Yoru 夜

⛧°。w/c: 3.1k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance ⛧°。a/n: This is my first time posting on Tumblr ♡ You can find this fanfiction on both Wattpad and AO3 (Broken Chords | Eddie Munson - yoruink) Let me know what you think, English is not my first language so please be gentle ♡

Summary: Moving to Hawkins was never part of the plan. Neither was meeting Eddie Munson on the worst summer of my life.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞: 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐞

Friday, August 31st, 1984.

Why in God's name does everything smell like cow-shit?

If anyone told me this is where I was gonna spend my Senior Year, in some backwoods trash heap, I would have laughed in their face.

What a fucking dump.

Dad and I had moved here almost a week ago. There were still a few boxes scattered, half-open and forgotten. And the house? It was small, cramped even, but I guess it didn't seem too bad. I just wished everything wasn't so quiet. Too quiet. It all had been quieter since she left. I'd already had a few fights with Dad. He wanted me to go out, meet people, and start a new life here, all from scratch. I couldn't help but resent him for that. I loved my life back in Chicago. The streets I knew by heart, the apartment I grew up in, the walls… the walls filled with memories of her. And now I was supposed to try and meet new people. People my age. The thought of starting at a new school made my stomach twist. The idea alone of having to make new 'friends' is just— No. I can't. Never.

I woke up early that morning, the rising sun spilling straight through the uncovered window and nearly blinding me. I groaned and turned my face into the pillow. I forgot to hang curtains. Again. The attic had become my bedroom. Since the house only had one proper bedroom, we'd been forced to improvise. Dad took the room downstairs, though most nights he ended up passed out on the couch with the television still on and empty beer bottles scattered on the floor. The attic still smelled like fresh paint, mixed with old dust and something faintly damp. Mold, probably. Gross.

As I finally decided to get out of bed instead of rotting like the carpet was, I realized Dad was already awake. Or maybe he hadn't slept at all. I could hear dishes clattering from the kitchen and the soft sizzle of something frying. The house felt thin, every sound carrying through the walls. I dragged myself downstairs. "Hi, Pop." I mumbled quietly, grabbing some bacon and eggs and dropping them onto my plate. "'Mornin', Becca." He replied without looking at me. His voice was rough, tired. He didn't smile. We'd fought again the night before, and the tension still hung between us like fog. He cleared his throat then, probably about to say something else, but I didn't give him the chance. I quickly ate in silence, staring at the table, then headed back upstairs as soon as I was done.

I spent the whole morning reading a comic, stretched out on my bed, the pages crinkling softly beneath my fingers. It was my fifth time that week rereading The Amazing Spider-Man #255. Since we'd moved, I hadn't bought any new comics. Maybe I could have, but I was passively protesting Dad by refusing to leave the house or acknowledge this shitty little hole called Hawkins.  God, this is boring. I sighed again. The mattress was uncomfortable no matter how I shifted, and eventually I tossed poor Spider-Man aside. When I turned to see where it landed, my eyes fell on my bass guitar.  My sweet baby. It had been a gift from Dad. He used to play professionally when he was younger and had taught me everything he knew. We used to play together back home. Back when Mom— No.

I shook the thought away and picked up the bass, letting my fingers fall into familiar patterns. The low vibrations hummed through the attic floor. Music helped quiet the noise in my head. This place sucks. This town sucks. Everything had been perfect back home. I had friends. We were happy. Then you got sick and ruined everything and left us. And Dad decided to run away instead of dealing with it, like a coward— A loud bang against my door made me jump.

"W-what?" I called, stopping mid-note. "Lunch!" Dad shouted through the wood, retreating back downstairs. I sat stunned, coming down from the euphoria of my zone, before finally shedding the instrument and laying it on the bed. I need to make a mental note to fish the stand out of whatever box it ended up in. We ate together, exchanging a few stiff words about nothing in particular. Halfway through the meal, he tried again. "You should go out," he said, poking at his food, refusing to make eye contact. "Meet some kids. Have some fun." I rolled my eyes and let out a tired sigh. Here we go again. I didn't feel like arguing, not today. "Dad, I told you a million times already—" "I saw an arcade on my way home from work." He continued, finally looking at me. "Maybe give it a try, it could be fun." My gaze fell, and I was ready to object, but the word 'arcade' stopped me short. An actual arcade. In this town? I glanced back up and noticed the worry etched into his face. He was trying. I knew he was. I couldn't say no. "Yeah," I muttered. "Okay." Honestly, I also agreed because I probably would've lost my mind if I spent yet another day locked in that attic rereading old comics and playing music by myself. I got dressed, pulling on a band T-shirt and shorts since it was already hot outside, then added a bit of makeup. When I went back downstairs, Dad tossed me the keys to his truck. "Be back before dark." He stated, serious but not unkind. "I will." I weakly smiled at him and left.

The drive to the arcade didn't take long. The parking lot was nearly full, cars packed close together. It was the last weekend before school started, and apparently the entire town had decided to spend it here. I hesitated near the entrance. Okay. You can do this. Inside, the place was loud and chaotic, lights flashing in every direction. Kids crowded around machines, teenagers shouted over one another, and a few older guys leaned against cabinets like they owned the place. It smelled like popcorn, grease, and hormones. I slipped through the crowd, replaced my quarters with the arcade tokens and started playing at the first open machine I could find. It was cramped and noisy, but honestly, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Not bad for a crappy little town. After a while, I noticed people glancing at me. Some curious, some lingering a bit too long. Because I'm a girl. Of course. I shook my head and continued playing, trying so hard to ignore those stares. Oh god, if this nerd keeps drooling and gaping at me like that, I swear I'm gonna punch him right in the — "Fuckin' fuck! You gotta be shitting me!" The shout cut through the noise of my thoughts. "I've been stuck on this stage all summer! I'm done. This is bullshit!" I turned and spotted the source of the meltdown. A guy stood in front of a machine, hands thrown into the air. The first thing I noticed were the big rings on his fingers, flashing off the arcade lights. He wore a battle vest, adorned with a Dio patch stretched across the back. Well. At least someone here has taste. His black jeans were ripped, coupled with a chain hanging from a wallet in his back pocket. Hmm. I blinked, forcing my eyes to drift up again. No. Naughty Bex. His long, curly dark hair framed his face as he stormed away, already pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he kept swearing to himself. I stepped up to the abandoned machine. "Galaga..." I murmured to myself. Luck was on my side. I'd played this game plenty of times back home. It was nothing over complicated: you had to control a ship and shoot at some aliens, dodging their attacks. Pretty straight forward, pretty awesome. The buttons felt slightly sticky under my fingers.  Nasty. The guy before me must have been sweating bullets. I feel like I needed a hundred showers after this.

I was so enveloped by the utter punishment I put these aliens through as the screen flashed STAGE 22.  Huh. Not bad.  I was so focused on the game that I had absolutely no idea I'd gained an audience until—

"Holy shit." I froze for half a second. A voice came from right behind me. "Where the hell did you come from?" They scoffed. "Like, did you crawl outta the machine or something?" I didn't answer. I kept playing, eyes locked on the screen, fingers moving on instinct. "Oh—wait." Their tone shifted, disbelief bleeding into something else. "No way. You're actually good." That's when I recognized the voice. The guy who'd stormed off in a rage earlier. I finally glanced over my shoulder. He was standing close, leaning forward with his hands braced on the cabinet beside mine. His dark eyes were wide, curls falling into his face, frustration completely gone. There was something in his expression now. Amusement. Impressed, even. "Dodge! Dodge—oh my god, shoot back! Shoot that little bastard! Look, look—" "Shut up!" I snapped, not even turning around. "I'm trying to focus!" He laughed, loud and unbothered, like this was the best thing that had happened to him all day. "Wow. Okay. Someone here's a little try-hard, huh?" He teased. I could hear the grin in his voice, the smug curl of his mouth even without looking. I shrugged and ignored him. STAGE 30. He let out an exaggerated sigh. "You know, it's actually super rude to ignore a man while he's witnessing greatness." He leaned in closer. "Oh, dodge that—yeah, like that. Anyway, I've never seen you around here. You're definitely new. Or I'd remember you. I remember faces." I stayed silent, jaw clenched. "And wow," he continued, unfazed. "That's a sick Sabbath shirt. Master of Reality? That's metal as hell." He paused, watching the screen. "Holy crap—stage 36? Okay, yeah. You're officially ruining my self-esteem."

I could feel his eyes looking at me again, his mouth opened as he started to form a new sentence. "So—" "Please," I begged, finally spinning toward him, irritation written all over my face. "Just shut up." The second I turned back to the screen, my timing slipped. I mashed the buttons too late. GAME OVER. The screen flashed red. I stared at it. Behind me, he gasped dramatically, I turned to him to see the look on his face. "Oh no," he pressed a hand to his chest. "I have killed you. I'm so sorry. This is my fault. I talk too much, it's a curse." I exhaled sharply, half furious, half trying not to laugh. "I know you did it on purpose," I scoffed, turning back to the machine. "You didn't wanna get beaten by a girl, did you?" I cracked a small, satisfied smile as the score screen blinked to life. THE GALACTIC HEROES I leaned closer. Every slot carried the same initials.

——————— BEST 5 ———————

1st 236,070 EDD

2nd 227,405 EDD

3rd 216,004 EDD

4th 180,352 EDD

5th 133,905 EDD

The top three hovered around two hundred thousand points.

ENTER YOUR INITIALS SCORE NAME 142,684 AAA

I sat at fifth place. Not my best, but respectable. Especially considering how distracted I'd been. I entered my initials slowly. B. E. X. Behind me, I heard a sharp inhale. "No way," he huffed, offended on a personal level. "You seriously just bumped me down?" I straightened and glanced over my shoulder, eyebrow raised. "Correction. I earned my way in." He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him. "Wow," he muttered. "Unbelievable. I leave my spot for, like, two minutes and suddenly I'm being dethroned by—" He finally looked at me again, grin creeping back onto his face. "—Bex." The way he said my nickname made me wonder when, exactly, I'd agreed to this level of familiarity. He stuck out a hand, rings clinking softly. "Eddie. As in the tragic arcade legend you just humiliated." I snorted despite myself.  Great. Loud, obnoxious, and clearly incapable of shutting up. Just my luck. "I'm Bex." I answered, crossing my arms.

He stared at me for a few seconds, and pulled his hand back. Then flicked his gaze to the screen, then to me again, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Bex as in... Bella? Bethany? Beverly? Bernadette?" He snapped his fingers. "Oh. Or maybe it's short for Elizabeth. No, wait. Even better. Rebecca. Nailed it. Right?" "...Yup." Oh God. Do you want a medal or something? I looked at him, then scanned the arcade, already searching for an excuse. Any excuse. I could leave. Fake an emergency, maybe. Or gross him out with 'girl problems'. Or, alternatively, figure out a way to get away with murder. He was still staring at me, that stupidly wide grin plastered on his face like he'd just won something. "Okay, so, Eddie," I grumbled, forcing politeness into my voice. "It was great—" I tried to step away from the Galaga machine, aiming literally anywhere else. He moved at the same time, casually blocking my path. "So, Bex," he rambled, hands shoved into his vest pockets. "Where're you from? You're obviously not local. You gonna tell me what brings a badass princess like you to a dump like Hawkins, or what?" "I— uh— what?" I stared at him, genuinely caught off guard. What did he just call me? "I don't think I gotta tell you anything, actually," I scoffed, irritation creeping into my voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me—" I brushed past him, my shoulder bumping into his hard enough to shove him slightly against the cabinet. I didn't look back. I just walked straight toward the exit, weaving through the crowd, ignoring the noise, the lights, everything. I'd only wanted to spend a few quiet hours at the arcade. That was it. Something normal. Something that didn't involve talking or explaining myself or being seen. Dad had pushed me out of the house, and I'd given in. The last thing I'd wanted was some random guy crashing into my afternoon and refusing to shut up.

Outside, I sucked in a deep breath. The air was still warm, but it felt fresher than whatever recycled mess the arcade had been pumping inside. I hadn't realized how bad the ventilation was until I stepped out. I glanced up at the sky. Late afternoon, I guessed. The sun was still high, but it didn't burn like it had earlier. I didn't feel like going home yet. I still had time before dark. And I really hoped I wouldn't have to deal with any more interrogations. I sighed and pulled a cigarette from my pocket, then rounded the side of the building until I found dumpsters. The smell hit immediately. Trash, old grease, something vaguely like piss.  Charming. I leaned back against the brick wall of the building and lit my cigarette with the matches I kept tucked inside the pack. I took a long drag and closed my eyes. I didn't even know why I'd reacted like that inside. Maybe it was because he really was annoying? He talked nonstop. I wasn't used to that anymore. I wasn't used to people pushing their way into my space like they belonged there.

"Hey— hey, wait. I'm sorry. Don't go." As if summoned, his voice cutting through my thoughts. I opened my eyes, just in time to keep from flinching and burning myself. "How did you find me?" I asked, looking at him with half-lidded eyes, equal parts annoyed and tired. He laughed, already lighting his own cigarette. "D'ya really think you're the only one who smokes back here?" He gestured around with the lighter. "This is my favorite spot for my little lung-cancer breaks." He winked, I didn't flinch. "Favorite place?" I arched a brow, glancing at the overflowing dumpsters, the torn trash bags, all of it. "Seriously?" "Yeah, well." He shrugged. "It's not like this town gives you a ton of options." He leaned against the wall beside me, close enough to share space but far enough to feel deliberate about it. Like he was suddenly aware I might bite. "Look," he said, quieter now. "Sorry about earlier. I know I can be... a lot." He scratched the back of his neck. "I just got excited, okay? New face in town. And you've got, like, actual style. People don't just wear that shirt for fun unless they mean it." Despite myself, I let out a small, unintended chuckle. "No worries. I'm sorry too. For storming out like that." I glanced at him. "And yeah. You're a lot." A weak smile tugged at my mouth before it faded. "I'm from Chicago." I added after a moment. "Moved here a few days ago with my dad. He got a new job at some shitty car shop." My expression darkened the second I mentioned him. Eddie caught it. He didn't push. "Ah, Chicago." He echoed instead. I'm not sure why, but I swore his expression at the mention of it darkened a little too. "Well. Welcome to the shitshow that is Hawkins." He took a drag of his cigarette, then added, "So—" He rocked his heel against the wall. "You start Hawkins High this year, I guess?" I shot him a look. "You mean that building with the soul of a prison?" He grinned. "Yep. That's the one." "Then yeah," I groaned. "I start next week." "Senior year?" He asked. I nodded. "Yeah." "Damn, they really just dropped you into the deep end, huh? New town, new school, no instruction manual." I shrugged, taking another drag. "Could be worse." "Could be raining." He deadpanned solemnly, trying so hard to remain serious. I snorted, smoke slipping out with the sound before I could stop myself. "There it is," he grinned, pointing at me, chuckling. "That was almost a laugh." "Don't get used to it." "Oh, I absolutely will." He smiled, softer this time. His eyes then flicked to my hands. "You play the guitar, don't you? You've got the fingers for it." I glanced at them. Bitten-down black nail polish. Short nails, calloused fingertips. Yeah, I could see how he might've guessed. "Close. I play bass." His head snapped toward me. "No way." "Yes way." His face lit up like I'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "Okay, see, that explains everything." "Everything?" I asked. "Yeah. The attitude. The murder eyes. The 'don't talk to me or I'll end you' vibe." He gestured vaguely. "Very bassist energy." I rolled my eyes. "You're ridiculous." "Consistent branding." He corrected, proudly. "I play guitar. And sing. Poorly. Loudly. In a garage. I have a band, Corroded Coffin." I flicked ash toward the ground. "Corroded Coffin's a dumb name." He gasped. "Blasphemy." "But it's kind of fitting." I added. His grin returned, victorious. "See? You get it." I honestly couldn't remember the last time I'd had a conversation that lasted longer than two sentences. Or, more accurately, two monosyllables. His mood was weirdly contagious. He made small talk feel easy, even enjoyable, despite the fact that I'd wanted to punch him in the face ten minutes earlier. I glanced at Eddie from the corner of my eye. He rested his head against the brick wall staring at the sky, one foot propped up. For a few seconds, the only sound between us was the crackle of cigarettes and the muffled noise of the arcade around the corner. Oh. So he can stay quiet for more than two seconds.

[first chapter]

[previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.1k

⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬

Monday, January 7th, 1985.

In the last few days, I became painfully aware of the existence of my own mouth.

Not in a normal, oh yeah, that's there kind of way—more like it had suddenly become... significant.

I noticed it while brushing my teeth, while brushing my hair, while staring at my reflection like it might explain something if I looked long enough.

It didn't.

It just stared back at me, unimpressed. Slightly smug, even.

Same face. Same eyes. Same mouth.

The same mouth that, apparently, had kissed Eddie Munson.

More than once. Like—twice, actually.

I paused, toothbrush halfway to my lips, squinting at my reflection like I was trying to catch it in a lie.

That happened, right?

It wasn't like one of those things my brain made up at three in the morning just to keep things spicy?

No—no, it happened.

I could still feel the intoxicating taste of his lips on mine. Of his hands, warm, steady, grabbing my waist and—

I closed my eyes briefly, pressing my lips together like that might somehow reset them back to factory settings.

It was very, very real.

For whatever reason I really didn't know, I was actively avoiding my own thoughts. Like if I didn't look at them directly, they might just... behave. Stay small. Manageable.

It wasn't working.

This would've been a lot easier if I had someone to talk to. Sarah, for example. She would've loved this—and for this exact same reason, I couldn't handle that right now.

And Eddie?

Eddie had completely disappeared.

All weekend.

Which—great. Perfect. Exactly what you wanted right after you kissed someone for the first time. And then admitted you liked each other like it wasn't going to fundamentally alter the chemical balance of your entire existence.

Maybe he regretted it.

The thought slid in so easily it almost felt... reasonable. Logical.

Maybe he woke up the next morning and decided yeah, absolutely not, abort mission.

Maybe he packed a bag and fled the state.

California, probably.

With Paige.

I'd tried reaching him on the walkie during the weekend.

Twice.

Nothing. Dead silence.

I'd even considered going to his trailer. The idea kept coming back like an itch I couldn't quite ignore.

Hi Eddie, just wanted to make sure you didn't evaporate after kissing me.

Normal. Casual. Completely sane behavior.

But I chose not to.

It felt like too much. Too desperate. Too... something I wouldn't be able to take back if I was wrong.

Which was ridiculous, considering everything that had already happened.

But still. Why hadn't he answered?

Why—Eddie?

By the time I got to school, it hit me that this—this spiraling, slightly unhinged internal monologue—was just the beginning.

Yeah, we kissed. Sure, we confessed—which, by the way, already felt like a milestone I hadn't planned for this decade—but we haven't talked about anything after that.

No follow-up. No terms and conditions.

What happens after the 'I like you' part?

Do we just... continue like nothing happened? Do we pretend we're still just friends, even though I now have very clear, very distracting proof that we are absolutely not just friends? Do we need to define it? Do we need a label?

The word itself felt weird in my head. Too structured. Too... official. Like filing paperwork for something that had happened completely outside of logic.

But that was what normal people do, right? Normal people didn't just kiss their friends in dramatic, life-altering ways and then go back to discussing homework like nothing shifted.

Normal people had categories, definitions, clear lines.

And then there was Eddie.

Who was—objectively—not a normal person.

Maybe he didn't care about any of that. Maybe for him it was simple. Maybe he was just—

Yeah, I like you. I wanted to kiss you. End of story. See you in California.

No expectations. No overthinking. No waking up and immediately conducting a full psychological investigation on your own feelings while brushing your teeth.

Must be nice, not having your brain overthink every single minor inconvenience that happened in your life.

Or maybe—

Maybe it was a big deal for him too.

Maybe he was thinking about it right now.

Maybe he was standing somewhere inside this building, also questioning his entire existence over one stupid kiss.

...or maybe he wasn't.

Maybe he was fine. And I was the only one turning this into a full-blown case study.

I shook my head slightly, trying to physically dislodge the thoughts, and only then realized I was still standing outside, freezing, right in front of the main doors like I was waiting for someone to hand me instructions.

What a strong, confident way to start a Monday morning.

I sighed as I adjusted the strap of my bag, forcing my feet to actually move this time.

We'll cross that bridge when we get there, I told myself.

Which, for the record, meant:

I will absolutely panic on the bridge when we get there.

Probably halfway across.

The bridge, unfortunately, wasn't anywhere in sight.

Because he wasn't there.

You've gotta be shitting me.

No Eddie leaning against his locker, rings tapping against the metal in that absent, restless rhythm I'd gotten used to noticing.

Instead, I found Gareth. And by the look on his face, he had already clocked me.

"Hi, Bex. Morning." He fell into step beside me, a couple of notebooks tucked under his arm like he was actually prepared for the day.

I felt... weirdly out of place.

This was the first time I'd ever talked to him alone—no Eddie, no Hellfire, no background noise to hide behind. Just us. And the very real possibility that he knew things. A lot of things. I opened my mouth, ready to—casually—ask where Eddie was—

"Have you seen Eddie?" He asked instead, like he'd reached into my head and pulled the question out himself.

I blinked. "Uh—I was about to ask you the same thing." I admitted, it came out a little too quick.

Where the hell is he?

Gareth didn't seem nearly as concerned. "I'm sure he's fine," he shrugged, like this was just another perfectly normal Eddie Munson occurrence. Just an ordinary Monday morning. "Probably still asleep. He'll show up second period. Maybe third, if he's feeling dramatic."

I let out a small breath, trying to latch onto that like it was reassuring.

"Yeah," I nodded once. "That's... probably it."

We slowed near a classroom door—his, apparently—and he stopped, turning just enough to face me.

"You seem a little too worried," he added, casual on the surface, but there was something underneath it. "Did I miss something?"

I froze for half a second, then widened my eyes just enough to sell it.

"Absolutely not!" I answered quickly, too quickly. "I just—he has my notes. I need them back. That's all."

Smooth. Really convincing.

Ten out of ten performance.

Gareth stared at me for a beat longer than necessary, like he was deciding whether to call me out or let me live in my very obvious lie.

"Oh, well. In that case... consider them gone forever."

I huffed a quiet breath despite myself.

"Great. Love that for me."

"See you around, Bex."

"Yeah," I muttered, adjusting my bag again. "See you."

Gareth wasn't right.

Because by the end of fourth period, there still wasn't any sign of Eddie. Anywhere.

By lunchtime, the uneasy feeling in my stomach had started to settle into something a little more solid.

I noticed Steve the second I stepped into the cafeteria.

Of course he was there.

Of course.

I didn't even think about it—I just turned the other way, scanning for the first empty table I could find like it was a survival instinct. I dropped into the nearest seat without hesitation.

I stared down at my tray.

Maybe Eddie got sick? Yeah. That was reasonable. People got sick all the time.

The flu, maybe.

God, my luck.

I finally kissed him and he immediately collapsed with a fever like some kind of tragic Victorian child.

I felt fine, though.

So unless I was some kind of asymptomatic carrier—

"Oh! Hi, Bex!"

I jumped.

Robin Buckley was already sitting across from me, like she'd appeared out of thin air, setting her tray down with the confidence of someone who had fully decided this was happening.

"Hi... Robin?"

"You know," she started immediately, like we were mid-conversation already, "it's kind of weird that the only times we've interacted haven't been at school, right? Like, statistically speaking, that feels unlikely."

"Yeah," I muttered, poking at something unidentifiable on my tray. "Now that you mention it... kinda weird."

She leaned in a little, lowering her voice like she was about to share classified information.

"So," she went on, eyes narrowing just a little, "tell me—did you guys actually kiss?"

I choked. "What—how do you know that!?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Woah, okay—first of all, tone," she held up a hand. "Second, it's literally everywhere right now. People will not shut up about it. Like it's groundbreaking news that Harrington kisses girls." She rolled her eyes and dramatically sighed.

Oh.

Oh.

Right. That.

I blinked, the panic dissolving into something else entirely.

"No, no. That's not—" I shook my head quickly. "That's completely made up. Didn't happen."

Well. Not like that.

"Honestly?" I added, forcing my voice back into something casual. "Let them talk. I don't really care."

Which was mostly true. Probably.

Robin studied me for a second. "Bold approach, I respect it." She leaned back in her seat. "Personally, I would've faked my own death by now, but that's just me."

"Trust me, I've considered that more than once." I stated, a quiet huff of a laugh slipping out.

"See? I knew we were compatible. We'd made a great team." She shot back.

Then, without missing a beat, she gestured vaguely around us with her fork.

"So—remind me why you're not sitting with Harrington like every other day? Because, just to be clear, this is usually my seat."

"Right, yeah." I shifted slightly the bench. "Reality is—he did try to kiss me. I just... didn't exactly cooperate."

She gasped. "Oh so there was a kiss!"

"—attempt." I corrected flatly. "There was an attempt. Very important distinction."

Robin froze mid-chew, eyes widening like I'd just handed her the most interesting piece of gossip in the building.

"Oh my God," she whispered through her hand, leaning closer again. "Okay—but that still doesn't explain why you've completely abandoned your usual Harrington seating arrangement."

I stabbed at my food a little harder than necessary.

"Because it's weird now," I sighed. "And I don't really feel like dealing with... whatever that was."

"So... he likes you?"

"I wouldn't say that—" I started, too quickly. "I mean, he said he didn't mean it, he was drunk. Said that he was sorry and all."

Robin hummed softly. "Well," she added after a second, shrugging lightly, "for what it's worth, you're welcome to sit here. I don't mind the company."

"Thanks," I smiled back, but I could feel that it didn't quite reach my eyes, "I'll... consider it."

She nodded once, and went back to her food. And I tried to do the same.

Tried being the key word.

Because even now, even with the distraction, even with something else to focus on—My eyes kept drifting toward the cafeteria doors. Still half-expecting him to walk in like nothing happened.

The last bell hit the school like a release valve. Lockers slammed open and shut, shoes squeaking against tile in that chaotic end-of-day rhythm that usually meant leave, escape, freedom.

My locker was already closed. I'd checked it twice without remembering doing it the first time.

No Eddie.

Not late. Not 'lost track of time'. Not even a dramatic entrance halfway through the day like Gareth had confidently predicted this morning. Just... nothing.

Gone. Poof.

"You look weird."

Gareth's voice instantly made me jump.

"That's—incredibly rude."

"You are weird," he corrected without hesitation. "You just look weirder than usual."

"Thank you," I said flatly, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. "That's really uplifting."

He shrugged. "Just observations."

He didn't move, didn't look away. Which meant this wasn't small talk. It was an intervention.

"...You gonna tell me what's going on," he asked after a beat, "or am I supposed to just watch you slowly combust in real time?"

I let out a short breath through my nose. "Nothing's going on."

"Right," he blurted immediately. "And Eddie suddenly disappearing like a magic trick has nothing to do with you either, I assume."

That made me pause.

Just for half a second.

Which was apparently enough for him.

Gareth tilted his head slightly, studying me more closely now, like the joke version of him had stepped aside.

"Look," he added, softer but still direct, "I'm not asking in a nosy way. I'm asking in a 'he's my friend and he's been completely off the grid since Friday and that is... not normal' kind of way."

My grip tightened on my bag strap.

"...We kissed." I admitted finally, low enough that it almost disappeared into the hallway noise.

Gareth blinked.

Once.

Twice.

"...You what?!" He shouted.

"Keep your voice down!" I snapped instantly, eyes flicking around instinctively.

"I am keeping my voice down," he hissed back, doing the exact opposite. He looked left, then right, and finally turning back to me.

"You kissed Eddie?" He repeated anyway, quieter this time but still very much not quiet. "And you thought that was something you just... casually don't mention?"

"It just happened," I muttered, heat creeping up my neck. "It wasn't—planned."

"When?"

"Friday."

"...Huh." He mumbled slowly, dragging the sound out like he was testing reality.

"That's it?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "That's your reaction?"

"No, no," he added quickly, holding up a hand. "I have more reactions. I'm just—compartmentalizing. Give me a second."

Despite myself, something small loosened in my chest.

Almost a laugh. Almost.

"It's just..." I started, then stopped. Tried again. "I don't know what this is now."

Saying it out loud made it smaller. Less chaotic. Still terrifying, but smaller.

Gareth's expression shifted. The teasing faded, just a little, replaced with something more careful.

"Yeah," he added simply. "I get that."

A beat passed.

Then, like he couldn't stand the seriousness for too long, he tilted his head slightly.

"You think Eddie Munson has this figured out?" He asked. "He loses his own guitar picks mid-song."

"Fair point." I chuckled.

"He likes you." Gareth added then, like it was the most obvious conclusion in the world.

A pressure settled in my chest, heavy and quiet. "I know."

"No," he countered, pushing off the locker slightly. "I mean—he really likes you. Like, annoyingly much. Like—he cannot shut up about it. You've basically been the center of our conversations for months now. I was honestly starting to hate you on principle." A pause. "Yeah... sorry for that." He scratched the back of his neck.

Oh.

Months, huh?

We could've—No. No, don't do that. Don't rewrite time just because your brain is suddenly very good at humiliation.

I cleared my throat, forcing my expression back into something neutral.

"He'll show up. He always does." Gareth added finally.

And somehow, I wanted to believe that.

Even if I didn't fully trust what came after when he does.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted in that specific way that had nothing to do with being tired.

Dinner came and went in a blur of Dad talking about something work-related while I nodded at intervals that probably didn't match the conversation.

He gave me a couple strange looks, but thankfully chose not to investigate whatever was visibly wrong with me.

I offered to do the dishes before he could ask.

Mostly because standing still felt dangerous.

Mostly because if I kept my hands busy, maybe my brain would stop replaying Friday afternoon in high definition.

It did not.

I watched water sliding over my hands while my brain refused to stay anchored in anything resembling the present. The kitchen was warm in that oppressive way old houses got in the winter, heat clinging to the walls more than it helped you, while the windows had already started fogging at the edges from the cold pressing in outside.

And then—

Movement.

Outside the window.

At first I thought I was imagining it.

My brain had started doing that thing where it manufactured Eddie-Munson-shaped hallucinations just to keep me occupied.

But then he stepped properly into view.

Eddie.

Walking through the yard like he hadn't disappeared for days and left my entire internal balance system permanently tilted.

The dirty plate in my hand nearly slipped under the water.

For a second I just stood there, staring, like my body needed permission to react. Then everything caught up at once.

I dropped the plate into the sink a little too fast, wiped my hands on my jeans without thinking, and moved before I could talk myself out of it.

"Becca, where are you—" Dad's voice followed me from somewhere deeper in the house, but I was already grabbing the door handle.

The cold hit me like a physical shove the moment I stepped outside.

I hadn't grabbed a jacket. Of course I hadn't. My brain had apparently decided emotional urgency outranked basic survival instincts. Snow clung to my ankles, seeping through my shoes in seconds, and the air was so sharp it felt like it had edges.

"Eddie!" I called, already halfway across the yard, voice catching somewhere between anger, relief, and complete disbelief.

His hands came up instinctively, palms out. "Hey—" he started, like I might physically hit him—which, honestly, fair assumption at that point.

I stopped right in front of him. He stared at me, then frowned. Eyes flicking over my sweater, bare arms, the fact that I had clearly run outside like a lunatic. "Bex, it's freezing out here! Where the hell is your jacket—"

"I don't care!" I snapped. "Where the hell have you been? Do you get how worried sick I've been?"

My arms crossed on instinct, like I could physically contain whatever was happening inside my chest.

"I know," he rushed quickly, guilt flashing across his face. "I know. I'm sorry. I was out of town this weekend. I forgot to mention it."

I stared at him.

"Out of town." I repeated flatly.

"Yeah—look, I'm really sorry. Rick, uh—he had me come over late Friday night—"

"No, wait. Hold on." I cut in immediately, "Who the hell even is Rick?"

He grimaced. "Someone I work with."

"That explains absolutely nothing."

"He's kind of my boss," he added, already talking faster now. "Sort of. It's complicated—not the point."

"It feels a little like the point."

"He needed me to drive him to Indy for a 'supply run'," Eddie continued, ignoring that completely. "Then my van broke down outside the city, and it was just a fuckin' nightmare."

I blinked at him."You drove all the way to Indianapolis with drugs in the back of your van?"

He hesitated, maybe me saying that out loud made him realize how bad it sounds.

"Yeah."

"What the fuck, Eddie? What if you got pulled over?"

He glanced at his own hands, looking almost sheepish.

"I guess I never really thought of that—that's kinda my train of thought in most things."

I exhaled sharply through my nose in response.

"We had to stay at this seedy Motel while the mechanics worked on my van. We didn't get back until, like, two in the morning." He shifted his weight, sneakers crunching in the snow. "I figured I'd sleep a couple of hours, drag myself to school, explain everything like a normal person."

"And?"

"And—I forgot to set an alarm." He admitted. "Woke up in the afternoon. I came over here as soon as... Well—as soon as I was able to collect coherent thoughts."

I stared at him. "You disappeared for three days, Eddie!"

"I know," he said again. "I'm sorry, Bex. I really am."

Snow kept falling like we were just scenery. Like nothing important was happening here at all.

We stood there in it, too close for calm, too far for anything else, and I hated how much my body was still reacting to him simply being there.

Hated that even angry, even freezing, even after three days of imagining every possible disaster, some part of me was still painfully aware that this was Eddie. That this was the same person who had kissed me.

The same person I loved.

I was still mad.

Very mad.

But underneath that was something louder now—something that had been waiting all weekend.

Answers.

I drew in a sharp breath.

"So," I managed finally, "what, are we just not talking about it?"

Eddie blinked. "Talking about—"

"The kiss, Eddie."

His expression stalled completely, like someone had yanked the plug from his brain mid-thought. "Oh."

Which, unfortunately, did not help.

I narrowed my eyes. "Oh?"

"No—no, I just..." He dragged a hand down his face, already regretting whatever sequence of words had led him there. "I wasn't trying to avoid it. I just didn't know how to start that conversation without immediately making a complete ass of myself."

"So disappearing was your solution?"

"In hindsight? Not great, yeah." He winced. "But, look—" He exhaled, shoulders dropping a little. "I owed it to you to at least try and explain why I am..." He gestured vaguely to himself. "This. Whatever deeply confusing arrangement of issues I am."

I stayed quiet.

"And I don't want to run again." He admitted after a beat.

Cold air filling the gaps neither of us seemed capable of bridging properly. Snow had started collecting on my shoulders now, melting slowly into my hair. I didn't move to brush it off. Neither did he.

"I thought you disappeared because you regretted it." I finally confessed.

His face changed instantly."Regret what?" He asked quietly.

I swallowed. "Did you regret kissing me?"

"No, no! Of course not." He answered immediately. Not a second of hesitation.

Which wasn't entirely reassuring.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"If there's anything I regret," he muttered, glancing down before looking back at me, "it's that I didn't do it sooner."

That landed softer than everything else.

"I don't—do this," he added. "Like—labels, or whatever. Not because I'm against it, I just—no one's ever made me want to figure it out before. But you—"

He stopped, frowned, tried again. "You make everything... different."

"Well, that's vague..." I deadpanned, because deflection was my lifestyle.

"Yeah, I know." He snapped lightly. "I'm working with limited emotional vocabulary here, give me a second."

That almost made me smile. He exhaled, more serious now.

"The thing is—I don't really know how to do this. I never actually had a girlfriend. Paige doesn't count, we didn't—define anything. And I've kissed like... four people in my life, and one of them was my mom, so—"

Paige.

The name landed quietly, like a stone dropped into still water. I didn't let myself follow the ripples.

