly, his bare chest warm against your back, his breath uneven but steady, like he’d been waiting for this. He hadn’t slept—his hazel eyes, shadowed and bloodshot, were already fixed on you, wide awake, haunted by the same ghosts that kept you from rest. “Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he whispered, voice rough, raw, his lips brushing your temple as he pulled you closer, one hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Just a dream, babe. I’ve got you.”

You turned in his arms, your tank top riding up, legs tangling with his under the sheets, your fingers digging into his shoulders like he was your lifeline. “It felt so real, Stevie,” you choked out, voice trembling, tears stinging your eyes. “Those things—the tunnels, the teeth—I thought I lost you.” Your breath hitched, the memory of hacking through vines to save him flashing vivid and sharp. Steve’s jaw clenched, his hand moving to your hair, stroking gently, his thumb grazing your jaw. “Not losing me,” he murmured, voice low but fierce, like a vow. “Not ever. We made it out, you and me. Always will.” His eyes searched yours, heavy with the weight of too many close calls, the kind that left scars you couldn’t see.

You pressed your forehead to his, noses brushing, your lips so close you could taste his breath—mint and a hint of the whiskey you’d both sipped earlier, trying to drown the fear. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” you asked, voice soft, a faint tease to mask the ache. He gave a small, broken laugh, his hand slipping to your waist, fingers tracing the curve of your hip, grounding himself in you. “Nah. Kept seeing those fucking monsters every time I closed my eyes.” His grip tightened, almost possessive, but his touch was gentle, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered. “You’re the only thing that feels real right now.”

The air shifted, heavy with need, and you tilted your chin, lips brushing his in a slow, desperate kiss—less about heat, more about proving you were both still here. His hands roamed, one sliding under your tank top, warm against your bare back, pulling you flush against him. You melted into him, your nails grazing his chest, the kiss deepening until it was all teeth and tongue, a quiet moan escaping you as he whispered your name like a prayer. “My favorite,” he breathed against your lips, the words shaking with something deeper than lust. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers tracing the faint bruises on his cheek from the junkyard fight. “Always, Stevie,” you whispered, voice steady now, the nightmare fading in the warmth of his arms. You curled into him, head tucked under his chin, his heartbeat steady against your cheek, and for the first time that night, you both felt safe enough to drift, if only for a moment, your souls tangled tighter than ever.

The Hawkins High cafeteria was a riot of noise—jocks hollering over trays of congealed pizza, cheerleaders preening with their teased hair and neon scrunchies, the clatter of plastic trays mingling with the hum of fluorescent lights. But Eddie Munson’s dark eyes were glued to the double doors as you and Steve Harrington strode through, back after days of absence, like you’d rewritten the laws of the universe in your time away. Gone was King Steve’s cocky swagger, his lopsided grin replaced by a sharp, haunted edge in his hazel eyes, like he’d stared into the abyss and come back changed. You were no different—your cropped top and short skirt still screamed royalty, the STEVE necklace glinting like a crown jewel against your collarbone, but your usual glossy queen bee shine was hardened, forged into something fierce and untouchable, like a blade tempered in fire. Steve’s arm was draped around you, not casual but possessive, like you’d melted into each other’s bones, your bodies moving as one through the sea of gaping stares. The cafeteria’s buzz faltered, heads turning, whispers sparking like static—Hawkins’ golden duo was back, but different, like you’d seen the edge of the world and survived it.

Eddie leaned against his corner table watching Tommy H. and Carol swagger over, their loud laughs and try-hard vibes stinking like cheap cologne and desperation. He braced for your usual preppy bullshit, the fake smiles and barbed quips that kept your court in line. But Steve’s voice cut through the noise, low and final, like a guillotine dropping. “Get lost, Tommy. We’re done with your crap.” You tossed your hair, glossed lips curling with a disgust so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. “Ugh, you two are such try-hards. So fucking annoying.” The words landed like a slap, and the cafeteria went dead quiet, forks hovering mid-air, eyes wide with shock. Tommy froze, his smirk vanishing; Carol’s jaw hit the floor, her bubblegum-pink nails clutching her tray. Eddie’s fork nearly slipped from his fingers, a low whistle escaping his lips. You just ditched your own posse?

His mind spun, trying to piece it together. Where the hell had you been? Days gone, and now you were back, striding through Hawkins High like you’d clawed your way out of hell itself. He pictured you and Steve holed up in that big, empty mansion of his, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, fucking through the days in a haze of shrooms or acid—something wild enough to rewire your souls. How else could you come back this raw, this changed? Your bond was tighter than ever, your fingers laced with Steve’s, not just holding hands but gripping like you’d fall apart without each other. It was more than human, like you’d forged something unbreakable in whatever chaos you’d faced. Eddie’s stomach twisted, a bitter cocktail of envy and fascination. You were fire, your curves swaying under that cropped sweater, your eyes blazing with a defiance that made his pulse kick up. Steve was your match, his varsity jacket a little worn now, his gaze sharp enough to cut. Together, you were untouchable, a fortress no one could breach, and Eddie hated how much he wanted that kind of loyalty, that kind of ride-or-die.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his rings clinking against the scratched surface as he muttered to Gareth, “Those two must’ve gone on one hell of a bender, man. Whatever they tripped on, it’s made ‘em something else.” Gareth glanced up, pushing his glasses up his nose, his brow furrowing as he followed Eddie’s gaze. “You think they’re just… high?” he asked, but his voice wavered, like he felt the same unease creeping in. Eddie shook his head, his dark curls brushing his shoulders, his eyes narrowing as you and Steve walked off, your steps perfectly in sync, your bond a blazing beacon in the cafeteria’s haze. The whispers followed you—rumors of monsters, of Barb’s ghost, of something wrong in Hawkins—but Eddie didn’t need gossip to know the truth was darker. You and Steve hadn’t just been hiding; you’d faced something that left scars deeper than skin, and whatever it was, it had forged you into something new, something that made even the king of freaks pause and wonder what kind of hell you’d walked through together.

The Hawkins Middle School gym was transformed for the Snow Ball, a glittery bubble of tinsel and twinkle lights, but the air still carried that faint Hawkins edge—sweat, cheap punch, and preteen nerves. You and Steve rolled up as chaperones, his arm slung around your shoulders, but the way his hazel eyes raked over your slinky dress—black, clinging to every curve, his necklace glinting like a claim—made you forget your job tonight. Earlier, before the dance, Dustin had cornered you outside the gym, his curls tamed under gel Steve helped him apply, his tie slightly crooked despite your efforts to fix it. “Okay, so, girls—how do I not screw this up?” he’d asked, voice cracking, his cheeks pink under the streetlights. You’d grinned, adjusting his collar, smoothing his jacket. “Just be you, Henderson. Flash that goofy smile, crack a dumb joke—they’ll eat it up.” You ruffled his hair, adding, “You’re cute, kid. Own it.” He’d beamed, all gap-toothed confidence, and you’d laughed, your heart warm. Secretly, he was your favorite of the little dorks—his chaotic energy, his loyalty, it hit you right in the chest. As you and Steve drove off post-Snow Ball, the night blurred, and soon you were in the backseat of his BMW, parked down a quiet Hawkins lane, windows fogging as the cold December air pressed against the glass. Clothes were half-on, half-off—your dress hiked up, his shirt unbuttoned, pants shoved down. You straddled him, the leather seats creaking under you, your STEVE necklace swaying between your breasts as you moved. “Fuck me like you mean it,” you demanded, voice breathy but sharp, nails digging into his shoulders. He did—rough, loving, his hands bruising your hips, thrusting up hard, each movement a mix of desperation and devotion. “You’re mine,” he growled, lips crashing against yours, teeth clashing, tasting of punch and need. You moaned his name, loud and unashamed, your body arching as he drove deeper, the car rocking, windows steaming until you both shattered, your gasps mixing in the tight space. Collapsed against his chest, sweat-slick and spent, you felt his heartbeat under your cheek, his arms wrapping you tight. “Always my favorite,” he panted, kissing your forehead, and you smiled, safe in his warmth, but a flicker of something else stirred. The Upside Down had changed you both, stripped away the polished king and queen bullshit, leaving you raw, closer, like you’d bled together and come out stronger. Steve remained your center, your soul’s other half.

The next morning, you and Eddie were the first to hand in your history project, striding up to Mrs. Click’s desk with matching grins and a neatly typed stack of papers. The rest of the class was still scrambling to finish, but you two had crushed it, thanks to your surprisingly productive session at your house. Mrs. Click raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, as she flipped through your work. “Well, you're setting the bar high. I’ll have these graded by next week.”

You caught Eddie’s eye as you walked back to your seats, and he gave you a playful nudge. “Told you we’re unstoppable, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was doing somersaults. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get cocky, Munson.” Sadly, you didn’t share any more classes that day, but as you parted ways in the hallway, you grabbed his hand, squeezing it lightly. “Meet me after school? Parking lot?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, his voice soft, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he let go. The brief touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you spent the rest of the day replaying it in your head.

Eddie’s Hellfire friends, lounging near the lockers, caught the whole exchange. Gareth’s jaw dropped, and Jeff let out a low whistle. “Okay, Munson, what the hell was that?” Gareth demanded, crossing his arms. “You’re holding hands with Y/N now? The Y/N? Spill, dude.”

Dustin, leaning against a locker with a smug grin, munched on a candy bar, clearly enjoying the chaos. He’d been sitting on the secret since his dramatic interruption in the drama room, and now he was practically vibrating with I-told-you-so energy.

Eddie sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. Yeah, I’ve been hanging out with Y/N. A lot. Guitar lessons, history project, whole deal. Last night, I went to her place—met her dad, who’s, like, a total metalhead. It was wild.” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, thinking about your dad’s vinyl collection and that photo of you with a toy guitar.

The Hellfire table erupted. “Her place?” Jeff said, eyes wide. “You, Eddie Munson, trailer park nobody, scored a girl like Y/N? She’s, like, Hawkins royalty!”

“Way outta your league, man,” Gareth added, but he was grinning, clearly impressed. “How’d you pull that off?”

Dustin snorted, finally speaking up. “It’s the hair. Steve told me it’s a chick magnet.” He dodged a playful swat from Eddie, laughing.

“Shut up, Henderson,” Eddie said, but he was blushing. “She’s… different. Likes Metallica, plays guitar—badly, but she’s learning. And she doesn’t care about all that popularity bullshit. It’s… nice.”

The guys exchanged looks, still processing, but they could see the way Eddie’s eyes lit up when he talked about you. “Well, damn,” Jeff said. “You’re in deep, huh?”

Eddie just shrugged, but the goofy smile on his face said it all.

After school, Eddie was headed to the parking lot to find you when Mrs. Click called him back to her classroom. His stomach dropped. Shit, what now? he thought, praying it wasn’t detention—he couldn’t keep you waiting. But when he stepped into her office, Mrs. Click was smiling, which was… unsettling.

“Eddie,” she said, holding up your project. “I graded yours and Y/N’s early, since you turned it in first. It’s an A. One of the best in the class.” She leaned forward, her usual sternness softening. “I’m proud of you. I know you’ve had a rough time with school, but this friendship with Y/N… it’s doing you good. Keep it up, and you might actually graduate this year.”

Eddie blinked, stunned. An A? And Mrs. Click being nice? He mumbled a thank-you, his mind racing as he left her office. An A, and a real shot at graduating? He couldn’t believe it. His feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted to the parking lot, spotting you leaning against your car, alone, your cheerleader skirt swishing in the breeze.

“Y/N!” he called, his voice bright with excitement. You turned, and before you could say anything, he closed the distance, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It was everything you’d both been holding back for weeks—passionate, desperate, a collision of pent-up longing. His lips were warm and urgent against yours, his rings cool against your cheeks, and you melted into him, your hands fisting his leather jacket. The world fell away, the parking lot fading to nothing as you kissed like you’d been starving for it. When you finally pulled back, both of you were flushed, breathing hard, and grinning like idiots.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Heh, sorry, baby. Didn’t know what came over me. Just… couldn’t hold back anymore.” He paused, his grin widening. “Also, guess what? We got an A on the history project. And Click says I might actually graduate this year.”

Your eyes lit up, and you squealed, throwing your arms around him. “Eddie, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!” Before he could respond, you pulled him into another kiss, deeper this time, your hands tangling in his hair. He groaned softly against your lips, and you felt your knees go weak.

When you broke apart, Eddie’s eyes were dark with something that made your stomach flip. “So, uh, you wanna come to my place? I was thinking… you’re getting pretty decent on that thrift store guitar. Time to try a real one. My Warlock’s calling your name.” He winked, but there was a nervous edge to his voice.

“Absolutely,” you said, your heart racing. You’d been dying to see where Eddie lived, to get a glimpse into his world. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the trailer park was filled with Metallica’s Master of Puppets blasting through Eddie’s van speakers, both of you singing along to Disposable Heroes at the top of your lungs. But as you pulled up to the trailer, Eddie’s energy shifted, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel. The trailer was small, a little worn, with a sagging porch and a cluttered yard. It was nothing like your neat suburban house, and you could tell he was worried you’d judge him for it.

“Welcome to Casa Munson,” he said, trying to sound casual, but his eyes were searching yours for any hint of disappointment.

You smiled, reaching for his hand. “Looks cozy. Can’t wait to see your room.”

Inside, the trailer was warm and lived-in, with a faint smell of coffee and motor oil. Eddie led you to his room, and you couldn’t help but gush. “Holy shit, Eddie, your room is awesome!” The walls were plastered with metal posters—Metallica, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest—and his prized Warlock guitar hung proudly above his bed. A mess of cassette tapes, D&D manuals, and clothes littered the floor, but it felt so him, and you loved it.

He grinned, some of his nervousness easing. “Yeah? Not too… chaotic for you, princess?”

“Not at all,” you said, turning to him. “It’s perfect.”

The air between you crackled, and before you knew it, you were kissing again, this time slower, savoring every second. His hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you tangled your fingers in his hair, the world narrowing to just the two of you. When you pulled back, both of you breathless, Eddie’s eyes were bright with mischief. “Wanna try Sweetheart?” he asked, nodding toward his guitar.