She was California, a record deal, and something he'd already lived through and survived.

She wasn't here. He was.

"Eddie."

"Yeah—okay. Bad example."

"You're really bad at this."

He nodded immediately. "Yeah."

He stepped a little closer, and held both of my hands.

I became suddenly aware of how cold my fingers were.  "Hi." He murmured.

I rolled my eyes, but my voice came out quieter than it should've. "Hi."

"Do you—" He stopped. Restarted. "Would you—"

I raised a brow. "You're doing great."

"Shut up, I'm trying."

I bit back a smile.

"Do you maybe possibly want to... upgrade our current situation?"

I stared at him.

"You're asking me to be your girlfriend." I translated.

He winced. "When you say it like that, it sounds terrifying."

"It's literally what you're doing."

"Yeah, I know, I just—" He exhaled, then finally just said it:

"Do you wanna be my girlfriend?"

I looked at him. At the snow in his hair, the redness on his nose. At his dark eyes that seemed a little shinier against the reflection of the snowflakes.

"You're such an idiot." I replied quietly.

"Yeah," he nodded. "That's been established. I just need to know if I'm your idiot."

I laughed—soft, real.

"Yeah. You are."

"Yeah?" He echoed, like he needed to hear it to believe it.

"You're my idiot."

He stepped closer—hesitant for about half a second before his hand found my waist again.

Less uncertain this time.

"Hi, girlfriend." He repeated, almost disbelieving.

I rolled my eyes, smiling anyway. "Hi."

And this time, when he kissed me—

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 5.3k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

Friday, January 4th, 1985.

The snow didn't stop.

It had started sometime during the night, and by morning Hawkins looked like someone had quietly erased half of it. Cars were buried up to their tires, rooftops sagged under thick white layers, and the roads were pressed into pale, slushy tracks by the few brave people who had ventured out early. Everything looked softer. Quieter.

Like the whole town had decided to hold its breath for a while.

I stood by my bedroom window, watching the flakes drift past the glass. Slow. Lazy. The kind that didn't seem in any hurry to land anywhere.

Sarah had left for Chicago the day before. The house felt too quiet without her voice bouncing off the walls, without her commentary about everything and everyone.

On my desk, the walkie-talkie sat exactly where I had left it before New Year's. Silent. I stared at it for a long time over the next few days. It would have been so easy. Just flip the switch. Just say his name. Just tell Eddie that I was sorry for running away like an idiot. A few weeks ago I'd blamed him for running away first, and now look at me—doing exactly the same thing. Running away.

But every time my hand drifted toward the walkie-talkie, my stomach twisted into knots. I felt ridiculous. Because the moment I turned that thing on, there would be no pretending anymore. No hiding behind jokes or awkward silence. Just the truth waiting on the other end of the line.

I reached over. Paused. Then turned it off completely. Coward.

Eddie hadn't shown up after that night. He could have, if he wanted to. Apparently climbing roofs was a skill he possessed now—he'd proven when he'd appeared outside my bedroom window like some sort of extremely dramatic raccoon. But he hadn't come back. Which meant he was probably waiting for me to say something first. And I hadn't.

Because every time I thought about talking to him again, my brain immediately started replaying the song. The way he'd looked at me while singing it. The way my heart had practically launched itself out of my chest.

God. I really do have feelings for him. Actual, terrifying, undeniable feelings.

And now I had absolutely no idea what to do about them.

Winter break ended too soon. And when I walked into Hawkins High that snowy, frozen morning, I realized I had a very serious problem. Actually, two problems.

Problem number one: Eddie Munson. Problem number two: Steve Harrington.

And unfortunately for me, they both existed in the same building.

School looked like someone had shaken a snow globe around it. Students stomped snow from their shoes near the entrance, coats and scarves hung over lockers, and the entire hallway smelled faintly like wet wool and cafeteria coffee.

It took about five minutes for the rumors to find me. Apparently, when half the town's teenagers witness something at a party, it becomes public knowledge almost immediately.

"Did you hear about Harrington and Smith?" "They were totally all over each other." "No, seriously, Tommy said they were like—" "Dude, they almost hooked up in the bathroom."

Every whisper felt like a paper cut.

I stared at my locker door, trying to remember the combination dial. If I could physically crawl inside the locker and live there for the rest of the semester, I absolutely would have. I was still reorganizing my books—mostly as an excuse to avoid turning around—when I slammed the locker shut. Steve was standing on the other side of it.

"Jeez—!" I jumped, nearly dropping the entire stack of notebooks in my arms. "Oh—sorry, sorry." He said quickly, crouching down as papers slipped from my grip and scattered across the floor. "Here, I got it." "I'm fine, don't worry." I muttered, crouching down beside him to gather the mess. I kept my eyes firmly on the floor.

"So... hey." Steve's voice was awkward as he straightened up in front of me, like he wasn't entirely sure how to exist in this conversation. We stood there in the middle of the hallway, students passing around us, voices overlapping, lockers slamming—everything moving like normal while we just... didn't. "Hey." I said back. "How are you?" Awful. "Good!" I answered far too quickly, the word coming out bright and wrong. I cleared my throat, dialing it back. "I mean—I'm fine. How about you?" "Good, yeah. Good." And then— Nothing.

We just stood there, staring at each other like we'd both completely forgotten how conversations were supposed to work, the silence stretching longer than it should while I could already feel the weight of people watching, whispering somewhere just out of reach.

"So. About New Year's." He said finally, shifting his weight. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Bex." I didn't say anything right away. I just tightened my grip on the papers in my hands, the edges digging slightly into my fingers like I needed something to hold onto.

"I was drunk," he added quickly. "Which—I know, that's not really an excuse, but... I wasn't really thinking straight. And I swear I thought you were kind of going along with it." I looked at him, my expression flattening. "I wasn't." I said carefully. He hesitated, then pushed on anyway. "I mean... you were kind of giving me signals."

What? I blinked. For a second, I genuinely thought I'd misheard him.

"The hell are you talking about?" I asked, disbelief creeping into my face. "I don't know," he said, a little defensive now, gesturing vaguely. "You were laughing, you were close, and—I just thought—" "That doesn't mean anything, Steve." My grip tightened again, frustration rising faster now, sharper than I expected.

"I wasn't trying to—I mean, I didn't think I had to spell it out," he ran a hand through his hair. "It just felt like—" "Well, it didn't." I cut in. "Listen, Steve. I don't have time for this, okay?" I turned to leave, ready to put as much distance between us as possible, but his hand landed on my shoulder, stopping me.

"Bex, wait—please," he said quickly, "forget what I just said. I swear, I only did that because I was drunk." "That doesn't make it any better." I shot back. "I'm sorry, I mean it." I nodded once, not really looking at him anymore. "See you later, Steve." I just walked away, ignoring the way the hallway suddenly felt louder, heavier—like every whisper was about us. I tried not to notice them as I turned the corner toward English class, but the feeling of being watched clung to the back of my neck like static. That's when I saw him. Billy Hargrove.

He was leaning against a locker a few feet down the hallway, arms crossed, one shoulder lazily pressed against the metal door like he had nowhere better to be. His gaze was fixed directly on me, that familiar sharp, predatory kind of stare he seemed to specialize in. The second our eyes met, his mouth tilted into a slow smirk. Great. Exactly what I needed this morning.

I immediately looked away and hurried toward the classroom, head down, pretending to be fascinated by the beige floor tiles beneath my shoes. Very interesting tiles. Very safe tiles.

Inside the classroom, the cold air smelled faintly like dust and chalk. I slid into my usual seat and immediately opened my backpack, flipping through my notebooks like it was the most important task in the world.

It felt strange sitting there again. Like months had passed instead of just a couple of weeks, like I had stepped out of this room as one person and come back as someone slightly... off, someone who didn't quite fit into the same space the same way anymore.

My fingers kept moving through my bag, flipping pages, adjusting notebooks that didn't need adjusting, anything to keep me from thinking too hard about what had just happened in the hallway. I swallowed, my jaw tightening slightly as the words replayed, unwelcome and persistent, threading themselves through everything else I was trying to focus on.

You were giving me signals. Had I?

No. I hadn't. I knew I hadn't. And yet the doubt crept in anyway, quiet and irritating, making me replay every interaction, every laugh, every moment I hadn't thought twice about at the time.

"Bex?" The voice cut through my thoughts like a pin popping a balloon. Eddie. I looked up.

He was already sitting beside me, slouched comfortably in his chair like he had been there the entire time. Somehow I hadn't noticed him at all when I walked in. Which was impressive, considering he was Eddie Munson and apparently I was in love with him. But my brain had been too busy spiraling to register basic surroundings. I hadn't seen him since that night at the Hideout. Hadn't heard from him either.

"H-hey." I said back, forcing what was probably the most awkward smile in the history of human expressions. He didn't smile. Instead, he rolled a twenty-sided die slowly between his fingers, the plastic clicking softly against the desk every time it turned.

We both knew what had happened. I ran away. I ran away right in the middle of something important. Right in the middle of something that probably should've been a conversation. I should say something. Anything.

Sorry. Please forget I acted like a complete coward. I like you. I love you.

But every time I tried to form the words, my throat tightened like someone had tied a knot inside it.

"Are you alright? You look kinda rough." He said, brows pulling together slightly as he studied my face. "Y-yeah. I'm fine. Just... tired." He nodded once, like he didn't buy it but wasn't going to push. "Yeah. First day back's brutal." "Yeah."

Mrs. O'Donnell began the first lesson of the year at the front of the classroom, her voice drifting through the room as she started writing on the board. Normally, English was one of the few classes I actually liked. Today, I couldn't focus on a single word. Because Eddie Munson was sitting right next to me. Close enough that I could hear the faint click of the die in his hand. Close enough that if I turned my head even slightly, I'd be looking directly at him.

"Your hair's different." He added suddenly. My hand flew up to it automatically, fingers catching on a loose strand like I could fix it on the spot. "It's not." "It is. A little." I frowned, shaking my head. "It's really not. I just— didn't have time to straighten it. So it's... slightly more wavy, I think. That's it." For a second, I wished I could take the words back. Why am I explaining it? Why does it matter?

Eddie just shrugged, one shoulder lifting lazily, but there was something softer in his expression now—something quieter. "Well," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "whatever it is... I like it." "T-thanks." I murmured, my voice coming out smaller than I meant it to. I almost smiled. Almost. And then the silence came back again. Worse than before. The faint click of the die started again. Slow, steady, but somehow louder than before. My pen moved across my notebook automatically, copying words from the board without my brain actually processing them. I tried to focus. On the lesson. On my notes. On literally anything that wasn't the heavy silence sitting between us. But every thought circled back to the same place.

He must hate me. Or worse. He might be disappointed.

The tension between us felt like a thunderstorm building slowly in the distance, the air thick with electricity but the lightning refusing to strike. The entire day passed like that.

Class after class. Hallway after hallway. I perfected the art of leaving rooms quickly, slipping through crowds, taking longer routes to avoid certain corridors. If Eddie noticed, he didn't say anything. But I knew he noticed.

By the time the final bell rang, my nerves felt completely fried.

I was standing by my locker again, stuffing books into my bag a little too quickly, when I heard footsteps behind me. "Bex." Eddie jogged up beside me, slightly out of breath like he'd had to catch up. "You've been avoiding me." "I have not." "Bex." I exhaled slowly. Okay. Maybe a little.

"Can we talk?" He pleaded, in a tone that sounded almost desperate. "Here?" He glanced around the hallway. Students everywhere, teachers leaving their classrooms, lockers slamming shut. Too many eyes. He shook his head. "No. Not here." "Then where?" He hesitated for a second, like he was thinking it through. "Hellfire?" Oh, right. Privacy. The Drama room must definitely be empty. "Y-yeah," I said quickly. "That'll do." "Good." He replied, a little more serious than usual, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "Uh... let's go then."

We started walking together down the hallway. And I had never felt so painfully aware of another person's presence in my entire life. Neither of us spoke. Our footsteps echoed faintly on the tile floor as the hallway slowly emptied around us. I suddenly felt exposed. Like everyone could see exactly what was happening between us even though neither of us had said a single word yet. My chest felt tight, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

There is no escaping it now. Whatever this conversation was going to be— It was finally happening.

As soon as Eddie pushed the Hellfire Club door closed behind us, the muffled noise of the hallway disappeared. The room fell into a quiet that felt almost sacred. Everything looked exactly the same. Except nothing felt the same.

Eddie let out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair as if he'd been holding it in all day. "So." "So." I echoed. Great start. He shifted his weight slightly, sneakers scraping softly against the floor.

"How are you?" He asked, then added, a little more firmly, "Like, for real. Not the same fake answer you gave me this morning." Wow. Called out.

I let out a small breath, my shoulders dropping just a little. "Awful." I admitted. The word felt heavier out loud. Honest in a way I hadn't been all day.

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh, like it wasn't funny at all, and nodded. "Yeah." He said, softer now. "Same." That should've made it easier. It didn't.

I stared at the table, then at the dice scattered across it, then at literally anything that wasn't his face. "I'm really sorry for how I acted that night." I said finally. He frowned a little. "At the Hideout?" "Yeah." I rubbed my hands together nervously. "I panicked."

He shook his head almost immediately. "It's okay," he said quickly. "Honestly? That was mostly the guys' fault. Gareth bursting out of the door like a maniac definitely didn't help." "Still," I muttered. "Running away probably wasn't my most mature moment." Eddie tilted his head slightly, but didn't say anything.

"How'd the after party go?" I asked, mostly to fill the silence. He snorted. "Lame. And I almost killed them for interrupting us." I blinked. "Seriously," he added. "Gareth's lucky he's still alive. I will have my vengeance next DnD session, I swear to God." I laughed softly, the sound surprised us both.

It echoed faintly in the quiet room, warmer than the tense silence that had been sitting between us all afternoon. When I looked up again, Eddie was watching me. Not with the usual crooked grin or teasing spark in his eyes. Something softer, careful. Like he was trying to memorize something. Like he was studying every tiny movement of my face, afraid that if he blinked he might miss it. Then he stepped closer. Not by much. Just enough that the space between us suddenly felt very small. The air shifted.

Before I could even think about it, his hand lifted. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face, tucking it gently behind my ear. The touch was light, but it felt like electricity running down my spine. His hand lingered there, the edge of his fingers barely grazing my cheek, as if he was reluctant to pull away.

"You're so beautiful." He murmured.

The words were quiet. But they landed in my chest like a thunderclap. "I've wanted to tell you that for a long time." My heart started racing immediately, pounding so hard it almost hurt. "Eddie..." My words sounded almost like a breath. "I wrote that song because I didn't know how else to say it." He continued softly. "And when you ran away that night... I thought maybe I screwed everything up. Maybe I pushed too far." Guilt twisted painfully in my stomach. "I didn't run because of you." I admitted. "Then why?" "Because, Eddie. Because I—" The sentence fell apart before it could reach the end. My brain scrambled desperately for words, but every thought crashed into the next one before it could make sense.

He looked down for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when nerves got the better of him. "I don't know how to do this halfway, Bex." His voice sounded rougher now. More exposed. "I tried. I really did. But every time I look at you... every time we talk... every time you laugh at something stupid I say—" "Eddie I—" He shook his head quickly. "No, wait. Let me finish. If I don't say it now I'm probably never gonna say it right." He took a slow breath. Then he looked back at me.

"You're in my head like some kind of cursed spell. Every time I fall asleep, every time I wake up... you're there." My pulse thundered in my ears.

"I think about your eyes," he continued. "The way they go all icy when you pretend you're annoyed with me. The way you roll them when you call me an idiot." His gaze softened. "I think about your hair when you're leaning over your notebook, trying to look all serious like the world depends on those notes." A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

"And that little dimple on your cheek," he added quietly. "Right there, when you're trying really hard not to laugh. And God when you do laugh... My heart just drops. Every single time." His dark eyes were fixed on mine. "That laugh is my favorite sound in the whole world. Nothing comes close. Not my favorite band, not the loudest guitar solo, not anything."

His voice lowered even more, he dragged a hand through his hair again, frustration flickering across his face. "I've been trying really hard to just be your friend. And it hurts, Bex." His voice cracked slightly. "It hurts so much it's actually killing me." The confession hung in the room. Raw, honest. He exhaled sharply. "I just want more."

My chest felt tight. Too tight. Like my heart was trying to break through my ribs. Because suddenly everything felt too real. Because loving you means risking everything. Because if this goes wrong— "Then don't." My words slipped out before I could stop them.

He blinked. "Don't what?" "Don't try to just be my friend."

I stepped closer. Close enough now that I could see the tiny freckles across his nose. Close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. "Stop trying."

He moved suddenly, fast and almost desperate, his hands flying to my face as he pulled me toward him. The rings on his fingers were cold against my skin. And then his lips crashed into mine.

The kiss wasn't careful. It wasn't slow. It was messy and sudden and overwhelming.

Our noses bumped. Teeth knocked together awkwardly. I barely had time to process what was happening before his hand slid into my hair, gripping just a little too tightly, like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go. My back hit the wall behind me with a dull thud, shifting a cardboard box filled with old stage props. But I hardly noticed.

Because Eddie Munson was kissing me. Eddie Munson is kissing me.

And my brain had completely short-circuited. He tasted faintly like cigarettes and cherry cola. And somehow it was the best thing I had ever tasted in my life.

Eddie Munson is kissing me. Eddie Munson is actually— Then instinct took over.

My hands grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him closer, kissing him back just as fiercely. All the tension from the past months exploded at once. Every awkward glance. Every joke that hid something real underneath. Every moment we had pretended nothing was happening between us.

It all collided in one dizzying rush. Neither of us was breathing. Neither of us cared.

When we finally pulled apart, it wasn't by much. Our foreheads stayed pressed together, both of us breathing like we'd just run miles. For a moment I could only stare at him. My cheeks burned so hot they probably matched the red devil on his shirt. My brain struggled to catch up with reality. Because one very important thought had just landed in my head. So this is what kissing Eddie Munson feels like. And suddenly I never wanted to stop.

"Damn it, Bex." He breathed, his voice rough and unsteady. "Yeah." I murmured back. My voice was barely more than air, still tangled somewhere in my throat while my heart hammered wildly against my ribs, like it hadn't quite realized the moment was real yet. I lifted my hand slowly and cupped his cheek. His skin was warm under my palm.

My thumb brushed gently across his lower lip—the same lip I had just kissed, still slightly swollen from it. Eddie inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into my touch, like the contact itself grounded him. My fingers traced softly along the line of his cheekbone, memorizing the shape of him.

His hand tightened on my hip, the movement was instinctive, almost unconscious, but the pressure sent a warm rush through my entire body, pulling me a little closer without either of us really deciding it.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that." His voice was quieter now. Softer. Like he was still a little stunned it had actually happened. I smiled faintly, still studying his face from inches away. "I think I have, actually." I whispered back. My gaze drifted to his eyes when he opened them again. Dark. So dark they almost swallowed the light in the room. And for a moment I felt like I could get completely lost inside them.

As Eddie's eyes held mine, a shiver ran down my spine. The world seemed to blur around us. The empty Drama room, the scattered props, the muffled sounds somewhere down the hall. None of it mattered. There was only the space between us, barely an inch now, and the way our hearts were pounding in sync, our breaths mingling in the small space between our lips in an uneven rhythm.

Eddie's other hand was still tangled in my hair, his fingers moving slowly, almost absentmindedly, brushing against my scalp in soft, careful motions. It was a sensation that sent waves of warmth coursing through me, settling low in my stomach.

Eddie was so close I could see the tiny crease between his brows—the one that appeared whenever he was thinking too hard about something. Which, judging by the look on his face, he definitely was. "So... uh." He glanced at me, then immediately looked down again. "That just happened." A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Soft, a little breathless. "Yeah," I said. "It did."

He shifted his weight, one shoe scuffing lightly against the floor. "I mean," he added quickly, gesturing vaguely between us, "not that I'm complaining. Absolutely not complaining. Just—" He stopped, clearly searching for the right words. "I guess I'm just trying to figure out if that was a one-time spontaneous combustion situation or..." His voice trailed off. I tilted my head slightly. "Or?" He looked up again, and for a moment the nervous humor faded from his expression. "Or if it means what I think it means." I took a small step closer again—not much, just enough that the distance between us disappeared the way it had before.

"If you think it means I like you," I finally said, "then yeah. That's probably accurate." Eddie blinked. Then he let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "Wow," he said softly. "Okay. That's... good. That's really good, actually. I like you too, if it wasn't obvious." His shoulders relaxed a little, like some invisible weight had finally slid off them.

"So," he added after a second, a crooked smile slowly creeping back onto his face,"hypothetically speaking..." I raised an eyebrow. "Hypothetically." "If I kissed you again right now," he murmured, "would that still fall under the 'accurate' category?" I tried to look thoughtful for a moment. Then I reached up and tugged lightly on the collar of his jacket. "You could test that theory." I suggested. His grin widened. "Scientific method. I like it."

Eddie leaned in, his lips found mine again, this time softer, more deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the feeling. I kissed him back just as gently, fingers curling into the fabric as I pulled him closer. The kiss deepened little by little, our breaths mixing between pauses, every movement hesitant and new but somehow perfectly natural at the same time.

His hands roamed, tracing the lines of my body, learning the curves he'd only ever seen hidden beneath layers of clothing. My hands mirrored his movements, mapping out the hard planes of his chest, the lean muscles of his back. We were a mess of limbs and lips and gasping breaths, each touch igniting a spark, each kiss fueling a fire that threatened to consume us.

The world outside didn't exist. There was only us, our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating as one.

Eddie's lips left mine, tracing a path along my jaw, down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. I tipped my head back, giving him better access, a soft moan escaping my lips. His hands found the hem of my shirt, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of my waist. I shivered, my grip on his curls tightening.

With a sudden surge of strength, his hands gripped my hips, lifting me effortlessly. I gasped, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as he set me down on the table in the center of the room. Dice scattered with a sharp clatter, forgotten minis toppling across the board as everything else was pushed aside. His hands exploring every curve of my body, urgent, desperate. Like he couldn't stop. Like neither of us could. "Fuck, Bex." He groaned, then—

A sudden burst of sound echoed through the room next door, loud and jarring, the unmistakable clash of instruments cutting straight through the moment—brass, maybe a French Horn, something sharp enough to pull us both back at once. We jolted apart instantly, our eyes flying open, lips parting as reality came rushing back in all at once.

"Shit." I breathed. Eddie stepped back first, dragging his hand through his already messy hair, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing, while I slid off the table, my hands briefly gripping the edge to ground myself.

"Band rehearsal." He muttered, still a little breathless. "I fucking forgot they practice on Fridays." "Yeah," I said, brushing my hands against my jeans like that might somehow settle the storm still rushing through me. "Let's... not worry about it."

My heart was still racing, my lips still tingling, my entire body still caught somewhere between what had just happened and the reality we had just been thrown back into. But the moment was broken. The spell—whatever it had been—lifted just enough to make everything feel uncertain again.

The noise from the other room faded slightly, leaving behind a quieter space filled only with the uneven rhythm of our breathing.

"So..." Eddie's voice stretched around the word, uncertain but not quite nervous, like he didn't want to push too hard and risk breaking whatever this was before we even understood it.

A small, almost disbelieving laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, quiet but real. "Yeah. So." "So what happens now?" He asked, and this time there was something softer in his voice, something more vulnerable beneath the usual edge. The question didn't surprise me, if anything, it had been sitting at the edge of my thoughts this entire time, waiting for one of us to finally say it out loud.

I let out a small breath, my fingers absentmindedly brushing against the edge of the table behind me as I searched for an answer that didn't feel like stepping off something I couldn't climb back from.

"I don't know." I admitted finally, my voice quieter now, stripped of the nervous deflection I usually hid behind. "I don't think I thought that far ahead." "Yeah," he huffed softly, a faint smile pulling at his mouth, "that makes two of us." He watched me for a second longer, like he was trying to read something in my expression, and then, almost despite himself, that familiar crooked smile appeared. "Kind of feels like we should've done that sooner."

I exhaled softly, a real smile threatening this time before I could stop it. "Yeah." I admitted. "Probably would've saved us a lot of... whatever the last few months were." He let out a quiet breath through his nose, something amused and a little self-aware. "Emotional torture?" He offered. I nodded immediately, a small laugh escaping me. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

For a moment, it was easy again. Familiar. But it didn't last.

"I meant what I said, by the way." He added after a second, his voice lower now, more careful. I looked at him, my heart still not entirely steady. "What do you mean?"

"That I like you, Bex. I really do." Heat rushed up my cheeks before I could stop it, my breath catching slightly at the way he said it—simple, honest, no jokes to soften it. "I like you too, Eddie."

And I did. That was the problem.

Because I like you—that's what I had said. That's what I had allowed myself to say out loud, to give shape to something that had been building for months, something I had carefully avoided naming for what it really was. But standing there, looking at him now, it didn't feel like enough. It felt small compared to everything else pressed against my chest.

I had told him the truth.

Just not all of it. Not the part that felt bigger than I knew how to handle, heavier than anything I had ever tried to put into words.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 5.4k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

Tuesday, January 1st, 1985.

This year was already off to a spectacular start.

I knew I shouldn't have drunk that much. I knew it. Somewhere between my second cup and Sarah deciding moderation was a social construct, I'd crossed a line I absolutely did not have the emotional stability to deal with.

But it was a party. And parties had rules of their own. Mainly: say yes, refill your cup, and deal with the consequences later.

Somehow—somehow—Sarah managed to drive my truck home. She was marginally more sober than I was, which is not saying much, but I made it into my bed without waking Dad up, shoes kicked off somewhere between the stairs and my dignity.

When I woke up, I felt like I had died. Not metaphorically. Like actually expired and dragged back from the realm of the dead. My mouth tasted like sandpaper and shame, my head throbbed in time with my pulse, each beat a reminder that my brain was deeply, deeply unhappy with me. I cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it—the light stabbed straight through my skull. I rolled over, groaned into my pillow, and squinted at the clock. It is definitely after lunch. Fantastic.

I groaned again and finally forced myself out of bed. Eventually, after a shower that barely revived me and clothes that suggested I had at least attempted to get my life together, I made my way downstairs.

Sarah, of course, was awake and fully functional. Which felt personal. She was in the kitchen with Dad, already mid-conversation, like it was any other morning and not the aftermath of whatever emotional catastrophe I'd apparently triggered. Both of them turned toward me at the same time, like I'd just crawled out of a coffin instead of my bed. I ignored it and reached for the first thing on the table—a glass of water—and drank it like it was sacred.

"Good morning," Sarah cheered brightly. Far too brightly. "And Happy New Year." My temples hammered in response. "You ready to face the consequences of your actions?" She added. I squinted at her, my brain was still catching up. "My... actions?" She tilted her head. "Don't do that. You know exactly what I'm talking about." I sighed and leaned against the counter. "Sarah, please, I'm hungover." "And?" "And—I don't remember much." "You're going to tell him." I closed my eyes. "Tell who what." "You're going to tell Eddie you have feelings for him." She said finally, crossing her arms like she was trying to prove a point. Dad almost choked on his coffee and pretended he was not part of this conversation.

My stomach churned as the night before crept back in, not in scattered pieces but in sharp, humiliating flashes that refused to soften around the edges. Music. Noise. Too many people. And then— Steve. He tried to kiss me.

The memory didn't blur or fade the way I wanted it to. It stayed painfully clear, immediate and unmistakable, our bodies too close, his face inches from mine as he leaned in like I would meet him halfway, and I remembered the exact second my brain caught up with what he was doing. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping—stupidly—that it might push the whole thing back into the haze where it belonged. Nope. Still there.

I remembered exactly what I had done—I had pulled back, fast and instinctively, without hesitation or confusion, just a sharp, immediate no that cut through everything else before I even had time to think. And it wasn't just about Steve.

That was the part that lingered, the part I couldn't ignore no matter how much I wanted to. I thought about how wrong it had felt, how everything about that moment had been slightly off, like stepping into the wrong version of something that should have made sense but didn't.

Because it should've been someone else standing there.

Eddie.

Even thinking his name now felt different, heavier somehow, like it carried something I had been trying not to look at too closely. This wasn't just a crush, not something small or fleeting that I could laugh off later or tuck away once things got complicated—it had gone too far for that, had been going too far for longer than I wanted to admit, growing quietly in the background until it became something I couldn't ignore anymore.

I'm in love with Eddie.

The words echoed back to me exactly as I had said them, unfiltered and careless in the way only drunk honesty could be, and I winced slightly, dragging a hand over my face as if that might somehow take them back.

Because I hadn't meant to say it like that. Hadn't meant to say it out loud at all. But it had been true. That was the problem.

Even now, with the alcohol gone, the headache settling into a dull, persistent ache and reality slowly stitching itself back together, the feeling hadn't faded with everything else—it was still there, just as strong, just as impossible to ignore. I couldn't even pretend otherwise anymore, not after the way it had come out so easily, so naturally, like it had been sitting there all along, waiting for the smallest excuse to finally surface.

I am in love with Eddie Munson.

And apparently, it had taken almost kissing the wrong person to finally admit it to myself.

Which meant that sooner or later, I was going to have to look Steve Harrington in the eye and pretend that moment hadn't happened. This is going to be a fantastic conversation when we go back to school. Truly. Something to look forward to.

My eyes flew open again, reality unfortunately still existed, and Sarah was staring at me, waiting for my answer. "Absolutely not." I shot back with no hesitation. "Becky." "I mean," I spluttered, rubbing my temples, "Eventually. When the time's right. At school. Somewhere neutral. With witnesses. Maybe a fire extinguisher." She shut that down with a look. "Today." I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "You're kidding." "Nope." "Sarah." "If you chicken out, I will tell him myself." "You wouldn't." "Oh, I absolutely would," she countered. "I'll just walk up to wherever he lives and say: 'Hi, my best friend is terrible at feelings and she's in love with you', and then I'll let the chaos unfold." I nearly choked on my water. "Love is a big word, Sarah." "Your words, not mine." She smiled like she'd already won. I froze. Because that was the problem, wasn't it? I had said it. Maybe not like that. Maybe not clearly. But the feeling had been there. There was no taking it back.

Dad cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in literally anything else. He stood up, grabbing his mug like it was an emergency prop. "Well," he hesitated vaguely, already backing toward the door, "I think I'll... check something in the garage. Some... tools. Yeah." And just like that, he escaped.

"Sarah, I was... drunk," I muttered. "I didn't mean it." "That's bullshit, Becky." She countered immediately. "I know you. And yeah, you were drunk, but—in vino veritas." I blinked at her. "You did not just casually throw Latin at me." She shrugged. "It means 'in wine, there is truth'. Look it up." "So now you're quoting ancient philosophers at me while I'm hungover. Great. Love that for me." She ignored that completely. "Look—I'm not leaving this stupid little town without meeting this Eddie. Do what you want with that." I stared down into my glass, my reflection warped in the water—tired, pale, and very much not ready for any of this. This year is going to kill me. And it is only January 1st.

Of course the first day of the year had to be a Tuesday. Mondays got all the hate, but I thought Tuesdays were worse. Tuesdays were just Mondays in disguise—same disappointment, less sympathy. And in Hawkins, Tuesdays meant one other thing too. Corroded Coffin. The Hideout.

I hadn't been back there since September. I wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe because the first time had been... a lot. Maybe because Bev scared me a little. Maybe because part of me didn't want to come back unless there was a reason. Or maybe because, apparently, that place meant something for her, too.

Paige. I did know her name now, whether I wanted to or not.

"This place already smells like crap." Sarah snorted, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck as we crossed the parking lot. Her breath fogged in front of her as she spoke. "And you still haven't explained why this is the chosen meeting spot." "You wanted to meet him, I'm simply delivering." "I did, but I didn't know the best place for this introduction was a bar forgotten even by God himself." She gestured vaguely at the flickering sign. "It's... not that bad." "Out of all the places in this little town, we're doing this here? What about a diner? A café? A mall?" "Hawkins doesn't have a mall." She shot me a look. "Of course it doesn't." I sighed. "He's here tonight, there weren't a lot of other options."

The Hideout looked the same as I recalled. Inside, it was dim and foggy in that specific way only bars that didn't care about atmosphere could be. A few guys were already nursing beers, clustered around sticky tables, and more than one head turned when we walked in. The owner—Bev—was behind the bar. She looked up, squinted at me, then at Sarah. Her face did something like recognition trying—and failing—to happen.

"Well I'll be damned. You here for... uh..." She snapped her fingers. "Junior?" "I think so." I shrugged. "You mean Eddie?" "Yeah, whatever. You want somethin'?" Sarah opened her mouth. "We aren't allo—" "Two Jack and Cokes." I cut in quickly. Sarah turned to me in horror. "Becky, that is illegal." She whispered, actually covered her face with both hands, like Bev wasn't standing two feet away. "Relax. It's fine." "No, it's not fine." She muttered fiercely. "Everything about this place is not fine." "How come yesterday at Steve's it was fine, and here it's apparently not?" She wanted to argue, but Bev slid the drinks over a moment later. "Have fun, kids." She drawled in a tone that suggested she absolutely did not care if we did.

Sarah stared at the glass like it might explode, then she sighed and took it anyway. "If I get arrested, I'm haunting you." "Fair." "So— where is he exactly?" She asked as she took a sip of her drink, her face clearly telling it was awful. "Wait and see." "How are you gonna tell him?" "I'm not—okay, I didn't really think that through." I admitted, staring at my glass. "Rebecca." "What." "It's not that hard, like say what you have in mind and the mouth will do the rest of the work." Sure. Really not that hard, huh. Before I could say anything else, the lights dimmed slightly and someone tapped the mic onstage.

"Happy New Year, Hawkins!" Eddie's voice rang out, loud and easy and already smiling. The room answered with a few scattered cheers. He stepped into the light, jacket slung over his shoulders, guitar already in hand. He scanned the crowd like he always did—and then his eyes found me, his face lit up in that unmistakable, crooked way. I swore his cheeks flushed a little too.

"Well—" he grinned into the mic, adjusting his voice, "I'm glad to see a few familiar faces tonight. Let's make this a good one, shall we?" The band kicked in. The second Eddie started playing, Sarah stopped talking. Completely.

She didn't even look at me. Just tilted her head slightly, eyes locked on him like she was trying to solve a puzzle in real time. "Don't tell me it's him." I stared into my drink. "I won't." She finally looked at me. Slow. Measuring. Unimpressed. "Becky." "What." She laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "You're unbelievable." "What?" "You are blind." "What do you mean?" She didn't answer.

They played their usual set, Corroded Coffin originals. I forgot how good they actually were. How good he was. The sound filled the room, crawling under my skin, settling somewhere in my ribs. Eddie moved like he belonged to the stage—because he did—and every now and then, I caught him glancing my way before snapping his attention back to the crowd. Once. Twice. More than that.

I pretended not to notice. Sarah didn't. She leaned in, voice low and surgical. "He's so gone." "What are you talking about?" "He's playing for the room, but he's performing for you. Those are not the same thing." "I'm not sure, I mean—he's always like this. You don't know him." "Becky," she added calmly, "I never miss. Remember?"

Eddie's hair was falling into his eyes as he leaned into the guitar, fingers moving fast and effortless along the fretboard. Every now and then, his gaze drifted across the room. And every time it did, it landed exactly where I was standing.

He bent over the guitar for the last part of the song, the sound ripping through the small room, loud and messy and completely unapologetic. When the final note rang out, the crowd cheered. He stepped back up to the mic, the feedback whining briefly before he tapped it once. The room quieted, at least a little.

"Thank you, thank you!" He shouted, grinning. "Before we end this very first show of the year, I wanna play one last song." Behind him, the band shifted—Gareth tapping his sticks together, Grant and Jeff adjusting their straps. They were ready. Waiting.

"So," he intoned, just to be annoying about it, "I wrote this one for a very dear friend of mine who decided to surprise me tonight." Oh. Oh no.

Then he turned back to the band and counted them in. The opening riff hit. And he started to sing.

I met a ghost in a crowded room She drifted in like afternoon rain She didn't know she haunted me yet But she left her marks just the same

She's a spark in the gasoline I'm already lit, already wrong But broken chords still ring the loudest Long after the sound is gone

My stomach didn't just drop—it took my dignity with it. Sarah's head snapped toward me so fast I was surprised she didn't pull a muscle. Eddie didn't say my name. He didn't have to. He was looking straight at me.

Sarah's eyes went wide. "Oh-my-god," she whispered. "Oh-my-god—He wrote a damn song for you?!" She hissed. "Did you know?" "No, I had no idea—" He hit the chorus before I could finish.

We're playing broken chords, out of time Too loud, too close, past the line On their own they fall to pieces But strike 'em wrong, strike 'em hard And somehow they sound divine

Yeah, we're broken chords Our chaos by design

This is it. This is my soul leaving my body.

"Okay, I take it back," Sarah muttered, equal parts awe and cruelty. "He's not just gone—he's completely lost. He likes you, I'm sure of it." And for the first time—really, truly—I couldn't pretend she was wrong.

The few people around us were just enjoying the music—headbanging, living their best Corroded Coffin lives. To them, it was just another set. To me, it felt like being dragged under a spotlight I never asked for. Sarah grabbed my arm, eyes bright and completely merciless. "Becky. He is singing at you." "I know. Please stop saying it out loud." She did not.

She stands too close to the edge Like falling wouldn't be new I keep my hands on the strings And pretend I don't fall too

Every silence pulls me in Every warning fades to white I let you in and you took everything I had But we were made to light the night

"I told you, I never miss." She grinned like she'd just solved a murder. "He likes you, it is so obvious it's embarrassing. Look at him." I did. And that was my mistake.

We're playing broken chords, out of tune Too loud, too close, too soon On their own they fall apart But together, they ignite Hear me now, this is my truth

Yeah, we're broken chords And I sound better with you

Heat rushed up my neck, my face burning like I'd stepped too close to a flame. My chest felt too tight, like the room had shrunk a size when I wasn't looking. I didn't even wait for the song to end. I was already pushing past people, already heading for the door, Sarah calling my name behind me as she scrambled to follow. The cold slapped me the second we stepped outside. My breath came out in short, foggy bursts, way too fast, way too shallow. Oh God, oh God.

My hands were shaking when I dug into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette, fingers clumsy like they'd forgotten how to do their job. Sarah appeared just a second after me and sighed, long and dramatic, like she'd been waiting her whole life for this exact moment. "No, Becky, don't smoke. You're clearly having a panic attack. Smoking is not going to help." "I don't fucking care." I snapped, lighting it anyway.

The flame wobbled. My hands were still trembling. I took a drag that was way too deep, immediately regretted it, and still didn't care. The smoke burned all the way down, harsh and grounding and awful, and at least it gave my brain something else to focus on besides the way my heart was trying to burst out of my chest. Eddie didn't come over right away. Which was good. Because if he had, I might have actually combusted.

Sarah crossed her arms, watching me with that look. The one that said she was judging me and worried about me at the same time. "You're spiraling." "I'm not." I lied, exhaling smoke into the freezing air. It vanished instantly, like it had never existed. "I am... processing." "You look like you're about to either cry or punch someone." "Both are on the table."

The muffled thump of music leaking through the walls behind us, my cigarette burning down way too fast. "Becky, you need to tell him your feelings, because I mean—have you looked at him?" Of course I have, multiple times. "We're just friends—" "Becky for God's sake, stop being stupid for once! It took me five seconds to notice the way he looks at you, and you've been kidding yourself for months now! Do you really think that friends write songs like that?"

"No... no, I don't think so." I admitted as smoke kept coming out of my nostrils, I looked at the gravel beneath me because I knew Sarah was still staring at me. "See? You're starting to make some sense. So, are you gonna tell him?" "It's hard, Sarah." "The hell it's not—" The door flew open.

Sarah stopped talking, and I almost burned my fingers with the lit cigarette in my hand. Eddie practically stumbled out, jacket half-zipped, gaze darting across the parking lot like he wasn't sure where to look. He spotted us, confused first, then relieved. "Oh," he panted, jogging over. "There you are. I thought you were—uh—never mind." I took another drag. "Hey." My voice came out smaller than I thought.

"It's... freezing. Why are you out here?" I lifted the cigarette slightly. "To... smoke?" "You know you can smoke inside, right? I mean, have you seen the fog in there? I'm pretty sure the walls are ninety percent nicotine at this point." Sarah snorted, and Eddie blinked at her as he had just realized she was right there too. "Uhm—Eddie, this is Sarah. My best friend. From Chicago." She straightened immediately and stuck out her hand like she was meeting a celebrity. "Oh my god, hi. I'm, like, your new biggest number one fan. Pleasure." Eddie stared at her hand for a second, clearly caught off guard, then laughed and shook it. "Oh—uh—hi. I'm Eddie. Apparently." "Apparently?" She repeated, delighted. "I love that." He glanced back at me, eyebrows lifting like he was silently asking where did you find her?

"So... best friends you say?" "Unfortunately," Sarah replied. "Since we were kids." "And has she always been like this?" Sarah snorted. "Maybe worse." "Wow," he chuckled. "Didn't expect that." "I know," she nodded solemnly. "I have truly impressive patience." "Sarah." I muttered, a little offended. He grinned. "No, no, I respect it. That's commitment." "Thank you," she bowed slightly. "It's a burden, but I carry it with grace." "I'm still here, by the way?" They ignored me.

Sarah studied Eddie, thoughtful. "You seem like exactly the kind of problem my best friend falls into." Eddie blinked. "Oh." "Sarah." I uselessly warned. Eddie pointed at himself. "I mean, I know I'm a problem, but I didn't realize I had a reputation." "Yeah—Becky has a type." "I do not." I groaned. Eddie's grin widened. "This is devastating news. I thought I was special." I immediately choked on my smoke. Sarah eyed the cigarette again. "See? Your lungs are filing a formal complaint." Eddie tilted his head, still looking at me like he was trying to read my face in the dark. "You okay?" I opened my mouth to say yes. Nothing came out.

"Well," Sarah said brightly, already backing toward the door, "I need to pee, I'll go find a bathroom, this is now a quest, wish me luck." I shot her a glare that could've qualified as attempted murder. She just winked at me and disappeared back into the bar.

Eddie shifted his weight in the cold, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. For a second, neither of us said anything. His breath fogged in the air between us.

"I really like her, by the way." He pointed at the door where Sarah was probably hiding inside. "Of course you do, she's irresistible for anybody." "No I didn't mean like that—" He paused, then rephrased. "She calls you Becky?" He sounded both amused and teasing. "She's the only one allowed." "Good, I didn't want to risk my life."

He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. Thick clouds rolled overhead, heavy and low. "It's cloudy tonight, no stars." He noted. "Feels like it might snow." "Yeah, it's also colder than usual." "New year, new threats, I guess." He looked back at me. "So... Happy New Year?" I sighed, smoke coming out of my nostrils. "You too." Another pause.

"I didn't know you were coming tonight." "Sarah wanted to meet you." "Well," he smiled, "I'm glad she did. Did you—uh..." He hesitated. "Did you enjoy the show?" "Yeah. You guys were really good. I mean—you guys always are, but—yeah." Smooth, Bex. Very smooth.

"So," I began, crossing my arms more for something to do with my hands than for any real attitude. "That last song." He huffed out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "What about it." "Why, Eddie?" "What do you mean? You didn't like it?" "...Was it about me?" "Yeah, it was." He admitted after a beat.

Cold air pressed in around us. The noise from inside the bar felt far away, muffled, like the world had politely stepped back to give us space neither of us had asked for. "You were torturing me." I sighed, only half-joking. Only half. "It wasn't my intention." I tilted my head. "Then what was your intention, Eddie?" "I—" He let out a breath, sharp and nervous. "I just... wanted to play it. That's it." "That's not an answer." He huffed a quiet, frustrated laugh. "Yeah. I know—I didn't think you'd, uh... take it like that." He added, softer. "It's not that I didn't like it. I just... I didn't expect that." "I didn't expect you'd show up either. I wasn't trying to put you on the spot." "And yet you did." I sighed, flicking the cigarette butt into the gravel and stomping it with my boot. "Yeah," he admitted. "I did." He looked at me then, and stepped a little closer, something open and uncertain in his eyes. "Sometimes I don't think things through when it comes to you." Oh.

That was not a casual sentence. That was the kind of sentence that changed the temperature of the air.

"Eddie... There's something I should say to you." I whispered, because my heart had somehow relocated to my throat. "I—uh—I think I need to tell you something too." "Oh—you first—" "No, no," he shook his head, hands coming out of his pockets like he suddenly didn't know where to put them. "You brought it up first. Go ahead." This is it.

My brain immediately forgot how language worked. Every sentence I had rehearsed earlier dissolved into static. Say it. Just say it.

My fingers curled inside the sleeves of my jacket. I could feel my pulse everywhere—neck, wrists, temples—like my whole body had turned into one giant alarm bell. "Listen, I dunno where to start—" "That's usually a good sign, means it's probably important." His voice was softer now. Not stage-Eddie. Not loud, joking Eddie. Just him.

I let out a nervous breath that turned into a pale cloud between us. "I just... about earlier. And the song. And—" I gestured vaguely between us, the space suddenly feeling loaded with electricity. "All of... this." "Yeah," he nodded softly. "There's definitely a lot of this lately."

Silence settled over us. Not empty silence. The kind that pressed in from all sides. The kind where one wrong word could change everything.

I rubbed my hands together, partly from the cold, mostly because my nerves were doing somersaults. Eddie stepped a little closer without even seeming to realize he'd done it. The distance between us shrank to something fragile.

"Eddie, if you wrote that song because you think—I mean if you feel like—" God. This is impossible. Why is this so hard?

He tilted his head slightly, watching me with that same careful expression he used when he was trying to understand something complicated.

"Bex," he breathed, "you know you can just say it, right?" That almost made me laugh. "You make it sound easy." His mouth twitched. "It actually is." "Then you say it." For a second he didn't answer. He looked down at the gravel, nudging a small stone with the tip of his sneaker, then back at me.

"I've been trying to say something to you for..." he exhaled slowly, like the words weighed something. "Honestly longer than I want to admit." My heart skipped so violently it almost hurt. "Oh." He laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Oh." For a second we just looked at each other. Cold air. Foggy breath. Too much unsaid. Say it. Just say it, Bex.

"Eddie... I think I—"

"What a great show, guys!" The Hideout door slammed open so hard it rattled against the wall. Eddie and I both flinched. A burst of warm bar noise spilled into the cold night—laughter, music, the clatter of chairs.

Gareth stumbled out first, still holding his drumsticks, mid-sentence about something loud and enthusiastic. Grant followed, already lighting a cigarette, and Jeff shoved the door wider with his shoulder. They were all talking over each other. Then Jeff spotted us.

"Oh—there he is!" Gareth shouted, pointing at Eddie like they'd just found a missing person. "Dude, we thought you disappeared." Behind them, Sarah slipped out of the bar too. The second her eyes met mine, her entire face crumpled into a guilty oh no. She mouthed I'm sorry.

Jeff jerked his thumb toward the parking lot. "We're heading to Gareth's. After party, man. You coming?" Eddie looked at them. Then at me. Something flickered across his face—frustration, hesitation, something heavier. "I'm alright, guys—" "No, Eddie." I cut him off quickly, the words rushing out before I could stop them. "You should go." He blinked. "Bex, but we were—" "It's okay—" I snapped too fast. Way too fast. My hands started moving like I needed to physically push the moment away. "Really. It's fine." The words kept coming, completely out of my control. "We'll talk another time, okay? It's not a big deal. I mean—tonight's been... a lot. So—yeah." I laughed. It sounded wrong even to my own ears. Eddie didn't laugh. He just looked at me, like he knew exactly what I was doing. Like he was giving me one last chance to stop. I didn't take it.

Behind him, the other guys were still talking loudly, completely unaware they had just derailed something important.

I stepped back, and Sarah arrived with a very confusing look on her face. I instinctively grabbed her wrist. "Okay!" I said a little too quickly. "We should go." Sarah blinked at me. "Wait. I thought you were about to—" "It's late," I rushed on, already stepping backward toward the truck. "And freezing. And you told me you were tired earlier." "I did not—" "Yep." I nodded firmly. "You definitely did."

Eddie opened his mouth again. "Bex, we were literally in the middle of—" "It's fine—we'll talk another time. Really." The smile I tried to give him felt thin and fragile. For a second he didn't say anything. Then he nodded once, not convinced, just... letting me. Which somehow hurt more.

"Okay." He murmured quietly. Before Eddie could say anything else, I dragged Sarah toward the truck. She stumbled after me. "Becky—what are you doing?" "Leaving." I muttered. "Yeah, I can see that!" I didn't look back. Because if I did, I knew I'd see him standing there. And I knew I'd break.

The truck engine roared to life louder than necessary. The moment we pulled out of the parking lot, Sarah turned in her seat. "So?" "No." "What do you mean no?" "I... didn't say it." She stared at me like I'd just committed a crime. "You're joking." "I panicked." "You PANICKED?!" She exploded. "I know!" "You were about to say it!" "I know!!" "And then you ran away?!" "I know!!!" The cab filled with the sound of my own breathing, too fast, too uneven. Sarah threw her hands up. "You're impossible!" "I tried..." I muttered. "No you didn't!" I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I was scared, okay?!" That shut her up.

The words hung in the cab for a moment. "I was scared," I repeated more quietly, "because what if I say it and everything changes? What if he doesn't feel the same? What if I ruin the one thing in my life that actually works?" Sarah exhaled slowly. "Becky..." I kept my eyes on the road, they started to burn. "I don't think I could handle that."

Sarah leaned her head back against the seat, sighing. "You know you're going to have to tell him eventually." "Yeah." I replied quietly. Neither of us spoke after that.

Hawkins was almost empty this late at night, the streets dark and silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the tires rolling over asphalt. It looked smaller when it slept, like the whole place had folded in on itself.

My fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. I kept replaying the moment over and over in my head.

Eddie... I think I—

I had been right there. Right at the edge. And I ran. I'm so fucking stupid.

Sarah shifted beside me and glanced out the window. "Hey." She murmured. "What?" I said, wincing slightly at how harsh it came out. She pointed upward through the windshield. At first I didn't see it, then something small drifted through the headlights. Another followed. Tiny white specks floating slowly down from the dark sky. Snow. The first fragile flakes of the year. They fell softly against the windshield, melting the second they touched the glass.

Looks like I manifested snow after all.

I let out a quiet breath, watching the flakes swirl in the beams of the headlights. Delicate. Weightless.

Like the sky itself was hesitating. Like it wasn't quite ready to commit yet.

Just like me.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.4k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐋𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

Monday, December 31st, 1984.

"Beckyyy! Look at youuu—"

Sarah barely finished the sentence before she threw herself at me, nearly knocking me backward on the icy pavement outside Hawkins Station. I staggered, caught myself at the last second, and hugged her back anyway, because apparently my survival instincts shut down in her presence.

"Hey, Sarah—" I said, breathless. "You look... exactly the same as ever."

She pulled back just far enough to look me up and down, slow and deliberate, like she was conducting some kind of highly judgmental inspection.

"Wow," she smiled, her hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "I can't say the same for you. You're... bright. Like, suspiciously bright." I blinked. "That's not a compliment, is it."

"Oh, it absolutely is," she affirmed. "You look better than when you left Chicago. Which, by the way, I was very concerned about. I fully expected to find you either emotionally hollow or dressed like a Victorian ghost."

She nudged me with her shoulder, playful but sharp. "Turns out this charming little nowhere-town didn't completely ruin you. Who knew?"

"I wouldn't go that far." I grabbed the handle of her offensively bright pink suitcase before she could drag it somewhere inconvenient. It was heavier than it had any right to be. "Hawkins doesn't get credit for that." "Oh, I dunno. Sometimes a change of scenery helps. Or—" her grin turned instantly wicked, "—sometimes it's not the scenery. Sometimes it's a boy."

My face betrayed me immediately. Like a traitor. Turns out I'd been relying way too much on long-distance phone calls and the luxury of not being seen.

She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Becky. You're blushing. You never blush. This is huge." "I am not blushing." "You are absolutely blushing." "This is just... cold air."

She leaned in, conspiratorial now. "So. Where is he? Is he coming tomorrow? To the party? Do I get to meet him immediately? Because you do realize I need to approve him, right?"

"I do not need your approval for anything." I groaned, even as I already felt the argument slipping out of my control. She ignored that completely. "Does he at least have a name, or are we still pretending this is hypothetical?" I sighed. There is no winning this. "Eddie." I admitted. Then, a little more quickly, "And no, he's not coming to the party."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh. That's interesting." "It's not interesting." "It's extremely interesting." She corrected. "Why isn't he coming?" "Because he's... busy. Or doesn't want to. Or—" I gestured vaguely. "Because." "Mhm." She gave me a look that said she was already filing this away for later interrogation.

I rolled my eyes and tugged her suitcase along. "Can we not start psychoanalyzing me in public? You've been here for, like, five minutes." "And in those five minutes I've already learned this town looks like it's allergic to color. Are beige and gray a lifestyle choice here?" "Welcome to Hawkins. It'll... grow on you." "So does mold. That's not a selling point."

We got into my truck, and the interrogation started immediately. "So," Sarah started, buckling her seatbelt. "Catch me up. School. Friends. The Eddie situation." "There is no Eddie situation." "Mhm." "Sarah—" "We'll circle back to that." I had a terrible feeling she meant it.

God, I've missed her.

Calling the first day with Sarah intense felt generous. It was more like being hit by a very stylish hurricane. She was loud and relentless and completely allergic to personal space. Within twenty minutes of being back in my life, she'd rearranged half my room, judged my posters, and questioned my wardrobe palette.

Why do I keep attracting chaotic people in my life? I'm starting to see a pattern here. And I'm not sure I like what it says about me.

She unpacked like she was evacuating a disaster zone—clothes everywhere, shoes kicked under my bed, makeup exploding across my desk like she was planting a flag and claiming territory.

She complained about Hawkins. About the food. About the silence. About how the sky here looked "too boring". And then she asked questions. So many questions. About literally anything. I dodged. I redirected. I lied badly. She saw through all of it, of course. She always did. But she let me pretend for a while.

By the end of those first twenty-four hours, my room was messier, my ears were ringing, and my emotional defenses had been aggressively tested. And somehow, I'd survived it.

So when we got back into my truck the next evening, heading toward Steve's house, I should've known the universe wasn't done with me yet.

She flipped down the mirror on the passenger side, starting to fix her mascara like we weren't driving through the most unexciting town in Indiana. "You said Steve's party is 'just a few people.'" "I did." "Which means it's either actually three people and a dog," she went on, perfectly calm, "or it's a full-blown social disaster." "I don't think he even owns a dog." "Tragic."

But the lie revealed itself the second we turned onto Steve's street.

Cars were everywhere—lined up like someone had planned a small invasion and forgotten to tell the city. Music was already thumping through the cold air, bass rattling windows, voices spilling out into the street.

And somehow there were even a few people in the pool. In December. At New Year's Eve.

I slowed the truck, staring. "...He said it was small." She looked at me. I looked at the house. "Fantastic, I love it." Sarah said with a mischievous grin.

Steve opened the door before we even knocked, looking like he'd aged five years in the last hour. "Okay," he fretted immediately, holding up his hands. "Before you say anything—this was not my fault." "Steve." "I invited, like, eight people," he insisted. "And then someone told someone, and Hawkins did the rest." Sarah leaned in, eyes lighting up as she took in the chaos. "This is incredible. Absolutely no need to apologize." "Uh—Steve, this is Sarah. My best friend from Chicago. Sarah, this is—" "Wow," she cut in smoothly. "Love the hair. Do you use Farrah Fawcett? I can practically smell it." Steve blinked. For a second he looked genuinely startled. Then his gaze flicked past us, and he pointed vaguely toward nobody in particular. "Uh—sorry, they're—uh—calling me," he spluttered, already backing away. "I'll—uh—see you later." And just like that, he vanished into the crowd.

Sarah turned to me slowly. "Becky." "What." "He's hot." I sighed. "I really hope this Eddie is hotter," she went on, deadly serious, "because there is no way you're not seeing what I'm seeing right now." "Look—I don't care. He's all yours."

Sarah's smile snapped back into place. "Come on, let's drink something!" She grabbed my wrist and started dragging me through the crowd like she already had Steve's floor plan memorized in a matter of milliseconds.

His house was... big. In a 'my parents definitely have important jobs and matching furniture' way. Everything looked expensive and untouched, like no one was allowed to actually live in it.

"Becky—" Sarah started to say, leaning in close so she wouldn't have to shout over the music. "Do you know anybody here?" I scanned the room. A few familiar faces floated in and out of focus—people from Tina's Halloween party, mostly. It felt like they spawned wherever there was loud music and free alcohol. "...Not really. Just Steve." "No biggie." Her smile turned predatory in the way that meant she'd already decided something for both of us. "We can fix that."

Before I could object, she was already steering us toward the nearest group of guys she spotted, their backs turned, shoulders hunched in conversation. "Hello! I'm Sarah, and this is—" "Rebecca Smith. We finally meet." The voice cut in, arrogant and smug.

Billy Hargrove turned around slowly, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like it was part of the outfit. He looked me over in a way that wasn't subtle, wasn't polite, and definitely wasn't welcome.

Why does he know my name? "Do we know each other?" I asked, taking a half step back despite myself. His smirked widened like he'd noticed. "No," he drawled easily. "Not yet." He took the cigarette between two fingers and flicked ash somewhere on the parquet flooring without even looking. "But you're kinda hard to miss, Smith." His eyes dragged over me again. "Harrington's favorite pet. And apparently you like hanging around with that weird freak, too." Oh. So this is how tonight's going.

"It seems like you've got a foot in two different shoes," he went on lazily. "Or maybe you just don't know where you belong yet."

I crossed my arms, more to give my hands something to do than because I thought it would intimidate him. "Why are you here?" I asked flatly. "I'm pretty sure Steve didn't invite you. And I'm also pretty sure you're not welcome."

Billy let out a short laugh through his nose. "That's the thing, sweetheart. I don't need an invitation." He took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright orange before he exhaled straight toward my face. "This is a party. People show up, it's not a big deal. Relax."

Sarah blinked between us, clearly catching the vibe now. I could practically hear the gears turning in her head.

"Trust me," I added dryly, "I'm having plenty of fun already. I definitely don't need your judgment." Billy chuckled. "Really? Because you look kinda tense." He glanced around at the guys behind him, sharing a look. "You should try loosening up sometime." He leaned one shoulder against the wall. "Must be exhausting," he added, "trying to play the edgy, mysterious girl. All dark and tough." "You talk like you know me." I scoffed. "Oh, sweetheart, maybe I do. Wanna find out?" "Eat shit, Hargrove." I snapped, a little too defensive. Billy laughed once, short and humorless. "Woah, easy. I'm just making conversation. Isn't that what people do at parties?" "Not like this." I shot back. "Touchy." He smirked. "Guess hanging out with Harrington rubbed off on you."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was something under a microscope. "You know, he's not gonna like that." I frowned. "Like what?" "That you're slumming it." He conceded bluntly. "Dude's got a reputation to protect. Or at least whatever's left of it." The guys behind him laughed. Something hot flared in my chest.

"Say whatever you want about me," I hissed, voice steady even if my pulse wasn't. "But you don't get to talk about my friends." Billy's expression sharpened, just a fraction. "Friends, huh?" He repeated slowly, then the smirk came back. "Interesting choice of company." "Yeah," I nodded towards him and the rest of the basketball team. "Surely beats yours."

For a moment, I thought that might actually piss him off. Instead, he laughed. "Careful," he drawled. "You might change your mind if you actually tried having a little fun." He stepped a little closer, just enough for me to smell the smoke and something sharp clinging to his jacket. "With me."

I'm gonna fucking punch him. "If I ever get that desperate, I'll let you know." "Oh, sweetheart." Billy's voice dripped with mock sympathy. "You already look pretty desperate to me. Hanging around with that Munson loser." That's it.

I stepped forward before I could stop myself, meeting his stare head-on despite the height difference. My jaw tightened, fists clenched so hard my nails dug into my palms. I could feel my pulse hammering in my temples.

Sarah leaned in, clapping her hands once. "Woah—Okay! This has been... super fun, I guess. But we're gonna go find literally anyone else now." She hooked her arm through mine and started dragging me away before I could say—or do—something that would definitely get me in trouble.

As we walked off, I felt his eyes on my back. "See you at school, Smith. I can't wait." He laughed, low and amused.

"Okay," I groaned tightly, as soon as we were a few steps away. "We're leaving." Sarah stopped short and turned to face me, hands on my shoulders, eyes sharp but not unkind. "No, we're not." "We are." "Hey. I dunno what the hell is wrong with that asshole over there, but don't give him that much power. He's not worth it. He wants a reaction—and you don't owe him one." "I don't want to be here anymore." I murmured, my voice coming out thinner than I meant it to. She gave my shoulders a small shake, like she was trying to reset me. "Come on. Distraction therapy. My specialty."

We were suddenly back in the kitchen, where someone had set up an impressive and deeply irresponsible collection of bottles and red cups. "Sarah—" "Shh. Trust the process." She handed me a cup that smelled like regret and fruit punch. I took a few sips.

The music got louder. Or maybe I just started noticing it more. Someone put on something fast and noisy, and suddenly the house felt like it was vibrating from the inside out. I leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring down into my cup.

Billy's words replayed in my head like a scratched cassette. So he had been watching me now? Why? For how long?

I took another drink. It burned a little going down, which felt appropriate.

Why does it bother me so much? Billy Hargrove is exactly the kind of guy whose opinion should mean absolutely nothing to me. The kind of guy you ignore. I swallowed the rest of the drink and set the cup down a little harder than necessary.

If Billy thinks I am desperate, fine. If he thinks I'm between two worlds, fine. But there's no way he's gonna talk shit about Eddie.

At some point, someone handed me another drink. And then another. I lost track of what was in them. Everything tasted the same. The room blurred at the edges in a way that was almost... nice.

Someone grabbed Sarah's hand and dragged her into the living room like she was a prize they'd just won, and she went willingly, throwing me a grin over her shoulder that said don't wait up. I stood there for a second, cup sweating in my hand, trying to decide if I was brave enough—or drunk enough—to follow.

I was, unfortunately, both.

The room was a mess of bodies and noise and heat. The windows were open, but it didn't help much. I found Sarah in the middle of it, already laughing with two guys she'd known for maybe four minutes. Or maybe it was just one and I was seeing double. Shit.

My vision smudged for a second. I reached out blindly, searching for the first solid thing I could lean against. A wall. A column. Anything that promised not to move. I closed my eyes.

And suddenly Eddie Munson appeared in my mind like an intrusive thought.

He would absolutely hate this party.

Or maybe he'd love it in that loud, sarcastic way of his, and then complain about it for a full week afterward. I could picture him leaning against a wall next to me, judging everyone's music taste, watching the crowd like he was studying some weird social experiment, and somehow still making friends with the second-weirdest person in the room.

Because he would obviously be the first.

Ah yes, he'd say, observe the mating rituals of the suburban jock.

The thought almost made me smile.

Hanging around with that Munson loser.

Billy's voice crept back into my thoughts.

I tried to imagine Eddie standing where I had been a few moments ago, Billy running his mouth like that. Except... Eddie probably wouldn't have reacted like me. He would've laughed. Because he always laughed.

Turned it into a joke, flipped it around somehow until the other person looked stupid instead. Or he'd just shrug it off like it didn't matter.

How many times had he done that? How many times had he just laughed it off because starting a fight would only have made it worse?

It's always been like that. Always will be. The thought sounded so much like Eddie in my head that it made my chest tighten. Oh, Eddie.

"Hey."

For half a second, I actually thought it was him, and the realization jolted through me hard enough to make me open my eyes. It wasn't.

Steve's voice came from my left, closer than I expected. I turned too fast and nearly bumped straight into his chest.

"H—hey." "Woah," he laughed softly, steadying me by the elbow. "Careful there. Are you okay?" "S-sorry—I'm okay." I lied. "Having... fun?" "Define fun," I answered automatically, then winced. "Sorry. That sounded... meaner than I meant." He shook his head. "No, no. It's fine. I get it." He gestured vaguely around us like he was presenting the entire mess. "This is... kinda a lot." I huffed out a laugh. "That's one way to put it."

Steve's eyes dropped briefly to the cup in my hand. "How many did you have?" "I think I lost count," I admitted, lifting one shoulder. "You?" He blinked at his own cup. "Oh." He frowned slightly. "Wait—we were supposed to keep count?" That made me laugh for real, a short, unguarded sound. He laughed too, like he'd been waiting for it.

I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice. "You know that Billy fucking Hargrove is here?" Steve's smile faded almost immediately. "Yeah, I know." "And?" "And... nothing." I stared at him. "What do you mean nothing? It's your party. Your house." He ran a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "You won't get it, Bex." "Try me."

Steve glanced around the room, like he wanted to make sure nobody important was listening. "Remember what I've told you some time ago? There is like... a hierarchy, at school." He waved his hand vaguely. "And Hargrove? He's kinda... top of it right now." "Steve, you sound insane." "I'm serious." He nodded toward the living room where the basketball guys were gathered. "They're not here for me. Half these people don't even like me." "Then why are they here?" "Big, nice house. Free alcohol. Harrington's place." He lifted his cup slightly. "It was like... a  tradition. Back when they called me King Steve."

"You did say it was supposed to be a few people." I reminded him, trying to lighten the mood. He groaned. "I know, I know." He rubbed his face. "I'm sorry about that. And I'm even more sorry about Hargrove." "Don't worry about it—" "No, I do." He cut in, shaking his head. "I should've been there. I heard he was bothering you." "Steve, I'm not exactly a damsel in distress." A small smile pulled at his mouth. "Yeah," he admitted. "I figured that out pretty fast." I smiled, because that's what you do when you don't know what else to do. He looked at me for a second longer than necessary, like he was about to say something else and decided against it.

"Uh— I should probably... do host stuff." "Yeah, host stuff." He nodded, still smiling, and gave me one last look before disappearing into the crowd.

A little while later, Sarah reappeared at my side, like she'd been summoned.

"You're doing okay?" "Never better." I replied confidently, which was absolutely not true but sounded believable enough. Her eyes flicked past me, toward the living room, toward the place Steve had disappeared into. She tilted her head. "Becky... you sure Steve is cool?"

"Yeah." I said immediately. "I noticed the way he looked at you," she went on. "He seemed... like he likes you." "That's not true." I laughed it off a little too hard.

"I dunno," she murmured, unconvinced. "Call it a gut feeling, but I think he might have feelings for you." "Nah—he's just drunk," I shrugged, waving a hand. "I'm probably drunker. And you're definitely reading too much into things." I lifted my cup to prove my point and frowned when I realized it was empty. Tragic. "Becky, you should know by now that I never miss. Remember that time in 10th Grade when you had that crush on that boy—"

"Okay, okay, I get it. That's enough." I cut in quickly. A New Year's party was not the appropriate setting to exhume my sophomore humiliation era—especially not with no drink in my hand and my head spinning. She shrugged. "Alright. Denial it is."

Time did that weird, stretchy thing where it both crawled and vanished. The room kept changing around me—different songs, different faces, the same red cups passing through the same hands. I looked beside me and Sarah wasn't there. She disappeared at some point—I didn't even know when exactly—probably talking too much with the first person who gave her attention for more than two seconds straight.

Then suddenly the music cut out, as finally Steve reappeared. "Alright, guys! It's almost time! Drinks ready!" A cheer went up. Someone whooped. Someone else nearly fell over. Steve stood in the middle of it, flushed and a little glassy-eyed, like the night had finally caught up to him. He scanned the room, then his eyes landed on me—and made his way to me.

People started gathering closer, pressing in, counting down before anyone even told them to. The music turned back on low, just enough to give the moment a heartbeat. Steve stepped closer. Too close.

"TEN... NINE... EIGHT..." Everyone was shouting now, voices overlapping, the room vibrating with it. I could feel the bass in my ribs. Or maybe that was just my pulse.

Steve was right next to me, shoulders bumping as the crowd pressed our bodies together. Why is he looking at me like that?

"SEVEN... SIX... FIVE... FOUR..." Is he... moving in?

"THREE... TWO..." Oh. Oh no.

My brain tried to catch up. My body beat it to the punch.

"ONE!" "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" The room exploded—cheering, shouting, arms went up. Drinks spilled, confetti appeared out of nowhere.

Steve closed his eyes as he leaned in.

And I turned my head at the last second.

His kiss landed on my cheek instead of my lips, quick and surprised and already a mistake that hadn't fully happened.

He froze. So did I.

For a heartbeat, the world kept celebrating around us while something inside me went very, very quiet.

This isn't right.

I pushed my way through the cheering crowd, weaving between bodies that were still celebrating like nothing had just gone wrong. My chest felt too tight, my skin too hot. I didn't look back, but I could feel Steve's gaze on me anyway, heavy and confused.

I'm sorry, Steve.

I scanned the room for Sarah, panic buzzing under my skin.

When she saw my face, her expression changed instantly. The smile dropped. The fun vanished.

"What happened now?" She asked, already serious. "Did that guy from before bother you again?" I wish it was that simple.

"Sarah, I—" The words got stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. I swallowed hard, the taste of sugar and alcohol crawling up my tongue. "Can we go outside? I kinda need to breathe. Or puke. Or both."

She didn't even question it. One second she was dancing with a guy whose name she probably already forgot, the next she was grabbing my hand and steering me toward the back door.

It was cold outside, so cold. Brutal and immediate, like it was trying to knock some sense into me. My lungs seized for a second, breath coming out in uneven clouds that fogged my face. I bent forward slightly, hands braced on my knees. The pool lights shimmered across the water, fractured and warped, the reflection of the house stretching and breaking every time someone inside moved.

This is wrong, so wrong.

Everything inside my head was too loud. I pressed my fingers into my temples, like it somewhat helped, willing the world to stop spinning.

"You drank too much." Sarah noted firmly, rubbing slow circles into my back like she'd done a hundred times before in bathroom stalls and in the aftermath of terrible decisions. I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy. I just stared at my reflection on the water. "Becky, what's wrong?" "...Steve tried to kiss me."

She sucked in a sharp breath. She didn't say I told you so or I knew it, she didn't say anything at all. Just kept rubbing my back. "And... you?" She asked instead. "I dodged," I murmured, my voice sounded small to my own ears. "And then I ran."

"Why?" I'm sure that she knew the answer better than I did, but she clearly wanted to let me say it. I chose to remain silent instead. "This isn't about Steve, is it?"

No, it's not.

Someone inside shouted, followed by the unmistakable splash of a body hitting the pool. The water rippled violently, distorting the reflection even further. My stomach rolled, and I had to swallow again.

"He's nice." I admitted finally. "Steve. He didn't do anything wrong. I mean—we are drunk. He probably didn't even think about it." "I know," she noted, steady and patient. "That's not what I asked."