You hesitated, nervous. “Only if you play first. Serenade me, Munson.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He grabbed the Warlock, plugged it into a small amp, and launched into a rock ballad—Def Leppard’s Love Bites, slowed down to a sultry, acoustic vibe. His fingers danced over the strings, his voice rough but tender, and you swooned, watching him pour his heart into it. When he finished, you clapped, your cheeks flushed. “Okay, that was unfairly hot.”

He laughed, setting the guitar down. “Your turn, princess. Let’s see you rock it.”

You pouted, holding up your hands. “Eddie, I got press-on nails yesterday—you had to notice when I was pulling your hair earlier. I can’t play well with these.”

His eyes widened, then softened with a grin. “Oh, I noticed, baby.” He reached for the hem of his Hellfire shirt, tugging it down to reveal a thin cord around his neck with a plectrum dangling from it. Your breath caught at the glimpse of his collarbone, the intimacy of the gesture making your cheeks burn. He slipped the plectrum off and held it out to you, his voice low. “Here. Use this.”

You took it, your fingers brushing his, feeling like you’d just been handed a sacred relic. “This is, like, a holy artifact,” you teased, but your voice was shy. You sat on his bed, the Warlock in your lap, and started playing a simple riff from Fade to Black. Eddie watched, his eyes intense, and when you finished, he nodded, impressed.

“Not bad, princess. Almost nailed it. But I can show you how to make it better.” His voice was husky, and before you could protest, he moved behind you, pulling you onto his lap. Your back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around you, guiding your fingers over the strings of his Sweetheart. The faint scent of your perfume mingled with his cologne, and you felt his breath on your neck, warm and steady. It was exactly like his fantasies—your soft hair brushing his cheek, your skirt riding up slightly, and the heat of your body against his. He was dizzy with it, his heart pounding, and you weren’t much better, trembling under his touch.

You barely made it through half a song before the guitar became a distant memory. The feel of Eddie’s warmth, the hard press of his body beneath you, sent a feverish heat coursing through you. You turned in his lap, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was all desperation and need. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp against his mouth, and you deepened the kiss, tongues tangling in a sloppy, hungry dance. Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a low groan from him, the sound vibrating through you, igniting a spark that made your thighs clench. Your skirt bunched higher as you shifted, straddling him fully, the rough denim of his jeans pressing against the thin fabric of your underwear. You rolled your hips, grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling the hardness beneath you grow as Eddie’s breath hitched, a ragged moan escaping him. His hands slid under your sweater, calloused fingers tracing the bare skin of your waist, then higher, grazing the edge of your bra, sending electric shivers down your spine. You arched into him, your chest pressing against his, chasing the friction as you ground harder, the heat between you building to a fever pitch. His rings caught on your clothes, a sharp tug that made you whimper into his mouth, and you retaliated by scraping your press-on nails down his neck, leaving faint red trails that made him shudder. The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue, lips swollen and slick, as you lost yourselves in the raw, desperate push and pull of your bodies, each movement fueling a fire that threatened to consume you both. Your hips rocked in a steady rhythm, his hands guiding you, pulling you closer, and you felt the tension coil tighter, your breaths mingling in short, frantic gasps. As the heat peaked, your movements slowed, a soft, trembling release washing over you both, leaving you flushed and breathless, clinging to each other in the hazy afterglow of your shared intensity.

You collapsed against his chest, your heart still racing, and Eddie’s arms wrapped around you, his own breathing uneven as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Holy shit, princess,” he murmured, his voice rough but warm, laced with awe. “That was… fuck, you’re incredible.” His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, and you smiled against his neck, the intimacy of the moment grounding you both after the wildfire of your passion.

You stayed like that for a while, cuddling on his bed, the room quiet except for your soft breaths. After a bit, Eddie shifted, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wanna smoke? I got some good stuff. Figure it’s time you tried weed with the best dealer in Hawkins.”

You grinned, nodding. “Hell, why not? I’ve only tried it a couple times at parties, but I’m game if it’s with you.”

He led you to the trailer’s small living area, pulling out his stash from a battered tin box. “Alright, sweet girl, let’s get you relaxed.” He started rolling a joint, then paused, cursing under his breath. “Shit, forgot the filters in my room. Be right back, baby.”

He darted off, leaving you on the couch, and you were just settling in when the trailer’s front door creaked open. A gruff-looking man in a worn flannel and work boots stepped inside—Wayne, you realized, Eddie’s uncle. His eyes landed on you, and his expression hardened slightly, taking in your cheerleader skirt and the joint on the table.

Before you could stand, Eddie was back, filters in hand. “Oh, hey, Wayne! How was the shift?” he said, all casual, launching into small talk about the plant. You sat there, feeling awkward, wanting to introduce yourself but not sure how to jump in. Wayne nodded at Eddie, then disappeared into the bathroom.

You leaned toward Eddie, whispering, “That was your uncle, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie said, his voice softening with affection. “Best guy I know. Raised me when my dad… well, when shit went south.” The love in his eyes warmed your heart, but before you could say more, Wayne was back.

Eddie handed you the joint, grinning. “For you, sweet girl. Only the best.” He was about to light it when Wayne cleared his throat, his voice stern. “Not inside, Eddie. You know the rules.”

Eddie groaned but nodded, standing. “Yeah, yeah, got it.” He turned to you, jerking his head toward the door. “C’mon, princess, let’s take this outside. Just one sec, I'll grab a lighter.”

You started to follow, but Wayne’s voice stopped you, quieter now, less sharp but still heavy with concern. “Hang on kid. You’re Y/N, right? Eddie’s been talkin’ about you.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes searching yours. “Look, I don’t know you, but Eddie… he’s got a big heart, and it’s been stepped on before. You’re not just here for a good time, are you? ‘Cause he don’t need that.”

Your stomach twisted, his words landing like a soft punch. You shook your head, meeting his gaze, your voice steady despite the nerves. “No, Mr. Munson, it’s not like that. I really care about Eddie. Like… a lot.” You blushed, glancing at Eddie, who was fiddling with his lighter, oblivious. “I’m all in for your nephew, Sir. I’d be his girlfriend yesterday if he’d stop stalling already. I’m not here to break his heart, promise.”

Wayne studied you for a long moment, then nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Alright. I believe you. Just… he’s been through a lot, y’know? I get protective.” He offered a small, tired smile. “You seem like a good one. Sorry for comin’ off harsh—long night at the plant.”

You smiled back, relief washing over you. “It’s okay. I’m glad Eddie’s got you watching his back.”

Eddie looked up, catching the tail end of the exchange. “Everything cool?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Wayne said, waving him off. “Go smoke your damn weed outside. And don’t let her drive home if she’s too out of it, you hear?”

Eddie grinned, saluting. “Yes, sir.” He winked at you, and you followed him out, feeling lighter, like you’d passed some kind of test.

You and Eddie wandered into the cool night, passing the joint back and forth as you walked toward the quarry, the stars bright overhead. The weed hit you softly, loosening your limbs, and you leaned into Eddie, giggling as he told you a ridiculous D&D story about a goblin who stole a wizard’s hat. At the quarry’s edge, you spread out a blanket he had grabbed from his van, the world quiet except for the crickets and your shared laughter.

The joint was nearly gone when Eddie turned to you, his eyes serious but soft. “Y/N… I'm so gone for you.” His voice was low, almost nervous, like he was baring his soul. “I’ve been crazy about you since you tried to play Master of Puppets on that shitty guitar.”

Your heart stopped, then swelled. “I like you too, Eddie” you said, your voice thick with emotion. You leaned in, kissing him softly, lovingly, under the starlit sky. It was perfect, his hands cupping your face, your fingers tangled in his hair.

But then you pulled back, a playful glint in your eyes. “You know, Munson, I'm still waiting for you to asked me to be your girlfriend.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, and he laughed, sheepish. “Oh, shit, you’re right. Okay, here goes—would you, fair maiden, do me the honor—”

“Yes!” you interrupted, tackling him onto the blanket with a laugh, kissing him to shut him up. He grinned against your lips, pulling you closer, and you both dissolved into giggles, rolling under the stars. As your laughter faded, you lay side by side, your head resting on his chest, his arm slung around you. The quarry stretched out below, a dark, quiet expanse, and the stars above felt like they were just for you two.

“So, girlfriend,” Eddie said, his voice teasing but soft, “what’s next for us? More guitar lessons? Hellfire Club cameo? Or are we just gonna keep making out in my room until Wayne bans us from the trailer?”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “All of the above, Munson. But maybe we start with you teaching me Battery properly. And I’m definitely crashing a Hellfire meeting—Dustin’s gotta see me steal your thunder.”

He chuckled, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder. “Deal. But you’re wearing my Hellfire shirt when you do. Gotta make it official.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m really glad you’re mine, princess.”

Your heart fluttered, and you tilted your head to kiss him again, slow and sweet. “I’m glad you’re mine, too, Eddie.” You settled back against him, the night wrapping around you like a promise, the future wide open and full of music, laughter, and him.

The End (or is it?)

I'd love to know what you think of this finale or if you'd be interesten in an epilogue :).

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

Eddie Munson was in deep. You were everywhere—haunting his thoughts like a riff he couldn’t stop humming. At the Hellfire Club table in the cafeteria, he was barely present, staring into his half-eaten sandwich as images of you flashed through his mind: your soft curls catching the light, the way your laugh lit up the drama room, that moment in the library when your knee brushed his and he nearly forgot how to breathe. He was so lost in it that he didn’t notice Gareth waving a hand in front of his face.

“Dude, what’s with you?” Gareth asked, tossing a pretzel at Eddie’s forehead. It bounced off, landing in his lap, but Eddie barely flinched. “You’ve been zoned out all week. You sick or something?”

“Yeah, man, you’re acting weirder than usual,” Jeff chimed in, leaning forward with a suspicious squint. “And that’s saying something.”

Dustin, sitting across the table, shoved a handful of chips in his mouth, his eyes darting to Eddie with a knowing smirk. He knew exactly what—or who—was on Eddie’s mind, thanks to his ill-timed interruption in the drama room last week. But he kept his mouth shut, crunching loudly as Gareth pressed on. “Spill it, Munson. You planning some epic campaign twist, or is this about something else? Like, I dunno, a girl?”

Eddie snapped out of it, his cheeks flushing as he flicked the pretzel back at Gareth. “Mind your own business, man. I’m just… strategizing. Big campaign coming up, you know?” His voice was too casual, and Dustin’s muffled snort didn’t help.

“Strategizing, my ass,” Gareth muttered, but he dropped it, turning to argue with Jeff about D&D stats. Eddie stole a glance at the cafeteria’s other side, where you were sitting with your cheerleader friends, laughing at something Tammy Thompson said. Your eyes flicked toward him for a split second, and he swore his heart stopped. You gave a small, secret smile before turning back to your table, and Eddie had to look away before he did something stupid, like wave again.

Meanwhile, at your table, your friends were noticing a change in you, too. You were practically glowing, humming under your breath and doodling little guitar shapes in the margins of your notebook. It was almost annoying how happy you were, like you were floating on some private cloud. Tammy nudged Stacy, her eyes narrowing as she watched you. “Okay, Y/N, what’s with you? You’re, like, way too chipper lately. Spill.”

“Yeah, you’ve been all dreamy-eyed,” Stacy added, popping a grape into her mouth. “It’s gotta be a guy. And don’t try to deny it—I know that look.”

You blushed, setting down your pen and glancing around to make sure no one else was listening. Your friends leaned in, their curiosity palpable. “Okay, fine,” you said, your voice low but tinged with excitement. “It’s… Eddie Munson.”

Tammy’s jaw dropped, and Stacy nearly choked on her grape. “Munson?” Tammy whispered, her eyes wide. “The metalhead guy? With the hair and the… everything?”

You nodded, biting your lip to suppress a grin. “Yeah. We’ve been hanging out. Guitar lessons, history homework, you know. He’s… not what you’d expect. He’s funny, and sweet, and—” You cut yourself off, realizing you were gushing. Your cheeks burned hotter.

Stacy recovered first, shrugging with a smirk. “Okay, I mean, he’s weird, but whatever makes you happy, girl. I dated that weird theater kid, Kyle, over the summer, so I’m not one to judge.” She paused, then added, “He was into improv, so, like, Eddie’s probably a step up.”

Tammy laughed, shaking her head. “I totally called it. I saw you waving at him last week. But, like, Eddie Munson? He’s so… him. You sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” you said, your voice firm. “He’s not bad people, you guys. He’s just… different. And my friends care about my happiness, right?” You gave them a pointed look, and they softened, nodding.

“Fine, fine,” Tammy said, holding up her hands. “As long as he treats you right, we’re cool. But you have to tell us everything.”

You grinned, promising to spill more later, but your mind was already on Eddie. You couldn’t wait to see him in history class, where Mrs. Click had just announced a new pair project on the American Civil War. The moment she said “pick your partners,” you turned to Eddie, who was slouched in the back row, doodling a dragon in his notebook.

“Munson,” you called, “You’re with me.”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise, then softening into a grin. “Well, damn, princess. Didn’t know you were so eager to claim me.” A few kids snickered, but you just rolled your eyes, your heart fluttering at the way he looked at you.

After school, you waited by your car, leaning against the hood as your friends chatted nearby. Tammy and Stacy were giggling about something, casting glances your way, and you knew they were waiting to see Eddie show up. When he finally appeared, striding across the parking lot in his leather jacket, his hair bouncing with every step, your friends started whispering furiously.

“There’s your lover boy,” Tammy teased, loud enough for Eddie to hear as he approached. Stacy stifled a laugh, and they both scurried off, throwing you knowing looks and calling, “Have fun, Y/N!” over their shoulders.

You groaned, your face flaming as Eddie reached you, his eyebrows raised in confusion. “Lover boy?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What was that about?”

You sighed, kicking a pebble on the asphalt. “I… might’ve told my friends about us.” You gesture weirdly at 'us' not sure yourself what exactly you two even are. You glanced up at him, nervous. “They’re cool with it, though. They just want me to be happy.”

Eddie blinked, his smirk fading into something softer, almost disbelieving. “Wait, you told them? Like, told them? About me?” He ran a hand through his hair, his rings glinting in the sunlight. “I thought you’d wanna keep this low-key. You know, social suicide and all that.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Why would I care about that? My friends aren’t like that—they’re not gonna ditch me over you. And besides…” You hesitated, your voice softening. “I like hanging out with you. I’d tell anyone who’d listen.”

Eddie’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like he didn’t know what to say. “Huh. That’s… new.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “I didn’t tell my guys, though. Not ‘cause I’m ashamed or anything, just… didn’t know how to explain it. You’re, like, you. And I’m… me.”

You laughed, nudging his arm. “You’re Eddie Munson, resident metalhead and D&D master. And I like you. So maybe you should tell your friends. Dustin already knows, anyway.” He groaned, but there was a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, that little shit’s been giving me knowing looks all week."

You nudged Eddie in the side gently. "C’mon. We’re doing this project at my place. My parents are at work, so we’ll have the house to ourselves.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. “Your place? Alone? You trying to get me in trouble, princess?”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were warm. “Shut up, Munson. It’s just homework. Let’s go.”

The drive to your house was filled with more of your usual banter, your car’s radio cranked up—Eddie had insisted on bringing a cassette, claiming your taste in music still needed “refining.” When you pulled up to your house, the same modest, beige suburban box Eddie had seen before, he followed you inside. Your room was a stark contrast to him: all pastels and pinks, fluffy pillows, and a neatly organized desk with a glittery pen holder. Eddie, in his dark leather jacket and ripped jeans, looked like a storm cloud in a cotton candy factory.

“Whoa,” he said, spinning around to take it all in. “This is… very you. I feel like I’m gonna get glitter on me just by standing here.”

You laughed, tossing your bag onto the bed. “Don’t be dramatic. Sit down, make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a Civil War project to crush.”

You both settled on the floor, textbooks and notebooks spread out around you. Despite the distractions—Eddie’s teasing comments about your pom-pom pen, the way his knee kept brushing yours, the lingering memory of your almost-kiss—you worked surprisingly well together. You took charge, organizing your notes on the Battle of Gettysburg, while Eddie threw in creative ideas, comparing the war strategies to D&D campaigns. “Lee’s like a rogue who rolled a nat 1 at the worst possible moment,” he said, making you laugh so hard you nearly knocked over your soda.

To your shock, you finished the project in record time, the outline and research neatly typed up on your dad’s ancient typewriter. “We’re, like, unstoppable,” you said, high-fiving Eddie. His hand lingered against yours a moment too long, his eyes locking onto yours, and the air shifted, that familiar tension creeping back in.

With the project done, you both leaned back against your bed, the silence heavy but comfortable. Eddie’s gaze drifted to the corner of your room, where your thrift store guitar sat propped up. “Hey, we’ve got time. Wanna practice some more? I could show you a trick or two on that sad excuse for an axe.”

You grinned, about to agree, when your bedroom door swung open with a dramatic creak. Your dad stood in the doorway, all six feet of him, with a buzz cut, a few faded tattoos peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves, and a gruff expression that made Eddie freeze. He looked like he could bench press Eddie without breaking a sweat. Eddie shot to his feet, his heart pounding like he’d been caught robbing a bank, even though you were just sitting there, fully clothed, with a pile of history notes between you.

“Hello, sir, I’m—” Eddie started, extending a hand, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound formal.

Your dad burst out laughing, the tough-guy act dropping like a curtain. He clapped Eddie on the shoulder, hard enough to make him stumble. “Relax, kid! Welcome, son. No need to introduce yourself—I’ve been hearing about you over breakfast for weeks.” He grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Y/N’s been going on about her guitar lessons and her ‘study buddy.’”

Your face went scarlet, and you buried it in your hands. “Dad, oh my God, that’s so embarrassing! And have you ever heard of knocking?”

Your dad chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “What? I heard you two up here, and since I’m practically the reason you met, I figured I was privy to what’s going on.” He turned to Eddie, who looked like a deer in headlights. “Her Metallica obsession? That’s on me. Been dragging her to my ‘real music’ sessions since she was a kid. Ride the Lightning was the one that hooked her.”

Eddie’s jaw dropped, his earlier confusion clicking into place. “Wait, you’re the one who got her into Metallica? That’s… dude ehm Sir, that’s so cool.” He shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Man, you’re, like, the most badass grown-up I’ve ever met.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the floor. “Eddie, don’t encourage him!”

Your dad laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. “C’mon, Munson, let’s head downstairs. I wanna hear more about this guitar of yours. Y/N says it’s some fancy Warlock thing?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up, and he followed your dad like a puppy, already launching into a passionate spiel about his Sweetheart. You trailed behind, pouting a little—you’d wanted more alone time with Eddie—but you couldn’t help smiling at how easily they hit it off. In the living room, your dad pulled out a box of old vinyls, showing Eddie his collection of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and, of course, Metallica. Eddie was practically vibrating with excitement, geeking out over a first-pressing Master of Puppets. Eddie couldn't help wishing his Father was this cool for a second, a flicker of sadness crossing his eyes before he covered it with a grin.

Your dad, oblivious, pulled out an old photo album, flipping to a picture of you as a kid, gap-toothed and holding a toy guitar. “Check this out,” he said, smirking. “She’s been a rockstar since she was six.”

“Dad!” you protested, lunging for the album, but Eddie was already laughing, his eyes soft as he looked at the photo. “Okay, that’s adorable,” he said, and you wanted to sink through the floor.

When your mom came home, arms full of takeout bags from the local Chinese place, the scene felt oddly… domestic. She was the breadwinner, always bustling in with her briefcase and a tired but warm smile. “Oh, you must be Eddie,” she said, setting the bags on the table. “Y/N’s mentioned you. A lot.” She gave you a knowing look, and you groaned again, hiding your face in a throw pillow.

Dinner was a surprisingly easy affair, with your dad and Eddie bonding over music and your mom asking Eddie about his D&D campaigns, genuinely curious. You watched them interact, your heart swelling at how effortlessly Eddie fit in, like he’d always belonged at your table. You couldn’t help but think your dad saw a bit of his younger self in Eddie—the long hair, the leather, the unapologetic love for metal.

When it was time for Eddie to leave, the air turned awkward. You walked him out to his van, the night air cool and the streetlights casting long shadows. Your parents were blatantly watching from the living room window, their silhouettes obvious through the curtains. You both stopped by his van, and the tension from the drama room—the almost-kiss—hung heavy between you. You wanted to kiss him, to feel his lips against yours, but with your parents’ eyes on you, it felt impossible.

“So, uh, thanks for today,” Eddie said, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice softer than usual. “Your dad’s awesome. Your mom, too.”

“Yeah, they’re… something,” you said, laughing nervously. You stepped closer, your heart pounding, and went for a hug instead, wrapping your arms around him tightly. His leather jacket was cool against your cheek, but his body was warm, and you felt him hug you back just as tightly, his hands lingering on your waist.

“See you tomorrow, princess,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, pulling back with a shy smile. You watched him climb into his van, waving as he drove off, your heart a mess of butterflies and longing.

Back inside, your dad was waiting, a smirk on his face. “Nice kid,” he said, ruffling your hair. “You picked a good one.”

“Dad, stop,” you groaned, but you were smiling as you headed upstairs, already counting down the hours until you’d see Eddie again.

next part >

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

Eddie Munson didn’t sleep a wink last night. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind conjured her—you, with your soft hair, the faint sweet scent of your perfume clinging to the air, sitting on his lap in that damn cheerleader skirt. In his fevered imagination, your back was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, guiding your fingers over the strings of his prized Sweetheart. The thought alone was enough to make his heart race and his body stir, even now, as he stood in the harsh morning light of Hawkins High, rubbing his tired eyes. He was a mess, and he knew it. What the hell was happening to him? You were you—Hawkins royalty, untouchable, the kind of girl who shouldn’t give him the time of day. Yet here he was, losing sleep over you.

The hallway was buzzing with the usual morning chaos when you passed by, your posse of cheerleaders trailing behind you like a flock of glittery birds. You caught his eye and flashed a quick, bright smile, tossing out a casual, “Hey, Munson! See you in the library later, right?” before Tammy Thompson yanked you away, whispering something that made you laugh and swat her arm. Eddie’s stomach did a flip, a brief pang of guilt hitting him for the less-than-pure thoughts he’d been wrestling with all night. But that guilt was quickly drowned out by a rush of excitement. You’d talked to him. In public. In front of your friends. And you’d sounded… happy about it. He was screwed.

By the time the final bell rang and Eddie made his way to the library, his nerves were a tangled mess. The Hawkins High library was a stuffy, dimly lit room that smelled of old books and pencil shavings, with Mrs. Larson, the librarian, perched at her desk like a hawk. Eddie slouched into a chair at a corner table, his history textbook and a crumpled notebook in front of him, trying to look like he cared about the American Revolution. You arrived a few minutes later, your cheerleader uniform swapped for a cozy sweater and jeans. You dropped into the chair across from him, your smile bright enough to make his chest ache.

“Okay, Munson,” you said, pulling out a notebook and a pen with a glittery pom-pom on it—because of course you had one of those. “Let’s tackle this history assignment. You’re not failing Mrs. Click’s class on my watch.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, leaning back with a smirk. “You sure you’re up for this, princess? Teaching me history might be harder than teaching you guitar. I’m a terrible student, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a playful glint in them. “Oh, please. I’m a miracle worker. Now, open your book to chapter seven. We’re talking Lexington and Concord.”

You tried to explain the battles in a way that didn’t make Eddie’s eyes glaze over, using dramatic hand gestures to mimic musket fire, which had him snickering. “You’re telling me a bunch of farmers took on the British army? That’s some D&D-level underdog shit,” he said, scribbling a doodle of a sword-wielding colonist in his notebook. You leaned over to see it, your hair brushing his arm, and he froze, hyper-aware of how close you were. Your perfume hit him again, that sweet, maddening scent, and he had to grip his pencil tighter to keep his thoughts from wandering back to last night’s fantasies.

“Focus, Munson,” you teased, tapping his notebook with your pom-pom pen. “You’re not gonna pass by drawing badass farmers.”

He grinned, leaning closer, his voice low. “Maybe I’d focus better if you weren’t distracting me with that glittery monstrosity of a pen.”

You gasped, clutching the pen to your chest. “Don’t diss my pen! It’s motivational!”

“Motivational? It’s giving me a headache,” he shot back, but his eyes were sparkling, and you couldn’t help but laugh—a little too loudly. Mrs. Larson’s head snapped up from her desk, her glasses glinting as she hissed, “Shhh!”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles, while Eddie bit his lip to keep from laughing. “See?” he whispered, leaning closer so his breath tickled your ear. “You’re trouble, princess. Getting me in hot water with Larson already.”

“Me? You’re the one mouthing off about my pen!” you whispered back, your knee bumping his under the table. Neither of you moved away, and the contact sent a spark up your spine. You tried to focus on the textbook, but every time your hands brushed while pointing at a page or your eyes met over a shared joke, the air felt heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Hours passed, the library growing quieter as students trickled out. You managed to get through half the assignment, with Eddie actually understanding some of it, thanks to your knack for making history sound like a D&D campaign. But by the time Mrs. Larson announced closing time, you were both more focused on each other than the Battle of Bunker Hill. “Alright, you two, out!” she barked, shooing you toward the door with her clipboard.

Eddie grabbed your bag before you could, slinging it over his shoulder with his own. “C’mon, princess, let’s get you to your chariot,” he said, his tone teasing but his actions oddly gentlemanly. You followed him to the parking lot, the cool evening air hitting your skin as you reached your car. You slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and… nothing. The engine sputtered, coughed, and died. You tried again, but the car refused to cooperate.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, smacking the steering wheel. “This is not happening.”

Eddie, leaning against your car door, raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like your chariot’s more of a donkey. Need a ride, thrift store girl?”

You hesitated, but the thought of being stuck in the parking lot—or worse, calling your dad—was less appealing than Eddie’s offer. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Munson,” you said, grabbing your backpack and following him to his van.

The inside of Eddie’s van was exactly what you’d expected: a chaotic mix of cassette tapes, empty soda cans, and a faint smell of cigarettes and motor oil. He popped in a Metallica tape—Master of Puppets, of course—and cranked the volume as Battery blasted through the speakers. You couldn’t help but grin, tapping your fingers on your knee to the rhythm. “Okay, you were right about ‘Battery,’” you admitted, glancing at him. “That riff is a punch to the face.”

He shot you a smug look, one hand on the wheel. “Told you. Stick with me, princess, and I’ll educate you on the finer points of metal.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “And maybe fix that junk heap you call a guitar.”

You laughed, swatting his arm, and the drive passed in a blur of music and easy banter. You sang along to Master of Puppets, earning a surprised grin from Eddie when you nailed the lyrics, as if that still suprised him now, and he joined in, his voice rough but enthusiastic. By the time he pulled up to your house—a modest, neatly kept place with a trimmed lawn and a boring beige exterior—you were both still humming the chorus. It wasn’t as fancy as some of the McMansions owned by Hawkins’ elite, but it felt like home, even if Eddie privately thought it looked like every other suburban box on the block.

He hopped out to open your door, a surprisingly chivalrous move that made your cheeks warm. You stepped out, clutching your backpack, and before you could think twice, you threw your arms around him in a tight hug. “Thanks for the ride, Eddie. See you tomorrow,” you said, your voice muffled against his leather jacket. His arms hesitated for a split second before wrapping around you, warm and solid, and you felt his heart beat just a little faster against you.

“No problem, princess,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual. You pulled back, both of you flushed, and you gave him a shy smile before heading inside. He waited until your front door closed before climbing back into his van, his own face burning as he drove off, the ghost of your hug lingering.

Inside, your dad was leaning against the kitchen counter, a knowing smirk on his face. “So, you’re fully embracing the metal life now, huh? Even got yourself a metalhead boyfriend?” he teased, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee.

You groaned, tossing your bag onto the couch. “Shut up, Dad,” you said, but there was a smile tugging at your lips, and you didn’t deny it. Your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Eddie’s arms around you.

The next few days were a whirlwind. With a big basketball game coming up, cheer practice had you running ragged, perfecting routines and dodging Tammy’s nosy questions about why you were “so smiley lately.” Eddie, meanwhile, was neck-deep in prepping his next big Hellfire Club campaign, sketching out maps and tweaking NPC stats in the drama room late into the evening. But even with his focus on D&D, he couldn’t help noticing you in the halls, your cheer uniform swishing as you laughed with your friends. He’d never admit it out loud, but the sight of you in that skirt, all confidence and energy, was doing things to him. He caught himself staring more than once, quickly looking away before anyone noticed.