The realization crept in slowly, unwelcome and undeniable. When Steve leaned in, the first face that flashed through my head wasn't his.

It was Eddie's.

It felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain, because all I could think was that I wanted him there. I wanted Eddie at that stupid party. I wanted Eddie to be the one standing in front of me.

I wanted him to kiss me.

"I don't know what to do." I whispered.

"Becky—you cannot keep going like this. Don't lie to yourself. And don't lie to him." I wanted to say something but she didn't let me.

"I've never seen you like this, like—ever." She continued. "And I swear, if you keep pretending this isn't real, I will personally throw you into this freezing pool."

A weak, breathless laugh escaped me. The truth pressed against my ribs, demanding space. The truth I'd kept shoved down and hidden for months now, folded away like it couldn't hurt me if I didn't look at it.

It was there now, clear as day. And it wasn't going away this time.

I stared at the water once more, chest tight, heart pounding like it already knew what I was about to say.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 3.8k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧: 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥

Tuesday, December 25th, 1984.

So... Christmas.

I'd never been the world's biggest fan of it. It had always been... overwhelming. Bright. Too much.

Something Mom loved more than anyone else in the house, which meant it had always turned into a whole production whether we were in the mood or not. For her, Christmas started somewhere between mid-November and early December. I remembered eating her gingerbread cookies for breakfast every day when I was little—so many that now I couldn't even look at them from across a room without feeling nauseated.

She loved ornaments, lights, the whole nine yards. We had a big tree in the living room and colorful decorations everywhere. Music playing too early in the morning, Dad pretending not to know the words and singing anyway. She loved ugly sweaters and mismatched fuzzy socks. She liked her hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She loved giving presents, and loved receiving them too.

This year, there was none of that.

No tree. No boxes of decorations dragged out of storage. No faint smell of pine or peppermint or gingerbread or whatever Christmas was supposed to smell like. Just our small Hawkins living room and a single strand of lights draped lazily along the window.

It wasn't that I hated Christmas. It was that this one made something obvious. Something was missing. Someone was missing. And no amount of tinsel or forced cheer was going to hide it.

As I got out of bed, I pulled on an ugly Christmas sweater, like it could somehow summon her back into the room through sheer optimism. When I opened my door, the smell of bacon drifted up from downstairs.

"Oh, Becca." Dad muttered when he saw me. "Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas." I echoed. The words felt strange out loud, like they didn't quite belong to me anymore.

There wasn't a big breakfast. We sat across from each other at the table, the radio murmuring softly in the background, a voice crooning about joy and snow like it had no idea what room it was in.

"Did'ya sleep okay?" He asked, sipping his coffee. "Yeah." "You... want another piece of toast?" "No, I'm good."

We didn't talk about her. Not because we didn't miss her. Because we both did. She sat there with us anyway, like a third chair pulled up to the table that neither of us could bring ourselves to look at.

After a moment, Dad cleared his throat. The sound was a little too careful. He reached for something beside his chair and slid a small box across the table toward me.

"It's... not much. But I thought you might like it." "Thank you, Pop." My voice came out softer than I meant it to. "Of course I will." I peeled back the paper and opened the box. Inside was a pair of red knitted gloves.

He gave a small, crooked smile. "Your mother always said you never dressed warm enough." Something in his expression wavered. His eyes shone, just a little, like he was looking at something far away instead of at me.

I stood up before I could overthink it and went around the table, wrapping my arms around him. "Thank you," I said into his shoulder. "They're perfect." He let out a slow breath against my hair.

"I'm sorry, I know this isn't—" He stopped, swallowed. "It's not the Christmas I wanted for you. I thought I could... do more. Make it feel right." "Hey," I muttered, pulling back just enough to look at him. "No. Don't do that." He frowned, like he didn't quite understand. "You don't have to be sorry," I continued, firmer now. "None of this is your fault. And I don't need it to be perfect."

His eyes shone again, worse this time. He nodded once, like he was accepting something he'd been carrying for a while. "I'm trying." "I know," I replied. "And you're doing fine. Really."

After breakfast, we lingered. Not really knowing what to do, just... not ready to separate yet. Dad started prepping lunch early, pulling the turkey out like he was about to perform heart surgery on it. He'd never been much of a cook, but I knew he was putting effort to it—because it was just the two of us now.

I hovered in the kitchen, pretending to be helpful. "You want me to—?" I gestured vaguely at the counter. "Yeah," he exhaled quickly. "Yeah, actually. You can chop those." He handed me a cutting board and a pile of vegetables.

The radio stayed on, low enough to be more habit than entertainment.

"Is it... okay?" He asked at one point, gesturing vaguely at the turkey leg on my plate. "Yeah, it's good. Really."

The turkey ended up a little dry. The potatoes were fine. The vegetables probably needed more salt. It wasn't perfect. But it was something.

The house felt bigger than usual. Not even music could quite fill the space she usually occupied just by existing, telling us we were doing Christmas wrong in at least six different ways.

I can't spend the rest of the day like this.

So after lunch, after helping Dad with the dishes, I went back upstairs, closed my door, and reached for the walkie-talkie.

Because I didn't need presents. I didn't need decorations. I just needed him.

"Hey, Eddie? You there?" Silence.

"...how many times do I have to tell you that you have to say 'over' at the end of your sentence? Over." His voice was so smug I smiled before I could think about it. "Merry Christmas, idiot. Over." "Merry Christmas to you too, Grinch. What—you miss me already? Over." Yeah. I do.

"What are you doing? Over." "Just finished my delightful meal with Wayne, he's knocked out on the couch now. Why? Over." "Actually— I... I mean you, you could... come over. Over." I tried to make it sound casual. I failed. There was a pause. Then, softer: "Hey... are you okay? Over." "Yeah I just—I don't want to be alone today. Over." Silence again. Long enough that I was suddenly too aware of my own heartbeat. "Okay," he added finally. "I'll be there before you can say... THAC0— okay no, bad example. Out."

It didn't even take thirty minutes before the doorbell rang.

I opened the door and found Eddie Munson on the porch wearing a cheap Santa hat and a very fake white beard, arms spread wide like he was about to headline a mall Christmas special.

"Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!" I stared at him for half a second, then rolled my eyes, biting back a smile. "Come in, Eddie."

"I don't know who this 'Eddie' is, young lady." He stated solemnly, stroking the plastic beard. "Is he on my naughty list?" "Yeah," I snorted, stepping aside to let him in. "Very much so."

He laughed and came in, peeling off the ridiculous Santa accessories like he was shedding a disguise. In the living room, Dad was pretending to watch some painfully wholesome Christmas movie, the volume just a little too low.

"Eddie, Merry Christmas." Dad greeted, glancing over with a small smile. "Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. Smith." Eddie replied, suspiciously polite. I snorted again. "What? I can be respectful. Sometimes." "C'mon," I said, jerking my thumb toward the stairs. "Before you start caroling or something." "Hey, don't tempt me. You know I actually sang in the school choir in middle school." I'm not surprised.

In my room, he looked around like it had been years instead of... well, not that long. Then his eyes flicked back to me, sharp in that quiet way he had when he was actually paying attention.

"...Okay," he said slowly, as soon as I closed the door. "What's wrong?" "What?" "I think I know you well enough by now to tell when something's off." I almost said something.

He raised a finger. "Don't worry. I came prepared." He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small pile of things he dumped onto the bed beside him—a deck of cards, a chocolate bar that had definitely melted and re-solidified at least once, a lighter, and a crumpled comic book. "Emergency distraction kit." He explained. I stared at the pile.

"Doctor Munson, holiday morale specialist." He tilted his head, a crooked smile forming. "And hey—we don't even have to talk about it, if you don't want to." Despite myself, something in my chest loosened just a little.

"How's Wayne?" I asked, grabbing onto the subject like a lifeline. "Alive. Which is a Christmas miracle, by the way. We managed not to explode the kitchen this morning. He also took a few days off, I think he'll probably go fishing. I dunno." "That sounds very on brand for both of you." I said, a small smile tugging at my mouth. He smiled back like he knew exactly what I was doing and was choosing not to call me on it.

"I, uh..." I shifted my weight, suddenly looking at everything in the room but his stupid dark eyes. "I actually got a present for you." His eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed a little. "No way—for little ol' me? What is it?"

I reached for the thin, square-shaped package I'd hidden under my bed. It was wrapped neatly, but there was no hiding the shape—flat, stiff, unmistakable. A record. It probably should've been obvious, but Eddie still looked genuinely surprised.

"What is it, what is it?" He asked again, shaking it aggressively like it might rattle. "Eddie, don't—just open it." He did.

The paper came away to reveal Blues Deluxe—a collection of Chicago blues legends, worn-looking cover art and all. He went very still. He hates it. He already has it. It's stupid. Of course it's stupid.

"I remembered you said you listened to blues too," I rushed, already backpedaling. "And I mean, you probably already have one of these and I just—" "No," he cut in. "I don't."

I couldn't quite read his expression. His eyes were fixed on the cover, his thumb tracing the edge like he was making sure it was real. "You... like it?" I asked quietly.

He sniffed, then wiped his nose with his forearm like he was trying to play it off. "Yeah," he muttered, a little rough. "Yeah, I really do. Thank you." Then he cleared his throat and nodded toward my record player. "Can we?" "Yeah. Of course." He crossed the room carefully and set the record down with more reverence than he ever gave his own. The needle dropped. A soft crackle filled the room, then a low, warm guitar slid into place.

Eddie sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on his knees, listening to the song. He tapped his fingers softly against his knee, keeping time. It was a habit—like he had music under his skin. I leaned against my dresser, arms folded like I wasn't doing the thing where I watched his profile instead of the spinning vinyl.

"Oh, I think I finally figured out the trick to keeping you quiet." I noted, lips twitching. "All I had to do was play Muddy Waters." He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I plead guilty, your honor." The song rolled on, slow and patient. The kind of music that didn't demand you feel something but didn't let you pretend you didn't, either.

Eddie glanced around again like he was taking inventory of what had changed. Which was stupid, because nothing in my room had really changed. The posters were the same. My stack of half-read comics was the same. The chipped mug on my desk still held pens, hair ties, and the kind of emotional stability you found in a bargain bin. Then his gaze landed on me, like he'd just remembered I existed too, not just the room around me.  "Wow." He grinned, gesturing at my sweater. "That looks good on you, totally brings out your holiday cheer."

"It was a gift, my mother gave it to me." The words came out before I could stop them. His smile dropped instantly. "Bex..." Eddie's voice was careful when he spoke.

"Don't," I stopped him, too quickly. "I'm fine. It's just—" I swallowed, then shrugged like I could shake the feeling loose. "It's weird." His eyes stayed on me, steady. "Yeah. It is." I flicked my gaze to his, irritated by how gentle he was being. "Why are you doing that?" "Doing what?" "That," I gestured vaguely at his face. "The... puppy-dog thing." Eddie blinked. "I don't do a puppy-dog thing." "You absolutely do." I accused. "You're doing it right now." He huffed a laugh. "Okay, fine. Maybe I'm doing it a little." He shifted on the bed, bringing one knee up, arms around it like he was trying to make himself smaller. Which was hilarious, because Eddie Munson didn't do small.

I swallowed. My cheeks flushed, my eyes stung, and I hated that too. "She would've liked you." I blurted, then immediately wanted to shove my head into my pillow until February. Eddie went still again.

"What?" I snapped, because when I didn't know what else to do, I attacked. He blinked like he hadn't expected that. "I just... I didn't know you thought about that." I don't. Except I do. Constantly. Like a maniac.

"I don't." I lied. Eddie's mouth twitched. "Uh-huh." I rapidly opened a drawer of the dresser and threw a balled-up sock at him. He caught it easily, because of course he did. He looked at it, then back at me. "This is an act of war." "Oh, please." "On Christmas?" He gasped, scandalized. "In front of little baby Jesus?" "Eddie, I bet you don't even believe in baby Jesus." "I believe in his right to not witness violence, on his birthday." Eddie exclaimed gravely, then tossed the sock back at me. I caught it with less grace, because I wasn't a show-off, and also because my hands were sweaty for reasons unrelated to athletic ability.

He watched me for a second, then asked softly. "I mean—we don't have to if you don't want to. But... do you wanna talk about her?" My immediate instinct was no, obviously. Slam the door, change the subject, make a joke, set something on fire. I exhaled through my nose. "I don't know." "That's okay. We can do it badly. We're good at doing things badly." I let out a sound that was almost a laugh.

He reached over and rummaged under my pillow like he had permission he'd never asked for, then reappeared with my teddy bear in hand, holding it up in front of his face like a prop. "Doctor Munson tells me he's very good at listening and cheering people up." He said in a voice that was way too high-pitched and way too earnest to be coming out of him. I crossed my arms, fighting hard to stay serious. He took that as permission.

"Go on," he tilted Ozzy's head with his fingers, making the bear nod along. "Tell him something about her. Like... something small." I sighed, then gave in and sat down beside him, suddenly very interested in the weird dots on my ceiling. "She... sang," I started, voice rough. "All the time. Like, if she was cooking, she sang. If she was cleaning, she sang. She didn't care if she was good. She just did it." Eddie carefully set Ozzy back in his place and nodded, slow and quiet. "What kind of songs?" "Literally anything, she could even sing to those annoying jingles on TV." My mouth twisted. "And... old stuff. Like, she loved those stupid Motown compilations. She'd blast them like she was trying to summon the spirits of the '60s." Eddie's eyes lit up. "Motown isn't stupid." "It is when it's six in the morning." I countered, then my voice caught.

"She loved music, Dad loved music. It was like silence wasn't allowed in our home. They actually met at a concert. Some tiny local band. They bumped into each other and that was it. Instant love. At least... that's how they always told it." He stayed quiet, smiling faintly, like he was picturing it. "She also liked to cook, to bake. She made cookies and... she'd let me eat the dough." Eddie made a face. "Woah— Raw eggs, Bex. Dangerous." "Don't ruin this." "I'm not ruining it." He cut in quickly. "I'm concerned for Small You." Small me. The version of me who didn't know the future.

"They were young when they had me," I continued. "And really in love. The kind of love that gets a happily-ever-after in books." I swallowed. "I guess real life doesn't do endings like that." The needle crackled, and the next track started. A different rhythm, still bluesy, still soft.

Eddie clearly had something on the tip of his tongue, but he let it go and leaned back instead, eyes still on me. "...See? You talked about her." I shrugged, but it didn't feel as defensive this time. "Congratulations." "I'm very good at my job." He teased smugly. "Doctor Munson, holiday morale specialist and grief wrangler." "That is not a real job." "It should be." He affirmed. "I'd be fuckin' rich." I laughed, and my throat tightened again. Stop it. Stop feeling things.

He shifted then, digging into the inside pocket of his jacket like he'd forgotten something. "Oh! Wait. Speaking of presents." "That's not what we were—" He pulled out a small, lumpy package wrapped in torn newspaper, held together with way too much tape. It looked like it had been wrapped by someone with a grudge. Oh no. Absolutely not.

"I—uh," he went on, suddenly not looking at me. "This is for you. It's not, like, amazing or whatever. But. Yeah." I stared at it. "Eddie. You already gave me a present." "The walkie-talkie doesn't count. C'mon—just take it." He shoved the little package toward me like it might explode if he held it too long.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to sound normal. "A gift. Open it, you Grinch." "Stop saying that, I'm not the Grinch." "You are so the Grinch." I peeled the tape off, inside the newspaper was a small cardboard box. I opened it and found— A cassette tape.

Hand-labeled in Eddie's messy handwriting:

—THE FREAK MIX— (VOL. #1)

I blinked. "Eddie." I turned the tape to look on the back:

-To Bex ♥

Eddie Munson drew a heart. He drew a heart next to my name.

He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks brightly pink. "Okay, before you say anything—" "I wasn't going to say anything." "Yes you were." Maybe.

I looked down at the tape again, and something in my chest squeezed. Hard. "You made me a mix tape," I noed, like I couldn't believe it was real. "Nobody had ever made me a mix-tape." Eddie shrugged too hard. "It's not, like, romantic or anything."

Totally didn't think it was romantic. Not at all. Nope. Just your friend making you a deeply personal collection of songs like it's no big deal. And drawing hearts next to your name.

"Obviously," I rushed quickly, voice sharp with the effort of keeping it steady. "Because you're incapable of romance." Eddie's eyes widened. "Hey! I am extremely capable of romance. Deeply, profoundly romantic. You don't even know." "Oh yeah?" I challenged, because antagonizing him was safer than... whatever that was. "Give me an example." "I—" he pointed a finger at me, "I don't have to prove anything to you." "That's what someone incapable of romance would say." He wanted to argue, then failed miserably. "Anyway, it's just... songs." He exhaled. "Stuff I thought you'd like. Stuff that reminded me of you. That's all." Stuff that reminded him of me.

"Thank you, Eddie—it's… really nice." Eddie blinked at me like he wasn't used to me being nice without a knife hidden behind my back. I glared up at him. "If you make it weird, I will throw you out into the snow." "It's not even snowing." "I will manifest snow," I threatened. "Don't test me, my favorite superhero is Storm after all." He reached out and nudged my shoulder with his hand. "I trust you." He laughed. "She's still lame though." "Don't you dare start that again." He did anyway.

We talked and laughed and for a while I even forgot what day it was. Forgot why I asked Eddie to come over in the first place. Forgot that I missed her.

Then my eyes started to blur. The edges of the room softened, colors melting together in the lazy afternoon light. I yawned, trying to hide it behind my hand.

Eddie noticed immediately. "Oh wow," he murmured quietly. "Look at that. The Grinch is shutting down." "I'm not—" I started, but it came out half a mumble. He smirked. "Uh-huh. Sure."

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him beside me. His jacket was folded at the foot of the bed, his hair falling into his eyes as he leaned back against the wall, listening to the music like he always did—with that strange focus that made it look like he was somewhere else entirely. "You can sleep," he suggested after a moment, voice softer now. "I won't steal anything valuable." "You'd steal my comics." "Those are valuable." I snorted weakly, but my eyelids were getting heavier by the second. "Just a few minutes." "Sure." Eddie smiled, clearly not believing me.

The last thing I remember seeing was him sitting there, elbow resting on his knee, fingers tapping quietly along to the rhythm of the guitar. Then sleep pulled me under before I could overthink it. I wasn't sure how much time passed.

I drifted somewhere between asleep and awake, the way you do when you're not quite ready to come back yet.

And then I felt it. A hand moving gently through my hair. His hand. Slow. Careful.

For a moment I stayed perfectly still, my brain sluggishly trying to catch up with what my body already knew. His fingers brushed lightly along my scalp again, pushing a strand of hair away from my face.

I should probably open my eyes. I didn't.

Partly because I was too tired. Partly because if I opened them, the moment might vanish.

So I just stayed there, pretending to sleep while the gentle movement continued for another minute... maybe two. Then it stopped.

I must have drifted off again after that, because the next time I woke up, the room was darker. The blues had stopped. The record was gone. I lay there for a moment, listening to the quiet.

He left. Which made sense. Of course it did. He must've slipped out quietly, careful not to wake me.

I looked at the other side of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly where he had been sitting, the space now empty. I rolled onto my side again and pulled the blanket closer around me. The bed felt strangely too big. And I hated the tiny flicker of disappointment that moved through me.

Because somewhere deep down, in that sleepy place where my brain didn't overthink everything—

A dear reader made this fanart for me, and it genuinely means the world.

When I first started writing this fic, it was never meant to become anything big. I just had an idea I didn’t want to forget, so I wrote the first couple of chapters with no real plan beyond that.

Then I got my first ever AO3 comment. It was from the same person who later made this fanart.

It might sound small, but it changed everything. Someone I didn’t know told me they were enjoying my story and my ideas, and that was enough to give me the motivation to keep going. I don’t think I can overstate how much that meant to me.

So in a way, this fic exists because of that kindness—and I’m still here writing it because of it.

This fanart doesn’t just represent Eddie and Bex to me. It feels like proof that if you have something in your mind—anything—it’s worth letting it exist outside of you. Not letting it sit there and either rotten inside or fade away.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 5k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance SPOILER WARNING: This chapter contains references to the ending of Flight of Icarus. Read at your own risk if you haven't finished it yet!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞: 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐳𝐞𝐧 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

Friday, December 21st, 1984.

There wasn't a dramatic apology with swelling music in the background. No teary confession in the kitchen. No cinematic moment where we both said exactly the right thing and magically healed.

Real life didn't work like that.

It was me coming home that morning after... everything, realizing my hands were shaking from exhaustion more than anger.

It was me saying I was sorry. Not all at once, not in a perfect speech. I didn't mean it. I panicked. I'm sorry.

Dad didn't lecture me. Didn't raise his voice. Honestly, that would've been easier to handle.

Instead, he just listened to me, which felt unfamiliar.

The new-woman conversation didn't come back swinging like I expected to. He didn't defend himself. He just sat at the table with his coffee, eyes tired, saying he'd introduce me when the time was right. When it wasn't an ambush. When it didn't feel like someone was trying to step into a space that still belonged to Mom. He told me he wasn't replacing anyone. Like he needed me to know that as much as I needed to hear it.

And I—being the emotionally stable person I am—nodded too hard and pretended my throat wasn't burning.

I trust him. If Dad's happy, then I should be happy, too. He is allowed to find... love. Again.

With Eddie, it was even less dramatic. We just... went back. 

Back to the way things had always been. And weirdly, it didn't even feel that strange. When we saw each other at school, he fell into step beside me like those last days hadn't happened. Like the space between us had quietly sealed itself overnight.  Normal, effortless.

Like we'd both silently agreed not to poke at the fragile parts yet. But something had changed, it was subtle, but it was indeed there. 

For some reason, we didn't talk about that night. But his words were impossible to forget. I don't want to lose you.

They had a way of resurfacing at the worst possible moments. In the middle of class, while brushing my teeth, driving in the streets. 

And then there was that other word. Miracle.

God.

It sounded so weird.

Part of me wanted to pretend he hadn't said it at all. The other part, though, couldn't stop thinking about it.

Miracles were supposed to fix things, make everything better. And most days I was still just trying to keep my life from quietly falling apart.

I wondered if he thought about it too. If he ever replayed that conversation in his head and immediately regretted saying half of it. Or if he was deliberately pretending it never happened.

Honestly, that felt like the safer option for both of us.

Somehow December kept moving. And finally the last day of school before winter break arrived.

It was like Hawkins High had entered its pre-holiday fever dream.

The whole building had that strange, bright restlessness that only happens right before a break—as if the entire student population was vibrating at the same frequency, trying to shake itself loose from school and sprint into freedom.

I should've been relieved. I was relieved. I was also... unsettled.

Because winter break meant time. Too much time.

And time was dangerous when your brain had a habit of circling the same thoughts like a shark that refused to starve.

Thoughts like Eddie Munson's voice when he said he didn't want to lose me. Or the fact that I'd slept in his bed and somehow didn't feel weird about it until after I left. Or the fact that I'd kept his shirt on under my sweater that entire day like some kind of idiot.

Or the fact that I... maybe hadn't stopped.

For three nights.

Which was completely normal behavior between friends, by the way.

Obviously, totally.

Perfectly sane.

Still.

It was good. It was safe. It was almost happy.

Which, considering the universe had been actively working against me lately, felt like a suspicious gift.

And if there was one thing I had learned in Hawkins so far, it was this: Suspicious gifts usually came with consequences.

By the time the final bell rang, the school erupted like it had been released from a cage. Lockers slammed. Shouts echoed. Someone yelled Merry Christmas! at no one in particular. People streamed into the halls with backpacks bouncing, already halfway out of school mentally.

I shoved my books into my bag and told myself I wasn't looking for Eddie. I am absolutely looking for Eddie.

I found him by his locker, arguing with Gareth about something that sounded deeply important and was probably about absolutely nothing.

"—I'm telling you," Eddie was saying, jabbing a finger at a dog-eared rule-book, "you can't just add an extra attack because you feel like it. That's not how your class works." Gareth scoffed. "Oh, so now we're banning joy?" "It's literally written in the book, you goblin." Eddie shot back. "Rules. They exist. We live in a society, unfortunately." Gareth spotted me over Eddie’s shoulder as I made my way towards them, making a face that screamed “please save me”. Eddie noticed his facial expression, and turned.

"Smith, there you are. I was looking for you." His face brightened in that quick, unguarded way that still caught me off balance. "I was starting to think you escaped out a window." "I'm not that resourceful." I admitted, adjusting my bag strap.

He straightened, clearing his throat like he'd remembered he had some kind of reputation to maintain. "You got plans for break?" He asked, too casual. Be normal. Be normal. Be normal. "Uh—Not really. Just... existing?" What the hell is wrong with me? If he noticed my awkwardness, he didn’t show it. Instead, he chuckled, flashing that trademarked smirk of his. “Ambitious behavior. Looks like we have the same problem.”

Gareth made a loud, disgusted noise. "Sorry, but I'm leaving before I'm forced to witness whatever this is." He announced, gesturing vaguely between us. "Merry Christmas, Bex—" I waved goodbye to him, before turning my attention back to Eddie. It seemed like he had never taken his eyes off me though, completely ignoring what Gareth had mentioned before disappearing.

"I was thinking," he started, then stopped like he'd lost his nerve for half a second. "You can actually think?" "Shocking, right? Try not to faint." I rolled my eyes.

"We could... hang out," he added. "During break. Like. If you want. No pressure. You can absolutely say no and I won't be weird about it." He will absolutely be weird about it.

I swallowed a smile. "Hang out where?" Eddie's mouth twitched. "Dunno. My place. Your place. Arcade. Record Store. A secret satanic ritual." "Eddie." "Kidding." He shot immediately. "Mostly." I snorted, then paused, softer. "Yeah. We can hang out." The relief that flickered across his face was so fast it almost didn't count. Almost.

And then—because the universe loved comedy—Steve Harrington appeared like he'd been summoned by my name being spoken. "Hey Bex!" Steve shouted, weaving through the crowd toward me. His eyes flicked to Eddie for half a second before returning to me. "I was looking for you." Why is everyone looking for me today?

Eddie's posture went... carefully neutral. To his credit, Steve didn't look confrontational. He looked like someone who'd decided to be polite through sheer force of will.

"Munson." Steve noted, giving a short nod. "Harrington." Eddie replied, matching it with the exact same energy—two rival kings agreeing to a temporary ceasefire in public. I sighed quietly and turned toward Steve.

"So—New Year's Eve. Party. At my place." My eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?" "Nothing huge," he rattled on. "My parents are out of town. It'll be fun. We've got a pool, too." "Steve, it's December." He waved a hand like that was a minor, ignorable detail. "Yeah, don't worry about that." "How many people?" "Just... people. You, a couple others. Nothing insane." He hesitated, then added, "No jocks. No freaks."

Eddie made a low, unmistakably offended noise. Steve pretended not to hear it. "You're coming." Steve announced, like he'd already decided. "I mean—you have to come."

I glanced at Eddie and immediately regretted it, because he was already watching me too closely, his expression unreadable. "I—I'll think about it." I sighed.

"Great! I'll see you, then. Merry Christmas!" Steve rested his hand on my shoulder, smiling, then disappeared back into the hallway like he hadn't just dropped a social grenade and walked away. There was a beat of silence.

"So, do you... wanna come?" "He literally said no freaks." Eddie scoffed. "I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it like that." I muttered, because I needed that to be true. "Bex, don't worry about me. If you wanna go, go. You don't need my blessing or anything."

Something about the way he said it made my chest heavy. Not because I needed his approval—I simply didn't want him to read between lines that weren't there and end up hurt again.

"Hey," he added, like he was trying to shake the moment off. "Before you disappear into rich-people-party land—I've got something for you. Consider it an early Christmas present."

"What? No, Eddie, you didn't have to—" "It's nothing. Actually, scratch that. You're probably gonna regret that I gave it to you." That... is not reassuring.

"What is it?" I asked, suddenly wary. He dug into his backpack, pushing aside notebooks, D&D minis, papers—God, that backpack is a disaster—and pulled out a— A walkie-talkie.

I stared at it. "You're kidding." "So we can talk over break." He explained, like this was the most normal solution in the world. "I don't know how I've survived without one until now." I said dryly. "Tragic, really. Your life's about to get way more annoying." Yes. I took it anyway.

The drive back was a blur. I don't even remember most of it, just the radio mumbling something forgettable and the sky already sinking into that Hawkins gray.

I kicked my shoes off by the door and didn't even bother aiming them properly. Upstairs, my room felt colder than the rest of the house, or maybe I was just more tired than I wanted to admit. I dropped my bag on the floor, shrugged out of my sweater, and stood there for a second like I was trying to remember how to be a person. Then I gave up.

I changed into pajamas even though it was still technically afternoon, the kind of outfit you put on when you've decided you're done with the world for the day. I crawled onto my bed and reached for the comic I'd picked up earlier that week, something new, still smelling faintly of ink and paper. December release, the guy at the shop had told me. I flipped it open and tried to focus on the panels, on the dialogue bubbles, on anything that wasn't my own brain. It almost worked. Almost.

My eyes were starting to blur when Dad's voice drifted up the stairs. "Becca—your friend's on the line." There were two kinds of phone calls: emergencies, and Sarah.

I took the receiver. "Hello?" "BECKYYY—" I physically recoiled, yanking the phone a few inches away from my ear.

"Sarah," I hissed, "We've been over this. You don't have to yell. The phone works." "But I missed youuu—" she whined immediately, like that explained everything.

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I was literally about to relax for the first time this week." "Great, perfect, amazing, anyway— I have an idea." I sighed. "I never like it when you start sentences like that."

"Shut up and listen," she barreled on. "I've decided I'm coming for the Holidays." "You've... decided." "Yes." "You didn't ask."

"I don't need permission," she countered, like this was basic math. "I'm gonna be your Christmas present." "How long?" I asked, already bracing myself. "A few days, New Year's Eve maybe. Long enough to save you from whatever tragic, depressing Hawkins winter break you were about to rot through."

I opened my mouth to argue and then—annoyingly—didn't. "...Okay. Fine. New Year's Eve." "Good." She agreed, triumphant. "Also, important question: do you have a bed for me?" "We have a couch, or you can bring a sleeping bag." "A couch is basically a bed." "In the same way a floor is basically a mattress." I replied, my mind drifting instantly to Eddie, of course. "Anyway. New Year's Eve. And if Hawkins tries to kill me with boredom, that's on you."

Something in my mind clicked. I hesitated, then added, "Actually, wait. If you're here for New Year's... there's a... party." "A party?" Sarah's voice immediately sharpened with interest. "I demand details." "At a friend's house, his name's Steve." There was a beat. Then—

"Oh-my-god." She squeaked, already too excited. "Yes. Absolutely yes. You cannot deprive me of this cultural experience. Is he hot? He's hot, right? He has to be hot." "Sarah." "I'm already there." She declared. "I'm dressing up. We're going. You're not backing out. This is happening."

"I hate you." "You love me," she corrected cheerfully. "And I cannot wait. See you in a week!" "See you." "Love you," she added, already halfway out of the conversation. "Bye." The line went dead.

My social battery was somewhere between critically low and please power off immediately. The way she could drain all my energy from miles away without even being in the same state was honestly impressive.

I was about to collapse onto my bed and fully embrace death—under Ozzy's deeply judgmental stare—when my backpack started buzzing.

Not vibrating. Buzzing. Like it was muttering to itself. "Oh—uh—is this thing working? Over." Eddie's voice. From inside my bag.

"Bex, do you copy? Over." I groaned into my pillow. "Hellooo? Earth to Rebecca Smith. Over."

I stayed exactly where I was for another three seconds out of pure spite, then finally reached for my bag and dug out the walkie-talkie.

"Eddie," I muttered, flatly, "we said goodbye literally a few hours ago." Silence.

"Bex, you have to say 'over' when you finish talking, or I won't know if you're done. Over." His voice crackled through the speaker, all static and enthusiasm, somehow both worse and better than a phone call.

"You can absolutely tell when I'm done talking." "That is not how radio etiquette works," he shot back, very seriously. "Bex, say 'over' for me? Please? Over." I stared at the ceiling. I was so glad he couldn't see my face right now.

"Okay," I sighed. "What do you want? Over." "Uh, nothing, really, I just wanted to see if this thing actually worked. Over." "...Yeah, it works," I replied. Then, through gritted teeth, "Over." "Awesome. Science wins again." He exclaimed proudly. "Okay, I'll let you go. Don't turn it off! And remember the batteries! Out—"

I dropped the walkie-talkie onto my bed and stared at the ceiling for a second longer. I have officially exceeded my daily recommended amount of human interaction.

***

THE WEEKEND PASSED in a blur of static and Eddie's voice.

We talked about everything and nothing. About the worst movies we'd ever seen, or even about the best songs to scream-sing in a car with the windows down. Sometimes we didn't even talk—we just left the channel open, did our own things, and existed on the same frequency like that was somehow normal.

By Sunday night I felt something dangerously close to relaxed, which was not a state I trusted.

I only realized we were officially on break when I didn't set the alarm. No school. No reason to be conscious. I fully intended to sleep until my body forgot what stress felt like.

Instead, at some indeterminate, deeply offensive hour, a noise yanked me out of a dream I didn't even get to finish. Tap.

I rolled onto my other side, burying my face in the pillow. Tap. Tap.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Ignored it. Pretended it was Dad going to work. Or a bird. Or my imagination. Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was... rhythmic. Annoyingly deliberate. I frowned, half-awake, and listened.

It didn't sound like the front door. Or the hallway. Or the stairs. It sounded like it was right next to me. On the... window? My eyes snapped open.

Another tap. Closer this time. Right against the glass. "What the hell..." I muttered, sitting up and squinting toward the light leaking through the curtains. A shadow moved.

Slowly, very slowly, I reached out and pulled the curtain aside.

Eddie Munson was standing on my roof. Staring at me. Like a creep.

He lifted one hand and gave me a little wave. I screamed. He winced. "Okay, wow, rude—" I yanked the window open. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Good morning to you too, princess." He beamed cheerfully, crouched like a raccoon that had learned to climb houses. "Eddie..." I yawned, rubbing my face, "why are you on my roof?" He thought about it for a second. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds bad." "It is bad."

"I tried knocking on the door. You didn't answer. I tried the walkie. You didn't answer. So logically—" "You chose breaking and entering?" "Technically, I am still outside." I stared at him. He stared back.

Wind ruffled his hair. The morning light made him squint. He was wearing a Van Halen T-shirt underneath his usual worn leather jacket and the exact expression of someone who had absolutely no regrets. "...You're unbelievable." He grinned. "You love it." I do not confirm or deny that.

"What do you want?" "Well," he continued, shifting his weight, "it's break. You said you had no plans. I had no plans. We could have no plans together. Outside." I blinked. "You're kidnapping me?" "Borrowing," he corrected. "Temporarily." "From my bedroom." "Exactly."

I sighed, long and defeated. "Give me five minutes." "Take ten," he avowed generously. "You look like you need them." I flipped him off and yanked the curtain shut again.

I got dressed in record time and opened the window once more. He was still perched there, arms crossed, trying very hard not to shiver. The cold had turned his nose and ears a heroic shade of red.

"You good out there?" "Oh yeah—thrilling." He nodded, teeth just barely not chattering. "Huge fan of hypothermia. Really refreshing." "Come on, idiot. Get in." I stepped back from the window to give him space.

He clambered inside and immediately rubbed his hands together, blowing warm air into them until his skin stopped looking like an icicle.