It wasn’t until Friday, after Hellfire’s campaign wrapped up, that you and Eddie found time to meet again. You'd left a note in his locker, suggesting another guitar lesson in the drama room. Hellfire had cleared out early, leaving the room quiet except for the faint hum of the school’s heating system. You sat cross-legged on the table, your thrift store guitar in your lap, while Eddie tuned it for you, his fingers deft and sure.

“You’re getting better at this,” he said, plucking a string and adjusting the peg. “Still sounds like a dying cat, but, like, a talented dying cat.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “You’re the worst, Munson. I’m trying, okay?”

He grinned, handing the guitar back to you, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to make your pulse spike. “Yeah, you are. And it’s kinda cute how hard you’re trying to impress me.”

“Impress you?” you scoffed, but your cheeks were pink. “Please, I’m just here to master Fade to Black and rub it in your face.”

The lesson started slow, with Eddie guiding you through a new riff, his hands occasionally correcting your form. The air was thick with tension, every touch lingering a little too long, every glance holding more than it should. You were hyper-aware of how close he was, his knee pressed against yours as he leaned over to adjust your grip. His hair fell into his face, and you had the sudden urge to brush it away, your fingers twitching on the guitar strings.

“You’re staring, princess,” he teased, his voice low, his eyes catching yours. He was closer now, close enough that you could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw.

“So are you,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper. Your heart was pounding, and you weren’t sure who leaned in first, but suddenly you were inches apart, his breath warm on your lips, your guitar forgotten in your lap. His hand rested on your knee, and you felt like you might combust.

“Eddie…” you started, but the words died as he tilted his head, his lips so close to yours you could almost taste them.

And then the door burst open.

“Yo, Eddie, I forgot my—oh, shit!” Dustin Henderson stumbled in, his backpack half-open, his eyes wide as saucers as he took in the scene. You and Eddie sprang apart, your guitar nearly sliding off your lap, your face burning. Eddie looked like he’d been caught stealing, his hand raking through his hair as he tried to play it cool.

“Dustin, what the hell, man?” Eddie groaned, standing up and crossing his arms. “Ever heard of knocking?”

Dustin was sputtering, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I—I—what? You’re—her? Y/N? You’re, like, the most popular girl in school! Why—how—what’s happening here? Is it the hair? Steve swore the hair’s what gets the ladies, but, like, you two have zero in common!”

You burst out laughing, the tension breaking as you clutched your stomach, tears pricking your eyes. “Oh my God, Dustin, calm down,” you managed, your face still flushed but your heart warm at the sight of Eddie trying to wrangle the younger boy.

Eddie shot you a grin, then turned to Dustin, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, Henderson. Chicks dig me, alright? It’s not that hard to believe.” He winked at you, and you laughed harder, shaking your head.

“Chicks dig you?” you teased, standing and slinging your guitar case over your shoulder. “Keep dreaming, Munson.”

The moment was thoroughly ruined, the air of intimacy shattered by Dustin’s chaotic entrance. You sighed, glancing at Eddie with a sheepish smile. “Guess we should call it a night, huh? Before Henderson has a heart attack.”

Eddie chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, probably for the best. C’mon, princess, I’ll walk you out.”

Dustin was still muttering to himself, grabbing his forgotten D20 from the table as Eddie steered him toward the door. “Go home, kid, and don’t tell the others about this. I don’t need the whole Hellfire Club losing their minds,” Eddie said, his tone half-serious, half-amused.

As Dustin scurried off, still looking shell-shocked, Eddie turned to you, his grin softening. You gathered your things, the lingering tension from your almost-kiss still buzzing under your skin, and followed him out of the drama room. The night air was cool against your heated cheeks as you walked to the parking lot, Eddie’s shoulder brushing yours every few steps. “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice low, almost shy. “Kid’s got the worst timing.”

“It’s fine,” you said, your smile warm despite the embarrassment. “He’s sweet. You’re good with him.”

Eddie shrugged, looking almost bashful.

Eddie shrugged, looking almost shy. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep those little shits in line.” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “See you tomorrow, princess?”

“Tomorrow,” you agreed, your heart doing that stupid flip again. As you climbed into your (now hopefully fixed) car, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were falling—hard—for the metalhead with the devil-may-care grin.

next part >

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

The Hawkins High hallways are dead quiet at night, the kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. You’re crouched behind the trophy case with Eddie, the air thick with the chemical tang of spray paint and the thrill of doing something you definitely shouldn’t. At fifteen, you’re a full-fledged teenager, and Eddie—sixteen, all lanky limbs and wilder curls—has only gotten worse at staying out of trouble. Or maybe you’re just better at following him into it. The trophy case, a gleaming shrine to jock glory, practically begged for a takedown. Every polished plaque and golden football taunts you, a reminder of the preps who sneer “trailer trash” when you pass, their laughter sharp as broken glass.

Eddie’s grinning, that feral, toothy grin that makes your stomach flip, as he shakes the spray paint can. The rattle echoes in the empty hall, and you nudge his shoulder, whispering, “Hurry up, Munson, before we get busted.” He winks, his eyes glinting under the dim emergency lights, and starts scrawling Conformists Suck in bold, dripping red. You stifle a giggle, grabbing your own can—borrowed from Wayne’s shed—and add a cartoonish devil with a pitchfork, its tail curling around a trophy’s base. It’s sloppy, rebellious, you, and for a moment, you feel invincible, like you and Eddie could burn this whole town down and laugh in the ashes.

“Masterpiece,” Eddie declares, stepping back to admire your work, his shoulder brushing yours. His warmth sends a shiver through you, different from the summer heat outside, and you catch yourself staring at him—his ripped jeans, the frayed Dio patch on his vest, the way his fingers twitch like he’s strumming an invisible guitar. He catches your gaze, and his grin softens, just for you. “What? Got paint on my face, princess?”

You roll your eyes, heart stuttering. “You wish you looked that cool.” But your voice is softer than you mean, and his laugh, low and warm, makes the air feel electric.

The high doesn’t last. By morning, Principal Higgins is on a warpath, his voice booming through the halls about “vandalism” and “disrespect.” Someone snitched—probably one of those cheerleaders who always glare at you—and by noon, Chief Hopper’s cruiser rolls into the trailer park, kicking up dust. You and Eddie are hauled to the station for a “talk,” his boots scuffing the floor, your hands twisting in your lap. Hopper’s gruff, but not cruel, his mustache twitching as he lectures you both. “Goddamn it, Munson, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day,” he growls, but his eyes soften when they land on you, like he knows you’re only in this because of Eddie.

Eddie takes the fall, like always. “My idea, Hop,” he says, leaning back in his chair, all fake nonchalance. “Y/N just tagged along for moral support.” You want to argue—he’s not wrong, but you’re not innocent either—but the words stick in your throat. Because then your dad shows up.

He stumbles into the station, reeking of whiskey and stale sweat, his eyes bloodshot and mean. He doesn’t even glance at Eddie, just grabs your arm, his grip bruising as he yanks you toward the door. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he snarls, and before you can pull away, his hand cracks across your cheek. The slap stings, sharp and hot, but it’s the humiliation that burns deeper, blooming like a bruise under your skin. Eddie’s there, watching, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles are white, his eyes blazing with a fury you’ve only seen once before—when he punched Tommy H. all those years ago. Hopper’s quick, stepping between you, holding Eddie back as he lunges forward, his voice a low growl. “Don’t you touch her!”

“Stay outta trouble, kid,” Hopper warns Eddie, his hand firm on his shoulder, oblivious to the real storm brewing. You don’t look at Eddie as your dad drags you to his truck, your cheek throbbing, your heart a tangled mess of shame and anger. You climb in, staring at your hands, the paint still smudged on your fingers like a secret you can’t wash away. You hear Eddie shouting your name as the door slams, but you don’t turn back. Not because you don’t want to—because you’re afraid if you do, you’ll run to him and never stop.

Eddie’s POV

Seeing her dad slap her like that? It takes everything in me not to swing on him right there in the station. Hopper’s grip is iron, but my blood’s boiling, flashbacks to Tommy H. hitting me like a freight train. She’s mine to protect—always has been, since we were kids drawing chalk bats and flowers. I pace the trailer after, Wayne watching me with that quiet concern. “She’ll be okay, boy,” he says, but I know better. Her dad’s gotten worse, and every time she crashes here to escape him, it kills me a little more. I want to storm over, drag her out, but I wait. She always comes back to me.

Reader’s POV

The bruise fades over the next few days, but the awkwardness lingers. You crash at Eddie’s more than ever, curling up on his mattress like old times, but now every brush of his arm feels loaded. School’s the same grind—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, gossip buzzing like flies. You adjust your hoop earrings, the silver catching the fluorescent light as you lean against your locker. Your cropped baby tee shows a sliver of midriff, paired with high-waisted hot pants that hug your hips, making you feel like you could take on the world. Fashion’s your armor now, a way to feel girly, confident, even hot—despite Eddie’s teasing that it’s “pointless.” You’re not that shy six-year-old anymore; at fifteen, you’ve grown into yourself, bold on the outside, even if the inside’s still a mess.

Across the hall, Eddie’s holding court with Hellfire Club—Gareth, Jeff, Doug—gesturing wildly about the latest D&D campaign or Hawkins’ conformist bullshit. His curls bounce, his denim vest a patchwork of bands and pins, flashing devil horns at a passing jock who flips him off. You smirk, watching him. They’re his friends, not yours—not really. You’re the tag-along, the girl he claimed back in the trailer park. But lately, things feel… charged. Like the air before a storm.

Theres Spring Fling posters plastered in the halls in gaudy pinks and blues, everyone buzzing about dresses and dates. You overhear girls giggling, and though you’d never admit it, you want that—a magical night, flowy dress, sparkling earrings, bold makeup. And deep down, you picture swaying to cheesy songs in Eddie’s arms. But he’d rather light himself on fire than go to what he calls a “capitalist prom nightmare.”

“Overrated garbage,” he scoffs at lunch, tossing a grape at Gareth. “Preps slow-dancing to Madonna while chaperones sniff for weed. Hard pass.”

You laugh with the others, but your heart sinks. You can’t admit you want to go—not when he’d tease you mercilessly.

Then, in study hall, Jake Stout—not the worst jock, but still one of them—catches you at the vending machine. His smile’s nervous, hands in his letterman jacket. “Hey, uh, Y/N,” he started, scratching his neck. “You going to the Spring Fling with Munson?”

Did people assume that? “Uh, no, I'm not going with Eddie.”

Jake looked surprised, a grin spreading across his face. “What, really? Then… well, I was thinking… maybe you’d wanna go with me? As my date?”

Your brain shorts. Jake Stout, asking you? It feels like a prank, but he seems earnest. “I’ll… think about it,” you say, bolting back to your seat, heart racing.

That afternoon, you and Eddie were sprawled on the mattress in his trailer, the familiar smell of weed and motor oil lingering in the air. You’d just come from Corroded Coffin practice in Gareth’s garage, leaving you and Eddie to your usual routine—talking shit, sharing a bag of pretzels, and avoiding your respective home. You were quieter than usual, your mind spinning over Jake’s offer, and Eddie noticed. “You’re being weird. What’s up?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit. No secrets, remember?”

You sigh. “I got asked out to the Spring Fling... by Jake Stout”

His eyes widened, his hand freezing halfway to the pretzel bag. For a second, he didn’t say anything, and you misread it—thought he was shocked that someone like Jake would ask you out, like it was some cosmic joke. Your cheeks burned, and you rushed to fill the silence, desperate to appease him.

“I haven’t said yes yet,” you said quickly. “But… I kinda want to go.” Eddie’s face was unreadable, a rare occurrence that made your stomach twist. “I know you hate the dance and all, but I think it could be fun, y’know? And since you’re not going, I figured…” You trailed off, your voice small.

Eddie’s jaw tightened, and something flickered in his eyes—jealousy, though you didn’t dare hope. His entire world felt like it shifted, but he forced a grin. “Jake Stout, huh? Didn’t know you were into jocks now.”

“It’s not like that,” you muttered, heart sinking. Not the reaction you hoped for. “Forget it.”

He wanted to say something—anything—to keep you from going with Jake. Hell, he wanted to tell you to go with him instead. But the words stuck in his throat, and all he could manage was, “You gonna say yes?”

You shrugged, acting nonchalant even though your heart was pounding. “Maybe.”

The weeks before the dance were weird. You still crashed at Eddie’s trailer most nights, avoiding your dad’s drunken rages, which had gotten worse since the spray paint incident. You and Eddie still shared his mattress, your head tucked against his shoulder, his arm slung loosely around you. Before, those moments brought pure comfort, a feeling of safety. Now, every touch felt electric, like you were both hyper-aware of each other. You’d catch him staring when he thought you weren’t looking, and you wondered if he noticed you doing the same.

Meanwhile, Corroded Coffin scored a regular spot at The Hideout, and you were their first—and only—groupie, cheering louder than the handful of drunks in the dingy bar. You loved dressing up like the rockstar girlfriends you saw in scandalous tabloids, all bold makeup and edgy outfits. Eddie’s guitar skills had sharpened, his fingers flying over the strings, a far cry from the days when his early strumming tortured your existence. You swore he was serenading you with every riff. You’d become a metalhead because of him, trading your pop radio for the Metallica and Black Sabbath tapes he got you, though you still snuck in some Madonna when he wasn’t around. Watching him perform, all confidence and chaos, made your chest ache in the best way. And Eddie? He couldn’t help the smug grin when you cheered, eyes only on him.

The night of the Spring Fling arrived, and you stood in front of the cracked mirror in Eddie’s room, smoothing out your dress—a shimmery, deep green number that hugged your curves and made your eyes sparkle. You’d spent ages on your hair, pinning it into a pretty updo, and your makeup was bolder than usual, with winged eyeliner and glossy lips. Eddie pouted on his mattress behind you, moodier than ever. You’d wanted to ask him for outfit advice, like he used to indulge you in during your little fashion shows, but he was too busy sulking.

“Stop moping,” you teased, catching his eye in the mirror. “It’s just a dance.”

He grunted, strumming his guitar with unnecessary force. “Whatever.”

You turned to him, hoping he’d say something—tell you you looked beautiful, or hell, tell you not to go with Jake. But he didn’t, so you sighed heading to the living room, then suddenly a loud knock echoed through the trailer.