I scribbled a quick note and stuck it on the fridge in case Dad came home and wondered why his daughter had vanished before noon.

We were outside a minute later, Eddie's van looked exactly like Eddie's van always did. A mess. I climbed into the passenger seat and immediately noticed the back was crammed with grocery bags. "What are those?" I asked, buckling in. "Don't worry about them." He waved a hand, then immediately cranked up the radio.

Some distorted guitar flooded the van, and Eddie started singing along at full volume, dramatically, like he was headlining Madison Square Garden instead of driving through Hawkins in a van that rattled every time it hit a bump. It was impossible not to laugh. The tension I'd woken up with loosened without me even realizing it.

"Where are we going?" I asked, raising my voice over Metallica. He shot me a quick glance and a grin that was all trouble and confidence. "You'll see. Trust me." That did not make me feel more informed. It did, however, make me a little curious.

When he finally pulled over, the road had thinned into nothing and the world had turned into trees. "Okay," I muttered, looking around. "Either this is magical, or I'm about to be sacrificed to something." He grinned. "Little of both."

We headed into the woods, shoes crunching softly over frozen leaves and damp earth. After a few minutes, the trees thinned, and then the forest opened up.

A lake stretched out in front of us, its surface dark and still, rimmed with pale winter light. The water looked like glass, reflecting the bare branches and washed-out sky. For a second, I just stood there, breathing, watching my breath fog in front of me. "Oh."

Eddie stopped a step behind me. I felt his eyes on me before I saw him in my peripheral—quiet, pleased, like he'd been holding onto this moment. "Yeah. That was about the reaction I was hoping for."

"You bring all your victims here?" I asked lightly. "You're literally the only person I've ever brought here." That landed warmer than the cold ever could. "It's... beautiful." I whispered, the word fogging up as it left my mouth.

"I come here sometimes," he added, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "When Hawkins gets... loud. Or when my brain does." This is officially my favorite place in Hawkins now.

He shrugged off his backpack, dug around, and pulled out a folded blanket, spreading it under a cluster of trees near the shore. Then he grabbed a couple of smaller ones too, like this was some kind of very low-budget picnic.

He dropped down with a small sigh of relief, then patted the spot beside him. "C'mon. I promise the blanket doesn't bite." I sat, closer than I probably would've in any other situation.

He then rummaged in the paper shopping sacks. "I brought supplies." "Please tell me that means food." He pulled out a couple of crinkly snack bags like he was revealing treasure. "Behold: Chips, cookies, and—" he paused dramatically, "the finest gas-station six-pack money can buy."

"Truly living the dream." I smirked, accepting a bag of chips from him. He grinned, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a lighter and one small roll-up that surely didn't have just tobacco in hit. "Mind if I...?" "Go for it. Just don't set the forest on fire. I don't want to be responsible for that." "I'm a responsible adult, ya know." He scoffed, but he was careful as he lit it, cupping the flame against the breeze. He took a small drag, then offered it to me.

He leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting toward the water. "By the way... this place is actually called Lover's Lake." I took a drag. And immediately choked. "Sorry—what?" I wheezed, half-laughing, half-dying. Eddie burst out laughing, shoulders shaking.

"You brought me to a place called Lover's Lake?" I stared at him, my pitch higher than I meant to. "On purpose?" "Okay, first of all—I did not name it." He restated, holding up his hands in defense. "Second, it's just a name. People here have zero imagination. There's a lake—which is, generously, vaguely heart shaped if you squint and tilt your head about forty-five degrees—and someone in 1950-something looked at it and thought, yeah, that'll do. Lover's Lake. Boom. Done. No further questions." I turned slowly to look at him. "That is genuinely the worst explanation you could've given." I stated, still coughing a little.

He grinned, completely unbothered, and reached over to take the joint from my fingers before I could accidentally choke again. "There's all sorts of places around here that are painfully unoriginal, Bex." He continued, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine. "I could've taken you to Sattler's Quarry if you were looking for something with absolutely no romantic implications whatsoever." "Sattler's Quarry it is next time. At least the name sets appropriate expectations." I shot back, nudging him with my shoulder. "At least there I wouldn't have to question your intentions."

He snorted, then took another drag, like that settled it. "Oh, also—completely unrelated fun fact," he added, like he'd just remembered something minor. "They found a body there last year. Kid had been missing about a week."

I turned to look at him slowly.

"How," I started carefully, "is that a fun fact?" He grinned. "Because it turned out the kid was totally fine. Alive—very much not a corpse."

I stayed quiet for a second, letting that sink in. "...Then whose body did they find?" He considered this with genuine thoughtfulness. "You know, that's a great question. Russian spy, probably." "Excuse me?"

He laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly into mine again. "Hey, I'm sorry if I'm not living up to your tour guide expectations," he added. "Next time I'll prepare a brochure."

"Please do. With a disclaimer section."

We fell back into easy conversation after that, passing snacks between us, the reefer making its lazy rounds, the cold kept at bay by layers and shared body heat.

After a while—when the world felt a little slower and a little softer—I exhaled, "You know... this is actually a great moment for you to finally tell me the legendary story of your great time in jail." He took a long sip of his beer, then another drag of the joint like he was bracing himself for a performance. "Yeah," he nodded, exhaling slowly. "I guess you're right."

He stared out at the lake for a few seconds before he started talking, like he was lining the words up in his head.

"A few months ago, no—more like late spring... my dad came back to Hawkins." I stayed still, letting him have the space.

"He told me he needed money. Said he owed some people." He talked about his dad, and how he wanted to 'earn'  that money.

"Turned out he was lying. To me. To them." A beat. "They didn't take it well." I already didn't like where this was going.

"They... set our house on fire." He stated simply. My breath caught, but I didn't interrupt. There wasn't anything I could say that wouldn't feel small. "They disappeared after that. So did he." Eddie went on. He told me those guys almost killed a cop, and that nothing survived the fire except for his guitar.

"Even more cops showed up. Asked a lot of questions. I stayed, long enough for them to decide I wasn't worth the paperwork." "...And then Wayne got you out?" He shook his head, taking another drag before answering. "That's what I thought too. But no. It was... Paige." The name meant nothing to me, and he noticed.

"She worked for WR Records, California." Oh. The 'chick from California' Bev mentioned. Same look, same vibe.

"She said she liked my music," he went on. "Wanted me to come out there. Sign me. All that." My eyes widened before I could stop myself. "Eddie—that's huge." "Yeah," he murmured, with a small, crooked smile. "It was." Then it faded. "Didn't happen, though. The record. Or... her."

"I'm... sorry." He shook his head again. "Don't be. I mean—yeah, it sucked. But I stayed. I've got Wayne. I get to finish school. And..." He hesitated, then glanced at me. "If I'd gone to Cali, I wouldn't have met you." I looked away, my cheeks burning even though the rest of me was freezing.

"Have you heard from your dad?" "No. And... honestly, I don't even know if I want to." He stared out at the water again. "He's never really been there for me. Not the way he was supposed to be. He used me. Treated me more like a... partner than a kid. Like I was supposed to fix things for him instead of the other way around." That hurt in a way I could feel in my ribs.

I didn't think about it. I just leaned in and wrapped my arms around him. "Thank you for telling me, Eddie." My voice muffled against his jacket.

His arm came around me, solid and warm, pulling me in closer like he'd been needing the contact more than he wanted to admit. "It actually feels... good. Talking about it. Finally."

We stayed there longer than we meant to. Long enough to finish the snacks, to finish off the six-pack, to let the joint burn down to nothing but ash between Eddie's fingers. Time stopped feeling like something with edges.

At some point, the sky began to change. The cold winter light softened, turning gold, then pink, then something deeper and quieter. The sun slid toward the lake, spilling color across the water like it had been poured there on purpose, the surface caught fire with it.

"You okay?" He asked. "Yeah. Just... look at that." He did.

We stood there in silence, watching the lake. Somewhere in that quiet, our hands found each other, his fingers brushing mine before slipping into place like they'd always meant to.

I hadn't noticed when it happened. My heart, unfortunately, noticed immediately.

The sun slipped behind the trees and then into the lake, like it was being swallowed whole, leaving the air colder and the world a little softer around the edges.

Then it hit me. "Oh." "What?" "It's... it's Monday." "So?" He muttered, then paused. "Wait. No, that's—" "Christmas Eve." I finished. The words felt strange in my mouth. Heavy. Bright. Sad. All at once.

"Huh. Guess we kind of... lost track of time over the weekend." "I guess we did."

We packed up as the light finally drained out of the sky, fingers numb, cheeks cold, the lake disappeared back into shadow. The van heater took its time kicking in, blowing air that was more hopeful than effective. Eddie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming absently against his thigh, the radio low and fuzzy between stations.

"What do you usually do for Christmas?" He asked after a moment, casual in the way he always tried to be when he was actually curious. The question took me off guard.

I kept my eyes on the window, on the dark trees slipping past. "Uh—Stuff." I shrugged, which was the most useless answer I could've given. He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Stuff like... family stuff?" "Yeah. Just... you know. Normal stuff." That was a lie. Or at least, it used to be true.

I swallowed and shifted in my seat. "What about you?" He snorted softly. "Oh. Big Munson traditions. Me and Wayne. Probably something extremely glamorous. Like... microwaved lasagna." He glanced at me, smirking. "If we're feeling fancy, we might even upgrade to garlic bread."

"Sounds... very festive." He snorted. "Hey, don't mock the classics." I smiled, grateful for the escape hatch.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.7k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐅𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐄𝐜𝐡𝐨

Saturday, December 15th, 1984.

I didn't remember grabbing my jacket.

Or my keys.

Just the door closing too loud behind me, the cold snapping at my face like punishment. My chest still hurt. Everything still echoed—Dad's voice, my own, the way the house had suddenly felt too small.

I drove without a clear destination. The streets blurred past, familiar turns taken on instinct instead of thought, until my gut pulled me somewhere I hadn't planned on admitting I needed.

I knew I shouldn't have come.

I knew it before I even turned onto the gravel road, before the trailer came into view like a bad decision I didn't have the strength to stop.

I wasn't supposed to need anyone tonight. Especially not him. But the idea of being alone felt worse than the idea of being a burden.

I stood there for a second in the damp grass, frozen, breath fogging the air. Then I bent down and grabbed a pebble. It hit the metal siding instead of the window. "Shit." I whispered, swiping at my cheeks and trying again with shaking fingers. The second pebble struck glass.

For a few seconds, nothing. Then, a light flicked on. The window slid open halfway, and Eddie's head appeared, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes squinting with sleep. "Jesus—" he started, then stopped. One look at me and all the sleep drained out of his face. "Bex?" His voice dropped instantly. "What—" "Can I... can I come in?" My voice cracked so badly it barely sounded like mine. "I—I messed up."

He didn't hesitate. Didn't ask questions. "Yeah," he murmured immediately, already pulling on a hoodie. "Yeah. Hold on."

The door creaked open a minute later, slow and careful. He waved me inside like we were sneaking contraband. "Wayne's at work," he whispered. "You're good."

The trailer felt different at night. Quieter. Dimmer. Like everything had settled into itself after dark. Familiar. Safe—or at least it used to be. Eddie closed the door behind me more slowly than usual, like he was bracing for impact.

I didn't break right away. I just stood there, hands clenched into fists, staring at the floor like if I looked up everything would spill out all at once. Eddie hovered near the doorway, uncertain. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then let it fall again.

"Hey." He said gently. "You... okay?"

The sound of his voice hit me harder than I expected. And the smell of him followed a second later, sharp and grounding and completely unfair. I hated how much my body noticed. Hated even more how relieved some stupid, traitorous part of me felt just hearing him again.

I shifted my weight, suddenly too aware of the space between us. Of how it hadn't always felt like this. Of how I'd spent more than a week telling myself I was fine not hearing his voice, not seeing him, not thinking about him—and now here I was, standing in his trailer, proving myself wrong in about three seconds flat.

I shook my head once, sharp and helpless, and the tears came anyway. Not sobbing. Not yet. Just the kind that blurred everything and made my eyes burn.

"I'm sorry," I shook my head immediately, stupidly. "I shouldn't have come here." "No— it's fine. You can—you can sit." He gestured awkwardly toward the couch, I sat on the edge of it, shoulders folding inward. My hands twisted together in my lap like they didn't know where else to go.

Eddie stayed standing a moment longer, then sat too. Not touching. Close enough to feel his presence, far enough to leave space. He waited.

"I'm sorry." I stared at my hands. "For what I said." I added, because he deserved clarity. Because I owed him that much. That got his attention. He turned toward me, brows knitting slightly. "The other night," I continued. "At Hellfire. I shouldn't have said any of it. I was angry and scared and I took it out on you."

He didn't answer right away. His jaw shifted, like he was choosing words carefully. "I didn't exactly handle it great either. So... I'm sorry too."

I looked up at him, surprised. "You are?" "Yeah." He exhaled. "I iced you out instead of just—talking. That's on me." A beat. "You didn't deserve that." "I didn't mean what I said." I rushed on. "I didn't mean that you were running away. Or that you didn't care." He huffed a tired breath that might've been a laugh. "Could've fooled me." "I know." I winced. "That's why I'm apologizing."

Another silence settled between us. Then he looked down at his hands, fidgeting slowly and uselessly with his rings. "I just... got in my head." He muttered quietly. "About what?" I asked, even though I already knew. "Harrington." He shifted on the cushions, sitting straighter now. His uneasiness was evident, it probably was uncomfortable for him as it was for me.

"You were right," he admitted. "I saw you two in the library." He rubbed his thumb against his palm. "I was gonna give you your notebook. I didn't— I wasn't trying to spy. I followed you, heard... enough." "And my brain—" he continued, tapping helplessly on his temple, "my brain did this really fun thing where it decided I was the idiot in the room."

"Eddie—"

"I know," he cut in, shaking his head. "I know it wasn't like that. Not really. But it felt like I was on the outside of something I didn't realize I'd already lost."

"You didn't lose anything." He looked at me for a long second, his eyes were glassy now. "I thought I had." He whispered. "And I didn't know how to ask without making it worse. I was... afraid." And just like that, the last fragile thing I'd been holding together came apart.

I didn't give him time to react. I leaned forward and hugged him. Hard and desperate, holding on so tight it felt like I could break him, like letting go wasn't an option I could survive. His arms came up around me a second later, tightening in return. He pulled me closer instead of away, anchoring me there. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed, loud, ugly, unstoppable.

"Hey..." He murmured, one hand steady at my back, not letting me go. "Hey. You're okay. I've got you."

I wasn't sure how long I cried. Long enough for my throat to hurt. Long enough to feel wrung out. When I finally pulled back, wiping my face with my sleeve, he was still looking at me. He reached up without thinking and brushed a tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch sent a quiet shiver through me.

"So," he murmured gently, "you gonna tell me what happened?"

I took a shaky breath. "I had a fight with my dad. A bad one." My voice wobbled. "God, I feel stupid. I know I'm wrong, I know I am, but I—" I couldn't finish. Eddie waited.

"He told me he's seeing someone." I admitted finally. "And I wasn't ready. I mean—I am not ready. And now he's ready to move on. And I just— I panicked." "I know it's selfish." I continued. "Like I want him to be alone forever just because I'm not ready to let her go."

Eddie nodded slowly. "You're not selfish." He paused. "Okay, maybe a little. But that doesn't make you wrong." I laughed weakly.

"My dad started dating again when I was eight," he confessed. "Didn't talk to him for a week. Felt like betrayal." He shrugged. "Like he was erasing something." He tapped his chest lightly. "Turns out people don't move on the way we think they do. They just... carry it differently."

"I don't want her to disappear." I admitted. "If life keeps going, it feels like she mattered less." He shook his head. "No, no... They stick around. In music. In habits. In the stuff that sneaks up on you when you least expect it." I breathed out slowly. "I didn't mean to yell at him." "Panic'll do that." Eddie shrugged gently.

"I miss her." I sobbed, scrubbing at my face with my sleeve. My nose was definitely red. My eyes definitely worse. "I miss my mom so damn much." "Yeah… I know." He swallowed.

He looked away for a second, then back at me. "It doesn't stop hurting. It just... changes shape. Some days it hits you out of nowhere. Some days it's quieter. But it doesn't mean she's gone. Not in the ways that count."

I pressed my lips together, nodding, swiping at my nose. "I'm scared I'll forget things." "You won't," he noted. "And even if you do? That doesn't erase her. It just means you're still here. Still living."

The trailer hummed quietly around us. He grabbed an old blanket from the couch and draped it over my shoulders without comment. "You can stay," he added, "as long as you need." I nodded, exhaustion finally dragging me under.

"Thank you." I murmured. "I... I didn't know where else to go." He shifted beside me, restless. His arm stayed around my shoulders, looser now.

"You could've gone anywhere. I mean—this town's got a decent supply of spare beds. I'm not exactly prime real estate." "It's late." "Still—You've got... options." That word made me frown. "What's that supposed to mean?" "You could've gone to—" He stopped. Exhaled. "Him." I looked at him, tiredly. "Please, don't bring Steve up again. He's just a friend." "Yeah. But we're friends too, right?" The question shouldn't have mattered that much. It did.

"No," I said immediately. "You're... not wrong." He nodded once, like that helped. "I just don't want to be the wrong choice." He admitted quietly. "You're not." "Okay." He sighed again, softer this time. Not relieved. Just... resigned.

"I'm sorry, Bex. I'm sorry I ran away." He admitted, not quite looking at me. His voice stayed steady. "I was afraid. I just... I was too afraid of losing you." He swallowed and went on, words finally spilling out.

"I wanted to apologize the moment I stormed out of Hellfire. Or the morning after. Or even the day after that." A humorless breath left him. "There wasn't a single day I didn't feel guilty about how I treated you. And the longer I waited, the dumber it felt. I didn't know how you could ever forgive me."

He glanced up at me for half a second, then looked back at the floor. "And then I saw you spending time with Harrington. And I didn't want to be the one who ruined whatever you two had. Whatever it was—at least you looked... okay."

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, restless. "That's all," he added. "I can deal with... whatever. I just didn't want to screw this up. I've screwed up a lot of things in my life. I'm really good at that. Ruining things. Then running away from them." A beat.

"Honestly?" He huffed once, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Just this year alone. I messed up so much. I was... kind of lost, and then you showed up. Out of nowhere." His voice softened, almost disbelieving. "Like— I don't know. Like a miracle." The word seemed to surprise him as much as it did me. His jaw tightened, like he wished he could pull it back.

"And I didn't want to be the one who ruined that too," he continued, quieter now. "Because—let's be honest—I don't exactly deserve miracles. Not after everything I've done. Not after everything I've missed." His voice cracked, just barely. His eyes shone, and he blinked hard, like that might fix it. "I just..." He swallowed. "I don't want to lose you." He repeated finally.

That was... a lot.

My brain lagged behind my heart, like it couldn't decide which part of me was supposed to respond first. His words were still hanging in the air, heavy, unsteady.

And then there was that word.

Miracle.

It hit somewhere behind my ribs and stayed there, awkward and wrong, like it had been put in the wrong place on purpose. I didn't know what to do with it. I wasn't ready to be anyone's miracle. I was barely holding myself together most days. Being someone's lifeline felt... impossible. Terrifying.

And yet here he was, looking at me like I was something fragile. Like I was something he was afraid to lose.

And the worst part?

So was I.

I'd been carrying it around for days, pretending it was just anger, or pride, or exhaustion. Pretending it was easier to be distant than to admit how much it had hurt when he'd pulled away. How quiet everything had felt without him. How empty.

I told myself I didn't need him. That I'd survived before, and I'd survive again. That this was just another thing I'd learn to live without.

But sitting there, listening to his voice crack around those words, I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

I don't want to lose you either, Eddie.

The thought scared me more than I wanted to admit. Because I'd already lost enough. And I was tired of losing the people I cared about.

"Eddie..." I muttered. He looked up then. "You're not screwing anything up." My voice felt steadier this time. "You didn't. You're not." I swallowed. "And you don't get to decide what you deserve on my behalf." His brows knit together, confused.

"I'm here," I went on. "I'm not going anywhere. Not because you did everything right. Not because you didn't mess up." A small, honest smile tugged at my mouth. "But because I want to be." I paused, letting that land.

"So if you're scared of losing me? Then talk to me. Don't disappear. Don't punish yourself in advance." I met his eyes, held them. "Okay?" He finally glanced at me then, searching my face like he was trying to figure out where that fit. What it meant. "Okay." He repeated softly. Then, almost like an afterthought, "I can do that."

We didn't say anything for a moment, the trailer crowded and heavy with everything we hadn't said, everything we were still afraid to say out loud.

"So... You said I could stay?" "Of course." "I don't feel like going home right now, I don't even know what I'd say." Dad's face flickered through my mind—the panic crept back in before I could stop it.

Eddie didn't hesitate this time. He curled again his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a quiet, steady hug. "That's a problem for tomorrow," he murmured. "You don't have to solve it tonight." He squeezed once, reassuring. "C'mon. Let's go to my room."

He stood and held a hand out to me. I took it without thinking. When he pulled me up, my legs wobbled, like they'd finally remembered everything they'd been carrying. "Woah— Easy." He caught me instinctively, steadying me with a hand at my waist, grounding, and doing far more damage to my composure than my shaky legs ever could.

His hand. My waist. I didn't have the energy to overthink it. Which was probably for the best.

We moved down the narrow hall toward his room, Eddie flicked the light on low, the familiar clutter casting long, uneven shadows.

The adrenaline finally drained out of me all at once, leaving nothing behind but bone-deep exhaustion. All I wanted was sleep. And only then did it hit me.

I was still wearing the same clothes from the movies. The sweater. The jeans. Boots dusted with gravel from the parking lot, like proof I'd been in the outside world too long. I hadn't even changed. It felt ridiculous, like that version of me belonged to a different day entirely, a different headspace. Like a lifetime ago. I paused near the edge of his bed.

"Uh—" Eddie started, like he'd somehow caught my thought mid-spiral. "You don't have to sleep in... that. If you don't want to." I glanced down at myself, then back at him. "I didn't exactly plan on a sleepover—I don't even have my bag."

He scanned the room, then crossed to his dresser and rummaged through a drawer, emerging with a black T-shirt, the print faded and cracked from too many washes. A one-eyed monster was still barely visible across the front, with D&D printed in big, aggressive letters above it. He held it out to me like an offering.

"It's clean." He noted quickly. Then he sniffed it, hesitated, and shrugged. "Clean-ish." He corrected, offering a sheepish smile like that might help his case. I took it, eyebrows lifting. "This is yours?" "Unfortunately." He winced.

Then he turned his back immediately, a little too fast. "Uh— I'll—uh. I'll give you privacy." "Wow," I exhaled, amused despite everything. "A gentleman." "Hey," he moaned, mock-offended. "This may shock you, but I actually do know basic manners." He kept staring very intently at the wall, like it had abruptly become the most fascinating thing in the room.

I tugged the sweater over my head and peeled off my jeans, folding them over a chair. When I pulled the shirt on, it slid down to just above my knees, long enough to feel indecently comfortable. The short sleeves still hung loose on my arms, the fabric familiar against my skin. The shirt smelled like him—not in a bad way. Worn cotton, laundry detergent, a hint of smoke and something warm underneath it all. It smelled simply like Eddie. Cool. I'm never giving this back.

I glanced down and let out a soft laugh, suddenly aware of how small I felt in it. "I totally could smuggle a second person in here." He risked a glance over his shoulder and immediately froze. Even in the dim light, I could see the color rush up his neck, his ears turning bright red.

"Oh. Yeah— uh—" He cleared his throat, fingers immediately flying to his curls, tugging them forward like they could hide him from the moment. "It... suits you." He finished, voice softer than I'd ever heard it.

Heat crept up my neck. "Yeah?" I asked, half-teasing, half-unsure. "Good. Because I think I'm keeping it." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. I lend you emotional support and suddenly you're robbing my wardrobe."

I climbed onto the bed and tucked my legs beneath me. Eddie finally turned around fully, clearly trying not to make a big deal out of it.

"You good?" He asked. "Yeah," I replied. "This is... actually really comfortable."

Eddie crossed the room and grabbed a couple of extra blankets from the end of the bed, along with a spare pillow that looked like it had seen better decades. He crouched and started spreading them out on the floor with practiced efficiency, like this wasn't his first time improvising sleeping arrangements.

I watched him for a second, confused. "What are you doing?" I asked. He glanced up, pillow tucked under one arm. "My bed." I frowned. "That's the floor, Eddie." "Elementary, my dear Watson." He nodded solemnly. "Very astute observation." I sat up straighter. "What about your actual bed?" He shrugged. "You're sleeping there. I'll take the deluxe Munson Manor hardwood experience." He even put on a surprisingly convincing British accent, like that somehow made it more reasonable.

I almost laughed. Almost. Instead, I crossed my arms. "No," I shot back. "Absolutely not." He paused, brows knitting together. "Why not?" "Because—" I gestured vaguely between us, the room, the entire day. "I already woke you up in the middle of the night, dumped all my emotional baggage on you, and now you're giving me your bed too?" I shook my head. "That feels illegal. Or at least morally questionable."

He scoffed lightly. "Bex, relax. I've slept on worse." "I don't care. You live here. I'm the one who showed up unannounced." "And I'm the one who said you could stay." He countered, standing up with the pillow. "So this is happening." I stared at him, arms crossed. "You're impossible." "Thank you." He grinned. "I work very hard at it."

I sighed, defeated but oddly touched. "At least take the pillow back." "Nope." He tossed it onto the floor and adjusted the blanket. "I'll survive." I hesitated, then softened. "You're not... uncomfortable with this?" He looked at me for a long moment, then shrugged, quieter now. "Nah. I just want you to be okay." "Eddie..."

He waved it off, clicked off the lamp on the nightstand, and dropped onto the floor with a grunt, stretching out awkwardly. "Go to sleep," he added, "before I start charging you rent."

I laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, I listened to the rustle of blankets as he shifted, trying to get comfortable, the floor creaked beneath him.

"Hey?" I murmured into the dark. "Yeah?" "Thank you."

There was a pause—just long enough for me to wonder if I'd said too much.

"That's kinda what friends are for."

***

I'D THOUGHT SLEEP would be impossible.

I'd thought my brain would keep replaying everything—the movie with Steve, the drive home, Dad's voice, Eddie's words, the way the night had gone sideways so quickly. I'd thought I'd lie there staring at the ceiling until sunrise. Instead, exhaustion won, and I fell asleep almost immediately.

The next thing I knew, pale morning light was creeping through the edges of the blankets taped over the window, thin and stubborn. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I shifted, and remembered the unfamiliar mattress, the faint smell of smoke, the oversized shirt wrapped around me like a second blanket. Right.

Carefully, I sat up. Eddie was still asleep on the floor. And somehow, he'd managed to look even less dignified than the night before. One arm was flung above his head, the blanket twisted around his legs like he'd lost a wrestling match with it. His mouth hung open just enough to let out a soft, uneven snore every few seconds. I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

So this was the terrifying, unmerciful Dungeon Master. The Freak everyone avoided in the halls. The self-proclaimed metal god who owned a band with a ridiculous name. The guy who kept his illegal side business in a tin box under his bed.

And yet, somehow, this was the safest place I'd been all night. The safest place I'd been since I'd moved to Hawkins.

I watched him for a second longer than necessary, something warm settling in my chest. Yeah. Totally harmless.

I didn't wake him.

I slipped out of the room quietly, closing the door with more care than necessary, like the sound alone might break whatever fragile peace had settled over the trailer. The living space was still dim, the same low lamp casting a tired yellow glow over the couch. I checked the clock on the wall. Too early to be considered morning, too late to pretend it was still night. I hesitated, then wandered into the kitchen.

Calling it a kitchen was generous. It was more like a corner that had committed to the idea of cooking at some point and then immediately given up. I opened one cabinet. Empty, except for a single box of instant oatmeal that looked like it had survived a war. Another cabinet: canned soup. Off-brand. Multiples of the same flavor. The fridge was worse. A half gallon of milk—questionable. A carton of eggs. Ketchup. Mustard. Leftovers wrapped in foil that I absolutely did not trust. I sighed quietly. Cool. No ingredients. Just faith.

Coffee, at least, was easy. Wayne took it very seriously. There were three different kinds, none labeled, all intimidatingly strong-smelling. I poured water, scooped grounds, turned the machine on.

By the time the coffee finished, I was leaning against the counter, staring out the small window over the sink. The sky was just beginning to lighten, the gray thinning at the edges. For a moment, everything felt suspended. Like the world hadn't decided what kind of day it wanted to be yet.

Behind me, a floorboard creaked. I turned just in time to see Eddie shuffle into the kitchen. He looked... wrecked.

Hair sticking out in every possible direction, curls flattened on one side and wild on the other. T-shirt twisted slightly from sleep. One sock on, one sock missing. Eyes half-open, unfocused, like he hadn't fully loaded yet. He blinked at me. Once. Twice.

"...Why are you here?" He asked hoarsely. I raised my brows. "Good morning to you too."

He squinted harder, leaning against the doorframe like gravity had suddenly doubled. "No—I mean, you're supposed to be asleep. Or imaginary. Or—" He paused, then frowned. "Am I dead?" "Tragically, no." I said dryly.

He stared at the coffee machine, then back at me. "You made coffee." "I tried." I corrected. He shuffled closer, peered into the mug like it might bite him, then took a sip. His face immediately contorted. "Oh god." He muttered. "That's... aggressive."

Despite myself, I smiled and reached for the sugar bowl, same move Wayne had made, same quiet solution. I slid it toward him without a word. He added two spoonfuls, stirred half-heartedly, tried again. He leaned his elbows on the counter, head dropping forward until his forehead rested against his arms.

"Did you... sleep okay?" He asked. "Yeah. Like a rock." "Good." He nodded. Then, quieter, almost to himself. "Good." We stood there like that, side by side, coffee steaming between us, the trailer slowly waking up around us.

"I should probably go." I sighed. "I already made my dad worry enough." Eddie nodded, slow and reluctant. "Yeah, uh—Wayne'll be back soon too, and I really don't feel like explaining why you're sleeping over." He glanced down at me, then flinched. "Or why you're wearing my clothes." I smiled faintly. "That would be a conversation."

He straightened a little, seriousness slipping back in beneath the sleepiness. "Hey—you'll be okay, though. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but—you're strong. You always land on your feet." I swallowed. "You say that like you've seen it." "I have." He said simply.

I went back to his room to change, pulling my clothes back on. I paused, then left his shirt on underneath my sweater. When I came back out, Eddie was standing in the kitchen again, Honeycombs tilted straight to his mouth.

I blinked. "Where the hell did those come from?" He paused mid-chew, glanced down at the box like it had materialized on its own, then shrugged. "They exist when you're not actively looking for them." "I swear I checked every cabinet. Twice." "Rookie mistake." He replied solemnly, then continued grinding cereal under his teeth.

I watched him for a second. "Wayne's right, you do eat like a raccoon." He didn't even look guilty. "It's efficient." "Ferally efficient." He grinned around a mouthful of cereal. I shook my head, smiling despite everything. The moment stretched, quiet and almost normal, and that somehow made it harder to leave.

At the door, I paused, fingers curled around the knob like I needed the solidness of it to keep myself together. Morning light crept in through the thin curtains. Reality, unfortunately, still existed. "Thank you again. For... everything." Before I could overthink it—before fear or logic had a chance to intervene—I stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. He froze.

When I pulled back, his hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing the exact spot, like he needed to confirm it had actually happened. He didn't say anything, just stared at me, stunned, eyes wide and unguarded. I smiled—small, real.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 3.6k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐞𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

Friday, December 14th, 1984.

This is what you wanted. Right, Eddie? Space. Distance.

And I told myself that was fine. That I deserved it, that I'd pushed too hard, asked the wrong questions, reached for something I wasn't supposed to touch.

Well, congratulations to me. Here's my prize.

The days blurred together after that fight, indistinguishable from one another. I moved through them on autopilot: wake up, eat something, sit through classes, eat again, sleep. Repeat. Like my body had taken over just to keep me functioning, even when my head didn't quite want to cooperate.

Everything felt muted. Like someone had turned the volume down on my life and forgotten to turn it back up.

Eddie and I still shared the same classrooms, the same hallways, the same stretches of time. We just didn't share space anymore. We existed in the same orbit without colliding, like strangers who happened to carry the same memories and pretended they didn't. You can survive this. You've survived worse.

I kept replaying it. The fight. The look on his face. I kept thinking about all the things I should've said differently. Or not said at all. About how maybe opening up had been a mistake. Maybe I'd misread everything, maybe I'd wanted more than he could give. Or worse, maybe I'd wanted something he had never meant to offer at all.

This was exactly why I hadn't wanted new friends in the first place. I'd come to Hawkins fully prepared to survive senior year alone. Head down. No attachments. No expectations. Just get through it.

I hadn't signed up for this.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if it would've been easier if I'd never gone to the arcade that day. If I'd just stayed home, boring myself over some old comic books. Because none of this would've happened if I hadn't sat at that stupid spot that first day of school. If I hadn't said yes to watch him play at the Hideout, or even join Hellfire. If I hadn't let myself get dragged into noise and laughter and stupid conversations about rock bands or superheroes that somehow started to feel like belonging.

I was fine alone. I meant it. Or at least I'd wanted to. Then Eddie happened.

And he had forced his way into my life anyway, chaotic, relentless, impossible to ignore. He'd pushed past every wall I'd built, and the worst part wasn't that he left, it was that I'd let him in first. That I'd gotten used to him being there. And then, once I adjusted to the noise and the warmth and the way he took up space— He pulled away. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

Now everything felt louder without him. Sharper. Like the silence had teeth. And still—my thoughts kept circling back to him, no matter how hard I tried to shove them away.

I wondered if he was sleeping. I wondered if he ate properly. I wondered if he missed me.

I hated myself a little for that last one. Because wanting it didn't make it true. It just made it hurt more.

At least there was Steve. We talked, we hang out. He was easy, he didn't disappear when things got uncomfortable. He didn't run away from conversations when they started to matter.

I'd explained it to him in pieces, carefully, the way you handle something sharp. I hadn't gone into details. Just that Eddie and I had fought. That things were weird, that I didn't know what I'd done. Steve hadn't liked it, not even a little.

"He sounds like an asshole." He'd spoken, mouth full, gesturing vaguely with his fork like the verdict was already final. "He's not." I replied automatically. He kind of is. I pushed my food around my plate, appetite gone. "He's just... I don't know. Complicated."

Steve watched me for a second, then lifted both hands in mock surrender. "Okay. Fine." He paused, softer now. "But if someone makes you feel like this, I reserve the right to call them an asshole." I didn't argue. Because as much as I hated admitting it, Steve wasn't wrong.

By Friday, I was exhausted in a way sleep didn't fix.

My own thoughts felt like they were taking up too much room inside my skull. I just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and not talk to anyone until Monday showed up and forced me to exist again.

I was halfway across the parking lot when Steve cut me off, stepping directly into my path. "Bex," he called, firm but not unkind. "Nope. I'm not letting you go home like this." I stopped, keys dangling uselessly from my fingers. "Like what?" "Like you're about to sit in your room and spiral all weekend," he replied. "Again."

I huffed a weak laugh, crossing my arms in a defensive, helpless way. "Wow. Called out." "I'm serious." He added, lowering his voice. "I hate seeing you like this. Let's go do something. Anything."