Wayne answered the front door, his brows shooting up at Jake in a pressed button-up. “You’re here for Y/N?” he asked, glancing toward Eddie’s room. “Thought you and Eddie…” He trailed off, shaking his head. Kids.

Eddie didn’t come out. He stayed in his room, strumming too loudly, brooding over the fact that you were dolled up for someone else.

The dance was fine. Jake was polite, even charming in his own way. You had a few decent conversations about music (he liked Springsteen, which you could respect), and dancing with him was fun enough. But his friends were dicks, snickering behind your back, and the spiked punch didn’t dull the boredom creeping in. You kept thinking about Eddie—how he’d be making you laugh, sneaking you outside to share a cigarette and mock the cheesy decorations.

When Jake wandered off with his buddies, you slipped away to the school’s payphone and dialed the Munson trailer. Wayne picked up, but you asked for Eddie.

“Yeah?” Eddie’s voice was gruff, like he’d been sulking.

“Can you pick me up?” you asked softly. “I’m… not really feeling it.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Be there in ten.”

True to his word, Eddie pulled up in Wayne’s beat-up Chevy, looking like he’d thrown himself together at the last minute. His hair was tamed (barely), and he wore a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up, paired with his least-ripped jeans. A slow love rock tape—Bon Jovi, of all things—played softly through the speakers, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“You look…” He cleared his throat, gripping the steering wheel. “You look nice. Sorry I didn’t say anything before.”

“Thanks,” you said, cheeks warm as you climbed into the car. “You clean up okay yourself.”

He snorted, and you both laughed, the tension easing just a bit.

He drove to the quarry, your spot since you were kids. The tape played on, and when Never Say Goodbye came on, Eddie parked and turned to you. “Wanna dance? Since your night kinda sucked. Wanna make it up to you.”

You laughed, heart racing. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Why not?” He smirked, but his eyes were soft. “Better than that lame-ass gym, right?”

“Fine, but if I step on your toes, it’s your fault for picking gravel,” you teased, hopping out of the car.

He followed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please, you’re not that clumsy.”

“Says the guy who tripped over his own amp last week,” you shot back, grinning.

Under the stars, with the gravel crunching under your feet, you swayed together, his hands tentative on your waist, yours around his neck. The music was faint, but it didn’t matter. “You’re holding me like I’m gonna break, Munson,” you muttered, nudging him closer.

“Shut up, I’m being romantic,” he quipped, but his grip tightened just a bit, his thumb brushing your hip. “You’re the one who looks like a damn rockstar’s muse tonight.”

You smirked, but your heart was pounding. “Maybe I am.”

He snorted, but his eyes locked on yours, all soft and nervous. The teasing faded, and the air grew heavy. You leaned in first, your lips meeting his—hesitant, like you were both testing the waters. Then it deepened, a rush of warmth and certainty, like every moment you’d shared since you were kids had been leading here. His hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, and you felt his heart racing against yours. It was messy, imperfect, and so Eddie—like he was pouring every unspoken word into that kiss.

When you pulled back, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours. “Took us long enough, huh?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling. “Dumbass.”

It wasn’t a question of being boyfriend and girlfriend. You didn’t need labels. You were you and Eddie—always had been, always would be—now just a little more, in a way that felt as natural as breathing.

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

The week leading up to your first guitar lesson with Eddie Munson was… weird. Like, Twilight Zone weird. You’d started noticing him—really noticing him—and it was like you couldn’t stop. In the cafeteria, you’d catch yourself glancing at his table, where he’d be holding court with his Hellfire Club buddies, all dramatic gestures and loud laughter. Once, you even waved at him from across the room, a bright, impulsive little gesture that made your friends’ heads whip around like you’d just set off a firecracker. “What was that?” Tammy Thompson had hissed, her perfectly glossed lips pursed in confusion. You just swatted her arm, laughing it off. “Oh, relax, it’s just Eddie.”

But it wasn’t just Eddie. Not anymore. And the way his dark eyes had locked onto yours when you waved, one eyebrow quirking up like he was trying to figure you out? Yeah, that stuck with you. It stuck with his friends too, apparently, because Dustin Henderson and Mike Wheeler were giving him major side-eye, whispering furiously as Eddie just smirked and shrugged, playing it cool. He stayed tight-lipped, though, even when Gareth prodded him later in the hall, all “Dude, what’s with you and the cheerleader?” Eddie just flicked a cigarette butt into the trash and muttered, “None of your business, man.”

He wasn’t sure what was going on himself. Why was a girl like you—Hawkins High royalty, all curls and lip gloss and perfect grades—suddenly noticing him? He’d spent years being invisible to you, just another freak in the background of your charmed life. And now here you were, waving at him like it was nothing, like you weren’t risking your pristine social status just by acknowledging his existence. It made his skin itch, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. A prank. A setup. Something. Because girls like you didn’t just… hang out with guys like him.

But now, here you were, standing in the drama room—the Hellfire Club’s makeshift dungeon—after school on a Tuesday. The room smelled faintly of old costumes and dust, with mismatched chairs scattered around a table covered in D&D manuals and empty Mountain Dew cans. You stood there, clutching a beat-up acoustic guitar that looked like it had been through a war. The wood was scratched, the strings were dull, and one of the tuning pegs was slightly bent. Eddie eyed it skeptically, his arms crossed as he leaned against the table, thinking of his own guitar—his beloved Sweetheart, a cherry-red Warlock he treated better than most people, safe at home in his bedroom.

“Where the hell did you get that piece of trash?” he asked, nodding at your guitar with a mix of amusement and horror.

You gasped, mock-offended, cradling the guitar like it was your child. “That’s so mean, Eddie! I found it at the thrift store for, like, twenty-five bucks!” Your voice was bright, proud even, as you beamed at him. “I’d been wanting a guitar for a while, so when I saw this, I had to get it. It’s got character, don’t you think?”

“Character?” Eddie snorted, pushing off the table to circle you and inspect the guitar closer. “Sweetheart, that thing’s got one foot in the grave. I’d never let my baby end up in that condition.” He shook his head, a small grin tugging at his lips as he thought of his pristine Warlock. “But okay, thrift store girl, I’ll bite. Why do you want to learn guitar? And don’t tell me it’s to play some cheesy bonfire songs to impress your crush, ‘cause you came to the wrong guy for that.”

You swatted his arm, your touch light but enough to make him freeze for a split second. “Don’t be silly, Munson. I want to play Ride the Lightning—you know, Metallica?" You pressed a finger against the Metallica patch on his vest, "The whole album, start to finish.” You smiled sweetly, like you hadn’t just dropped a bombshell, and Eddie’s brain short-circuited.

His mouth went dry, and he just stared at you, his usual quick wit abandoning him. “What the hell? Metallica? You?” He ran a hand through his hair, his rings catching the dim light of the drama room’s flickering fluorescents. “No offense, princess, but I didn’t peg you for the type. You’re telling me you’re into thrash metal?”

You raised an eyebrow, matching his playful vibe. “What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t think you were so close-minded, Munson.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Close-minded? Me? Nah, I’m just trying to wrap my head around this. You, Miss Hawkins High, listening to Metallica. It’s like finding out a cat can play the piano.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “Prove it. Why Ride the Lightning? Why not, I dunno, Madonna or some shit?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t back down, your voice turning serious as you clutched your guitar tighter. “Okay, fine. I’ve listened to a ton of stuff—Dio, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath. But most of it didn’t really… stick, you know? Like, it was cool, but I wasn’t obsessed. Then I heard Ride the Lightning, and when Creeping Death came on I just—” You broke off, your eyes lighting up as you gestured wildly. “It blew my mind. I got goosebumps, Eddie. Kirk Hammett’s riffs? The way the song builds and just explodes? It’s insane. I couldn’t stop listening to it. I need to learn how to do that.”

Eddie was still processing, his brain stuck on a loop: You, Metallica. You, Metallica. It didn’t compute. You, with your cheerleader skirt and perfect curls, geeking out over Kirk Hammett? He was so stunned he didn’t even question how you’d stumbled across thrash metal in the first place. In his head, he was picturing you in your pristine bedroom, surrounded by pink pillows and pompoms, headbanging to Creeping Death. It was absurd. It was… kind of hot?

In your own mind, you were thinking back to the summer, when your dad had dragged you to the living room for one of his “real music” sessions. He was always going on about how you needed to appreciate the classics—Zeppelin, Sabbath, Deep Purple. You’d humor him, mostly because you loved the way his face lit up when he talked about music, even if you didn’t get the appeal. But then he’d put on Ride the Lightning and it was like the world shifted. You’d sat there, jaw dropped, as the songs relentless energy hit you like a tidal wave. Your dad had smirked, all smug, muttering, “Told you Metallica’s the real deal.” That was the moment you became a fan—not just of Metallica, but of metal itself. Even the Dio and Maiden songs you’d brushed off before started to click. You’d never told your friends, though. They’d probably laugh or call it weird. But with Eddie? You felt like you could let your guard down.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie said finally, holding up his hands like he was surrendering. “You’re a Metallica fan. I’m not dreaming. Got it.” He shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “But I gotta say, princess, you’re full of surprises.”

You smirked, nudging him with your elbow. “And you’re not as scary as you think you are, Munson,” you shot back, your voice playful. “So what, you think Master of Puppets is the superior album? Typical.”

Eddie’s jaw dropped, mock-offended. “Typical? Excuse me, thrift store girl, but Master of Puppets is a masterpiece. It’s got everything—riffs, storytelling, that raw power. You’re telling me you’re picking Ride the Lightning over it?” He leaned closer, his eyes glinting with challenge. “C’mon, defend your choice.”

You laughed, not backing down. “Oh, I will. Ride the Lightning has this… intensity, you know? Like, Fade to Black hits you right in the soul, and Creeping Death is just—” You mimed an explosion with your hands, your enthusiasm making Eddie’s grin widen. “It’s relentless. Master of Puppets is great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s like they perfected the chaos on Ride. It’s raw, it’s real.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider it, then shook his head with a dramatic sigh. “Raw? Sure. But you’re sleeping on Battery, princess. That opening riff?” He mimed shredding an air guitar, his fingers flying over invisible strings, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how animated he got. “It’s like a punch to the face—in a good way.”

“Okay, fine, Battery is killer,” you conceded, leaning against the table next to him, your shoulder brushing his for a fleeting moment. “But don’t you dare diss For Whom the Bell Tolls. That bassline? Cliff Burton was a genius.”

Eddie’s eyes lit up, and he pointed at you like you’d just unlocked a secret. “Okay, respect. You’re throwing Cliff’s name in there? Maybe you’re not as hopeless as I thought.” He paused, his grin turning mischievous. “But that guitar of yours? Still a piece of junk. Bet it couldn’t handle a Metallica riff if its life depended on it.”

You gasped, clutching your thrift store guitar to your chest. “Take that back, Munson! This baby’s got potential. It just needs a little love.”

“Love?” He snorted, his voice dripping with mock pity. “That thing needs a miracle. You’re lucky you’ve got me to teach you, or you’d be strumming Kumbaya for the rest of your life.”

You swatted his arm again, and this time he caught your hand mid-air, his fingers wrapping around your wrist for a split second before letting go. The touch was quick, but it sent a jolt through you, and you saw the way his eyes flickered, like he felt it too. “Keep talking smack about my guitar, and I’ll make you eat your words,” you teased, trying to play off the sudden warmth in your cheeks.

“Oh, big threats from the cheerleader,” he said, leaning closer, his voice low and teasing. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

The banter flowed so easily, the two of you trading jabs and music hot takes like you’d been friends for years. You argued over whether Hetfield’s vocals were better raw or polished, whether Kill ‘Em All was underrated, and if Dio could out-sing Ozzy on a good day. Every time you landed a good point, Eddie’s grin grew, like he was secretly impressed but too stubborn to admit it. And every time he fired back with some snarky comment, you felt that spark again, that pull that made your heart race just a little faster. It was easy, fun, and before you knew it, you glanced at your watch and gasped.

“Eddie, oh my God, it’s been hours!” you said, your eyes wide. “And I’m still not any better at playing!”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, my bad. Got a little carried away. Alright, let’s get to it. Show me what you’ve got so far, thrift store girl.”

You hesitated, suddenly self-conscious as you shifted the guitar in your lap. “It’s… not much. I’m really bad, okay? Don’t laugh.”

“Me? Laugh? Never,” he said, but his grin was pure mischief. He sat across from you and nodded. “Go on, play something. Anything.”

You took a deep breath, your fingers fumbling over the strings as you tried to play a simple chord progression you’d been practicing. It was… rough. The G chord buzzed, the C was half-muted, and you completely missed the D, your fingers slipping off the fretboard. You winced, looking up at him with an embarrassed grimace. “See? Told you I’m awful.”

Eddie tilted his head, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s not awful, it’s just… unpolished. You’re pressing too hard on the strings, and your fingers are all over the place. Here, let me show you.”

He scooted closer, the space between you shrinking to almost nothing. Your breath hitched as he reached over, his calloused fingers brushing against yours as he repositioned them on the fretboard. “Like this,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “Keep your thumb on the back of the neck, not wrapped around. And don’t strangle the strings—you’re not trying to choke ‘em out.” His hands were warm, his touch careful but confident, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck as he adjusted your grip. He was so close, his knee brushing against yours, his hair falling forward as he leaned in to check your form.

You swallowed, trying to focus on the guitar and not the fact that Eddie Munson was basically pressed against you. “O-okay,” you stammered, strumming again. The chord came out cleaner this time, and you looked up at him, a small, hopeful smile tugging at your lips. “Better?”

“Much,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a moment before he pulled back, clearing his throat. “Now try moving to the C. Slow, don’t rush it.”

The lesson went on like that, with Eddie guiding you through basic chords and strumming patterns. Every time you fumbled, he’d lean in again, his hands brushing yours to adjust your fingers or show you a new position. At one point, he reached across to correct your wrist angle, his arm draped over yours for a fleeting moment, and you swore your heart skipped a beat. He didn’t seem to notice, though—or if he did, he didn’t let on, just kept talking about chord transitions like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it wasn’t normal. Not for you. The air in the room felt thicker, charged with something you couldn’t quite name. Every time his fingers grazed yours or his knee bumped against yours, it was like a tiny spark, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to run away or lean into it. Eddie, for his part, was trying to play it cool, but you caught the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long when you laughed, or the way his voice softened when he praised you. There was something there, a pull neither of you could ignore.