I shifted my weight, already tired. "Steve, I appreciate it, but... I don't think that's a great idea." "Why not?" "Because—" I sighed, rolling my eyes like I already knew I was losing this. "Because I don't feel like being around people right now, acting like I'm fine." "Then don't." He suggested it like it was the simplest solution in the world. I looked up at him, not quite sure what to do with that.

"There's a movie tonight," he continued. "New one. I don't remember the title, something about a desert, I dunno." He shrugged. "We sit in the dark, eat terrible popcorn, and don't talk about anything important." I exhaled slowly. That... doesn't sound awful.

"You deserve a good time," he added, softer now. "At least a distraction."

I stared at my truck for a second longer than necessary, then sighed. "Okay. Fine." His face brightened immediately. "Yeah?" "Yeah. Movies. Low expectations. No emotional revelations." "Deal." He grinned. "Seven works for you?" "Sure. Seven is fine." "Perfect." He stepped back, smiling. "I'll see you there, Smith." I rolled my eyes again. "See you, Harrington."

As I got into my truck, I couldn't help thinking that Steve was right. Maybe sitting alone with my thoughts isn't the best idea tonight.

Later that afternoon, I stood in front of my closet longer than I meant to. This isn't a date. I know that. Steve hasn't asked it like one, and I haven't said yes like it was. Still, I didn't want to show up looking like I'd crawled out of a dumpster behind the school.

The last week had been rough. I'd stopped caring about how I showed up at school, throwing my hair into lazy knots, grabbing the first sweater I could find, not bothering with mirrors. Tonight, I tried a little harder: a black sweater that actually fit, clean jeans, my leather jacket—and a red scarf, because Hawkins' weather was feeling especially dramatic. I caught my reflection and tilted my head. Presentable, I decided. Not hopeful. Not heartbroken. Just... present.

In the truck, I turned on the radio out of habit. Big mistake. Every single station seemed to have made a silent pact to play nothing but Christmas songs and jingles. Bells, choirs, forced cheer. I flipped through stations, one after the other, searching desperately for something—anything—that didn't sound like it belonged in a toy factory staffed by aggressively joyful elves. No luck. With a frustrated sigh, I shut the radio off entirely and drove in silence. I was absolutely not in the mood for Christmas.

Outside, the neighborhood had already surrendered. Houses glittered with lights and inflatable snowmen, plastic reindeer glaring at one another like they were locked in some unspoken cold war over who could be the most festive. Every lawn felt like a challenge. I sighed, tightening my grip on the steering wheel as I tried to keep my eyes on the road. Oh god. I'm turning into the fucking Grinch.

By the time I pulled into the Hawk Theater parking lot, my patience was already thin. I realized my mistake the second I saw the line. The lot was half full, headlights slicing through the early winter dark, people funneling toward the entrance in noisy clusters. Laughter carried on the cold air, voices overlapping. This is not the quiet distraction I've pictured.

I forced myself out of the car anyway, shut the door, and immediately spotted Steve. He was waiting just outside the entrance, leaning casually near the ticket booth. Suddenly I was very aware of how this might look: Steve Harrington. Friday night. Movie theater. Hawkins had a way of turning even the most innocent situations into rumors. People stared here even when there was nothing to stare at.

Steve looked up and smiled when he saw me, one hand in his pocket, the other waving.

"Hey," he greeted. "You look really nice." The compliment took me by surprise. "Thanks—uh. You too." And he did. A warm gray sweater under his jacket, jeans and his perfect hair, because of course it was.

We fell into step together and joined the line for tickets. Sure enough, I caught a few glances almost immediately. Nothing overt. Just quick looks, double takes, curiosity sharpened by boredom. I shifted a little closer to Steve without meaning to, lowering my voice. "People are staring." He didn't even look fazed. "Let them," he shrugged easily. "They'll get bored in five minutes." I glanced around again. I'm not so sure.

Steve stepped forward first, already reaching for his wallet like he'd rehearsed this part in his head. I hovered half a step behind him, suddenly very aware of my hands and having no idea what to do with them.

"Two for..." he glanced up at the glowing marquee above us, squinting slightly, "...Dune?" "Bold choice." A familiar voice replied. I froze. I looked up.

She stood behind the glass, wearing a red-and-white striped employee vest that looked one size too big and a name tag that read ROBIN in blocky black letters. Her hair was pulled back messily, a pencil tucked behind one ear, eyes already bright with recognition.

"Oh my god." Robin Buckley drawled, leaning closer to the window. "It's you." "Hey," I blinked. "You work here?" "Since Thanksgiving." She boasted proudly, showing off her tag. Steve shifted beside me, confused. "You two know each other?"

Robin glanced at him, then back at me and then at him again. A slow grin spread across her face. "Oh. Ohhh." Steve frowned. "What?" "Nothing." She offered innocently. "Just..." I narrowed my eyes. "Robin." She ignored me completely and leaned her elbows on the counter. "So. Movie night, huh?" Steve cleared his throat. "Yeah." "Just the two of you?" She asked, eyebrows wiggling. "It's not—" I started. "—a thing." Steve finished quickly. Robin nodded solemnly. "Sure. Of course. Just friends. I love friends. Friends are great." She reached for the tickets, printing them with exaggerated slowness.

"You know." She added casually, "I always say the Hawk Theater is the perfect place for platonic bonding." I groaned. "Please stop talking." "Oh, I physically can't," she went on. "It's a condition." Robin slid the tickets under the glass, then leaned closer to me again, lowering her voice just enough to be conspiratorial. "If anyone asks," she whispered, "I fully support whatever this is." "There is no this." I hissed. She smiled wider. "That's what makes it fun." Steve handed over the money, visibly relieved when the transaction ended. "Enjoy the movie!" Robin cheered brightly. Then, as we turned to leave, she added, a little louder, "Try not to fall asleep during the sand politics!" I shot her a look over my shoulder. "I hate you." "No you don't." She called back. "Have fun, Morticia!"

I could feel Steve's grin beside me as we walked away. "Was that your... friend?" He asked. I sighed. "Kinda."

As we entered, I reached for my wallet, already digging for cash. "How much was it?" Steve stopped me mid-motion, gently pressing my wrist back down. "No. Tonight's on me. I invited you. Let me play host." I frowned. "Steve—" He raised a hand, cutting me off. "Please, I must insist. This is like—the one area of my life where I'm extremely competent." I looked at him and felt my mouth do something unfamiliar. Oh. Smiling. Right. I hadn't done that for days. For a second, it felt like I'd rediscovered a muscle I didn't know I still had. Like my face had been stuck in one shape for so long it forgot there were other options.

Inside, the theater smelled like butter and sugar and old carpet that had given up trying to be clean. The lobby buzzed with noise—kids arguing over seats, parents corralling younger siblings, someone loudly explaining the plot of a movie they very clearly hadn't seen yet.

I pointed toward the concession stand. "Fine. But I'm buying popcorn." He sighed like he'd lost a small but meaningful battle. "I want the caramel ones." "Of course you do. You're predictable in a very specific, sugar-based way." He ignored that and added soda to the order. And candy. And then more candy, like he was trying to single-handedly keep the snack industry alive.

By the time we stepped aside, our arms were full. When he handed me my drink, he glanced at the mountain of junk food and added, "Look, I don't make the rules. Movie survival requires resources." I snorted. "If we don't survive this," I went on, eyeing the pile, "it won't be because we starved." He grinned, completely unashamed.

We slipped into the theater just as the lights dimmed, the room already packed. People filled nearly every row, murmuring, settling, shifting. We found two seats halfway down, surrounded by strangers, the screen glowing faintly in front of us. I sank into the chair, ready to embrace myself.

Steve leaned in, whispering, "Okay, full disclosure. I have no idea what this movie is about." "I don't know, dunes?" I shrugged. "Cool," he sighed. "That clears up absolutely nothing." The opening credits rolled, the music swelling low and ominous. The room fell quiet.

For the first ten minutes, I barely watched the screen. My attention kept drifting—to the people around us, to the weight of being here, to the fact that Steve's arm rested easily on the armrest between us. He glanced at me, probably noticing my overthinking, then nudged the popcorn toward me. "Eat." I smiled faintly and did.

By the time the desert filled the screen—endless sand, strange ships, whispered prophecies—I realized I was actually watching. The dark helped. The noise helped. Sitting beside someone steady helped.

Steve shifted, leaned in again, shoving some popcorn in his mouth. "Quick question." He murmured. I didn't look at him. "It's already a bad sign." "Who's the good guy?" "The Atreides." "Cool. Who are the bad guys?" "The Harkonnens." He nodded seriously. "Okay. Why do they all look evil?" "Because they are evil." Satisfied, he leaned back.

Ten seconds passed.

"Wait," he whispered. "Why did the Emperor send the good guys to the bad planet?" "Politics." Steve squinted at the screen. "I hate politics."

I shifted in my seat, pulling my jacket closer, finally settling in. On screen, voices narrated thoughts no one said out loud—plans, fears, betrayals—like everyone was trapped inside their own head. God. Same, I thought. And then desert storms. A powerful family walking straight into a trap they could see coming.

Steve groaned softly. "Why is everyone thinking so loud?" "It's the spice." I whispered. "The drug?" "Yes." "So everyone's high?" "Basically." He nodded slowly. "Cool, that explains a lot."

By the time the movie reached its end, sandstorms swallowing armies, visions collapsing into destiny, rain falling where it shouldn't, the theater felt strangely quiet. The lights came up too fast, washing the theater in white and leaving spots dancing in my vision. People stretched, complained, debated whether it had made any sense at all. Steve stood and grabbed his jacket, shaking his head like he'd just survived something.

The cold hit hard when we stepped back outside, my cheeks burned immediately as I ducked my head into my scarf, wrapping it tighter around my face as the heat of the theater vanished like it had never existed.

"So," Steve started, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thoughts?" "I think I need to see that again at least twice to understand half of it." I admitted. "You?" He laughed. "I wasn't actually talking about the movie." Then he added, nodding toward the theater, "But yeah—once was enough existential sand for me." I glanced at him. "Then what were you talking about?"

He hesitated just a fraction, like he was choosing his words. "Did you... have fun?" He asked. "I mean—how do you feel?" That softened something in my chest. "Yeah," I replied honestly. "I did. It helped. It was... fun." "Good," he nodded, relief flickering across his face. "I'm glad."

We walked in easy silence for a few steps, the cold air filling the spaces we weren't talking in. My brain, apparently, decided it didn't like quiet. "What's your favorite movie?" I asked, mostly just to keep us from drifting back into our own heads. He blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Uh... I'm not really a movie guy." I narrowed my eyes, mock-suspicious. "Could've fooled me. You were clearly riveted there." He snorted. "I was enjoying you explaining it to me. That counts." "So," I continued, nudging him lightly, "if you're not into movies, then why suggest this?" He shrugged, easy but sincere. "Because I figured maybe you'd enjoy it." Oh.

"Yeah," I admitted softly. "I did." I paused, then added. "Thank you. I... I needed this." He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged again like it was no big deal. "You showed up for me when I needed it. Now I'm just... doing the same. That's how this works, right?" I scuffed my shoe against the ground. "Still. You didn't have to." He smiled a little. "Yeah, but I wanted to."

That landed somewhere I wasn't prepared for, my chest ached a little. "I like you better when you're not disappearing into your own head," he added, gentler now. I huffed a quiet laugh. "Working on it."

We lingered there for a second, neither of us quite ready to call it a night. Then Steve nodded toward the parking lot. "I'll walk you to your truck." "Chivalry isn't dead, huh?" I teased. "Careful," he replied, smirking. "You might get used to it."

Hawkins had gone quiet by the time I turned onto my street. Most houses were dark, the rest lit softly from within, Christmas decorations glowing like placeholders for happiness.

When I pulled into the driveway, the house was dark except for the living room lamp. The light spilled softly through the curtains, warm and unfamiliar in a way that made me pause before getting out of the truck. Usually the house was either fully lit or completely dark—no in-between. My chest felt oddly tight, a little anxious. Like my body had noticed something my brain hadn't caught up to yet.

Inside, Dad was slouched on the couch. One leg hooked over the armrest, shoulders sunk deep into the cushions, a beer balanced loosely in his hand. The TV played some late-night rerun at low volume, laughter bleeding softly into the room. He looked comfortable. Unbothered. Then the door closed behind me.

He startled and straightened immediately. The bottle came down to the coffee table. He leaned forward and muted the TV in one quick motion, like the noise suddenly mattered. He looked up at me, posture too upright now, hands resting flat on his knees. "Hey, Becca." He greeted.

"Hey, Pop." I shrugged out of my jacket, hanging it on the coat stand by the entrance. "You're still up." "Yeah. I was..." He paused, then cleared his throat. "Waiting for you." That's new.

I hesitated before kicking off my shoes. "Everything okay?" "Sure." Dad answered quickly. "Yeah. Everything's fine." He nodded like he was trying to convince both of us. "...how was the movie?"

The question got me a little confused. Dad usually didn't ask about that kind of thing unless it was followed by "Did you have fun?" I shrugged. "Not too good, not too bad." A beat.

"With Eddie?" The name hit like a skipped step on a staircase—sudden, disorienting. "No." I replied, cold. "Just Steve." "Oh." He didn't press. Just leaned back slightly, fingers flexing once against his knee before settling again. "Okay."

I hovered near the hallway, one hand already on the strap of my bag, my body angled instinctively toward the stairs. The plan had been simple: say goodnight, disappear into my room, struggling with my sleep.

"Becca—" Dad called, gently but firmly. "Can you stay a second?" I stopped.

I lowered my bag to the floor, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Standing there made me feel exposed somehow, like I was waiting to be called on in class without knowing the question.

He stayed seated on the couch, still too straight, hands on his knees. The television flickered silently behind him. I rubbed my arms, suddenly aware of how tired I was, how the day had scraped me thin. "You hungry?" He asked. "Not really. I had popcorn." "Okay. Good." The words didn't close the conversation. They hovered there.

Something was wrong. Not angry-wrong. Not bad-wrong. Just... weird. Then he adjusted his posture once again, sitting even straighter, shoulders squaring like he'd reached the end of a long internal debate.

"Becca." I lifted my head.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.6k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞: 𝐎𝐟𝐟 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐭

Tuesday, December 4th, 1984.

I'm afraid to be happy, for when the sun shines too bright, the shadow falls heaviest.

December arrived in Hawkins quietly, like it didn't want to be noticed. The last of the fall color had bled out of the trees, leaving branches bare and black against a sky that couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to snow or just threaten it. I wasn't even sure that it did snow in Hawkins, to be completely honest. It felt like the kind of place that hovered in gray instead.

School grew heavier with each passing day. The air in the hallways buzzed with nervous energy—students hunched over lockers comparing notes, teachers piling on quizzes and deadlines like they were daring us to crack. Everyone ran on caffeine and irritation, counting down to winter break like it was a finish line. And somehow, in the middle of all that gray, Eddie Munson had become... my yellow.

After that Friday—after the hand-holding that hadn't been a big deal and had absolutely been a big deal—our friendship didn't change in any dramatic, obvious way. We still joked. Still argued. Still teased each other like it was our shared language. But the space between us got smaller.

He started sitting closer without making a point of it. His knee would brush mine under the desk, and he wouldn't jerk away like he'd been burned. When we walked through the halls, he drifted into my orbit like it was muscle memory, matching my pace without thinking. Sometimes he reached for my sleeve to pull me out of the way of an oncoming wave of students, his hand warm and steady, and it felt so natural my brain didn't even register it until after it happened.

When he leaned over my desk, his hand would hover at my back—sometimes resting there for just a second longer than necessary. Our fingers brushed more often now. And for once, I didn't panic. I didn't overthink it. I didn't pull away. So yeah. We are friends. Cozy friends.

And it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would to accept that. It felt like we'd found some kind of balance. Yes, I still noticed the way his curls fell into his eyes. Yes, I still caught myself staring at his tattoos, tracing the lines in my head. Yes, I still thought he was beautiful in a way that made my chest feel tight.

But it was fine. I was fine.

I was happy with the way things were—and that was the strangest part of all. Admitting that I was actually happy felt dangerous, like tempting fate. Because Eddie Munson made me happy.

And that happiness started bleeding into everything else.

Hellfire became mine, too. Not all at once, but gradually. My first session as a real player was... humiliating. In the best possible way.

I'd walked into the drama storage room with a stomach full of bees, wearing the Hellfire shirt like it was a dare. The guys greeted me with cheers, like I'd just won a medal for bravery instead of showing up terrified and under prepared. I'd almost died in the first thirty minutes because I forgot I was not, in fact, invincible. Eddie had leaned across the board, eyes bright, and told me, dead serious, that my character had 'the survival instincts of a goldfish in a parking lot.' I'd told him to kill me if he wanted. He smirked and added 'I'll let the dice decide that.'

For a while after that, things stayed easy.

Which was probably why I didn't question it when Tuesday morning started out completely normal. That Tuesday started like any other—cold hallways, bumping students and the particular scent of wet coats and cheap deodorant.

"Morning, sunshine," he grinned, clearly enjoying himself. If this is sunshine, someone should check the weather.

I'd barely slept for reasons I couldn't explain, dark circles bruising the skin under my eyes, my hair having declared open rebellion and won. I groaned. "You're lucky I don't have the energy to be violent." He leaned closer, stage-whispering, "See? I bring out your best qualities."

I made it through first period half awake. Second period I nearly fell asleep on my own textbook. By fourth period, my notes looked like the handwriting of someone being actively haunted. I managed to wake up a little as the morning dragged on, but the day had already decided not to start well. I was just about to head for the cafeteria when a hand stopped me gently. "Hey." Steve Harrington spoke, suspiciously calm. I looked up, immediately thrown off. Steve didn't usually sound like that. Which made the fact that he was standing here—waiting for me in the hallway instead of sprawled at our usual lunch table—feel wrong in a quiet, unsettling way.

"Hey?" I frowned. "What's up?" He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. His shoulders were tense, like he'd been holding something in all morning. "Do you have a minute?" He asked. I blinked. "Now?" He nodded once, eyes flicking down the hall like he didn't want anyone to see him asking. "Could we... talk somewhere quieter?" He added. Confusion crept in, followed closely by concern. But I nodded anyway.

I followed him down the corridor, passing classrooms that were already emptying out, past the noise of lockers fading behind us. He pushed open the library door and gestured me inside.

The place was nearly empty. A few students hunched over tables near the front, pretending to study. The back section, where the shelves grew taller and the light dimmer, sat untouched like a forgotten wing. Steve led me back there without a word.

Nothing good has ever happened in a library corner like this. I crossed my arms, suddenly unsure. "Okay," I lowered my voice. "What's the matter?" He leaned back against a shelf and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up like he didn't know what else to do with his hands. He stared down at the floor, like there was a script written into the tiles that he couldn't quite bring himself to read.

He let out a breath. "Nancy." "Oh." "It's stupid," he went on quickly, like if he said it fast enough it would stop being true. "I know it's been a while. I know she's moved on. But I keep telling myself I'm fine, and then—" He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Turns out I'm not." "Steve, you broke up, like, a few weeks ago. It's okay if it hurts. It would be way weirder if it didn't." He shrugged, but it was a small, defeated movement. "Feels like it didn't for her." He looked up at me then, eyes a little red around the edges. Not crying. Not yet. Just... worn down.

"I don't really know who I am without her—I sound stupid." He shook his head. "I was already imagining my life with her. Kids, a place, all that." "You're not stupid," I insisted, the words coming out firmer than I expected. "You cared. And I bet you'll fine someone that cares the same." He swallowed hard. "I don't want just someone," he admitted quietly. "I wanted her. That's the problem." I nodded slowly. I didn't trust myself to speak right away. Then he scoffed, frustration creeping in. "And now she's with him." He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "He's a freak—" I winced on impulse.

I never liked how they used that word here. The way Hawkins used it like a label you got stuck with, permanent, no matter what was actually underneath. Steve noticed. Of course he did. He exhaled sharply, searching for better words. "I— that's not what I meant. I just... I don't like him." He sighed, searching for something that didn't sound as ugly. "He's…insufferable." "You don't have to like him." He glanced up at me, exhausted. "Feels like I should be... something else. I dunno— better, maybe." "You know that's not true," I admitted. "You're not replaceable." He stilled.

"If Nancy wants Jonathan," I went on, softer now, "there's nothing you or I can do about that. Unfortunately, that's the truth. But you—you don't need to change for her. You actually don't need to change for anyone." He looked at me, breathing uneven. "You're smart," I added. "You're kind. You're funny." I hesitated, then gave a small, crooked smile. "And, yeah—every girl in a five-mile radius melts a little when you do that stupid hair thing." He huffed, but I went on, quieter now. "You care. You show up. You give your whole heart for the people you love." I looked at him, then reached out and rested my hand on his shoulder, giving it a small, reassuring squeeze. "Anyone would be lucky to be with you." His breath hitched. "You really think that?" "I'm sure of it."

Silence stretched between us, uneasy and heavy. "Sorry," I added, quieter. "I'm... really bad at this. Comforting, I mean." Instead of answering, Steve stepped forward and hugged me. It felt clumsy and heavy and necessary all at once. Steve let his forehead drop against my shoulder.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I just—needed a second." "It's okay. I've got you."

We stood there like that a moment longer than I'd planned, the quiet of the library wrapping around us. I could feel his heart beating through his jacket—fast at first, then slowing as his shoulders eased, the tension draining out of him. He smelled faintly of something clean and sharp, like spearmint and hairspray.

The library was silent except for the low hum of the lights overhead. "I don't know what I'd do without you." Steve murmured, voice muffled against my shoulder.

Thud.

Something shifted behind us. A book hitting the floor.

Steve pulled back immediately. "Shit—sorry," he spluttered, stepping away. "I didn't mean to—" "It's fine," I cut in quickly. "Really." I turned, expecting to see the librarian glaring at us or a freshman frozen mid-snoop. The aisle was empty.

A book lay face-down near the end of the shelf, like it had been knocked loose by accident. Or by someone moving too fast.

Weird.

I shrugged it off. "Probably just a ghost." Steve nodded, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah. Right." He took a breath, visibly pulling himself back together. "Thanks. You're... you're a really good friend, Bex." "Anytime." I replied, smiling softly.

We walked out together a minute later, side by side, neither of us saying much. Steve had his usual posture back. The armor was on again. "You good?" I asked. "Yeah," he answered, and this time it sounded more convincing. "I will be." By the time we reached the cafeteria doors, lunch was already thinning out. We grabbed food quickly, and began eating without much enthusiasm.

A few people glanced our way when we walked in together. I felt the weight of it then—the quiet curiosity, the assumptions forming.

Great. Add that to the list of things I don't have the energy to explain.

I scanned the room without meaning to. Eddie wasn't with Hellfire. My stomach dipped. The last time Eddie had disappeared like that, it hadn't ended well.

Maybe he'd already finished lunch.

I'd missed most of it anyway.

But with fifth period starting, I strolled in and noticed Eddie seemed safe and sound, but he didn't sit next to me.

I noticed him dropped into a seat a few rows up front instead, slung his jacket over the chair, eyes fixed forward like that was where he'd always planned to be.

Okay. Weird.

Maybe he was in a mood. Maybe I was reading into things because my brain had apparently decided that peace was suspicious and short-lived.

By last period, I knew I wasn't imagining it. When he finally slid into the seat beside me in History, it was without any of the usual fanfare. No grin. No whispered commentary about Mrs. Click's dress looking like it belonged in a museum.

I tried to get his attention then. "Hey." I began quietly. "Hey." He replied. That was it. He held up a notebook—my notebook. "You left this in Physics," he added, voice even. "I borrowed it for notes and then forgot to give it back." "Wow." I jeered. "You? Forgetting something? Shocking." I waited for the punchline. The laugh. The exaggeration.

Instead, he stared down at the desk. "Yeah. Shocking." Cold. That's what I felt from him.

He turned his attention to his paper. His handwriting looked neat and deliberate—like he was trying to behave. His leg didn't bounce. He didn't fidget with his rings. It was like he'd turned himself down a few notches and locked the volume there. The absence was louder than his voice ever was.

I tried again a few minutes later, keeping my voice low. "You okay?" "Yeah." He answered, without looking up. One word. Flat. Final.

Okay. Cool. Great.

I waited through half the class, the silence between us tightening like a pulled wire. When Mrs. Click turned back to the board, I leaned in. "Did I do something?" That got his attention. "Nah. You're good." "Then what's wrong?" He shrugged. Small. Controlled. "Nothing." I hated that answer more than I should have. "Eddie." He turned now, wholly facing toward me, jaw set like he'd already decided how this conversation would end. "It's fine, Smith." Smith. He called me that when he wanted to tease. When he wanted to poke. When he was trying to charm his way out of trouble. This wasn't any of those.

Breathing suddenly took more effort than it should've. "You sure?" I asked. "Yeah. Just... tired." He turned back to his notes before I could push any further.

That's a lie. Eddie is never tired.

I caught up to him in the hallway after class, stepping into his path before he could slip past me. I didn't even remember deciding to do it. My body just moved, fed up with pretending everything was fine. "Okay— what is going on?" He stopped. For a moment I thought he might actually tell me. I thought he might drop the act and let me see whatever it was he'd been carrying around all day. Instead, he smiled. Not his real one. The polite version. The one he used on teachers and people who didn't matter.

"You look like you're about to interrogate me. Relax." "I'm serious." "So am I," he replied. "Nothing's wrong." "That's bullshit." His smile faltered. "Look," he continued, already stepping around me, "I've got stuff to do. D&D prep. Band practice. Life." He paused, like he couldn't help himself, then added, "Not everything is about you, Smith." The words hit harder than I expected. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, heat rising fast and uninvited. He didn't turn back. "Exactly what it sounds like." He said over his shoulder. And then he walked away. Just like that.

I stood there in the middle of the hallway. What had I missed? I was aware something was wrong—painfully aware—but I couldn't name it. Couldn't touch it. Couldn't fix it. And that might've been the worst part. I felt angry then. Not just at him. At everything. At the universe, mostly. At the way it never let me have anything good for long without twisting it out of shape. Two weeks. That's all it had given me. Barely two weeks of feeling steady, of feeling happy, before something shifted for no reason I could understand. Nothing had happened. And yet, somehow, something had broken.

***

THE NEXT MORNING felt wrong before I even saw him.

He was at his locker with Jeff and Gareth, shoulders hunched forward like he was bracing against something invisible. They were talking—about something mundane, probably—but Eddie wasn't really there. He nodded at the right moments, smirked when he was supposed to, but it didn't reach his eyes. He wasn't laughing. That, more than anything, made my skin prickle. Eddie Munson laughed at everything. Bad jokes. Good jokes. His own thoughts. Silence. Laughter was his default state, his shield, his noise.

Today, it looked like he was wearing it instead. He glanced up and caught me staring. He didn't react. No eyebrow raise, no grin, no dramatic little what? to make me feel stupid. His eyes slid away like I wasn't there. Something coiled tight in my gut. I turned back to my locker, hands suddenly clumsy as I shoved my books inside, my thoughts sprinting ahead of me without permission. But what? What did I do? What did I say? What did I miss?

I replayed the day before in my head, frame by frame.

Morning classes. Lunch break. Library. Cafeteria. Afternoon classes. He'd already been weird by then, hadn't he? So it had to be before. Morning classes. Lunch break. Library. Steve. His hands shaking. The hug. The stupid book falling. Oh. The book. Had Eddie seen us? Why would he even be in the library?

No—he would've said something. He always did. Eddie Munson did not suffer in silence. If something bothered him, the entire building usually knew about it within minutes. He wouldn't just... watch. Right?

I didn't want to believe that. Didn't want to imagine him standing there, unseen, deciding something without giving me a chance to explain. He slid into the seat beside me later that morning, but it didn't feel like it used to. His notebook stayed between us like a carefully drawn line.

"Good morning." I greeted, testing the words like they might break. "Hey." He replied. That was it. I swallowed and tried again. "How was last night at the Hideout? Good show?" "Yeah." It came out more like an exhale than an answer, clipped and empty, like he'd already checked out of the conversation.

I watched him from the corner of my eye. The way he wrote slower than usual. The way his rings stayed still, fingers wrapped tight around his pen like letting go might cost him something. The worst part was that he was acting like I didn't deserve an explanation. And somehow, that made me feel... small. Which was ridiculous.

I am not small, I told myself, staring at the board. I am a grown woman with a driver's license. I felt like a kid anyway.

By lunch, my appetite was gone.

I sat with Steve. He looked better than yesterday—or maybe he'd just gotten better at pretending. He joked, he smiled, he asked about my classes like nothing was wrong. I nodded along and pushed my food around my tray, counting bites instead of taking them, trying not to scan the room for someone who clearly wasn't looking back.

By the time Hellfire met that afternoon, my nerves were already shot.

The drama room looked the same as always—the dusty smell of old curtains and forgotten props, the folding table wobbling slightly on one leg, the battle map spread out like a promise and a threat at the same time. Eddie sat at the head of the table. Same spot. Same screen. Same dice lined up like soldiers. But something was off. To everyone else, he was still Eddie Munson, the Dungeon Master. Loud enough. Animated enough. He performed the role flawlessly—grand gestures, booming narration, the occasional dramatic sigh. If you didn't know him, you wouldn't notice a thing. I noticed everything. His energy felt... rehearsed. Like he was following a script he'd memorized instead of improvising. He delivered jokes on cue, but they landed flat. He narrated battles without that spark of chaos, without the grin that usually crept in when things went sideways. He didn't look at me when he spoke. Not once.

When I cracked a joke under my breath, he didn't react. When I rolled well, he nodded, marked something on his sheet, and moved on like it meant nothing. No smirk. No comment. I sat there, hands folded around my dice, the one he gave me, feeling stupid for every moment I'd thought we were past this. For every time I'd convinced myself things were easy now. Comfortable. Safe. Guess I imagined that too. "Lilith," he drawled, flat. "Your turn." I rolled. It wasn't a good roll. Eddie didn't laugh about it. Didn't tease. Didn't lean in to help me spin it into something clever. "That misses." He murmured simply. "Sir Barion, you're up." Just like that, not teasing, not making fun of my dice result. Jeff winced. Gareth glanced at me like he wanted to say something and decided it was safer not to. I swallowed and nodded. "Okay." Eddie kept going like nothing had happened.

The session went on, the story dragging forward, but I barely heard it. Every time he spoke, I listened for the Eddie I knew—the dramatic one, the one who winked at me across the table, the one who called me a menace with fondness in his voice. He didn't show up. By the time the session ended, something uncomfortable had taken root just beneath my ribs—tight and restless, like a held breath that refused to release. Everyone packed up quickly, voices overlapping, energy still buzzing as they argued about damage rolls and next week's plans. Chairs scraped. Dice clattered back into bags. I stayed seated a second longer, staring down at the battle map like it might offer answers if I looked hard enough. It didn't.

Eddie didn't look at me. He gathered his things with efficient movements, quick and practiced, like he'd already checked out of the room. Like he had somewhere else to be. Like I wasn't part of it anymore.

Before I could overthink it, I reached out and caught his hand. He froze and turned, confusion flickering across his face. His hand was cold—jarringly so, like the space he'd been keeping had finally found a physical form. "Eddie," I started quietly. "Please. Why are you avoiding me?" "I'm not." He replied too fast. His hand was still in mine.

I tightened my grip around it, just enough to keep him there. "Stop lying." I fretted, the words tumbling out sharper than I meant. "I'm begging you." I searched his eyes for something—anything—that looked like honesty instead of deflection. His jaw tightened. "You're imagining things." He murmured, defensive now. Closed. "Can you... let me go?" The way he said it stung more than the words themselves. I released him. He took a step back like he needed the space immediately.

He was halfway to the door when anger finally caught up to me. "Why are you running away from me?" I snapped. That stopped him cold. He turned slowly, disbelief flashing across his face. "What did you say?" "You heard me. You're running away." My hands were shaking now. I didn't care. "You don't get to pretend this is nothing." He laughed once—short, sharp, humorless. "You really think everything's about you, huh?" He scoffed, shaking his head like I'd just accused him of something ridiculous. "Running away?" He repeated. "From you? Jesus, Smith."

"Don't," I pleaded. "Don't do that." "Do what?" "Act like I'm making this up. You've been icing me out for two days. You won't talk to me. You won't even look at me." My voice wobbled despite my best efforts. "And now you're pretending it's nothing." He crossed his arms, jaw tight. "Maybe I just don't feel like talking." "About what?" I shot back. "Because I didn't bring anything up." His eyes flickered—just for a second. Something closer to irritation.

"You're really gonna stand here and act confused?" He asked. "Yes. Because I am confused." He laughed again, bitter this time. "Wow. That's impressive." "What is that supposed to mean?" I asked. He looked away, dragging a hand through his curls like he was trying to physically shake the conversation off. "Nothing. Forget it."

"No," I stepped closer. "You don't get to drop that and run away." His gaze snapped back to me. "Why not?" "Because I care." I replied before I could stop myself. "Because we were fine. More than fine. And then suddenly you're treating me like I did something wrong." He inhaled sharply through his nose. "Maybe you did." That landed like a slap. I stared at him. "What?" "You heard me."

My heart started racing—not the good kind. The kind that came with dread and adrenaline. "Okay," I muttered slowly. "Then tell me, Eddie. What did I do?" Silence.

You want to play that game? Okay.

"You followed me." I added quietly. His head snapped up. "What?" "You were there." I pressed. "In the library. Weren't you?" His expression hardened immediately. Too fast. Too practiced. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Bullshit."

"There it is again." He shot back sharply. "You throwing accusations like dice." "I heard something. A book fell. And then this started." I gestured helplessly between us. "So don't tell me it's not connected." He let out a short, incredulous laugh and shook his head.

"Wow," he scoffed. "Look who we've got here. Sherlock Holmes." "That's not funny." I protested. "No?" He tilted his head, eyes sharp now. "Because from where I'm standing, you just built a whole mystery out of a dropped book."

"Something changed. You changed." I shot back. He scoffed. "Or maybe you're just seeing patterns because you want there to be some big explanation." "That's not fair." "It's exactly fair." He countered, voice tightening. "You're acting like everything I do has to be about you." I stared at him. "I never said that." "You didn't have to," he replied. "You're standing here interrogating me like I committed a crime." "Because you won't tell me what's wrong," I cried. "You won't even admit that something is." His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he didn't want to swallow.

"Maybe there's nothing to tell." He admitted finally. "Maybe you're just... reading too much into things." That one hurt.

I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Right. So now I'm the dramatic one." "Didn't say that." "You didn't have to." I snapped back.

Then he stepped back, shaking his head. "This is exactly why I didn't want to talk about it." "Talk about what, Eddie?" He looked at me like the answer should've been obvious. Like I was the one pretending not to see it. "Forget it," he muttered. "Just—drop it." "No." I continued, heat flooding my face. "What I mean is that you're acting like I betrayed you, and I don't even know what crime I'm guilty of." He stepped closer now, voice low. "You really wanna do this?" "Yes."

"Fine." His eyes burned. "Maybe I just don't like being the last to know things." My breath caught. "Know what?" He hesitated—just long enough to confirm everything. Then he scoffed and stepped back. "See? That right there. You don't even hear what I'm saying. You're not listening." "Oh my god, Eddie. Listen to what?" My hands clenched into fists. "Say it or stop punishing me for it." His shoulders rose and fell. When he spoke again, his voice was colder. "Maybe I got it wrong," he murmured. "Wouldn't be the first time." "That's it?" I demanded. "That's your explanation?" He shrugged. "Take it or leave it."

"You don't get to treat me like this. You don't get to shut me out and then act like I'm the problem for noticing." He turned away. "I don't owe you anything." I laughed once, short and incredulous. "Wow." He didn't turn back.

"Fuck you, Eddie." The words came out before I could soften them. I didn't want to soften them.

He froze. For a second, I thought he might say something. Anything. Instead, he walked out.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 5.3k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭: 𝐅𝐮𝐳𝐳𝐲 𝐑𝐢𝐟𝐟

Friday, November 16th, 1984.

By the end of the week, I had become very good at not looking at Eddie Munson.

Which, apparently, made him nervous.

I caught him glancing my way more than once, only to snap his eyes back to whatever he was pretending to care about. I acted like I didn't notice. We spent time together as usual, like friends, like nothing was waiting at the end of the week.

Like Friday afternoon wasn't coming.

Like I wasn't being ridiculous about it.

Still, when I opened my locker that morning, my stomach flipped.

A scrap of paper fluttered out and landed at my feet.

I stared at it for a second before picking it up, fingers suddenly clumsy. It was folded in half, creased and soft like it had been handled too many times. Inside was an address and a time, written in Eddie's unmistakable scrawl—uneven.

In the corner, he'd doodled a one-eyed teddy bear.

Proof of our bargain. Or my ongoing blackmail. Same thing, really.

Then at the bottom, squeezed in like an afterthought:

the idiot :-)

I very nearly passed out in the middle of the hallway.

It's an address. Calm down.

I did not, in fact, calm down.

The drive there felt longer than it should've. Hawkins thinned out fast, familiar streets giving way to narrower roads, trees crowded close on either side. I checked the address again at a stop sign, frowning.

This can't be right.

There were no houses. Just woods, gravel, and the growing certainty that I'd taken a wrong turn.

Great. I'm about to get murdered in the middle of nowhere.

Then the road curved, and a trailer park appeared.

Forest Hills Trailer Park sat tucked between the trees like it was trying not to be noticed. Rows of metal homes lined up along a gravel drive, porch lights flickering on even though it wasn't quite dark yet. Some had plastic chairs out front, clotheslines sagging along the sides of the trailers. Others had already strung up Christmas lights, clinging stubbornly to awnings despite it being mid-November, half of them burned out, the rest glowing soft and uneven.

So that was it.

I'd wondered why Eddie had danced around the idea of me coming over for ages, why he'd made jokes and detours instead of just saying my place. Standing there now, it clicked in a way I didn't like. Not because of where he lived, but because he'd thought it might matter to me. And of course it did not.

I slowed, scanning the lot until I spotted it.

Eddie's van sat crookedly in a patch of dry grass, angled like he had never quite learned how to park straight and had given up trying.

I pulled in beside it and cut the engine. For a second, I just sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, breathing through the nervous energy buzzing under my skin. I glanced at my bass on the passenger seat, buckled in like a responsible adult, silently judging me.

Eddie was already outside, sitting on the porch with a cigarette between his fingers, rings clicking softly as he fidgeted, one leg bouncing against the step.

He looked up the moment he heard my door shut.

For a split second, his face lit up—relief, maybe—before he smoothed it over, slipping back into something casual.

"Hey, Bex." He called, voice a little too easy as he flicked the cigarette butt into the ground.

"Hey, Eddie." I replied.

We stood there for a moment, neither of us moving, gravel crunching under our shoes, the forest humming quietly around us, the air sharp with cold.

"So," he stopped in front of a rust-streaked trailer with a crooked set of steps. He gestured at it like a punchline he wasn't entirely sure would land. "Welcome to Munson Manor."

He really does have a joke for everything.

"It's nice."

He laughed under his breath. "You don't have to do that."

"I'm not."

He studied my face, searching for something—pity, maybe. Finding none, he nodded once and reached for the door.

"Wayne's asleep," he murmured. "Night shift."

"Got it." I whispered back.

"C'mon," he added, already opening the door. "Before he amps up and thinks I'm robbing the place."

Eddie slowly opened the door, trying not to make any noise, but it creaked anyway.

"Wayne?"

A snore answered.

"Cool." He whispered. "If demons ever invade Hawkins, he's not waking up for it."

The air smelled like coffee that had been reheated too many times, metal, and something vaguely sweet, like fabric softener that had long since given up.

My eyes drifted everywhere at once.

There were mugs. Dozens of them. Hanging from shelves, mismatched and crowded together, some chipped, some clearly liberated from diners or gas stations. It was such a strange, specific detail that it caught me off guard. I almost smiled.

Then I noticed the hats.

Baseball caps everywhere. Hooked along the walls, piled near the door like they'd been dropped mid-motion. Old team logos, faded colors, bent brims. They felt collected rather than curated, like each one carried a story.

The couch sat heavy and worn in the center of the room, patterned fabric faded and pilled from years of use. A body-shaped mound rose from it, blankets pulled up high.

The coffee table was cluttered with loose papers and old magazines. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains, turning the dust in the air gold.

I turned back toward Eddie and found him standing unnaturally still beside me.

Like he was waiting for me to say something.

Like he was bracing for me to leave.

"It's... cozy." I admitted finally, because it was the truest word I had.

"I'll show you my lair." He murmured, smiling.

He led me down the narrow stretch of the trailer toward the back. It was smaller than my room, but somehow felt bigger.

Like it had learned how to expand around him.

Music equipment dominated every available inch—amps stacked against the walls, guitar stands lined up like sentries, cables coiled and tangled across the floor in chaotic spirals. Nothing was pristine, but everything felt used, loved hard.

An acoustic guitar leaned against a dresser, its black body marked with a phrase sprayed across it. Another guitar rested nearby, unmistakable. I recognized it instantly. The one from the Hideout. The one he played like it was an extension of his hands.

The dresser drawers were half-open, clothes threatening to spill out like they've tried to escape. Junk crowded the top—loose change, ticket stubs, guitar picks, old receipts, things that had never been thrown away because they'd never been sorted in the first place.

The bed sat next to the door, sheets rumpled and uneven, like sleep was something he crashed into rather than planned for. Beside it, a nightstand bore the evidence of long nights, alongside an overfilled ashtray, empty beer bottles, a pair of aviator sunglasses and a lamp tilted slightly askew.

The walls were a collage—band flyers layered over D&D posters, taped crookedly, crowded with monsters, horns, and flames.

If that was all you knew about him, I wouldn't blame anyone for thinking he actually worshipped the devil.

The windows were covered, not with curtains, but with thick blankets, blocking out light completely.

One of them was completely obscured by a sheet spray-painted in jagged letters:

CORRODED COFFIN

The same backdrop from the Hideout. Hung here now like a banner.

I smiled, turning slowly, taking it all in.

"You really live here." I stated, dropping the case of my bass to the floor. I hadn't even realized I was still carrying it on my shoulder until the weight was gone.

"Wild concept, I know."

"No, I mean—" I shrugged, searching for the right words. "It fits you."

He paused, just for a second. Then he nodded, like he'd accept that.

"You flatter me, Smith." He smirked. Eddie looked around his room, then looked at me again and suddenly blinked like he'd forgotten something.

"Uh—make yourself comfortable," he added. "As comfortable as one can be while surrounded by questionable life choices."

I let my gaze wander around the room again. There was so much that caught my attention, but one thing stood out more than the rest.

"Why the blankets?" I asked, my eyes drifting back to the windows, every trace of daylight blocked out.

"Sun's overrated." He winked. "Very bad for vampires too."

Of course.

He shifted his weight again, rubbing his hands together making the rings clink softly. "Okay," he announced, like he'd made a decision. "Before we accidentally stare at each other for another five minutes—character sheet."

"Right," I went on. "The very serious business."

"Extremely serious," he agreed. "This is where we decide who you are."

Eddie perched on the edge of his mattress and slapped a character sheet down between us like it was a legal document.

I stared at it. "It's... a bunch of boxes."

"It is a bunch of boxes," he agreed solemnly, like I'd stated something profound. "Boxes that decide whether you live, die, or get eaten by something with too many teeth."

Comforting.

He scooted closer, our shoulders bumping—just enough to make my nerves light up for no good reason—and started arranging supplies like a ritual: pencil, eraser, a couple of dice, and the Player's Handbook cracked open down the middle.

"Alright," he grinned. "Race."

He flipped through options quickly, rattling them off with practiced ease, pausing only long enough to explain what sounded complicated and dismiss what sounded boring.

"In a world where you can be literally anything—human is still an option?" I asked dryly.

He laughed. "Yeah, right? Humans are boring." He stabbed the page with his finger. "And you are not boring."

I narrowed my eyes. "Is that a compliment?"

"It's a fact." He noted, then leaned in like a conspirator. "For you I'd suggest Half-elf. Treated weird by everyone. Still gets the best perks. It's... poetic."

That's not about the game at all.

I looked down at the paper, pretending it required my full attention. "Fine. Half-elf."

"Good choice." He nodded immediately, too pleased.

We moved on from there. Class blurred into explanation— Fighters, Clerics, Rangers, Monks... I gravitated toward something fast, quiet and sharp, and Eddie didn't look surprised when I landed on Assassin.

"Sneaky. Smart. Doesn't trust anybody. Looks cool in a cloak."

"That's... weirdly specific."

He shrugged. "Just a vibe."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're projecting."

"I'm absolutely not projecting," he scoffed, offended. "I don't even know what that word means."

Liar.

Background, alignment, and stats came next, the most confusing part by far.

What is the point of having Charisma if my job is to stab people?

By the time we reached the final box, my head was buzzing.

"Last thing," he tapped the top of the sheet. "Name."

"No clue."

He looked at me like I'd just asked if air was optional. "Bex, please."

He waited, chin propped on his fist, eyebrows raised, patient in a way that immediately made me suspicious.

"I don't know." I repeated. "Help me."

"Absolutely not." He countered without hesitation. "I've already helped enough. A name's personal. That part's on you."

I chewed on the end of my pencil, buying time while my mind stayed stubbornly blank.

"Okay." I began. "What about... Lilith."

He nodded slowly. "Lilith. Good." His grin spread. "Edgy."

"Perfect."

"Needs a title." He added, suddenly very serious.

He stuck his tongue out, thinking far too hard about it.

"Behold!" he proclaimed. "I present to you our creation: Half-Elf Assassin, Chaotic Good—LILITH SWIFTSHADOW!"

He flung his hands toward the ceiling like he was summoning her straight out of the paper, and everything on the bed went flying—pencils, sheets, dice scattering in every direction.

I laughed, startled and breathless.

"And that," Eddie smiled at me like he'd just done something profoundly important, "is how legends are born."

I shook my head and bent down to help gather the mess, crouching to retrieve a pencil that had disappeared halfway under the bed.

That's when I noticed a box.

A dark tin box, half-hidden beneath the bed, like it was trying very hard not to exist.

I hesitated for exactly half a second before pulling it out.

"Eddie?" I asked, casual. Too casual. "What's this?"

"Oh no," he gasped immediately. "Bex, don't."

I opened it anyway.

Inside were plastic bags. A lot of them. Precisely stacked.

Very green, some white too.

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Oh," I gasped out loud. "Oh."

That explained... several things.

"...That's not what it looks like."

I gestured at the open lid. "It looks exactly like what it is."

He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. "Okay. Yeah. Fair."

"You're a dealer." I stated flatly.

"Whoa—dealer is such a harsh word," he protested. "'That's a lot of pressure for someone who owns, like, three bucks."

I stood up and crossed my arms. "You didn't tell me."

He shrugged, suddenly sheepish. "It didn't come up."

"When," I asked incredulously, "would that not come up? You're always high." "Woah—I'm not always high!" He protested.

I crossed my arms, slightly tilting my head as I kept looking at him with questioning eyes.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Okay, yeah. You have a fair point." He shrugged. "But—I'm not high right now."

I shook my head, torn between disbelief and the urge to laugh. "Do you store all your felonies this neatly, or is this a special occasion?"

"First of all," he huffed, offended, "I am very professional. Second, that box is very discreet."

"You couldn't have at least put a warning label on it?" I shot back. "Like 'Definitely Not Drugs'?"

He glanced down at it. "Sorry—I don't usually have guests who like to snoop."

I stared at him a moment longer, then sighed. "You could've told me." I repeated.

That seemed to have landed. He shifted his posture, leaning back against his dresser with his hands in his pockets, and he wouldn't meet my eyes. "I didn't know how. I was worried it'd freak you out, in which case I was right." He admitted.

"I'm not freaked out." I replied. Then paused. "I'm... mildly annoyed. And impressed. And concerned. In that order." I narrowed my eyes at him. "How is it possible that you always find a way to surprise me? Do you have other secrets I should know about?"

That got a grin out of him.

"Patience you must have, my young padawan."

I rolled my eyes and nudged the box back under the bed with my foot. "If you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out."

"Wow." He whined. "Harsh."

"Is it safe?" I asked, then hesitated. "I mean—have you ever been arrested?"

Eddie didn't answer right away. His expression shifted, humor draining just enough to notice.

If the answer were no, he would've said it already.

"Eddie?"

"Yes."

Oh.

"It's a... long story." He added, voice lower now.

"Well," I started, climbing onto the bed and settling on my stomach, elbows propped, chin resting in my hands. "We've got time."

He shook his head quickly. "No like, really—very long." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I promise I'll tell you, okay? Just... not now."

I sighed, letting it go. Damn you, Eddie Munson and your secrets.

"Eddie?" came a low, gravelly voice from the living room.

He winced. "Shit."

Eddie stuck his head out of the bedroom doorway and whispered. "Wayne?"

A cough. A shift of blankets.

"Who's in there with you?"

Eddie's ears went red instantly.

"Nobody?" He blurted.

I stared at him and mouthed a clear 'What the hell?'

From the couch, his uncle's voice went dry. "Does Nobody want some coffee?"

Eddie looked at me, his eyes clearly saying no, but I nodded anyway. "Uh—yeah." He sighed back toward the door, defeated.

"Good," Wayne replied. "Come on out then."

Eddie stepped aside and gestured me forward like, well, guess we're doing this.

Wayne sat up on the couch, hair flattened on one side, wearing an old thermal shirt.

If I hadn't known they shared the same last name, I never would've guessed they were related. Where Eddie was all sharp edges and restless energy, Wayne felt settled—tired, yes—but calm in a way that suggested he'd made peace with the world, or at least with his place in it. His eyes landed on me and sharpened, curious, but not unkind. He nodded once, like I'd passed some kind of unspoken test.

Eddie spoke first, too fast. "This is Bex."

"Rebecca Smith." I corrected gently, offering a small smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Wayne Munson." He said, voice still rough with sleep.

He studied me for a moment longer, then hummed. "Heard about you."

Have you.

Eddie made a strangled noise. "Wayne."

Wayne's gaze returned to me, softer now. "I'm making coffee," he went on, already standing. "You hungry? I got... well. Whatever's left in that cabinet. The kid eats like a raccoon."

"Wayne." Eddie repeated, more annoyed.

Wayne snorted. "Am I wrong?"

"Coffee's good." I remarked quickly, fighting a smile.

Wayne reached up to the shelves, scanning the mismatched mugs like he was choosing carefully. He finally grabbed one—a beige one with faded green lettering that might've once said something encouraging.

"Here." He nodded, handing it to me.

He poured another cup and shoved it toward Eddie. "You too."

"No thanks." Eddie groaned. "I'm good."

Wayne didn't even look at him. "Eddie, when was the last time you drank something that wasn't beer or Mountain Dew?"

"Coffee ain't any better."

Wayne just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie sighed dramatically and grabbed the mug. He took one sip and immediately made a face, like he'd just swallowed medicine.

"Oh, that's awful."

Wayne slid the sugar bowl toward him without a word.

Eddie dumped in two full spoonfuls, stirred aggressively, then took another sip. He nodded, solemn, like he'd reached a compromise with the universe.

Wayne rolled his eyes like he'd seen this scene a thousand times before.

I wrapped my hands around my mug, the warmth seeping into my palms, and watched them with a small smile I didn't bother hiding.

Wayne drained his coffee in two gulps, then grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "Alright, kids. I'm heading to Melvald's. Try not to cause any trouble while I'm gone."

Eddie lifted two fingers in a mock salute. "No promises."

Wayne paused at the door and looked back at me, his expression softening.

"You're welcome here anytime, Rebecca." He noted simply, not quite smiling but still comforting.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Thanks." I replied, meaning it more than I'd expected.

Wayne nodded once, satisfied, then stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

Eddie exhaled like his lungs had finally remembered their job.

"Your uncle's... nice." I added quietly.

"Yeah," he whispered back. "He is."

We both drank our coffee slowly, in silence, considering what to say probably.

"Wayne told he heard about me." I added carefully.

Eddie choked on his coffee. "Ah—yeah. I was hoping you went inexplicably deaf for about thirty seconds back there," he coughed, dragging a hand over his mouth. "Like—complete, temporary loss of hearing, it could've been convenient." I tilted my head. "Well, sorry for you, my ears function just fine." He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat like he could reset the conversation if he tried enough. "I mean—he hears about everyone. He's like, the mayor of the trailer park."

I didn't buy it.

"From who?" I pressed lightly, leaning in a little.

Eddie's gaze flicked to mine, then away. He started to fidget with his rings.

"I suppose it's entirely possible that I may or may not have mentioned you. Two or three times."

My cheeks warmed despite myself. I took another sip of coffee to hide it, suddenly very interested in the inside of my mug.

"Oh." I murmured, like that was no big deal at all.

It absolutely is.

"Why?" The question slipped out of my mouth on its own, and I hated how it betrayed me that way.

Eddie scoffed lightly. "What—I'm not allowed to mention my friends now?"

Oh god, I hate that word now.

"Sorry." I muttered, instantly regretting it.

He stilled.

"Hey—no," he gulped quickly, the edge dropping out of his voice. "I didn't mean it like that."

I kept my eyes on the coffee mug in my hands, watching the surface ripple faintly. "It's fine. I was just—"

"I mentioned you because—" he interjected, then stopped himself, like he'd hit a wall. He swallowed. "Because you were coming over." He glanced at me, then away again. "That's all," he added, quieter. "Didn't mean to make it weird."

Too late.

It sounded made up on the spot, patched together because he needed an answer and hadn't thought one through.

Especially considering that a few minutes earlier, he'd insisted he was hanging out with Nobody.

"Right." I replied, and let it go.

The silence that followed stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Even without looking, I could feel him shifting, mentally scrambling for a way out of the moment he clearly thought he'd ruined.

"Alright," he forced brightness back into his voice like a switch he could just flip. "New plan."

I glanced up.

"How about we play a little?" He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom. "You didn't come all this way just to analyze my caffeine intake."

We retreated back into his room, the door clicking shut behind us. I knelt and unzipped my case, pulling my bass free. The familiar weight settled against me, grounding.

We're finally doing this. Can't chicken out now.

"You sure?" He asked. "You can start slow. Like, one note. Or no notes. Silence is good too."

"I'll manage." I admitted.

He plugged me into an amp, adjusting the knobs with exaggerated care, then handed me the cable like it was something sacred.

"Whenever you're ready."

I hesitated. Took a breath.

Then I played.

Just a simple line at first, testing the sound.

Then something steadier. Stronger. I forgot where I was. Forgot to be shy. Forgot to be careful.

When I looked up, I caught Eddie staring at me. Not at my hands, not at the strings. At me.

Eyes bright. Mouth slightly open. Like he couldn't quite believe this was real.

My fingers faltered.

"Hey," he rushed quickly. "Don't stop."

I didn't.

I played until the line unraveled on its own, the sound fading naturally into silence.

The quiet afterward felt loud.

"Holy shit." Eddie murmured softly. "You've been hiding that?"

I shrugged, suddenly very aware of my pulse again. "It's nothing special."

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "Shut up, Smith." He scoffed. "That should be illegal."

I rolled my eyes. "Thanks but... bass is kind of pointless on its own."

Eddie didn't hesitate. "Wanna play together?"

I already regretted opening my mouth.

"No, don't worry, we don't have to—" I started, but he was already adjusting the strap of his electric guitar over his shoulder.

He tilted his head, fingers idly picking at the strings. "So," he started, casual but curious, "what do you actually know?"

I shrugged. "Depends what you mean by know. Stuff I can play without embarrassing myself."

"That narrows it down." He noted. "Any Zeppelin? Aerosmith?"

"Bits." I admitted. "But not something I'd jump into without warming up."

"Fair." He nodded. "Metallica?"

"Only when I'm alone and nobody can hear me mess up."

He laughed. "Respect."

I thought for a second. "Ozzy, a few things."

His head snapped up, eyes lighting immediately. "Ooh, okay—yeah. We can work with this."

"Yeah?"

"Crazy Train?"

I smiled, already adjusting my grip. "Yup. That's the one."

"Perfect." He nodded, like the decision had been obvious all along.

He counted us in with a quick nod.

I started first. My fingers finding the pattern like they'd been waiting for it. The sound filled the space in a way it never did in my bedroom; bigger, heavier, thundering beneath my feet and sending a shock through my body. My nerves didn't get a say, muscle memory took over and ran with it.

For a beat, it was just me.

Then Eddie grinned and jumped in, his guitar sliding over the bass like it had always belonged there, fingers sure and fearless. He didn't overpower it, just built on it, sharp and bright where I was firm and dark, and suddenly the song was real, loud, alive between us.

At first it was a little messy, but then something clicked. The sound tightened, smoothed out, grew confident. Eddie moved with the rhythm, shoulders swaying, curls bouncing into his face as he leaned into the beat.

He glanced over once, just to check me.

I didn't miss a note.

He grinned.

I smiled back.

And that's when it hit me.

I'd never done this before. Not really.

I'd played alone in my room, walls closed in, completely alone, the world shut out. I'd played with Dad when I was little, back when he'd shown me where to put my fingers, how to let the sound come from my hands instead of forcing it. But that was teaching. That was memory.

This—this was different.

We didn't talk. We didn't need to. The music spoke for us, filling the space between us. We weren't leading or following.

I never realized how lonely playing had been until it wasn't.

Until someone else was right there with me, not guiding, not correcting, just with.

Then the solo hit.

His fingers took off across the fret board, fast and precise. Every note clean, sharp, exactly where it needed to be. The riff twisted and climbed, electric and wild, and he nailed it. No hesitation. No slips. Just pure control and instinct turned into fire.

I almost missed my next note.

I caught myself at the last second, but my attention was already gone, dragged helplessly toward his hands. The way his fingers moved—confident, effortless, the way his wrist flexed, the way he leaned into the sound, completely in it.

I stared.

I listened.

I forgot, for half a second, that I was supposed to be playing too.

When the last note finally rang out and faded, my hands were still warm, my pulse still racing. The sudden absence of sound felt wrong, like something essential had been pulled away too soon.

I looked at Eddie.

His chest rose and fell quickly, breath a little uneven. His curls were a mess, sticking to his forehead, his face flushed from the effort. And he looked—

Stunning.

The thought startled me.

Not handsome. Not cool. Stunning, beautiful. In a way that felt heavy and undeniable, like I'd finally used the right word after circling it for weeks. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the closeness, or the way the music had stripped something bare, but all the feelings I'd been shoving down and pretending not to notice rushed back at once.

I wasn't sure if I was out of breath because of the song or because of him.

Eddie was staring at me now too. "Holy shit."

I swallowed. "Yeah."

Another beat passed. Then another.

"That was—" He stopped, shook his head with a breathless laugh. "That was really something."

"Yeah." I echoed, because it was the only word I trusted myself with.

I suddenly felt a little dizzy, so I let myself drop back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling while I caught my breath.

The mattress dipped a second later.

Eddie sat down beside me without really realizing he was doing it, guitar still resting against his leg, his hands lingering on it like he wasn't ready to let go. His knee brushed mine. Stayed there.

The air between us felt thick, charged, like the aftermath of a storm that hadn't finished deciding whether it was over.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of my eye. He was staring at the floor, jaw tight, breathing slower than mine but just as deliberate. His curls fell into his face, shadowing his eyes.

I wondered what he was thinking.

Before I could stop myself, I shifted closer, my shoulder brushing his arm. It was barely anything. A test.

He didn't pull away.

Instead, his hand slid off the guitar and came to rest on the bed between us, palm open, hesitant.

My fingers twitched, I placed my hand over his.

His thumb moved first, brushing gently across my knuckles, slow and careful, like he was afraid I'd disappear if he went too fast. The touch sent a quiet shiver up my arm, warm and grounding all at once.

I shifted again, this time letting my head rest against his shoulder. His body tensed for half a second. Then relaxed. His shoulder was solid beneath my cheek, warm through the fabric of his shirt. I could feel his breathing now, steady and close. His hair brushed my temple, curls soft against my skin, and the smell wrapped around me in a way that felt grounding and dangerous all at once.

I closed my eyes without really meaning to.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. This is happening, my brain whispered uselessly.

Eddie shifted slightly, just enough to make his shoulder fit me better, his thumb kept moving, tracing small, absent-minded patterns against my skin.

We sat like that, tangled in silence, listening to the faint hum of the trailer, the distant sound of a car passing somewhere outside. Time stretched thin and strange around us.

I didn't want him to speak.

I didn't want to speak.

If either of us said anything, it would break the moment, and I didn't know if I was brave enough to survive that.

Then, headlights swept across the blankets covering the window, a car pulling in way too close before stopping.

Eddie stiffened. "Wayne."

A door opened. Grocery bags rustled.

I sat up slowly, my head lifting from his shoulder, the absence immediate and sharp. Eddie's hand lingered for a heartbeat before he pulled it back, resting it on his knee like it had always been there.

"What time is it?" I murmured.

He winced. "Probably late."

"I should go." I admitted, even though every part of me resisted it.

"Uh— Sure." He added quickly.

We walked down the narrow hallway side by side, close enough that our arms brushed but neither of us quite daring enough to make it on purpose.

Wayne glanced up when we stepped out. "Headin' out already?"

"Yeah, Dad's expecting me for dinner."

He nodded. "Good girl."

Eddie walked me to the door. The night air rushed in, cold and bracing.

He shifted his weight, then added, a little too casually, "You should be thankful I already have Grant, you know."

I frowned slightly. "It sounds like a threat. What does that even mean?"

"I'm kidding princess—" he added quickly. "Just saying—of all the times I've played with the guys, it's never been as fun as today."

I let out a quiet breath, adjusting the strap of the case around my shoulder.

"Yeah… it was fun."

Fun. Easy. Loud. Slightly life-altering. But sure—fun.

"So—uh… when's the next jam sesh?" He went on, aiming for casual and missing by just enough to notice. "I wouldn't mind having a backup bassist. You know. For when Grant inevitably insults my creative genius and I have to dramatically kick him out of the band."

A small laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "Forget it. There's no way I'm playing in a… band." I shook my head.

Eddie blinked, thrown off. Not offended yet, just surprised.

"Why? I mean—you're good! You're—"

"Eddie, stop. Please." It came out sharper than I meant to.

His mouth closed immediately.

"Okay." He sighed after a beat, quieter. "Yeah, sorry."

I exhaled, looking everywhere but at him.

He didn't push.

"Well—" He cleared his throat with a lighter tone, like he was deliberately steering us somewhere safer. "Can't wait to see Lilith in action, then."

I bit back a smile. "Be gentle. It's her first campaign."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "She's got plot armor. For now."

I stepped down from the porch, then waved at him.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.3k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧: 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐑𝐞𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧

Wednesday, November 14th, 1984.

The day started like any other, which felt deeply unfair considering my internal organs were still rearranging themselves every time Eddie Munson breathed in my general direction.

Something had shifted—quietly, irrevocably—but only on my end. Eddie seemed... normal, annoyingly so. Which somehow felt worse than awkwardness would've.

He was the usual Eddie Munson, unbearable in the way only he could be. Cracking jokes in class, bumping my shoulder in the hall like it was his birthright, leaning too close when he laughed. Like nothing had happened. Like we hadn't ended up tangled together on my bed, breathless and frozen staring at each other.

Did something actually happen that day? Or was I overthinking it?

Yeah. Probably that. It hadn't been a big deal. It couldn't have been.

And yet, every time I met his eyes, I felt it again. That same electric awareness. That same too-much feeling under my skin, like my body knew something my brain was actively refusing to admit.

I told myself it was nothing.

Residual adrenaline. Secondhand embarrassment. Gravity. Anything but what it actually was.

Eddie didn't bring it up. Not once. And neither did I. Apparently, we were both excellent at pretending.

Which meant I spent most of my time hyper-aware of him, cataloging every glance and half-smile, while he treated me like I was still just Bex Smith— desk-mate, occasional victim of his chaos. His friend. It hurt in a way that felt unfair, because he hadn't done anything wrong.

History class was quiet in the way that meant something bad was coming. Mrs. Click stood at the board, chalk tapping thoughtfully, which usually translated to a pop-quiz or essay I forgot existed.

Eddie sat beside me, of course, biting at his own nails nervously, looking at the board like it personally offended him. I tried not to look at him. Failed immediately.

He leaned over without warning. "Hey," he whispered. "You got a pen?" I slid one toward him. Our fingers brushed. Oh god.

He took the pen from my fingers, flashed me a quick, crooked grin, and turned back to his paper like nothing monumental had just happened. Eddie didn't seem to react beyond that, his face half-hidden by his curls, shoulders loose, posture careless. Except his leg. It bounced under the desk, fast and relentless, rattling the metal bar like a nervous habit he hadn't bothered to tame. People touch all the time. This means nothing. Don't be a sucker.

I stared back at my notes, but the words swam recklessly, dates blurring into each other, ink suddenly meaningless.

Mrs. Click cleared her throat at the front of the room. "Pop quiz."

The collective groan was immediate. Someone muttered a dramatic oh come on. Eddie swore quietly under his breath, barely audible but heartfelt. I almost laughed. Almost.

He leaned toward me again, close enough that I caught that faint scent of smoke and detergent. "You're good at this, right?" He whispered. "I mean—" I kept my eyes forward. "I like history." "Nerd."

I kicked his foot lightly under the desk. Wow. That's rich coming from you.

The quiz wasn't terrible, I wrote quickly, confidence settling back into my hand like muscle memory.

Halfway through, Eddie's knee bumped mine.

"Hey," he murmured. "What do you have for question 8?" I closed my eyes for half a second, then nudged my paper just enough for him to see.

He grinned, wide and unrepentant. "Oh. Teamwork." Friends, I reminded myself firmly. This is what friends do.

When the bell rang, I handed in my quiz feeling... oddly okay. Eddie stretched beside me, arms lifting over his head, joints cracking. He set my pen back on my desk carefully, deliberately not touching my hand this time.

"If I somehow do flunk that," he murmured, "I'm blaming you." I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, sure. Add it to the list of things you blame on other people." "Ouch," he laughed. "That one hurt, Smith." He slung his bag over his shoulder as we filed out with the rest of the class.

Lunch was loud and fluorescent, the air thick with the smell of grease and overcooked vegetables.

Steve waved at me from the usual table, and I had never been so genuinely relieved to see Steve Harrington in my life. I dropped my tray in front of him and exhaled like I'd been holding my breath since first period.

"Whoa," he exclaimed, eyebrows lifting. "What happened?" Eddie Munson happened.

I sat, unwrapped my sandwich, and tried very hard not to think the idiot who has inhabited my thoughts with reckless abandon, even though he sits on the opposite side of the cafeteria.

"Pop quiz in History. Mrs. Click woke up and chose violence." Steve winced. "Damn. I've got her next period. That's... concerning." "You'll survive." I remarked dryly.

He laughed, then studied me again. "Still. You look like you just crawled out of a battlefield." Bet I do.

"More like a very boring, very stressful war," I muttered, taking a bite. "With... dates." I smiled.

It was comfortable in that way Steve was good at, easy, familiar, grounding. No edge to it. No pressure.

Steve poked at his fries. "You have any idea what you're doing after graduation?"

I snorted softly. "Wow. That's a big question, Steve." I shrugged. "Isn't surviving already a solid plan?" "Yeah." He nodded like he'd accept that as an answer. "My dad keeps telling me I have to think about college. I don't even have the grades for it, though."

"That sounds... intense." "Right?" He laughed, but there was something tired underneath it. "I don't even know what I want." "Welcome to the club." I deadpanned. And I meant it. Because I hadn't really thought about it either until now.

The future felt like something that belonged to another version of me—one who still lived in Chicago, who still had a mom to come home to, who hadn't watched her whole life shatter and rearrange itself in the span of a few months. Since then, everything had been about getting through the next day. The next class. The next conversation. What am I supposed to want?

The idea of planning anything beyond that felt almost arrogant.

I glanced at Steve, still staring down at his fries like they might offer answers. Maybe none of us knew what we were doing. Maybe that was the point.

For now, this was enough. I focused on my food, then on anything that wasn't the knot forming in my chest. I let my eyes wander around the cafeteria instead, then I noticed her.

Nancy sat a few tables back, leaning in toward a guy with shaggy hair and a worn denim jacket. Jonathan, I realized. Steve and Nancy had mentioned him a few weeks ago, though I hadn't known what he looked like until now.

They were close, not showy, but the chemistry was obvious in the way they angled toward each other, in the quiet ease of it. Nancy looked brighter somehow. Lighter than she had in weeks.

I cleared my throat. "Is Nancy with...?" Steve's jaw tightened, just slightly. "Jonathan," he glanced briefly over their table. "Yeah. They're—yeah. Probably."

"Oh." I hesitated, already regretting it. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—" "It's fine." He cut in quickly. Then, softer, like the words didn't want to be said. "I just don't really want to talk about it." "Right. Yeah." I nodded, then immediately ruined everything. "I just don't see what she ever she could see in him. I mean, Steve, you're—" "Bex," he cut in gently. Not angry, just tired. "You're not helping."

I shut my mouth. Impressive. Truly. "Sorry."

We ate in silence for a few seconds, the cafeteria noise swelling back in around us. Then someone laughed.

That laugh. Unmistakable. Eddie.

I turned before I could stop myself. He was standing mid-story, his hair everywhere, mouth full, and hands flying like the narrative depended on them. He wasn't trying to be the center of attention. He just... was.

Why are you always like this? You're embarrassing yourself. Stop it.

Steve followed my gaze. "He's... a lot," he stated flatly. Not unkind. Just clearly unimpressed.

He kept talking, but the words blurred together in my ears, reduced to a disturbance I wasn't really listening to. All I could think about was how easy Eddie looked standing there. I knew every gesture by now, every dramatic pause, every inevitable punchline. And still, my eyes followed him like a moth drawn to a lantern.

Stop staring, I ordered myself. You're being weird.

"Bex? You there?" Steve snapped his fingers in front of my face. I jumped, heart stuttering.

"We're just friends." I blurted out. The words came too fast, too practiced, like I was cutting myself off mid-thought. Steve tilted his head. "Where did that come from? I didn't ask." "Oh." Heat crept up my neck. Fantastic. Nailed it.

He chewed thoughtfully. "You guys hang out a lot." "So do you and me." "Yeah," he shrugged easily. "And people think we're dating." I choked on my sandwich. "People think what?"

Steve shrugged. "You know. Two single people sit together long enough, everyone starts connecting imaginary dots." "That's ridiculous," I groaned. "We're just—" "Friends?" He offered, half-smiling. "Yes."

He hummed, like he wasn't entirely convinced but wasn't planning to push it either. "I'm just saying... sometimes things look different from the outside."

Great. Love that. Absolutely not spiraling about this later.

I opened my mouth to respond—but the bell declared lunchtime was over. Chairs scraped back, voices rose, and the moment dissolved into movement and noise before I could decide what I was going to say.