By the end of the lesson, you’d managed to play a shaky but recognizable version of the opening riff to Fade to Black, and you were practically glowing with pride. Eddie leaned back, crossing his arms with a satisfied nod. “Not bad, princess. Not bad at all for an uptown doll.”

You flushed, a mix of flustered and proud, and swatted his arm again. “You’re a pretty good teacher for such a bad student, Munson.” You hesitated, then added with a shy smile, “Speaking of which, give me your history assignment. I’ll write it for you, like we agreed.”

Eddie held up his hands, a surprising seriousness in his eyes. “Nah, hold up. I’m not just gonna let you do my homework for me. Especially not after…” He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck again, like he was embarrassed to admit he’d actually had fun. “How about this? You help me with it instead. Like, tutor me or whatever. Tomorrow, in the library.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Eddie Munson, voluntarily suggesting the library? “You’re serious?”

He smirked, but there was something softer behind it. “Yeah, I’m serious. Don’t make me regret it, though.” He stood and you followed, gathering your things. As you walked out to the parking lot together, the sun dipping low and casting long shadows across the asphalt, you felt that spark again—that unspoken thing simmering between you.

“See you tomorrow then, Munson,” you said, flashing him a smile that felt a little too warm, a little too real.

He grinned back, his eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. “Yeah, see you, princess.”

As you drove away, you couldn’t stop smiling, your heart racing with the memory of his hands on yours, his voice in your ear. And Eddie, climbing into his van, was already replaying the way you’d looked at him when you nailed that riff—bright, proud, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit into him.

next part >

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

You were the kind of girl who turned heads in the halls of Hawkins High. Perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect life. Cheerleader, top of the social food chain, the kind of popular that made people whisper your name like it was currency. Eddie Munson, on the other hand? Bottom of the barrel, according to the jocks and preps who ruled the school. Not that he gave a shit. He wore his "freak" label like a badge of honor, strutting through the halls with his Hellfire Club, flipping off anyone who dared sneer.

But even Eddie couldn’t deny it—you were stunning. Not that he’d ever admit it out loud. You were everything he despised: the pristine poster child of Hawkins’ elite, always surrounded by your giggling posse of cheerleaders and letterman-jacket-wearing meatheads. He’d heard the rumors about you and that California jerk Billy Hargrove a few years back, but since then? Nothing. No whispers of a new boyfriend, no juicy gossip about your love life. It was weird, honestly. A girl like you? You could have anyone. So why didn’t you?

Eddie didn’t hate you—not like he hated the rest of your crowd. You were… different. You never laughed when Jason Carver or his goons tripped a freshman in the cafeteria. You never sneered at the Hellfire kids or called them names. Hell, you never even looked at Eddie. Not a glance, not a word. It was like he didn’t exist in your world, and that stung more than he’d care to admit. At least the bullies acknowledged him, even if it was to be dicks. You? You just floated above it all, untouchable.

So why, in his seventh year of this godforsaken high school hellscape (thank you, prolonged graduation struggles), were you suddenly staring at him? It started a few weeks into the school year. Eddie caught you looking at him in the cafeteria, your eyes flicking away the second he met your gaze. Then in history class, when he was doodling skulls in his notebook instead of listening to Mrs. Click drone on about the Civil War, he swore he felt your eyes burning into the back of his head. By the third time—your cheer skirt swishing as you leaned against a locker, stealing a glance before your friends dragged you away—he was convinced he was losing it.

You still acted the same with your uptown girlfriends, all smiles and hair flips, so what was the deal? Were you plotting something? Was this some kind of twisted prank cooked up by your clique? Eddie’s paranoia was in overdrive, especially when he saw a shadow dart out of the drama room one evening after Hellfire Club. The door was still swinging, and he could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of your signature cheerleader ponytail disappearing around the corner. But you? At Hellfire? No way. He chalked it up to his imagination.

Then came the note.

It fluttered out of his locker one morning, a neatly folded piece of paper with girlish, loopy handwriting. Eddie raised an eyebrow, picking it up like it might bite him. The faint scent of something sweet—perfume, maybe?—hit his nose, and he scrunched his face. What the hell? He unfolded it, reading the words scrawled in pink ink:

Meet me after school today at the benches behind the school :).

No signature. No explanation. Just that prim, perfect script. Eddie snorted, shoving the note into his pocket. Probably some preppy kid looking to score weed for one of their lame rager parties. He’d dealt with their kind before—too “busy” to show up themselves, sending their girlfriends or lackeys instead. Whatever. He’d show up, make a quick buck, and get out before the jocks could jump him.

The rest of the school day dragged on, Eddie half-assing his classes as usual, doodling in his notebook and ignoring the whispers about “Munson the Freak.” When the final bell rang, he grabbed his jacket, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed to the benches behind the school. His stomach twisted with a sense of anticipation, but he shook it off. This was just business.

Except it wasn’t.

When he rounded the corner, there you were, sitting on the bench, legs crossed, cheer skirt riding up just enough to make his brain short-circuit for a second. You were alone, no boyfriend or posse in sight, and you looked… nervous? Your fingers twisted the hem of your sweater, and you kept glancing around like you were expecting someone to pop out of the bushes. Eddie stopped dead in his tracks, his combat boots scuffing the dirt.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. “What’s the Hawkins High princess doing here?”

You looked up at the sound of his voice, your eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. For a second, neither of you said anything. Then Eddie, ever the charmer, plastered on a teasing grin and sauntered over, hands in his pockets. “Let me guess. Your jock boyfriend’s too busy to come buy his own stash, so he sent you to do his dirty work? Classy.”

You blinked, clearly thrown off. “What? No, I—”

“Don’t play coy, princess,” he cut in, leaning against the picnic table and crossing his arms. “Let’s make this quick. How much do you want? And don’t waste my time—I’m not in the mood for games.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion written all over your face. “I… I don’t want drugs, Eddie.”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Right. So what, you here to hire me for some dirty work? Scare your parents? Slash someone’s tires? I don’t do that shit, sweetheart.”

You stared at him for a moment, then let out a laugh—a bright, genuine sound that caught him completely off guard. “Oh my God, no! Do you really think I’d ask you to do something like that?”

Eddie’s smirk faltered. Okay, maybe he’d misread this. “Then what the hell do you want? People like you don’t just show up to my spot for a friendly chat.”

You bit your lip, suddenly shy, and Eddie noticed the way your fingers tightened around your sweater again. “Okay, um… this is gonna sound weird, but… are you really as good at guitar as you say you are? Like, the whole ‘shredder extraordinaire’ thing?”

He blinked. What? “You’re here about my guitar skills?” He dragged a hand through his hair, his rings glinting in the afternoon sun. A small, confident grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I’m pretty damn good, the best Hawkins has to offer, if I do say so myself.” He leaned back slightly, his tone light but self-assured. “But what’s this about, some kind of prank? Did Carver put you up to this?”

“No, no, it’s not a prank!” you said quickly, your cheeks flushing pink. “I’m serious! Okay, so, over the summer, I bought a guitar, right? I’ve been trying to learn some songs, but I’m, like, really bad at it. Like, embarrassingly bad. And I can’t afford lessons because my parents are all, ‘You’re old enough to pay for your own hobbies now, get a job,’ which is so unfair, by the way, because I’m already juggling cheer and school and—” You were rambling now, your words tumbling over each other, and Eddie couldn’t help but find it… kind of adorable?

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, princess,” he said, hopping up to sit on the table in front of you, one hand resting on your arm to stop your nervous tirade. Your skin was warm under his touch, and he pulled his hand back quickly, clearing his throat. “Let me get this straight. You want to learn guitar… from me?”

You nodded, looking up at him with those big, earnest eyes. “Yeah. Not for free though! I thought maybe we could make a deal? Like, I could help you with homework or something, since I know you’re, um… not super into school stuff.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, amused. “Homework? You think I need a tutor, cheerleader?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a teasing drawl. “And what does your boyfriend think about you getting private lessons from the town freak?”

You tilted your head, confused. “What boyfriend? I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

His smirk vanished. “Wait. You’re not? But you’re…” He gestured vaguely at you—your perfect hair, your glossy lips, your cheerleader skirt. “You’re you. How are you not dating some quarterback?”

You laughed again, but this time it was drier, less happy. “I don’t care about that stuff, Eddie. Status, popularity… it’s all so fake sometimes. And for the record, I’ve never bothered you or your friends, have I?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. She had a point. You’d never been cruel, never joined in when your friends made snide comments about him or the Hellfire kids. But that didn’t let you off the hook entirely. “Maybe not,” he said, his voice hardening. “But you never stopped them either, did you? Just stood there, looking pretty, letting your friends be assholes. That’s called being complicit, princess.”

Your face fell, and for a moment, you looked genuinely hurt. “I… yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.” Your voice was soft, sincere, and Eddie felt a pang of guilt for snapping at you. In your head, he could almost see the gears turning—those were your childhood friends, the ones you’d grown up with, shared sleepovers and secrets with. They weren’t bad people, just products of Hawkins’ suffocating social hierarchy, shaped by their parents’ expectations. You were lucky, you thought—you had cool parents who didn’t pressure you like that. Well, except for making you work for your hobbies, which you still whined about in your head.

You looked up at him again, your eyes pleading. “But… will you do it? Teach me, I mean? Pretty please?”

Eddie wanted to say no. He should say no. You were trouble, a walking social landmine. Getting involved with you was asking for drama, and he’d had enough of that in his life. But then he looked at you—really looked at you. Your curly hair catching the sunlight, your lip gloss shimmering, your cheer skirt showing just enough leg to make his teenage brain malfunction. And those eyes, big and hopeful, practically begging him.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Goddamn it, fine. I’ll teach you. But you better not flake on the homework deal, princess. I’m failing algebra again, and I’m not above bribery.”

Your face lit up, a grin spreading across your lips. “Deal! Oh my gosh, thank you, Eddie! You won’t regret it, I promise!”

He muttered something under his breath about already regretting it, but the truth was, he wasn’t so sure. There was something about you—something that made him think this might just be the stupidest, or maybe the best, decision he’d ever made.

next part >

Thank you @hauntedhouseofhargrove for letting me use your beautiful divider <3

The summer heat clings to your skin like a second shirt, heavy and unrelenting as you hold tight to Eddie’s waist. The bike—a rusty, pieced-together relic you both found last summer and fixed up with Wayne’s help—wobbles under his reckless pedaling. The quarry’s just ahead, shimmering in the haze, and Eddie’s cackling as he swerves on purpose, making you squeal.

“Scaredy-cat!” he teases, tossing a grin over his shoulder. His hair’s grown out since kindergarten, a wild mop of curls that bounce with every bump.

“I’m not scared!” you shout back, tightening your grip. You’re not, not really. Not anymore. When you first met Eddie at six, you were a mouse, scurrying from your dad’s temper and the world’s sharp edges. Eddie was the one who coaxed you out, with his loud laugh and relentless energy. Like that time he dared you to climb the trailer park’s water tower, promising to catch you if you fell. You didn’t—your palms were sweaty, but you made it to the top, Eddie cheering like you’d conquered Everest. Or when he snuck you into the arcade, teaching you how to cheat the claw machine for a stuffed bat you still keep on your bed. Bit by bit, he’s chipped away at your shell, and now, with him, you feel like you could take on anything.

But not every night is as easy as this. Last week, you forced yourself back to your trailer, even though leaving Eddie’s feels like tearing off a piece of your heart. Wayne’s too kind to call you a burden, but the worry gnaws at you anyway—that you’re taking up too much space, eating too much of their food. You’d rather face the cold silence of your own home than overstay your welcome. That night, your dad was there, stumbling through the door, reeking of whiskey and stale cigarettes. His voice was a low, vicious growl, spitting curses about the world, the plant, you. “Always in the way,” he slurred, his heavy footsteps shaking the trailer’s flimsy walls. You curled into a ball on your bed, knees to your chest, heart hammering so loud you thought it might burst. The air felt too thin, the walls too close, his anger seeping through the cracks like poison.

You couldn’t breathe. Barefoot, in just your oversized t-shirt and shorts, you slipped out the door, the gravel biting your soles as you ran across the trailer park. The night was thick with summer humidity, but all you could feel was the cold knot in your chest. You tapped on Eddie’s window, your knuckles trembling, tears already blurring the stars above. The curtain twitched, and there he was—wild hair, sleepy eyes, and a Metallica shirt so faded it was more gray than black. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask questions, just pushed the window open and pulled you inside, his hands steady on your shaking arms.

“Y/N, what happened?” His voice was a whisper, thick with worry, his eyes searching yours like he could read every hurt you didn’t say. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to explain the way your dad’s voice carved holes in you. Instead, you collapsed against him, face buried in his shoulder, tears soaking through his shirt. He smelled like sweat and the faint tang of Wayne’s coffee, and it was the safest thing you’d ever known.

Eddie wrapped a blanket around you, tugging it tight like he could shield you from the world. He didn’t push, didn’t demand answers, just held you close, one arm around your shoulders, his chin resting on your head. “I’ve got you, princess,” he murmured, his voice soft but fierce. “Always. Like back when I clocked Tommy H., remember? Nobody messes with my Y/N.” The memory of his tiny fists swinging for you, his fierce loyalty even at seven, pulled you back from the edge. You nodded against his chest, your sobs slowing, the warmth of him grounding you. He stayed up with you, humming some Black Sabbath riff under his breath, his hand never leaving yours. You fell asleep curled against him, his heartbeat a steady promise that you weren’t alone.

Eddie’s POV

Y/N’s different now, braver, but only when it’s just us. I see it at the quarry, where she’s diving into the water without a second thought, laughing as she splashes me. She’s not the shy kid who flinched at every loud noise anymore. But around other people? She’s still quiet, like she’s waiting for permission to exist. Drives me nuts, ‘cause she’s awesome, and those preppy assholes at school don’t deserve to make her feel small.

The quarry’s our spot. We’re sprawled on the rocks now, drying off, the sun baking our skin. She’s giggling, flicking water at me, and I’m giving it right back, calling her a “prissy princess” just to see her roll her eyes. “You’re the one with the princess hair, Munson,” she shoots back, and I clutch my chest like she’s wounded me. God, I love her laugh. It’s like music, even better than the new Iron Maiden album I scored last week.

Back when we were younger, she was so scared all the time, always shrinking into herself like she thought the world might hit her. I’d drag her into my dumb ideas just to see her smile—sneaking into the junkyard to scavenge parts for a “spaceship” that was really just a pile of scrap, or “borrowing” Wayne’s tools to build a wobbly skateboard ramp that collapsed the second we tried it. She’d hesitate, eyes wide, but she’d follow me every time, and when she laughed, it was like I’d won something bigger than any game.

She’s always been there when I need her, too. Like last year, when my dad rolled back into town, all fake promises and slick smiles. He swore he’d take me away, start fresh somewhere, be a real dad. I bought it for about a day before he vanished again, leaving me with a half-empty pack of smokes and a hole in my chest. I was a wreck, punching the trailer walls until my knuckles bled, hating him, hating myself for believing him. Y/N found me like that, curled up on my bed, the air thick with my anger. She didn’t try to fix it with words—knew I’d just snap. Instead, she grabbed my old record player, put on Master of Reality, and sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through my comic books like it was any other day.

“Tell me he’s a dick,” I muttered, voice raw.

“He’s a dick,” she said simply, not looking up, but her voice was steady, like she was holding me together just by being there. I ranted until my throat hurt, about my dad, about Hawkins, about how nothing ever worked out. She listened, nodding, letting me spill every ugly thought until I ran out of steam. When I finally shut up, she slid next to me, resting her head on my shoulder. “You’ve got me and Wayne,” she said, quiet but sure. “That’s better than him.” And it was. She’s my anchor, even if she doesn’t know it. Like that time I got jumped by those jocks behind the school, their fists bruising my ribs for daring to exist. Y/N was there before I could blink, all five feet of her, stepping between us with a glare so fierce they actually backed off, muttering something like "Munson's Slut" under their breath. She patched me up after, her hands gentle but her voice sharp, muttering about how she’d “burn their stupid letterman jackets” if they tried it again. I laughed through the pain, and it was like she’d stitched me back together inside and out. Or when I flunked that math test and thought I was doomed. She stayed up with me, quizzing me until I got it, even though she was exhausted. I’m not much without her, either. She makes me better—calms the chaos in my head. Like now, at the quarry, when she’s laughing so hard she’s snorting. I could watch her forever. She’s my best friend, my everything, and I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t here.

Reader’s POV

That evening, you’re in Eddie’s trailer, sprawled on his floor with craft supplies scattered around. He’s been obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons since some older kid at the arcade introduced him to it last year. He’s got this whole campaign planned, and you’re helping him crafting props and little painted figurines. You love this—watching Eddie’s eyes light up as he spins stories about dragons and wizards, his hands flying as he describes some epic battle. He’s tried roping you into playing, but sitting in a room with Gareth, Jeff, and those older boys he’s befriended through the game isn’t your thing. You’d rather just be here, crafting with him, soaking up his nerdy energy.

You catch your reflection in his cracked mirror, smoothing your hair, styled in loose waves inspired by the glossy magazines at the mall. You’ve been experimenting lately, those cover women in their bright outfits and bold makeup feel like a different world, but you’ve been dipping your toes in—mixing thrift store skirts with your or Eddies old t-shirts, sneaking lipstick or mascara from the women your dad brings home. You’ve been experimenting, trying to feel like someone new, someone bold. You swipe one of Eddies hairties from a side table, putting your hair in an updo, and stand, twirling in your patchwork outfit—a faded floral skirt and a cropped sweater you cut yourself. “Do I look cool?” you ask, striking a dramatic pose, one hand on your hip, the other flipping your hair.

Eddie looks up from his tinfoil pile, and his grin falters for a split second, his eyes widening. He leans back on his hands, taking you in—the soft waves of your hair, the way your skirt sways as you spin. “Coolest girl in Hawkins, princess,” he says, his voice a little softer than usual, almost reverent. His eyes linger, and you feel a flush creep up your neck, your heart doing a funny little flip. It’s not just his words—it’s the way he’s looking at you. The air feels heavier, charged, and you’re suddenly hyper-aware of how close you’re standing, the way his knee brushes the edge of your skirt as he shifts.

“Thanks, Munson,” you say, trying to keep it light, but your voice wobbles, betraying you. You drop back to the floor, closer to him now, your shoulder grazing his. His validation means everything, more than any A on a test or teacher’s praise. You need him, maybe too much, but you don’t care. He’s your Eddie.

Reader’s POV

School’s a mixed bag. You like doing well—acing tests, turning in neat homework—but you hate speaking up in class. The other kids still whisper “trailer trash” when you pass, and it stings, even if you pretend it doesn’t. Eddie’s different. He’s always in trouble, skipping class or mouthing off, but you get dragged into it by association. You don’t mind, though. Being with him trumps everything, even the academic validation you chase.

Today, you’re both under the bleachers, hiding from history class. Eddie scored a new Metallica album, Ride the Lightning, and you’re sharing his beat-up Walkman, the bulky headphones balanced awkwardly between you, your heads so close your hair tangles with his curls, knees touching. The foam pad is pressed against your ear, and the music fills the quiet, pulling you into your own little world. A slower song comes on, Fade to Black, and you hum along, eyes half-closed, feeling the melody wrap around you.

Eddie’s POV

She’s so close, her shoulder pressed against mine, our heads almost touching to keep the headphones in place. I can smell her lip gloss, sweet and kinda fruity, mixing with the dusty scent of the bleachers. Her hair’s done up all fancy today, loose waves from those magazines she’s been stealing ideas from. Her outfit’s soft and girly—a flowy skirt and a sweater that shows a sliver of her stomach—not like my ripped band tees. And that lip gloss… it’s shimmering in the dim light, making her lips look… I dunno, different. My stomach does a weird flip. I’ve always known Y/N’s pretty—hell, she’s my best friend—but right now, she’s… beautiful. My beautiful Y/N. My face feels hot, my hands clammy, and when she glances at me, our eyes lock. Her gaze is soft, searching, and my heart’s in my throat, pounding like I just ran from the cops.

I jerk back on instinct, and the headphones slip, clattering to the ground between us. “Smooth move, Munson,” she teases, smirking, but her cheeks are pink, and her voice is a little shaky, like she felt it too—that weird, electric thing in the air.

“Shut up, princess,” I fire back, flustered, shoving her shoulder to cover it up. She shoves me back, and suddenly we’re play-fighting, rolling in the dirt, laughing so hard we can barely breathe. I’ve got her pinned for a second, but she’s quick, flipping me over, her hair falling in my face. We’re a mess, tangled up, when a teacher’s voice barks, “Hey! You two!”

We scramble up, grabbing the Walkman and bolting, her hand in mine. We’re laughing as we run, the quarry and the bleachers and the whole damn world fading behind us. It’s just us, like always, but that moment under the bleachers—her eyes, her lips, the way my heart won’t slow down—it’s got me wondering what the hell’s happening, and I’m not sure I’m ready to figure it out.

The trailer park in Hawkins is a far cry from the neon haze of Los Angeles. At six years old, you don’t know much about the world, but you know this place feels like it’s holding its breath. The air smells like dust and gasoline, and the trailer you and your dad moved into creaks like it’s complaining about you being here. He’s gone most of the time—either at the plant or passed out in some bar across town. When he’s home, you tiptoe. You’ve learned to be quiet, to shrink yourself down so you’re not “annoying.” Annoying means yelling. Annoying means his hand slamming against the table. So you stay small, stay silent, stay out of the way.

The first few days in Hawkins, you don’t leave the trailer. You sit by the window, peeking through the crooked blinds, watching the world outside like it’s a movie you’re not allowed to star in. The trailer park is a patchwork of rusted metal and faded dreams, but there’s one trailer, just across the way, that’s different. It’s got a scrappy charm—wind chimes made of bottlecaps, a patchy lawn with a single daisy poking through. And there’s a boy. Lanky, all elbows and knees, with a buzz cut that makes his head look too big for his body. He’s always out there, kicking rocks or strumming an imaginary guitar, head banging to music only he can hear.

You don’t know his name yet, but you’ve seen him watching your trailer. His eyes linger on your door like he’s waiting for something to happen. You don’t know why, but it makes your stomach twist—not in a bad way, just… different.

Eddie’s POV

There’s a new kid in the trailer park. I've been watching her place for days now, ever since I saw the beat-up truck pull in and a guy with a mean scowl unload boxes. She’s gotta be my age, maybe a little younger, but she hasn’t come out yet. It’s weird. Most kids would be running around by now, poking their noses into everything. But her door stays shut, like she’s hiding from something.

Uncle Wayne says to give it time. “Not everyone’s as loud as you, kid,” he teases, ruffling my hair. But I’m itching to know who she is. The trailer park’s boring as hell—same old faces, same old fights. A new kid? That’s like finding a rare vinyl in a thrift store bin. I’m not gonna let this chance slip by.

It’s day four when I finally see her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the cracked pavement outside her trailer, drawing with chalk. Her hair’s a mess, falling in her face, and she’s got this pastel pink shirt that looks too clean for this place. She’s sketching flowers—big, loopy ones with petals that don’t quite match. I grin. Time to make my move.

“Hey!” I call, jogging over, my sneakers kicking up dust. She jumps, her chalk skittering across the pavement. Her eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights, and for a second, I think she’s gonna bolt back inside. “Whoa, easy. I’m not, like, a beast or anything. I’m Eddie. Live over there.” I jerk my thumb toward my trailer.

She blinks, clutching her chalk like it’s a lifeline. “I’m… Y/N,” she mumbles, barely loud enough to hear. Her voice is soft, like she’s afraid it’ll break something.

“Cool name,” I say, plopping down next to her. She flinches a little, but doesn’t run. Progress. “Whatcha drawing? Flowers, huh? Kinda boring.” I grab a piece of chalk—bright red—and start scribbling a bat with jagged wings and beady eyes. “Check this out. Way cooler, right?”

She stares at my bat, then at her flowers. “I like flowers,” she says quietly, but there’s a tiny spark in her eyes, like she’s daring me to argue.

“Fair enough,” I grin. “But you gotta admit, bats have style. They’re, like, the rebels of the sky.” I add lightning bolts around my bat for effect. She watches, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile.

We draw for a while—her with her soft, pastel swirls, me with my demons and lightning. It’s weird how we don’t match at all, but it works. She’s quiet, but not in a stuck-up way. More like she’s waiting for the world to prove it’s safe.

Reader’s POV

Eddie’s loud. Not mean-loud like your dad, but bright-loud, like he’s bursting with energy and can’t keep it all in. At first, you’re scared he’s gonna laugh at you or push you around like the kids back in LA did. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, drawing his weird bats and talking about music and monsters like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It’s… nice. You didn’t know nice could feel like this.

Days turn into weeks, and Eddie becomes your shadow—or maybe you’re his. You start spending more time at his trailer than yours. His uncle, Wayne, is gruff but kind, with calloused hands and a smile that makes you feel like you’re not invisible. He makes sure there’s always food—spaghetti, sandwiches, sometimes just cereal—but it’s more than you get at home. Your dad’s either gone or drunk, and you’ve learned not to bother him. Wayne doesn’t mind you hanging around. He even sets an extra plate sometimes, like it’s no big deal. You think he’s collecting strays—you and Eddie both.

Eddie and you do everything together. You build forts out of old blankets, pretend you’re knights fighting dragons, or listen to his scratched-up records. He loves this band called Black Sabbath, and even though the music’s loud and scary, you like how it makes him light up. He says you’ll get it one day. You’re not so sure, but you nod anyway.

Eddie’s POV

Y/N’s different. She’s quiet, yeah, but there’s this strength in her, like she’s holding up the world and nobody notices. I notice, though. Her dad’s a piece of work—never around, and when he is, I can hear him yelling from across the park. Makes my blood boil. My dad’s no prize either, always in and out of trouble, leaving me with Wayne. Maybe that’s why me and Y/N click. We get it. Shitty dads, shitty luck. But we’ve got each other now.

School’s a drag, but it’s better with her around. The other kids are jerks—preppy little shits who think they’re better than us because we’re from the trailer park. They call us trailer trash, snicker when we walk by. Y/N just ducks her head and pretends she doesn’t hear, but I see how it stings her. I wanna punch their smug faces, but I hold back. For now.

Reader’s POV

School’s hard. The kids here aren’t like Eddie. They’re loud, mean, always pointing out your frayed sneakers or the way your clothes don’t quite fit. You try to ignore them, but it’s like they can smell you don’t belong. Eddie doesn’t care what they think. He struts around like he owns the place, even when they laugh at his buzz cut or his ripped jeans. You wish you could be that brave.

One day at recess, you’re on the swings, finally feeling free for a second, when Tommy H., this preppy kid with a perfect haircut, shoves you off. You hit the ground hard, sand stinging your palms. A rock slices your knee, and blood trickles down your leg. You’re dazed, trying not to cry, when you hear Eddie’s voice, sharp and furious.

“Leave her alone, you asshole!”

You look up, and Eddie’s on top of Tommy, his small fists flying. Tommy’s bigger, but Eddie’s relentless, all wild energy and rage. The other kids are shouting, some cheering, some screaming for a teacher. You’re frozen, heart pounding, watching Eddie fight for you. Your cheeks burn, not from the fall, but from this new feeling swelling in your chest. Nobody’s ever had your back like this. Nobody’s ever cared enough.

The teacher finally pulls them apart, dragging you all to the principal’s office. Eddie’s got a split lip, but he’s grinning like he just won a war. You’re still shaking, blood drying on your knee, but when Eddie grabs your hand, you feel steadier. You sit side by side in the office, his fingers tangled with yours, sticky with dust and a little blood. He doesn’t let go, not even when Wayne shows up, looking tired but not mad.

Eddie’s POV

I’ve never been so pissed. That jerk Tommy had it coming, pushing Y/N like she was nothing. Seeing her in the sand, blood on her knee, something in me snapped. I didn’t think—I just swung. Felt good, too, until the teacher yanked me off him. Worth it, though. Y/N’s okay, and that’s what matters.

In the principal’s office, she’s clinging to my hand like I’m her lifeline. Her eyes are big, scared, but there’s something else in them—trust. It makes my chest feel weird, like it’s too full. Wayne shows up, his work boots still dusty from the plant. The school couldn’t get ahold of her dad, which doesn’t surprise me. Wayne just looks at us, me with my busted lip, her with her bloody knee, and sighs.