By the time the halls cleared and the day dragged toward its end, Eddie was leaning against my locker like he'd always planned to be there. "So," he started casually, like he was asking if I wanted gum. "Hellfire's today." I kept my eyes on my books inside the locker. "I know. You mention it every Wednesday." "Right. Just making sure it's burned into your schedule." I shut my locker. "Okay. Have fun slaying imaginary monsters."

He rocked back on his heels, studying me a little too closely. "You wanna... come watch?" That got my attention.

I looked up. "Watch?" "Yeah," he shrugged one shoulder. "No pressure. You just sit there and judge us silently." "I already do that in my head." "See?" He grinned. "You're a natural."

I hesitated.

Watching meant sitting in his space again. Seeing him in his element. It meant proximity. Which, apparently, was my new personal kryptonite.

"I don't know," I murmured carefully. "You guys get intense." He scoffed. "Not intense, just... passionate, animated. It's quite a gift. A burden, truly."

"Wow. Your humility is breathtaking." "I promise I'll behave." He murmured. "For you."

Then he made puppy eyes. Those damn eyes. I laughed—and something in his expression shifted, softened, like that had been the reaction he'd been hoping for without quite admitting it.

"Just... come," he suggested. "You'll like it. You can sit next to me. I'll show you the secrets behind my screen." That, somehow, tipped the scales.

"Okay. I'll come." His grin was immediate and victorious. "Excellent. Prepare to have your mind mildly but respectfully blown."

I don't think I'll ever be prepared enough for that.

I almost turned around twice on the walk there. Not because I didn't want to go—but because I did.

The school emptied out behind me, voices fading as people headed for cars and buses and plans that didn't involve second-guessing every step. I cut around the back of the building, past the theater doors and into the narrow path that led to the old drama storage room Hellfire had claimed as its own.

It's just a game. You're just watching. Right.

It was loud before I even stepped inside, the door creaked open and the noise swelled, chaotic and alive.

Eddie was in the middle of it, both elbows planted on the table, voice raised not in anger but command, corralling them like a ringmaster taming his beasts. He was enjoying every second.

Then he glanced up. His face lit instantly, and he shot up from his throne at the head of the table.

"Gentlemen," he announced, sweeping an arm toward me, "we have an audience tonight."

Gareth looked up first. "Oh! Hey, Bex."

"Hey." I called, hovering near the wall, suddenly very aware of my hands and what they were doing.

Jeff offered a distracted half-wave before diving back into his character sheet. Two other faces, new members, I guessed, peeked at me with open curiosity before returning to their conversation like this was completely normal.

Eddie dragged over a spare chair and plopped it beside his, then dropped back into his own seat and spread his arms grandly.

"All right. Places. Dice out. Souls prepared." And just like that, the room stilled.

He was different here. Sharper. Bigger somehow. Everyone quieted at once, eyes on him, waiting. From this angle, I could see his DM screen—crammed with scribbled notes, maps, numbers, and character names written over and over like spells. There were monster miniatures clustered near the edge. Dice was everywhere. A Player's Handbook worn soft at the corners.

"So," Eddie bellowed, voice dropping into something rich and dangerous, "last time, you were sent into this dungeon in search of an ancient artifact. Very noble. Very heroic." He leaned forward, palms on the table, like the story lived somewhere in his chest. "Unfortunately for you... you were ambushed by goblins."

A collective groan. "You managed—barely—to defeat them," he continued, eyes gleaming. "But the dungeon crawl isn't over, boys. Not even close." He smiled, slow and wicked. "What do you do?" They jumped in immediately.

Eddie slipped into character like breathing, his voice twisting into accents that shouldn't have worked but did. "As you turn left," he intoned, "the air grows cold. Not just chill-cold." He paused. "Grave-cold."

I leaned back, watching. He slammed a few miniatures onto the board with theatrical flair, then grinned. "The walls begin to move," he continued, lowering his voice. "And suddenly—"

He dropped his hands.

"Undead burst through the stone and take you completely off guard! ROLL FOR INITIATIVE, ADVENTURERS!" Chaos erupted. They argued. They strategized. They panicked. Eddie delighted in all of it, gleefully punishing bad rolls, rewarding clever ones like a proud, merciless god.

When Gareth rolled a natural twenty, Eddie shot to his feet so fast his chair clattered backward. "THE DICE HAVE SPOKEN!" The table cheered loudly. Eddie threw his arms up like a prophet announcing the end times. "FATE HAS DECREED," he continued dramatically, "THAT YOU, SIR BARION, MAY LIVE."

I laughed out loud, the sound surprising even me, sharp and breathless, my eyes stinging like I might actually cry.

I didn't know this could be fun. I'd never seen a live session before, never cared about dice or imaginary battles—but here I was, leaning forward, caught up in it. Maybe it was the game. Or maybe it was Eddie, alive and ridiculous, commanding the room like this was exactly where he belonged.

Either way, it was impossible not to feel it.

And suddenly, I felt very stupid. Stupid for never having noticed Eddie's tattoos before.

He usually hid behind his jacket or long sleeves, but now they were rolled up, and every time his hands moved, the ink flashed into view.

Three tattoos on his right arm alone—dark ink, sharp lines, unmistakably him. A small cluster of bats stretched along his forearm, wings curved mid-flight like they'd taken off and never quite landed. Closer to his wrist, a monster-like figure tugged at strings, a twisted little puppet frozen in control of something unseen. Higher up, wrapped around the muscle of his upper arm, a creature snarled back at the room—part beast, part nightmare.

They moved when he did. When he leaned over the table, when he gestured wildly, when he laughed and threw his hands up in mock outrage, the ink shifted with his muscles, turning static drawings into something almost animated.

Of course he has tattoos like that, I thought. Of course they suit him. I wondered if he had more. And where—

No. Absolutely not. Naughty, Bex.

I snapped my attention back to the board, forcing my expression into something neutral, something unimpressed. I studied it like the fate of the party hinged entirely on flawless strategy and not on the fact that Eddie Munson's rolled-up sleeves were currently destroying my ability to think straight. A player—one I didn't recognize, probably still new enough to be fearless—snorted. "Master," he grinned, "your girlfriend's judging us."

Perfect.

"She's just a friend." Eddie corrected him immediately. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of a second.

Just a friend. I mean—I am. Obviously. I know that. I'd been repeating it to myself all day like a fucking mantra.

So why does it sting like that?

Before I could spiral too far, Eddie clapped his hands sharply and leaned back over the table.

"Alright," he announced, slipping effortlessly back into it. "Jeff, the undead creature attempts to strike you with—" The die spun. Clacked once. Landed flat. "—a fifteen," Eddie noted, then leaned closer to check. "Plus six." Jeff squinted at the table like sheer willpower might undo it. "...Wow," he drawl slowly. "That's... bad."

Eddie straightened, hands on his hips. "Let's put it this way. Fendral the Pale is now unconscious. Face down. Dropped like a sack of regrets." Jeff snorted. "In the middle of a fight?" "Oh no," Eddie cheered with complete lack of empathy in his tone. "The worst possible moment."

The two players stared at the board, visibly alarmed. "You can't do that." One of them protested. Eddie lifted a finger. "Counterpoint: I absolutely can." He tapped the Handbook with authority. "Page seventy-three. Humiliation is implied."

The room exploded: complaints and laughter colliding, someone accusing Eddie of playing favorites while him soaked it all in like fuel, then glanced over his shoulder. Then he looked at me. Our eyes met. He winked—actually winked—quick and conspiratorial, like I was in on the joke.

Then he snapped right back into the game like nothing had happened. I almost choked on my own laughter.

This is bad. Like, catastrophically bad.

Nobody else noticed. They were too busy recalculating damage, arguing over saving throws, flipping pages, the world narrowing down to numbers and chance and survival.

The moment passed. And that was the problem.

Because even as the game surged forward again—Eddie's voice rising and falling, the table alive with chaos—I stayed frozen in that half-second.

Just a friend.

And for the first time, it sounded less like a fact and more like a warning.

By the time the session wrapped up, everyone was buzzing, adrenaline still humming in the air.

"That was sick!" Gareth beamed as he packed up his dice. "Next week we finish the dungeon." "Assuming you all survive." Eddie added cheerfully. The room felt different once everyone was gone.

The map was still spread across the table, miniatures frozen mid-battle, dice scattered where they'd landed. The air buzzed with leftover energy, like the echo of something booming that had just stopped.

Eddie busied himself gathering dice, stacking books, straightening things that absolutely did not need straightening.

"So," he started, too casual, "you survived your first real Hellfire session." "I did." I replied. "Though I was mostly just watching you—" I stopped, coughed, and immediately regretted opening my mouth. My eyes flicked back to his arm, to the ink I was definitely not thinking about.

Shit.

"I mean—not you-you," I added quickly. "The party. The game." I gestured vaguely at the table. "I wouldn't exactly call it my first real session."

He smirked, amused. "You handled it better than half the table." I don't think so.

I picked up a die, rolling it between my fingers. "I think you're a little cruel, though. Poor Jeff almost died twice." He clutched his chest dramatically. "Me? Cruel? Never." He moved around the table, flicking one of the miniatures onto its side. "Those poor souls need to learn preparation," he grinned. "Because life ain't generous." "So wise." I chuckled.

"You really enjoy this. Being in charge, I mean." I added, staring at the table. His brows lifted. "Excuse you?" "Here. You run the world. You decide who lives, who dies." "Whoa, careful. You're making it sound like I have a god complex." "Don't you?" I smirked. He considered it for half a beat. "Maybe a little, yeah."

I smiled, shaking my head. Figures.

Eddie cleared his throat. "You know," he went on, voice carefully casual, "if you ever wanted to actually play..."

I looked up.

"I usually don't let people join mid-campaign," he rushed on. "Bad luck. Disrupts the narrative flow." "Wow," I deadpanned. "I'd hate to ruin the narrative." "But," he added, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice, "for you? I could make an exception." For me? The way he said it. Like it didn't mean anything at all.

"I don't know..." I muttered, already losing the argument. "I'd probably mess it up. I'd barely know what I'm doing." "You overthink too much, Bex." He murmured, arms crossed, eyes warm and amused. "Just say yes to your dear friend."

Dear friend.

I swallowed. "You make it sound very official." "Oh, it is." He stated solemnly. "There's paperwork."

I laughed softly, mostly at myself, mostly to keep my voice steady. "Yes." I said, before I could talk myself out of it. His smile came quick. Genuine. "Good."

Then he stepped back, giving me space again, like he'd realized he was too close only after the fact. "We'll start you easy," he added. "No character deaths on your first night." "How generous of you, oh mighty god." "I'm nothing if not merciful." He noted, shrugging. "So," he went on, voice lifting just a little, like he was trying not to make a big deal out of it, "first rule of Hellfire Club." I arched a brow. "There are rules?" "Very serious organization." He leaned in, conspiratorial. "Rule number one: no insulting or making fun of the DM."

"I already broke that." "Yeah. But I like you." A beat. "As a friend." He added quickly.

There it was again, that damn word.

I laughed, because it was easier than reacting honestly. "Lucky me." He winced, just a flicker, then masked it with a grin like he always did.

"Rule number two," he continued, counting on his fingers. "You're allowed to ditch a session only in case of death. Or worse." "Worse than death?" "Detention." He declared solemnly. "Oh. So people were right. This is a cult." "I never said it wasn't."

He smiled again, stepping a little closer.

"Rule number three," he added, lowering his voice, "new members have to kiss the DM." My face heated instantly. "You just made that up."

He straightened at once. "Yeah—no—obviously. I'm kidding. It's a joke. I joke." "Oh." I said dryly. "Right." "Unless," he added too fast, eyes darting away, "you roll really badly." "You're an idiot." I muttered. "Uh-uh." He clicked his tongue, amused. "First rule, remember?" "Wow. Already abusing your power." "Absolutely," he stated proudly. "I've trained years for this."

This is harmless. This is just Eddie being Eddie.

Then he reached across the table and slid one of the dice toward me. Black, worn smooth at the edges, red numbers faded from years of use. "Keep it, lucky die." I stared at it. "You're giving me your dice?" "Relax," he waved a hand. "I've got, like, a thousand." Still.

My fingers curled around it anyway, the weight of it solid and warm, like it remembered his hand. Friends. This is a friend thing.

"Uh—so. Funny thing." I glanced at him. "That's never a good opener." "Disagree," he replied immediately. "It's my strongest one."

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to the table, then the door, then back to me—anywhere but my face.

He went on, too quickly, "Hypothetically. If someone were, say, joining the campaign. Officially." "Hypothetically." I echoed. "Yeah. Hypothetically." He nodded, committing to the bit. "They'd need a character sheet. And, uh. That's kind of a whole thing." "I gathered. You mentioned paperwork was involved." "Exactly," he noted, relieved. "Very serious. Lots of choices. Race, class, background, alignment..." He waved a hand. "You don't wanna rush that."

I tilted my head. "So?" "So," he took a breath, "I was thinking maybe you could come over. To my place. We could... set it up properly. Take our time."

He hurried on before I could respond. "No pressure. Totally casual. And you could bring your bass too. Since you're already there. For... musical accuracy." "For the character." "Exactly," he added, too fast. "For the character."

I studied him, the way his confidence had cracked just enough to show the nerves underneath, the way he still wouldn't quite meet my eyes like if he did, he might combust. He picked at his nails absently, the same nervous habit I'd seen a hundred times before.

"You're inviting me over." I articulated slowly.

He nodded. "Yeah. I mean—if that's cool." "Okay." His head snapped up. "Yeah?" "Yeah."

He let out a breath he'd definitely been holding, shoulders dropping like he'd just survived something.

"Friday afternoon sounds good?" He asked quickly, like he didn't want to give me time to change my mind. "Sounds good." "Okay. Perfect. Cool."

We stood there for a second longer than necessary, the room suddenly too quiet, the invitation hanging between us like a live wire.

Then he cleared his throat, shoved his hands into his pockets, and smiled at me, a little stunned. And as I walked away, the die warm in my pocket, it finally hit me:

Friends don't make my heart do this.

[first chapter] [previous chapter] ⛧°。w/c: 4.2k ⛧°。Tags: Stranger Things, Eddie Munson, Fem OC, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Love Triangles, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn (trust me, really), Mutual Pining (a lot), Mature, Swearing, Slice of Life Romance

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐢𝐱: 𝐁𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐬

Monday , November 12th, 1984.

The aftermath of the party was a complete disaster. At School, the hallways were full of something between survivors and zombies, students wandering around like they'd barely made it out alive. Some didn't even bother washing the makeup off their faces, eyeliner smudged and glitter still clinging stubbornly to their cheeks. Others showed up late, sunglasses on indoors, while a good portion didn't show up at all. Steve was... wrecked. There was no other word for it. I felt genuinely sorry for him.

The night before, I'd tried to cheer him up the best I could—which is to say, awkwardly and without much success—but it felt like the bare minimum.

The days that followed weren't any kinder. He told me it was officially over with Nancy. They'd talked, apparently, and she hadn't even remembered half the things she'd said to him, she'd been so wasted. Not cool. At all.

Billy showing up on the scene only made things worse. As Robin had put it—far too cheerfully—Steve had been completely dethroned. Exiled from his own kingdom. In less than a week, he'd lost the girl he loved and his so-called friends. He pretended not to care, of course. But from what little I knew of him, it was obvious. Clear as day.

We spent every lunch break together now. It felt almost natural, slipping into that routine. Too natural.

He reminded me of myself a few months back, when Mom had died and Marc and I had broken up on top of it. Everything collapsing at once. I'd felt stranded then, and the only person who'd really kept me upright was Sarah. I guess now I was Steve's Sarah. The problem was... I was nothing like her.

And there was another problem, a bigger one: Steve couldn't stand Eddie. Not even a little. It made things impossible, like I was being pulled in two opposite directions. Lunches were Steve. Classes were Eddie. There was no overlap, no middle ground. I felt split straight down the middle.

That morning started like any other: boring, gray, predictable. Eddie sat next to me in English, bouncing his leg nervously under the desk, completely absorbed in his notebook, scribbling D&D notes like the real world didn't exist.

"I need you to pair up and do a short research assignment on the author we discussed." Mrs. O'Donnell announced, her voice carrying all the warmth of a death sentence. She launched into a summary of some long-dead English writer, dates and themes blurring together on the board.

"Hey, Eddie." He didn't react at all. I made a fist and knocked it lightly against his shoulder. He jumped like I'd tasered him. "The hell, Smith?" He stammered, blinking at me. "We have homework," I growled, nodding toward the board. "You idiot." He squinted at it like it was written in another language, lips sealing into a thin line. "You actually wanna do that?" He asked, skeptical. "Yeah. I don't really feel like failing senior year," I shot back. "I care about grades. A little. Do you want to repeat this for the third time?"

"You sound like my uncle," he scoffed. Then paused. "Actually—no. He doesn't care either." "Then why'd you re-enroll?" I pressed. "You told me you dropped out." He groaned, long and dramatic, like I'd wounded him. "Fine. Group assignment it is."

We were at the lockers a minute later, books clanging, the hallway buzzing around us. I shut mine and turned to him casually. "Can we go to yours?" I asked, like it was nothing. He froze, just for half a second. Then laughed too quickly. "Uh—nope. Definitely not. My place is kind of... not great for scholarly pursuits." He spluttered, waving a hand. "Bad lighting. Bad vibes."

I raised an eyebrow. "Okay," I shrugged, easily. "Then we can go to my house. No problem." Eddie blinked, processing. "Yup," he nodded finally, pointing at me. "That works. Totally works. Look at us, being productive members of society." He grabbed his bag and grinned. "See you later, Smith." And just like that, he was gone—already pretending the question hadn't rattled him at all.

In the afternoon, Eddie knocked on the door. I opened it to find him rocking back on his heels, jacket half-zipped, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be here or not. "So," he rubbed his palms together, peering past me. "This is where the academic magic happens?" "That's generous," I replied, stepping aside. "Come in."

Once inside, he glanced around, then cleared his throat. "Isn't your dad here?" "He's at work." "He's not gonna bust in and beat me with a socket wrench for being alone with his daughter, is he?" Eddie chuckled weakly. "No promises." I smirked. He nodded, then added. "Okay, serious question. How do we... do this?" He gestured vaguely with both hands. "The homework." "This might shock you," I started, already heading towards the stairs, "but there's this big room at school, full of books and knowledge!" I climbed a few steps, turning back to him like I was about to reveal something life-changing. "And then, we open those books—I know, risky move—and actually start looking for the information we need for the essay. This, is called research." "... I don't believe you," he winced. "That sounds completely made up." He followed my steps, then added, "But I respect the commitment."

I didn't bother with a house tour. Just led him straight up, past the quiet, into my room. "Sorry, I didn't have time to clean—" "Holy shit," Eddie gasped, stopping short. "Your room is sick."

The ceiling dipped low on one side, sunlight slanting in gold through the window, catching dust in the air. My mattress sat on the floor beneath it, pressed to the wall, covered in a brown patchwork quilt faded soft with age. Posters crowded the walls—bands overlapping bands, corners curling, tape yellowed with time. Vinyls leaned in uneven stacks, cassette tapes scattered wherever they fit. A few comics lay abandoned on the carpet, spines cracked from rereading. My bass rested near the dresser, cable coiled beside it like it might bite. Nothing matched. That was the point.

Eddie drifted through my room like he'd wandered into a funfair, fingers brushing posters, records, anything within reach. He stopped in front of one. "You like Star Wars? Okay, important question." He turned, dead serious. "Which one?" "The last one." I shot back. "Obviously. It's incredible." He winced theatrically. "Oof. Safe choice. Respectable, but—" He lifted a finger. "Empire Strikes Back. That's peak." "Of course you'd say that."

He then immediately looked at the comics on my shelf. "Favorite superhero, now." "Storm." I crossed my arms, without hesitation. His eyebrows shot up. "Huh. Did not expect that." "Why not?" "I don't know, I was bracing for, like... Wonder Woman." "Do you think I'm that basic?" I asked dryly, arching a brow. "No—no that's not what I—" Eddie quickly shook his head. "She's great yeah but not really my thing." I chuckled. He smiled. "Okay, okay. Mine's Wolverine. He's angry, wild, got blades between his knuckles." "Storm could wipe the floor with him." "Absolutely not." "She controls the weather, Eddie." "And he survives it," he countered. "Snowstorm? Stabbed. Lightning? Stabbed. Tornado? Also stabbed." "That's not how—" He shushed me with his eyes, wide grin like he won the argument, but I wasn't done. "You just like him because he's feral and misunderstood." Eddie tilted his head. "You say that like it's a flaw." I hesitated.

"...You'd be Batman." He added suddenly. "What?" "Brooding. Quiet. Tragic backstory." He counted on his fingers. "Pretends not to care. Definitely cares." "That's not—" "And I," he went on, pointing at himself, "am clearly Wolverine." I snorted. "You're unbearable." He smiled, softer now. "You still like me." I rolled my eyes, which absolutely ruined the effect of pretending I didn't.

"You know," I glanced back at the shelf, "I would've guessed Ghost Rider for you. Flaming skull guy." "The Spirit of Vengeance." Eddie corrected, reverent. "That's my number two." He leaned closer, animated. "Burning skeleton? Awesome. Leather jacket—" he went on, gesturing his own attire, "Motorcycle, uses a chain as a weapon? Not to mention he is literal hellfire." He tapped the comic, then added, "Metal as hell." "...Still—" I added, breaking eye contact. "Storm would destroy him." He gasped like I'd slapped him. "You take that back." "She commands lightning." "He rides through it," Eddie shot back. "On a freaking motorcycle. On freaking fire." "That doesn't make him better." "It makes him cooler." I shook my head, laughing. "You're impossible." "And yet," he noted, already crouched by the records, "here we are."

He scanned my vinyl collection with his eyes, flipping through them with reverence, he nodded in silent approval, reading every title. "Wait—" He pulled one out, brows lifting. "ABBA?" Heat crept up my neck. "That was... my mom's." His expression shifted immediately, softer. "Oh." He slid the record back where he'd found it, like it mattered.

"She has good taste." He added after a second. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Yeah, had." He glanced at the shelf again. "Mine listened to stuff like that too. Not ABBA, no". I hesitated. "Like what?" He scratched his jaw, thinking. "Blues. Chicago blues, mostly. Messy, sad." A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "I used to pretend I hated it." "Pretend?" I echoed. He huffed. "Yeah, when I was little. But now?" He lowered his voice, like confessing a crime. "It's kind of my guilty pleasure." Then, quieter, less joking, "She died many years ago." My smile faded. "I'm sorry."

Eddie shrugged, but it didn't quite land. "Sometimes I can't even remember her face," he murmured after a beat. "But the music helps. Feels like she's still... around. In a way." I sat on the edge of my bed, fingers curling into the quilt. I tried so hard not to cry. "She died early summer. Cancer," I murmured. He nodded once, like he'd walked that road too. "After that, Chicago just felt... wrong." The word sat strange on my tongue, like it didn't quite belong there. I swallowed, trying to push past it. "And staying didn't feel right either." It felt strange, admitting it. Like I was betraying something. Like I was betraying her.

"Everywhere we went, it was like she was still there—every place, every street. Everything reminded us of her." My voice softened without me meaning it to. "She was the kind of person who made everything feel steady, even on bad days." I paused, blinking a little too hard.

"So when Dad got the chance, we left." A small, humorless breath slipped out. "Honestly? I don't blame him." I shook my head slightly. "I think he needed a place where things didn't hurt all the time." A beat. "I did too. I just didn't realize it right away."

Hawkins didn't feel like home. It still felt temporary. Like I didn't quite belong to it. But Chicago didn't feel like mine anymore, either.

Eddie didn't say anything right away, like he understood this wasn't something you stepped over. "What was her name?" He asked softly. "Diane." I replied, keeping it simple. Anything more would've cracked something open I wasn't ready to deal with. "Elizabeth." He said, settling beside me.

The room settled into silence, if everything so far told me we had lots in common, this was the least expected one, something that I wouldn't be so happy to share with anyone.

I shoved the thought aside before it could root itself, wiped the tear from my cheek, and stood. "Okay," I sighed, forcing a smile. "Let's do this." I dug the books out of my backpack and dropped them onto the bed.

We worked like that for a while, quiet, a little heavy. I put music on low, something familiar, just enough to smooth the edges. The assignment was on George Orwell; themes, symbolism, the usual. My kind of thing. Eddie's... not so much. I read aloud. He sprawled out beside me, scribbling half-notes, drifting off, asking questions that proved he'd only caught every third sentence. I corrected him, explained things, even made him rewrite a paragraph twice. He complained dramatically but did it anyway. Somehow, we ended up with something decent. Then he stopped writing.

His gaze slid past me, locked onto something near my pillows. His head tilted, curious, like a hound catching a scent. "What's that?" He asked. "What's what?" I followed his gaze, my eyes widened in horror. "No wait, Eddie, wait—" Too late.

He pulled the thing free like he'd unearthed buried treasure. A teddy bear. My teddy bear. It was brown, threadbare, with one eye missing and the fur worn thin in places from years of hands that never quite let go. Shit, shit, shit.

I groaned out loud. "That is none of your business." Heat crawled up my neck, straight into my cheeks. Eddie blinked at it. Then at me. Then back at the bear. "Bex," he growled slowly, like he was savoring every syllable. "Do you... sleep with a teddy bear?" "Ozzy." I corrected, sharp. Why did I say that? It only made it worse.

His face split into the biggest grin I'd seen all day. "You named your teddy bear after Ozzy Osbourne?" "No— I mean yes, my dad did—" I grumbled through clenched teeth. "And if you laugh, I swear—" "Oh no," he interrupted, already lifting Ozzy higher, inspecting him like a rare artifact. "No, this is incredible. This is the most amazing thing I've ever seen." "Give him back." He ignored me completely.

"You listen to metal, you glare at people like you might stab them, and you sleep with a one-eyed teddy bear named Ozzy?" He clutched his chest dramatically. "I'm obsessed. You're so sweet." "I'm serious, Eddie." He made the mistake of turning his back on me. I lunged.

He yelped, stumbling sideways, Ozzy dangling upside down from his fingers as he dodged me. "Whoa! Easy, tiger!" "Drop it!" I laughed despite myself, reaching for it. He hopped backwards, nearly tripping over my backpack. "I can't! Look at his face, so cute. He looks like he's been through war." "Ozzy has trauma, Eddie!" "That just makes him cooler!" He pulled the bear close, cradling it, lowering his voice into the most ridiculous baby talk I'd ever heard. "Ohhh yes you are, you brave little rock star—" I tackled him.

We went down in a mess of limbs and laughter, the mattress bouncing beneath us as we landed hard. My knee hit the bed, my hand slipped, and suddenly I was straddling him, with our breath knocked loose, and the plushie trapped between us like evidence of a crime. Oh. Oh no.

The laughter faded too fast, and I became aware of everything at once.

The solid warmth of his body under mine. The way his hands froze at my waist, hovering like he didn't trust himself with them. Like he was waiting for permission he didn't know how to ask for. My heart was pounding, stupid and loud, for no reason I was ready to admit.

His chest rose and fell quickly beneath me. I could feel the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton. His breath brushed my cheek when he exhaled, close enough that it made my skin prickle. I'd never noticed how soft his mouth was. How pink. How his lashes cast shadows when he blinked, dark against skin that suddenly didn't look so sharp-edged and feral. He smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap shampoo, like worn leather and metal strings.

His curls were a wreck against the pillow, falling into his eyes. And those eyes... God, they were darker now, unreadable. Fixed on my face like he'd forgotten the punchline halfway through a joke and couldn't find his way back. For a second, neither of us moved. And in that second, something shifted. It was quiet, unmistakable, as if I'd been standing next to him all this time, and only now realized I was close enough to fall.

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and then— "Well," he breathed hoarsely, attempting a grin that didn't quite show up, "Well, I'm loving that this is how my night peaks—but not exactly how I planned to go." "Heart attack?" I suggested, in a soft tone that nearly betrayed how fast my heart was beating. "Yeah. Or murder." I shoved at his shoulder, grateful for the excuse to move. "You're an Idiot." He laughed, breathless, handing Ozzy back with exaggerated care. "Fine. I surrender." A beat. "But for the record? This makes you about a thousand times... cooler."

I grabbed the bear, hugging it to my chest, still too aware of how close we were, too close. My face was burning now. "Tell anyone," I warned, "and I will end you." He raised his hands in mock solemnity. "Your secret is safe with me. Scout's honor. But I am absolutely going to be thinking about it forever." "Eddie." His grin lingered a second longer than necessary. He didn't look away. Didn't move.

"Your eyes are... uh." He stopped, like he'd just realized he was talking. His fingers hovered, ghosting not far from my cheek. "They're really blue," he finished, quieter. "I mean. I know they've always been blue. I just—" He cleared his throat, cheeks flushing. I was about to say something, but my brain immediately shut off. "Yeah. Sorry. That was— weird." No, it wasn't. Please continue.

"Becca! I'm home!" Dad's voice boomed from downstairs. We both jumped. Fantastic timing, Dad. Truly impeccable.

"Hey! I'm here!" I called back, my voice cracking just enough to be humiliating. Footsteps followed almost immediately, accompanied by the faint jingle of keys and the low hum of a man who'd been on his feet all day. Eddie froze beside my bed like a kid who'd just been caught doing something illegal, eyes flicking to the door. The doorframe filled before he even fully stepped in.

Dad didn't knock, he never did. Leather jacket still on, sleeves pushed up, grease faintly smudged along his knuckles despite the fact that he'd probably scrubbed his hands raw at the sink downstairs. His tattoos peeked out from under the cuffs, dark against his skin. He took one look at the scene: books on the bed, Eddie perched awkwardly at the edge, Ozzy the teddy bear half-hidden behind a pillow.

"Well," he drawled slowly, raising a brow. "This looks academic." "Hi, Pop." I said back, already bracing myself. "We were... studying." His gaze shifted to Eddie then, sharp but not unkind. Assessing. Measuring. Eddie stood up so fast he nearly knocked into my dresser. "Eddie Munson," he stook out his hand immediately. "Sir." That seemed to amuse Dad.

He took Eddie's hand, grip firm, testing. Eddie passed, apparently, because Dad nodded once and released him. "Jeffrey Smith." "Oh. Yeah. I know," Eddie added, then winced. "I mean— not like know know—I've heard—I mean—" "So," Dad cut in, crossing his arms, glancing between us, then finally back to me. "This is Eddie." "Yes," I replied quickly. "And we're doing a group assignment. English." "Bet you are." Dad noted dryly, then he looked back at Eddie. "You wanna stay for dinner? I was thinking takeout." Eddie nodded vigorously. "Yes sir." My shoulders relaxed despite myself.

"Alright, see you in an hour. Door stays open." Dad stated, already turning away. I sighed but before I could protest, he was already gone. Eddie exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. "Your dad is terrifying." "You'll get used to him." I smiled, but it felt crooked. He smiled back, same way. Like we were both agreeing not to look directly at something sitting between us.

"So," he clapped his hands once, too loud. "Homework. Before your dad decides I'm a bad influence and banishes me to the Shadow Realm." "Y-Yeah!" I said a little too bright. "Homework."

We moved back to the books, eyes fixed anywhere but on each other, and for reasons I absolutely refused to unpack, my pulse didn't slow down right away.

"Eddie," Dad started, taking a bite of his pizza, grease already shining on his fingers. "Becca tells me you play in a band." "Yes sir," Eddie answered, straightening just a touch. "Vocals and guitar." Dad nodded, thoughtful. "Cool. When I was your age, I had a band too. I played bass." Eddie's eyes lit up instantly. "No shit?"

And just like that, they slipped into it. Bands, amps, blown speakers, garages that smelled like oil and sweat. They exchanged stories about neighbors calling the cops because someone hit a note that was one decibel too high. It happened so easily that it almost startled me, like I'd opened a door and found a room still warm from a life we'd once lived in.

Dad laughed, deep and real, and it caused something in my chest to be pulled tight. I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard that sound.  Oh my god. Who are you and what have you done with my father?

Eddie listened like every word mattered, nodding along, grinning, while throwing in the occasional comment about shitty acoustics or duct-taped cables. Then he glanced at me, eyes widening a little, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

"Oh. That explains it." I frowned. "Explains what?" He gestured vaguely at me with his slice, still looking at Dad. "Bass. She hasn't let me hear her play yet." "Yeah, Becca's shy. But she's got talent. Must be my genes." "Dad." I groaned. He just smiled, and for a second, I saw his teeth. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen them either.

Eddie opened his mouth, clearly about to say something that would absolutely make things worse. I kicked his foot under the table. "Ow." He muttered, offended. I cleared my throat. "So—how was work today?" Dad took another bite. "Same old. Tires, oil changes, rebuilt an engine that should've been scrapped ten years ago." "Oh yeah," Eddie added casually. "Bex told me you're a mechanic." "That's right," Dad nodded. "At Topp's Auto." Eddie froze for half a beat. Then he choked. Like, actually choked. He thumped his fist against his chest, coughing hard, eyes watering. I stared at him, concerned, but wary. "You okay?" I asked. "Y—yeah," he wheezed. "Just—uh—pizza went down the wrong pipe."

Dad raised an eyebrow but didn't press. I knew that look. Eddie definitely knew that place, for all the wrong reasons. Dinner went on after that, a little looser, a little louder. Dad told one too many stories. Eddie laughed at all the right moments. I mostly watched them, caught between warmth and disbelief, like I was witnessing a version of my life I hadn't realized I missed.

Outside, the November air bit at my cheeks, sharp and clean. Our breath puffing white between us like we were saying things without sound. We stopped at the edge of the porch. Eddie stared past me for a moment, like he was making sure the world was still intact, then finally exhaled.

"Okay, yeah. Your dad is cool. Still terrifying, but... cool." "He's really not," I replied automatically. Then, softer, "He's just... a lot." "I felt like I was on trial." Eddie added. "Like if I answered one question wrong, I'd be fed to the wolves." "You did fine." He studied me for a second. "Really?" I nodded. "He liked you, he just won't admit it." "Huh. Reminds me of someone I know." He joked. I immediately shoved him, cheeks burning. "Hey—hey! I just meant that you're stubborn!" He laughed, gingerly rubbing his arm like he was wounded. Oh. Right.

Then Eddie scratched the back of his neck, suddenly unsure. "We could, uh... do this again," he continued. "Study here. Or—whatever. Homework. Academic nonsense." I regained my composure so I wouldn't overthink about what he said just a few seconds before.

"No." I smiled softly. "Next time, we'll go to your place." He blinked, just for a second too long. "You're sure?" "Yes." I paused, watching him carefully. "Why wouldn't I be?" He opened his mouth, closed it again, then cleared his throat. "Okay. Yeah. Sure. We'll... figure it out." Then, like he needed something solid to hold onto, he pointed at me. "But only if you bring your bass."

I scoffed. "What?" "You've heard me play. I've never heard you," he shrugged lightly, too lightly. "You owe me a proper performance." "I don't owe you anything." "False," he countered instantly. "You absolutely do. Or I tell everyone at school about your little secret." You bastard.

I rolled my eyes, heat creeping up my neck. "You're blackmailing me." His grin came slow and crooked. "Maybe." I hesitated. Playing alone in my room was one thing. But playing in front of someone else—anyone else—was completely different. Especially if that someone was a certain Eddie Munson. I guess I don't really have a choice, though.

"Fine," I sighed. "But don't get your hopes up." He lifted his hands in surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it." A few minutes later he was gone. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, heart still doing that annoying thing it hadn't learned how to stop yet.