“Proud of you, kid,” he says quietly, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You did right by her.”

Y/N’s still holding my hand, and I squeeze it back. The principal’s droning on about consequences, but I don’t care. The whole town can hate us, call us trash, whatever. I’ve got Y/N, and she’s got me. That’s enough.

From that day on, we’re inseparable. Hawkins can throw whatever it wants at us—bullies, shitty parents, all of it. Doesn’t matter. We’re a team now, and I’ll always have her back. My Y/N.

Never in your relatively short but eventful life have you thought you'd end up in a place like Hawkins, Indiana—a sleepy town where the biggest excitement seemed to be the local high school's basketball games and whatever rumors were swirling about that creepy old lab on the outskirts. But here you were, stepping off a Greyhound bus with nothing but a duffel bag slung over your shoulder and a heart full of jagged pieces. The city lights of Los Angeles felt like a lifetime away, even though it had only been a week since the tabloids exploded with headlines about your messy split from Axl Rose.

Yeah, that Axl Rose. Frontman of Guns N' Roses. The guy who'd written Sweet Child O' Mine with you in mind, whispering the lyrics to you in the dead of night while you tangled in sheets that smelled like whiskey and cigarette smoke. You'd even lent your voice to the background harmonies on Patience, your soft, haunting echoes weaving through the track like a secret only the two of you shared. Fans speculated about the mystery woman in the songs, but you kept it quiet—until the breakup.

It was ugly. Public. He'd cheated with some statuesque model during their European tour, photos splashed across every magazine. The sting of that night—the breakup—still seared your heart, raw and aching, just days later. The apartment reeked of whiskey and regret, the air thick with the fallout of Axl’s latest betrayal. You stood in the living room, clutching a crumpled magazine. The photos were undeniable—her hand on his arm, his smirk, the kind that used to be yours. Paparazzi lights flashed outside, vultures circling for the next scoop.

“You think you can just scream at me and make this go away?” you spat, voice shaking but sharp, throwing the magazine at his feet. It landed with a dull thud on the hardwood, her airbrushed face staring up at you both.

Axl’s eyes, bloodshot and wild, narrowed. His short temper, infamous from countless bar brawls and backstage meltdowns, was already simmering. He grabbed the whiskey bottle from the coffee table, taking a long swig before slamming it down, the glass rattling against the wood. “You’re blowing this outta proportion!” he roared, voice gravelly, slurring just enough to betray how deep he was into the bottle. “It was one night, one stupid mistake! You gonna burn everything down over that?”

“One night?” You laughed, bitter and hollow. “It’s in every damn magazine, Axl! The whole world knows! You humiliated me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care, stepping closer, fists clenched. He paced, boots stomping, his leather jacket creaking as he ran a hand through his tangled hair. “You think I wanted this? Those leeches out there twist everything!” He jabbed a finger toward the window, then turned on you, his face inches from yours. “You’re just lookin’ for an excuse to leave, aren’t you? Always waitin’ for me to fuck up!”

The accusation hit like a slap. “Don’t you dare turn this on me,” you hissed, shoving past him toward the bedroom. “I’m not the one screwing models in Paris while my partner’s waiting at home!” You yanked a duffel bag from the closet, throwing it open on the bed. Clothes flew in haphazardly—jeans, shirts, anything within reach.

Axl followed, his temper flaring hotter. “So that’s it? You’re just gonna run?” He grabbed your wrist, not hard but enough to make you spin around, eyes blazing. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re gonna let some trashy tabloid end us?” You wrenched your arm free, heart pounding. “It’s not the tabloid, Axl. It’s you.” Your voice dropped, steady now, cutting deeper. “You chose her. You chose this.” The silence that followed was louder than the yelling, his face twisting with something like guilt, or maybe just rage.

Outside, the paparazzi shouted, their voices muffled but relentless. Axl’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might smash something—another glass, another piece of your shared life. Instead, he turned away, muttering, “Fine. Go. But you’ll miss this when it’s gone.”

You zipped the bag, the sound final, and dragged it toward the door. The cameras flashed brighter, a storm waiting to swallow you whole.

Your distant aunt's voice crackled through the phone, sharp with conviction. "You're too good for this rock 'n' roll bullshit," she said, her words cutting through your tears. You didn’t tell her you disagreed, that rock ‘n’ roll was exactly what you were made for, its raw freedom pulsing through you—hell, just a few weeks ago, you were backstage, the music thrumming in your veins, and you already missed it so fiercely it ached. She was your mom's estranged sister, living in Hawkins after some family fallout years ago. You hadn't seen her since you were a kid, but she offered you a room without hesitation. "Come stay. Clear your head. Small towns have a way of healing big wounds."

Hawkins High was a far cry from the private tutors and backstage passes you'd grown up with. You enrolled mid-semester, your aunt pulling strings with the principal. "Senior year redo," you muttered to yourself as you navigated the hallways on your first day, dodging stares from kids in acid-wash jeans and polo shirts. You stuck out like a sore thumb in your ripped black jeans, oversized leather jacket (a relic from Axl's wardrobe you must’ve accidentally stuffed into your duffel bag, too steeped in cherished memories to let go), and boots that had stomped through sold-out arenas.

By lunch, the whispers had started. "Who's the new girl? Looks like she stepped out of a music video." You ignored them, grabbing a tray and finding a quiet corner in the cafeteria. That's when you noticed him—across the room, at a table full of misfits with wild hair and D&D manuals stacked like fortifications. Eddie Munson. The school's resident "freak," as you'd overheard in homeroom. He was animated, banging on the table with a fork like it was a drumstick, his long curls flying as he ranted about something called Vecna.

Your eyes met for a split second. He paused mid-sentence, a grin splitting his face like he'd just spotted buried treasure. You looked away quickly, heat creeping up your neck. Great. Just what you needed—attention from the local metalhead.

It wasn't until after school that you crossed paths properly. You were wandering the parking lot, trying to remember where your aunt's beat-up station wagon was parked, when a van screeched to a halt beside you. Black, covered in hand-painted skulls and band logos—Metallica, Iron Maiden, Dio. The door slid open, and there he was, Eddie, leaning out with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"New girl, right? Saw you in the caf. You look like you've seen better days than this shithole town." His voice was rough, playful, with that Midwestern twang that made everything sound less threatening.

You crossed your arms, sizing him up. "And you look like you're auditioning for a Mötley Crüe cover band. What's it to you?"

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that echoed off the asphalt. "Feisty. I like it. Name's Eddie. Munson. Resident dungeon master and guitar shredder extraordinaire." He hopped out, circling you like a curious wolf. "You got that big-city vibe. Where you from? Chicago? New York?"

"LA," you admitted, regretting it instantly when his eyes lit up.

"No shit! Hollywood? Wait, don't tell me—you're a runaway starlet or something." He was joking, but the way he said it made your stomach twist. If only he knew.

"Something like that." You shifted your weight, glancing away. "Look, I gotta go. Aunt's waiting."

He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. But hey, if you need a tour of Hawkins' finest attractions—like the trailer park or the quarry—hit me up. We don't bite. Much."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was the first real one since the breakup.

Over the next few weeks, Eddie became unavoidable. He sat behind you in English, passing notes with doodles of dragons and stupid jokes. "Why did the metalhead go to school? To get a little class." You'd crumple them up, but they'd make you chuckle under your breath. He dragged you to the record store after school one day, claiming you "needed an education in real music" after overhearing you hum a Guns N' Roses riff in the hall.

In Eddie’s cluttered room at the trailer park, the air hummed with the low strum of his guitar as he picked out a familiar riff. He glanced up, a grin tugging at his lips. "Wanna give it a shot?" he asked, offering you the guitar. You nodded, heart racing—your ex and his bandmates had taught you plenty, their lessons etched into your fingers. Taking the instrument, you launched into Welcome to the Jungle, nailing every note of the iconic Guns N’ Roses riff, as Eddie’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide with impressed disbelief.

"Wait, you know 'Welcome to the Jungle' note for note?" he'd asked, eyebrows shooting up as he flipped through vinyls. "Most girls here are into Madonna or some pop crap."

You shrugged, fingering one of eddies plectrums. "Grew up around it. Nothing special." You tried to act nonchalant.

His curiosity piqued, but he didn't push. Instead, he played you tracks from his van's cassette player, blasting Judas Priest while you cruised aimlessly around town. For the first time in months, you felt... free. No cameras, no expectations. Just Eddie, with his endless energy and that dimpled smile that made your heart stutter.

One night, after a Hellfire Club session he'd convinced you to watch (you sat in the corner, amused by the dramatic storytelling), you ended up back at his trailer. Wayne was working the night shift, so it was just you two, sprawled on the couch with a pizza box between you.

Eddie, ever the showman, rummaged through his collection, pulling out a tape with a triumphant grin. “You’ve been humming this shit all week, so I figured you’re a fan. Let’s crank it.”

Before you could stop him, the opening chords of Patience filled the room, Axl’s voice slinking through the speakers like a ghost. Your breath caught, the familiar strum hitting like a punch. Then your own voice—faint, layered in the background—slipped through, a harmony you’d recorded in a haze of love and late nights. The room spun.

“Hey, you okay?” Eddie’s grin faded as he saw your face. You were shaking, hands clenched, tears burning your eyes. “Whoa, shit, what’s wrong?”

“Turn it off,” you whispered, voice cracking. He fumbled with the stereo, silencing it mid-chorus. The quiet was deafening.

You sank onto the couch, head in your hands. The story spilled out—messy, raw. Axl. The songs written for you. Your voice on that very track. The betrayal that tore it all apart. “I was with him,” you choked out. “Guns N’ Roses. That was my life. And he—he fucked it all up.”

Eddie sat beside you, his usual cocky grin replaced by a rare stillness, his dark eyes locked on you, absorbing every word. When you finished, he let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Holy shit. You’re, like… rock royalty. And that idiot cheated? What a fucking moron.” His voice carried a quiet fury, his hand clenching briefly as if he could punch Axl through time and space. “You’re better off here. With people who actually give a damn.”

Tears stung your eyes, but his words wrapped around you like a lifeline. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice cracking. “Like who?”

He turned to you, his gaze soft but unwavering, like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Like me.”

The world seemed to pause. Eddie’s hand found yours, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin with a gentleness that made your heart stutter. He leaned in, slow and deliberate, his eyes searching yours for permission, for a sign you felt it too. And you did.

The kiss was soft at first, a tender press of his lips against yours, warm and sweet. Then it deepened, his hand cradling your face like you were something precious, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. Your heart fluttered wildly, a swarm of butterflies taking flight in your chest as you melted into him. The world outside faded—Hawkins, the pain, the chaos of your past—until it was just Eddie, his breath mingling with yours, his heartbeat a steady rhythm under your palm.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath uneven, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been smitten since the second I saw you,” he murmured, his voice low and earnest. “That oversized leather jacket, those boots, the way you hum riffs like they’re part of your soul. But it’s you—God, it’s you. The way you talk about music like it’s alive, the way you don’t care about fitting into this nowhere town’s rules.”

You laughed softly, your fingers threading through his wild curls, the sound lighter than you’d felt in weeks. “Smitten? Really, Munson? Who even says that?”

“Me,” he said, his grin boyish but his eyes serious, sparkling with something that made your heart skip again. “And I’m not letting you go back to that city chaos. Hawkins might be a sleepy little town, but we’ve got something real here. You and me.”

Weeks bled into months, and Hawkins began to weave itself into your bones. You poured your heart into Corroded Coffin, your voice adding haunting harmonies that turned their gigs at The Hideout into something electric, the tiny bar buzzing with an energy that felt like the old days on bigger stages. Whispers about your past started to creep through the town—someone spotted your face in a dog-eared issue of Rolling Stone at the gas station, another claimed they recognized your voice from a bootleg tape. But Eddie was a shield, fierce and unyielding, shutting down the gossip with a glare or a sharp quip, his arm slung protectively around your shoulders. “They don’t know you,” he’d mutter, pulling you close. “They don’t get to pretend they do.”

One quiet afternoon, you slipped away to the trailer’s rotary phone, your fingers trembling as you dialed a number from your past—a music promoter you’d met during your Guns N’ Roses days. You believed in Corroded Coffin, in Eddie’s raw talent and the band’s untapped potential, their sound too big for a small-town bar. Your voice was steady as you pitched them, the words flowing with conviction, and by the end of the call, you’d secured a spot for the band at a small Festival in Indianapolis, a gig that could put them on the map. When you told Eddie, his eyes lit up, a mix of disbelief and pride, and he kissed you fiercely, whispering, “You’re fucking incredible.”

One crisp fall night, a letter arrived from Axl, its scrawled words dripping with apologies and pleas for a second chance. You didn’t even read past the first line. Instead, you and Eddie trekked out to the quarry under a star-streaked sky, the envelope clutched in your hand. Eddie struck a match, and you both watched as the paper caught fire, the flames curling around Axl’s words until they were nothing but ash drifting into the night. Eddie, his guitar slung across his back, played a defiant riff that echoed off the quarry walls, a middle finger to the past. You laughed, the sound wild and free, and he pulled you into his arms, spinning you under the moonlight until you were dizzy with joy.

Hawkins wasn’t LA—no blinding lights, no roaring crowds—but with Eddie, it was something better. It was late nights in his trailer, scribbling lyrics on crumpled napkins while he strummed chords that made your heart sing. It was stolen kisses behind the stage at The Hideout, his hands warm on your waist as he whispered promises between sets. You built a life in the quiet moments—sharing cigarettes on the trailer steps, driving his van down backroads with the radio blaring, your voice blending with his as you sang along to Metallica and Motörhead.

And on the night of the Festival, you stood on a makeshift stage, Eddie’s hand in yours, the crowd alive with cheers despite its small size. Corroded Coffin tore through their set, your harmonies soaring over Eddie’s blistering guitar, the music raw and electric. You belted out a new song you’d written together, your voice carrying the weight of your journey, his riffs weaving through it like a heartbeat. This wasn’t the fleeting rush of fame or the chaos of a life you’d left behind. This was yours—raw, real, and wholly your own. The melody belonged to you and Eddie, a harmony forged in the heart of a small town that had become your home, and as you looked into his eyes, grinning under the stage lights, you knew this was only the beginning.